Many a sleepless night I kept to my knees in the chapel, praying for my living John and for my little one who had gone to be with God. April came, bringing with it springtime’s beautiful flowers and blossoming trees, just as it had done on my wedding day three years earlier. Feeling a need to be close to John, I gathered up his cloak and journeyed to Raby with Ursula, taking a party of horsemen with me for protection. I spent the afternoon of our anniversary alone, hugging his cloak by the edge of the waterfall where I had passed my wedding night, and then I plunged into the pool for a swim, as I had done with John before breaking fast on our first morning as husband and wife. The falls thundered with the same mighty roar, but oh how much had changed in three short years.
I planned to spend the night in the cottage, embroidering more griffin emblems on John’s cloak, for I had found this pastime brought me solace in times of distress. But the emptiness of the place mirrored my desolation and evoked none of the joy of my wedding night. The dying day took my strength with it as it departed. Slowly, wearily, leaving the splashing waterfalls behind, I wound my way back to the castle before darkness fell. The next day, drawn by an overpowering need for my sweet little girls, Annie, Izzie, and Lizzie, I returned to the safety of the fortress of Middleham.
In May, Countess Alice wrote from Calais with news that lifted our spirits. On their voyage from Ireland to Calais, she and Warwick had sailed past the queen’s new “Keeper of the Seas,” the Duke of Exeter, without the loss of one ship. For lack of money, or for fear, Exeter had not tried to attack, but had watched Warwick sail past him without a shot.
“He holds the grand promise of another Somerset,” I said to Maude with a small laugh.
Then, in early July, Warwick’s own messenger arrived. We received him in the open courtyard, where all the household could hear his tidings.
“My lord of Warwick bids me inform you that he landed in Kent on the first day of July. Men have flocked to his banner, and he is marching to London at the head of a large army!”
Cheers went up. The messenger presented the letter he had brought and, placing our heads together, Maude and I pored over it in silence, for it contained nothing of interest to the household, only cordial greetings to us, advice regarding the repair to a castle wall, and assurances that the countess was well in Calais. But then we came to his last paragraph. Maude and I exchanged a fearful look, and my heart jumped in my breast. Breathing in shallow gasps, I read it aloud to the household:
“‘Wishing to avoid bloodshed, again I begged an audience with King Henry, stating that I would speak with him or die, and again I was refused.’” I braced myself so that my voice would not shake as I read Warwick’s last sentence. “‘Battle is imminent.’”
IN A STATE OF TERRIBLE ANXIETY, I PRAYED WHILE I awaited further news, and embroidered more griffins on John’s cloak. But the dire thoughts that drummed in my head were never far away: What if York lost? What if Warwick was killed? What then for John and Thomas—would the queen keep her word and let them live? Would she release them, or keep them in confinement forever? One thing was certain: If the queen won the battle, she would send the Percies to take Middleham and Raby, and turn us out into the streets. Attainted of treason, we would likely receive no pardon, and if pardoned, we would be homeless, as would be all our friends and kin.
Two weeks passed. No other messengers came. Evil dreams plagued my nights when I slept. Then, one day, clarions sounded in the village. I dropped the chain of daisies I was making with little Annie and Izzie on a patch of turf near the fishpond, and rose to my feet, my heart in my throat. All around me servants froze in the midst of their tasks; then they sprang to life and ran screaming into the castle, into the kitchens, into the stables, wherever they thought to find refuge, while retainers and men-at-arms grabbed their weapons and clambered to man the ramparts. Suppressing the sheer black fright that swept through me, I gathered up my girls and hurried into the chapel. I fell on my knees before the altar and with my eyes closed recited the Ave Maria.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum—”
A clamor arose outside. I closed my eyes tighter, murmured the Ave louder. Then, strangely, Rufus bounded into the chapel, barking wildly.
I opened my eyes. John stood smiling down on me, shining like an archangel in the flickering light of the burning candles. I blinked to focus my vision, unable to believe the evidence of my eyes. John? Slowly I rose. My hand shook as I raised it to his face to make certain he wasn’t a dream, that this was truly him. His cheek was rough with the growth of a beard, but around his smile I glimpsed the dimpled creases I so loved. I traced the line of chin and nose and found it solid; I touched the hair, and it was as thick as I ever remembered. The impact of his penetrating blue eyes engulfed me so completely that my knees trembled.
John was safe.
He caught my hand and placed a kiss on my open palm. The touch of his lips was almost unbearable in its tenderness. He lifted his shining head and looked at me as he had done at Barnet, when I had risked all to warn him of Somerset’s ambush.
“My angel,” he said in the rich voice I remembered. “My love…”
I flung myself into his arms with a wild cry, burying my face in his throat. His hands locked against my back. We clung to one another as I wept tears of joy. How many times had I dreamed of being crushed in his embrace? Now his strong arms enfolded me once more. My pulse pounded in my ears as I laughed; I had forgotten what true happiness there was in laughter. The chapel resounded with my laughter, and the candles wavered in my joyful breath. “John, John…” My voice trembled like my hand; the light of his eyes blurred my sight. “My love, my love…Dear God be thanked, oh, my love!” In euphoria, between sobs and laughter, I stole kisses from him, kissed the creases in his cheek, the point of his nose. I could not get enough kisses.
“Who dat, Mama?” asked a small voice. A gremlin with dark blue eyes framed by chestnut hair emerged from behind my skirts and was joined by another.
I forced myself to part from John and look down at our children. “‘Dat’”—I laughed tenderly—“is your papa,” I said, sweet tears running down my cheeks.
Fifteen
INTERLUDE, 1460
INCESSANT RAIN SPOILED FRUIT ON THE TREES and grain in the meadows, and swept away dwellings, bridges, and mills. Yet, to me, the sun seemed to shine brighter than ever on us during these blessed summer days of 1460, filling Middleham with happiness. We toasted to freedom, to one another, and to York’s win over Lancaster at the Battle of Northampton, and celebrated merrily. For days on end I could not take my eyes from John’s face, so handsome did he seem to me, so good was it to have him home. Sometimes I reached out and touched him simply to make sure he was real, for I had already lost one John. When I had broken the news to him of the death of our babe, he’d held me close for a long moment and released me in silence, and I’d known that his sorrow ran too deep for words. Later, he’d gone riding alone. That night I’d not slept, but had lain awake beside him, pressing kisses to him lightly with the tip of my finger, in the hope that somehow my love could heal his ache of loss. In my heart I said many a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for his safekeeping, for truly I felt it a miracle to have him beside me as I learned of what had happened at Northhampton.
Near London, on the tenth day of July, Warwick defeated the Lancastrians and captured King Henry. John was released from Chester Castle soon afterward. He had galloped home to bring me the news himself.
“On hearing of Warwick’s advance from London, the king’s supporters lost all heart and resigned en masse,” John grinned. “King Henry came down from Leicester to meet Warwick, and entrenched his army in a meadow near Northampton. Wishing to avoid bloodshed, Warwick begged an audience with him, but the lords around Henry refused.”
“Did good Duke Humphrey not try to persuade Henry to negotiate?” I asked.
“Duke Humphrey was as determined as the others to keep Warwick from Henry’s presence.” John�
�s tone held a note of bitterness.
“But why? He was never rash. He always used his influence to mediate for peace.”
“That changed when Marguerite arranged the marriage of his son to Margaret Beaufort, the richest heiress in the land, and of his daughter to the Earl of Shrewsbury’s son. Even good Duke Humphrey had his price,” John said.
“Had?” I asked.
“He died at Northampton, along with our mortal enemies Shrewsbury and Egremont. Warwick found their bodies strewn around the king’s tent.”
“How—?” There was so much here to grasp. That Egremont was gone gave me not a moment’s care. He had been an evil man, and his petty hatred and jealousy of John and Thomas had contributed greatly in fanning the troubles and dividing York from Lancaster. As for Shrewsbury, his name had come up occasionally as one of the implacable lords around Marguerite, but I didn’t know the man, though I’d seen him at court. What baffled me was that so many lords should have died at one time. Lords were never killed in battle, unless the fighting was heavy. They were usually taken for ransom. “Was it such a fierce battle?” I asked.
“No, only three hundred men lost their lives.”
“Why, then?”
“Reversing custom, Warwick ordered his troops to slay the lords and spare the commons. He has no quarrel with the people, only with Marguerite’s lords.”
“I see.” My heart warmed to Warwick. I thought it a great kindness on his part, for the commons had no choice but to fight and die in the wars that were of their lords’ making. “Yet I do mourn Duke Humphrey’s death. He saved your life and York’s many times. He wasn’t like the others. He had integrity, and he abhorred bloodshed as much as you do. Loyalty to Henry was his abiding principle, though he cared little for Marguerite.”
“Aye, his personal devotion to Henry was admirable. He stood by him to the last…. Maybe he saw no way to avoid bloodshed, or maybe he was outvoted by Marguerite’s zealots. We shall never know. In any event, Northampton proved an easy victory. The battle was over in a half hour.”
“So quickly?”
“Aye, for two reasons. Weather played in Warwick’s favor. Henry’s guns were rendered useless by torrents of rain, and his men hampered by the flooding of the meadow in which he was entrenched.”
“And the second reason?”
“Treason,” replied John.
I gasped.
“Lord Grey of Ruthin extended the right hand of friendship to Warwick and came over to our side.”
I didn’t know what to say, how to react. I was delighted that York had won the battle, naturally—but treason…Treason was abhorrent to honorable men.
“As Trollope did at Ludlow,” I said coldly.
“Aye, treason is a hideous thing,” John replied, and fell silent. “Incidentally,” he resumed at length, “Edward of March, York’s son, fought with splendid courage. He’s quite an impressive young man.”
“That surprises me. Warwick has never said anything positive about him.”
“Warwick considers Edward dissolute and good for nothing more than the pursuit of pleasure.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “My brother is sometimes guilty of hasty judgment, which nothing then can change.”
His comment gave me a rare glimpse into his inner thoughts, and again I wondered how hard it must be for John, living in his brother’s shadow when he had to know he was the finer man. And once again the realization struck me there was much about my husband I had yet to learn.
WE ARRIVED IN LONDON IN TIME TO WITNESS King Henry’s return to his capital. Though the king was a prisoner, Warwick accorded him all the imposing pomp and ceremony of a monarch entering into his kingdom, and he himself, bareheaded, carried Henry’s sword of state before him. The bishop of London loaned his palace as a royal residence, and the crowds that received Henry did so with honor and solemnity.
At the Erber we enjoyed a joyous reunion with John’s father and mother, and with Warwick’s countess and his daughters, Bella and Anne, who had come over from Calais now that it was safe to do so. Their exile had had a pronounced effect on them all: Nan seemed more nervous and jumpy than ever; her daughter Bella, now eight years of age, had grown more playful and merry, as if laughter could banish her fears; and six-year-old Anne had become more sensitive and thoughtful. She refused to eat flesh of any kind, which made for many an argument between her and her parents. Yet little Anne, so gentle and sweet, did not relent in the face of their disapproval. She merely buttoned up her lips and quietly refused the food they tried to force into her. I couldn’t help but admire her courage for proving so strong in the face of such determined opposition. I knew I couldn’t have held out against Warwick’s bushy-browed frowns and Nan’s daily chidings, especially not at the age of six.
One day I asked Anne why she had an aversion to animal flesh. Turning her bright Neville blue eyes on me, she’d replied with a question of her own: “Would you eat your friends, Auntie Isobel?” From then on, though I did not dare gainsay her parents, I showed Anne in all other ways that I approved of her mutiny—and we exchanged many a secret look of triumph after each of her little victories.
In all, these were happy days, and we had much joy. John was appointed as King’s Chamberlain and was elevated by parliament to the peerage as Lord Montagu. Still, much work remained to get the government moving again, and I saw little of him during this time. All our men had their hands full attending meetings, receiving petitioners, appointing good men to offices vacated by those Lancastrians who had either died or fled, and dealing with others who caused unrest in various parts of the country. King James II of Scotland, unable to resist the opportunity offered by the upheaval in England, attacked Roxburgh Castle, and John’s father was immediately called away to raise an army and deal with the Scottish threat, leaving John in charge of Henry’s person. But in a divine moment of justice, King James was killed by a misfire of one of his own guns, and peace was promptly restored.
At the same time in August, Warwick, after hearing that Somerset was willing to negotiate the surrender of Guisnes, left for Calais. Meanwhile John’s closeness to Henry’s person gave me an opportunity to see another side of them both. I was impressed and deeply touched by the tenderness of the care John gave his king. I myself spent much time with Henry, who seemed delighted by the company of our two Annes and Isabelles. He played games with them, threw balls to them, and chatted patiently with them as though they were grown ladies, which pleased them all immensely.
Henry also sympathized with Warwick’s Anne when he learned about her aversion to flesh. “Ah, my dear little lady, you are far wiser and kinder than I, for I do enjoy a good piece of mutton, though I love the lamb. ’Tis a failing in me, but one I am too weak to correct. Will you pray for me?”
Little Anne nodded readily, and added, “I shall pray for you forever, King Henry,” whereupon Henry laughed and gave the top of her golden head a tender kiss.
That he missed his seven-year-old son, Prince Edward, was evident to me. Once, he placed his arm around little Anne and said wistfully, “My Edward would like you.”
“Is Anne not too gentle for the prince?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Gentle as the tiny red finch that flees not the fierceness of winter.” Henry smiled.
Anne, the little red finch, had defied the power of her fierce father in refusing to eat flesh.
Only once in all these months did Henry dare mention Marguerite.
“Have you had any news of my queen?” he asked John timidly. “I cannot help but wonder how she fares….” His voice trailed off meekly, as if he feared to offend.
John informed him as gently as he could of Marguerite’s adventures. “The queen and Prince Edward are safe in Wales, my liege. She left Coventry as soon as she learned the outcome of Northampton. She was robbed of her jewels along the way, but came to no harm.” John didn’t give the details of Marguerite’s harrowing ordeal with the robbers, or add that she was stirring Heaven and Hell to raise
an army against the Yorkists and rescue her husband.
“I have prayed for my dear queen,” Henry said sadly.
But Henry’s favorite topic remained God, and his favorite friends were monks. With them, for long hours at a time he pondered the mysteries of the spirit and the universe. I had believed Henry to be a dull man, incapable of true feeling or thought. Now I realized how I had wronged him, what injustice I had done him! I came to revere him for his goodness. Even if Henry failed as a ruler, he did not fail as a person; he was pure in thought and deed, a true man of God in all ways. Henry, I thought, has the sheen of a saint about him. Even Warwick, who could be harsh and arrogant with those he despised, showed Henry deference, honor, and respect, for no one could be harsh with gentle Henry except one who had no heart.
As for intellect, in matters that interested him Henry was exceedingly clever. He asked questions of the monks that confounded them in their intricacy and drove them back to consult their ancient books.
And so passed the last tranquil, beautiful days of the summer of 1460.
AS UNREST WAS QUELLED AND GOOD GOVERNMENT restored, word came that the Duke of York had sailed for England from Ireland. On the tenth day of October, as the leaves turned scarlet, he arrived in London to the jubilation of the multitudes, who welcomed him with a veritable sea of white roses. The emblem of York waved from the hands of children, adorned the hair of maidens, and was pinned to the caps and collars of men. Everyone jostled for space; nimble youths climbed rooftops and high walls to gain a better view, and fathers set their children high on their shoulders.
From the balcony of the earl’s house on the Thames, we watched the Duke of York’s arrival as he crossed London Bridge. His procession advanced midway along the bridge, then halted abruptly. “What’s happening?” Maude asked, straining for a better view. “Why have they stopped?”
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