“But what will happen to London in your absence? ’Tis too dangerous to have it unguarded.”
“I’ll leave Sir John Wenlock in charge. He’s Warwick’s protégé, completely devoted to him, a good man and trustworthy…. He can manage things till I get back.”
“Go to Warwick, then, and doubt not that he will be grateful to have you at his side, for though he’ll not admit it, he holds your counsel in high regard, my love. Nan has told me so.”
He turned and looked at me, his eyes soft. He bent down and kissed my brow. “I shall leave at cock’s crow,” he said.
“John…can you send Sir Thomas Malory to report back to me as soon as—” I broke off, finding the words difficult to utter. “—If—after—you give battle?”
He looked at me sharply. Reading my great fear, he drew me to him and laid his cheek against my hair. “Aye, my angel.”
In the courtyard by the mounting block, I took my leave of him the next morning in the light of a bleak gray dawn. It was the sixteenth of February, two days after the Feast of St. Valentine. Gazing up at the sullen sky, I offered a silent prayer for John’s safe return and watched him depart with Rufus beside him, riding his own mare. But the sight that had brought me laughter so many times no longer had the power to do so.
As John had promised, he sent Sir Thomas Malory to report to me. He arrived on the eighteenth of February, and it was ill tidings he brought.
“The second battle of St. Albans, fought yesterday morning”—he hesitated—“ended in defeat for York, my lady. The Earl of Warwick has fled to Calais.”
I bowed my head and gave pause for a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord for Warwick’s escape. But Malory had said nothing of John.
“And—and my lord husband?”
Malory took a moment to reply. “M’lady, I have saved for last the news I had no wish to bring you…. My lord of Montagu is captured.”
I bit my lip to stifle the cry that rose from my heart. He gave me his hand and guided me to a chair. As I stared at him, my mind in chaos, Malory broke the rest of the news.
“The Earl of Warwick stopped in London on his way to Sandwich and Calais to apprise Duchess Cecily of his defeat at St. Albans. Fearful of Marguerite, she persuaded him to bear her small children, the lords Richard and George, to Calais with him this very night.”
“What about Nan and the children?”
“Sir John Wenlock is to take them to Calais as soon as possible. Warwick believes you have nothing to fear from Marguerite and has made no arrangement for you to leave with the rest of the family.” He regarded me gravely.
I nodded in assent. “Aye, I agree with my lord of Warwick.”
“That is good, for he has left a task in your hands that concerns my lord of Montagu.”
My mind was a mixture of hope and fear as I waited for the old knight to remove a missive from inside his tunic and hand it to me. “My lady, the Earl of Warwick gave me this ere he fled, and bade me bring it to you with instructions that you lose no time taking it to the queen, now that disaster has befallen York. In this lies Lord Montagu’s only hope.” I accepted it with stiff fingers. The missive, addressed to Marguerite, bore Warwick’s seal, and before Malory took his leave of me, he explained its contents.
“Have Geoffrey saddle Rose!” I cried to the sentry at the door. “Find Ursula! Fetch the children! We leave immediately for St. Albans!” I tore out of the chamber.
Seventeen
TOWTON, 1461
TAKING THE TWINS AND LEAVING LIZZIE BEHIND in her nurse’s care, I galloped north toward St. Albans, accompanied by Ursula and a dozen men-at-arms. But the picture Malory had given me of what had transpired seemed incomplete, and many unanswered questions preyed on my mind. How did York lose this battle, when they have won every other battle so brilliantly, even against the heaviest of odds? What went wrong?
“I can make no sense of it!” I said to Ursula as we rode together.
She said nothing. I threw her a sharp look and realized there was something she kept from me. “You know what happened, don’t you? Your father told you, didn’t he?”
Silence.
“Ursula, I have to know!”
“I shouldn’t…mustn’t—I promised I wouldn’t!”
But she did, for we were closer now than sisters, and there was nothing we could keep from one another. Filling in the details her father had omitted, she gave me a full account of the disaster that had taken place. “You must never repeat what I’m about to tell you! My father owes his freedom to my lord of Warwick, and never would he wish to offend.”
“It dies with me, dear Ursula. I vow it on my father’s soul.”
As Ursula related, Warwick and John had argued. Warwick had decided to await Marguerite at St. Albans and fixed his camp on a field called No Man’s Land, fortifying it with many guns and a load of curious devices called caltrops, as well as nets and shields bristling with nails, which he hid in the ground. Mortified by his brother’s choice of location, John had argued for a change in the positioning of the camp. “You’ve left your rear open to attack, brother!” he’d exclaimed, shocked.
Always sensitive to criticism, Warwick had replied heatedly, “No one attacks from the rear.”
“You’ve gone to such length to protect your front, you’re forcing Marguerite to attack your rear!” John had shot back.
“Who are you to question my judgment, I, the hero of England?” Warwick had bristled, squaring his shoulders.
“God’s Blood, Dick, Father always put his trust in my advice—not because he cared less for you, but because there are a few things he knew I understood better than anyone else, and one of those is strategy.”
Warwick relented. “Very well, then. If you insist, we’ll adjust the position tomorrow.”
“But you’ve no time to lose! It lies unprotected tonight.”
“No one attacks at night,” Warwick flung back in disgust. “’Tis dishonorable!”
John had looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Has she not proven to you with our father’s head that she cares not a whit for honor? You can’t afford to take the chance!”
Warwick had shrugged his broad shoulders dismissively. “In any case, there may not be time.”
“How close is she?” John demanded.
“I don’t know…exactly. The scouts are not back yet.”
John had stared at his brother with disbelief for a long moment. “For God’s sake, man, send out others! You’ve got to find out where she is. But you must begin adjusting your position—now. If Marguerite catches us here, she’ll destroy us!”
Warwick refused. A compromise was reached. When the scouts returned, if time permitted, the camp’s position would be readjusted. A scout came back later that night to report she was eleven miles away.
“If we begin right away, we can be done by daybreak,” John said.
Warwick gave a nod of assent.
“I wish you had started earlier, brother!” John said as he left to supervise the change of position, still troubled by Warwick’s unprotected flank.
But Marguerite had not been as far away as the scout had reported. On learning that Warwick was at St. Albans, and that his flank lay open to attack, she pushed on under cover of darkness and arrived in St. Albans at three the next morning. Warwick, caught in the midst of his preparations, was taken by surprise, completely unprepared. Utter confusion broke out in the Yorkist camp. In the darkness, Warwick’s guns proved more dangerous to his own men than to the enemy, and many were killed by his own side. After Marguerite’s victory, the town and abbey of St. Albans were thoroughly pillaged by her rampaging troops, who were giddy with victory. Not even the beggars were spared. Three thousand men died that night, mostly Yorkists, but only two Lancastrian nobles fell. One was Lord Ferrers of Groby, the lord Elizabeth Woodville had ensnared as husband.
This time Elizabeth Woodville’s sad tidings brought me not a moment’s glee. It was merely another sorrow to lay with
the rest. Pray God, I’ll be spared her fate. My hand strayed to Warwick’s missive, which I’d tucked into my bosom in search of reassurance. “Thank you, Ursula. Now I understand everything. But I’ll not dwell on misfortune while there is hope.”
AT THE FAR REACHES OF MARGUERITE’S CAMP, I ordered Geoffrey and the others to return to London for their own safety. He argued with me as hard as he dared, but I stood firm. I cared too much for him and for each of these lives to place them in Marguerite’s hands. Then, girding myself with resolve, I nudged Rose forward.
Night had fallen, and campfires burned before us as far as the eye could see, glittering like stars in a dark firmament. Men were clustered around them, some warming their hands, others roasting meat on the spit or drinking and making merry with their female company. The aroma of cooked meat filled the air. I went up to a group of sentries and asked to be taken to the queen’s tent. One man, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood, merely pointed a thumb to someone else farther up, a barrel-chested man-at-arms, evidently his commander.
The man drew himself up to his awesome height and approached me. “Who are you?” he demanded fiercely in the thick twang of the Northern men.
“My name I will not give,” I replied, summoning the haughty dignity of rank to garner his respect.
“Your business, then?”
“My business is urgent, and it is with the queen. ’Tis not for your ears.”
He scrutinized me with beady eyes, his gaze moving between Ursula, the children, and me, and back again. After a long moment, I said, injecting a measure of disgust into my tone, “What? Are you afraid of women and small children?”
The man gave a nod. “All right, the royal tent’s straight ahead. Ye canna miss it.”
I made my way through the camp, followed by the tittering of ruffians and much frank and lecherous assessment of my form. Then, suddenly, in the distance, someone called my name.
“Lady Montagu—”
A man with curly brown hair came running up to me out of the shadowy light of the campfires. I drew up my palfrey, and waited, puzzled. What friendly face could possibly know me in this place of enemies? The man reached my side and looked up. With pleasant surprise, I found it was William Norris.
“My lady, ’tis good to see you again,” he said, panting.
“And you, William. I’ve wondered how you’ve been in these years since we last met.”
“I thank you for your concern, my lady…. Have you come to see the queen?”
“I have.”
“Aye, I heard Lord Montagu was taken prisoner.”
I swallowed thickly.
“I hope the queen grants your request for his pardon…. He is a valiant knight. You made a worthy choice…Isobel.”
He said my name so softly that it was barely audible, but I caught the tenderness in his tone. Such, then, were the men who had died in these battles of York and Lancaster: men who loved, men of goodness, men who had fought because honor and their lords commanded it. Tears stung my eyes, and I bit my lip against the emotion that flooded me. “These are sorry times for us all, William. I regret the death of your lord Duke Humphrey.”
“He was a fine man,” he said.
A silence fell between us. Some ruffian called out drunkenly, “Hey, Norris, give ’er to me if ye dinna want her! I’ll know what to do wi’ ’er.” I heard guffaws. William looked at me gravely. “May I escort you to the queen?”
“That would be a kindness,” I replied.
He took my bridle and led my restless palfrey forward.
AT MARGUERITE’S TENT, MY WAY WAS BARRED again by another sentinel. As William reasoned with him for admittance, the flap was pulled back and a man emerged. I swallowed as I looked upon the face of the Butcher of England. Lord Clifford’s truculent brown eyes glared up at me with hatred. “You have no business here!” he spat, and whirled on William. “You, too! Begone.” William cast me a look of agonized helplessness as he made his obeisance and withdrew.
“You are mistaken,” I replied. “I bear tidings of a most urgent nature for the queen.”
“Urgent to yourself, no doubt. Be assured the queen has no desire to see you. You may leave.” He pointed the way I had come.
Another voice came from inside the tent, and a man stepped out. It was Somerset. He froze in his steps when he saw me, and a rush of color flooded his cheeks. After a moment, he recovered. “Lady Montagu—”
I was surprised to hear him address me by John’s new title, awarded by York’s parliament, and I softened somewhat before him, for he seemed changed. Certainly he was nothing like Clifford. I searched for the word that eluded me, and it came at last: humbled. Time seemed to have humbled Somerset.
“I’ll handle this, Clifford.” He waited until Clifford disappeared back into the tent. “Here, allow me to assist you from your palfrey,” he said, offering his hand as gallantly as any true knight.
I gripped it tightly and alighted. “I thank you, my lord Somerset.” I looked up into his face and met his eyes. But I looked away hastily at the disquiet I saw there. He led me into the tent and announced me to Marguerite, who was pacing as she dictated a letter to a scrivener. The tent surprised me with its spacious opulence. It bore every comfort: a large silver coffer, many candles, a table covered in damascene with a pitcher of wine and a plate laden with apples, a large bed covered in blue satin embroidered with the prince’s insignia of swans and feathers, several gilded camp stools, even a settee. Many lords stood about Marguerite, and in a carved chair beside the scrivener sat Henry.
She swung around when she heard my name, and Henry smiled. “Welcome, my dear—”
Marguerite didn’t let him finish. “She is not welcome!” She turned to me in fury. “I told you last time never to come to me again for a favor! The nerve of you to seek me out, after all you have done to make me suffer, you and your kin—the damned and contemptible Nevilles, who made their alliance with the Devil himself, York!”
I stared at her in astonishment. A wild look lit her eyes, and she trembled from head to toe.
“Have you forgotten his deceptions—that falsely sworn traitor whom my lord King Henri pardoned time and again? That malicious traitor who—against all the oaths he swore—put forward a false claim to the throne and spread lies about us to provoke our subjects into fighting against us? And, mort dieu, all this while declaring he intended us no hurt, but merely sought the welfare of the realm. That liar and slanderer! But now his venomous purposes stand revealed for all the world to see! York was after the throne from the first—he lied and killed for it! As God has shown, we are the true monarchs, and God Himself has seen fit to punish York and those that rose up with him against their oaths!
“Now you come here expecting me to pardon your husband—a traitor who, with the connivance of his foul brother Warwick, slandered my name, impugned my honor, called me bitch and our royal prince bastard? Who drove me and my child into the forest at Northampton, and into the hands of robbers? Have you any idea what I suffered there? God alone knows! Aye, God”—she pointed a finger up to Heaven—“God helped me to escape them. Those ruffians fell into an argument over their booty, and He sent me a fourteen-year-old boy to help me ride away with him, all three of us on one horse!
“We fled through the forest. Do you know what it is to be friendless and alone in the forest, at the mercy of robbers and every hideous evildoer who hides there? One of these accosted me—très hideux et horrible en l’aspect—and the ruffian prepared to take advantage of us. But I knew what to do! With the help of God it came to me—I confided to that hideux man our rank and placed my child in his hands and said, ‘Save the son of your king!’ He proved loyal and we reached Wales—oui, God helped me to survive all this, and has given me victory over my mortal enemies this day! Never will I forget or forgive what these foul Nevilles and Yorkists made us suffer. So there is your answer. Your husband dies!”
And with that she fell silent, glaring at me with a triumphant look that
bespoke her own madness. A gentle voice broke the silence. “Nay, dear queen, John Neville is a good man. He was my chamberlain. I pardon him—”
Marguerite whirled on Henry. “You pardon everyone! That is precisely the problem! You shall remain quiet, my lord, because they all die, all of them. Not only the Neville, but also the others to whom you promised pardon, your captors who held you while we fought—Lord Bonville, Lord Berners, and Sir Thomas Kyriell.”
“They didn’t hold me. They protected me.”
Marguerite ignored Henry and turned back to me. “This time they have gone too far. We shall crush them all—all the voices against us shall die. Then we shall rule as before.”
“Nay, Marguerite, dear wife,” said Henry, rising from his chair. “That is not the way. I promised them pardon, and we had a good time together, singing and laughing under the apple tree—”
“Henri, sit down and be quiet before I dispatch you to a monastery.”
“I like monasteries. ’Tis peaceful in—”
Breathless with rage, she glowered at him. He dropped back into his seat and sat quietly, mumbling to himself under his breath. Then she turned her wild eyes on me. “Go now—” She pointed angrily to the entry flap.
“My queen, I fear you have misjudged my intent in coming here today. I come not to seek a favor, but to parley one life of value against another.”
Marguerite hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“The missive I bring informs more eloquently than I, my liege—” I held it out.
Marguerite nodded to Somerset. I placed the missive into his hand, and he bent his head to read. When he looked up, his eyes held an anxious expression. He came and knelt before Marguerite. She frowned in puzzlement as she gazed down on him.
“My queen, they hold my brother Edmund prisoner in Calais. If you execute Neville, Warwick threatens to slay Edmund. I beseech you for mercy and pray you to grant pardon of life to John Neville so that my brother may live.”
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