B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  John’s expression softened; he took me into his arms. “Isobel, Isobel…’Tis not the reason I go so often to see Dickon…. God gives us all some work to do—if not great deeds, then small ones. A cup of water to one of His children. Nay—even less than that! A word of advice, something lent to another. A vexation patiently borne, or the fault of thoughtlessness by another repaired without their knowledge…Dickon has suffered much. He was born as our troubles with Lancaster began, and has known more violence and grief in his brief life than others many times his age. He has no father to guide him, and no mother to comfort him—” John broke off at the disloyal thought he’d spoken aloud. Yet it was the truth. John’s aunt Cecily had borne a brood of children, but mother she was not. Since her husband’s death, she’d shut herself up at her castle of Berkhamsted, where she prayed and fasted like a nun, as if she bore no responsibility to anyone but herself.

  “The boy is in sore need of reassurance,” he continued. “He lacks confidence in himself and is much hampered by his left-handedness, which makes the knightly arts more difficult for him.” He tipped my chin so that I met his eyes. “God will recompense all a thousandfold, my sweet. Surely you see that?”

  Swept with shame for my jealousy and for my own perceived failings as a woman, I nodded, recognizing the truth of what he said. How could I begrudge the boy love when by the tender age of eight he’d suffered so much—witnessed the horrors of Ludlow and endured the hardships of captivity, exile, and death? John’s words opened my eyes and my heart, and from that moment forward, I took Dickon to me, as John did—as if he were our own son, in place of the little one we had lost.

  Young Dickon’s experiences had left their mark on him, and each time I saw him, the sadness in his gray eyes made me remember Ludlow, and wish to crush him in my arms and kiss away his pain, while his adoration of his brother Edward stirred a nerve deep within me. All his life long, no matter how hard he strives, or what he achieves, Dickon will walk in his brother’s shadow, just as my John walks in Warwick’s. I knew it with a certainty I didn’t question, and so I tried, whenever I had the chance, to show him a mother’s tenderness.

  One evening, when Ursula’s father, Sir Thomas Malory, visited Burrough Green, we took wine together in the solar.

  “How fares the Countess of Salisbury?” he asked.

  “Not well,” I replied, an image of Countess Alice as I’d last seen her at Middleham filling my mind. Afflicted in both body and spirit, she lay bedridden, no longer able to speak or to recognize us. “I fear the countess is lost to this world.”

  The old knight murmured kind words about John’s mother and fell silent. I poured more wine into his cup and changed the painful subject. “You were present when my lord husband was released from imprisonment in York. How exactly did it come to pass that Edward chose to pardon the citizens of York?”

  Sir Thomas gave me his answer in storyteller fashion, as I imagine he wrote his tales.

  “A splendid knight he is, my lord of Montagu…the finest…. There we all were, you see, citizens and knights, pressing around King Edward, and he, seated on his black horse, his handsome face pale as the moon as he gazed on the rotting heads of his valiant father and of Edmund, the brother he loved, and of the kindly Earl of Salisbury and his merry son Sir Thomas Neville, all these nailed to the gates, buzzing with flies and covered with maggots. ‘Take them down!’ he commanded. ‘And send them to Pontefract to be reunited with their bodies for decent Christian burial!’ He didn’t say another word for a long time, but sat there still as death itself, staring at Micklegate Bar, and we thought that the end of the matter.

  “Then he looked around him with a glittering eye and said, ‘Burn this city, rob it to its bare walls, rape its women, and hang its men so no eyes dare live that did naught to take down my father’s head in these three months since Yuletide!’ And his voice was like the hiss of a snake, and everyone that gathered close around him, friend and foe alike, turned white as the clouds above their heads, and trembled to hear his words. No one dared ask the king to spare the city, lest he turn his black fury on them—none, that is, except my lord of Montagu…. He stepped forward and fell to a knee. He looked up at King Edward and said, ‘Noble king, fair cousin and valiant conqueror, I beseech you to forgive the unkindness of the citizens of York, for they had no power nor might to withstand the bitch of Anjou and her evil hordes, and took no part in this horror, which was committed by a woman without honor or mercy before God or man. These are good people, your people, and given a chance to serve you, they shall not fail you, but shall prove themselves your most devoted subjects.’”

  “The king gazed down on Lord Montagu’s bowed head for a long time, and we quivered for Lord Montagu, everyone there who watched, for we were certain he would be smitten down by the king in his rage. Then King Edward lifted his eyes, and the fury had fled from them, and he said, ‘Lord Montagu, if you can ask this of me after seeing the heads of your own father and brother rotting on the gates of this accursed city, then you are a better man than I, my fair cousin…. Your request is granted.’ And so the town of York was spared the horrors that befell Ludlow.”

  Silence throbbed in the room. Ursula and her mother wiped tears from their eyes. Neither could I speak, for my heart brimmed with pride that left me mute.

  MUCH GOOD NEWS CONTINUED TO ARRIVE FROM John. He liberated castle after castle for York and subdued the wild hordes of thieves and cutthroat murderers on the border, keeping the Lancastrians on the run. But years of civil strife and lawlessness were reaping a bitter harvest of turmoil that fed the hopes of the Lancastrians, and so he rarely had a chance to return to me and taste life’s sweets. I fretted greatly over his hard lot, so devoid of much else but fighting.

  One warm summer day, as John’s birthday approached, a trader on his way to Norwich stopped in Burrough Green to show me his wares. As I looked into his sack, the glitter of bronze, half-hidden by fabric bolts and a load of baubles, caught my eye. The trader fished it out.

  “A veiled dancer,” he said, his sharp dark eyes watching me carefully, “from Alexandria, cast in bronze by a Greek sculptor three hundred years before the birth of Christ…”

  I traced the lines of her perfect features and the graceful flow of her veils with my finger. An undergarment fell in deep folds around her and trailed heavily; atop, the figure wore a sheer mantle drawn taut over her head and body and across her cheek so that only her eyes and hairline were visible. The sculptor had caught her in the midst of a twirl, and as I gazed on her, she seemed to come to life before my eyes.

  I paid the exorbitant sum the trader asked, though it set me behind with my expenses for the entire month. If the merchant had not lied, hundreds of years had passed since an ancient sculptor of the Hellenistic age had lovingly cast her beautiful image into the golden metal. The past seemed alive to my touch.

  “I wonder who she was,” I mused to Ursula. “Did she love someone? Was she dancing for him?”

  “She was beautiful, that is for certain,” Ursula replied. “You can see it even beneath the folds of her veils…. And she was a fine dancer…like you, m’lady.”

  “I wish I had the chance to dance for the man I love…even veiled.”

  In one of those rare coincidences of life that can never be explained, a troupe of Gypsy dancers came to Burrough Green the very next day seeking to entertain us. My purse drained by the purchase of the statuette, we reached agreement on a payment I could afford, and they hauled their cart and donkey inside. I invited all the household to watch their entertainment, and our small hall filled with revelry as everyone clapped to the tunes of their gittern, cymbals, and tabors. And as I watched them twirl and beat their tambourines, a curious idea took shape in my mind.

  When the entertainment was over, I summoned the dance troupe to the solar. “I wish to surprise my lord husband, who holds camp on the Scots border with his army,” I told them. And I presented my scheme.

  Over the next days the dance tro
upe helped plan my intricate dance steps, and I practiced them to the music of the blindfolded minstrels, for I had no wish that their men see me dance so suggestively until I performed for John. For another full day I experimented with a drape of veil over my form, and after this they pronounced me ready. For my attire I chose a red bodice and a rich skirt of multilayered red and purple veils sewn with tiny beads of colored glass, and a purple mantle embroidered with silver flowers. Now we were ready to leave.

  The day dawned cool and bright. I was excited. Even the horses caught the scent of something special in the air; they snorted and neighed, stamping their feet as if to demand that we hurry. How we managed to load up the carts and not forget some vital necessity that would have ruined the entire plan, I shall never know. For I scattered my orders to the groomsmen with only half a mind, in a flutter of nervousness, amidst the incessant giggles and chatter of the dance troupe. At last I climbed into my litter and drew the curtains to protect my identity, and we set our course north for Doncaster.

  Now that I was truly on my way, the sheer recklessness of my prank struck me with full force, and I was assailed with doubts. Lancastrians were everywhere. What if they abducted me to use as a pawn against John? I could end up being the means of his destruction. This was mad, complete folly! Even if I managed to surprise him, his reaction could be far from the joy I had anticipated; it could be anger that I had chanced such disaster. Mayhap I should turn back…. Then his face would rise up before me, his Neville blue eyes gazing at me, filled only with me, the way they were on the night of the dance when we had first met, and my body would flame with passion. What if I didn’t go—and God forfend he was taken from me forever in the next battle? Would I ever forgive myself for my cowardice? Could I deny us the ecstasy of a last reunion?

  Then courage braced me like a knight’s armor, and my doubts fled for a time.

  The trip went by uneventfully. I spent two uncomfortable nights in inns along the way, sleeping with Ursula on hay mattresses filled with bedbugs, but the ale helped us abide them. Late on the third evening, the spire of the town church announced our arrival in Doncaster. Nearby lay John’s camp…and that of the Lancastrians. From this point on, we had to proceed with the greatest caution.

  “HALT! WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS?” DEMANDED THE man-at-arms fiercely. Around him was gathered a large group of soldiers, and behind him John’s camp stretched out into the distance, a maze of tents beneath the setting sun.

  Geoffrey drew out the missive I had written in my own hand and presented it to the guard. I drew my mantle tighter across my face as I watched them. In order not to attract undue attention, I had left my litter and donned a veil just before we arrived at the camp, and now I rode an old mare, which I shared with one of the eight Gypsy dancers. But we could not have more than one veiled woman, or suspicions would be aroused that we might be men in disguise, hoping to gain entry and sabotage the camp. Thus Ursula had been given a gray-haired wig to wear and told to walk with a stoop, so she would not be recognized.

  The sergeant took my letter warily but didn’t break the seal to read. I wondered if he was illiterate.

  “This is a dance troupe,” Geoffrey explained. “As you can see from the seal, Lady Montagu has dispatched us here to entertain her lord husband and his camp. I myself am well-known to those in His Lordship’s retinue. Send for anyone close to Lord Montagu, and they will vouch for me, as I vouch for this Gypsy troupe.”

  The man moved down the line, stopping at the litter. He drew back the curtain and riffled through the costumes that lay strewn there. His gaze then moved over our group and settled firmly on me, though I sat in the midst of the riders. But he could see little, for I took care to bow my head and draw my Saracen veil tighter across my face.

  “Why is that one covered up?” he demanded.

  Geoffrey laughed. “’Tis her custom—she dances veiled. ’Tis not from modesty, either, I assure you, as she is a ribald little thing—welladay, not so little, since she is as tall as I, though some will say I am little—however it be, you will see for yourself tonight. ’Tis enough to bring a blush to your own cheeks, I warrant!”

  Geoffrey exchanged a look with me, and it took all my will to suppress the laughter that threatened to convulse me. He was quite the mummer, though I had never known it. Clearly he was enjoying himself with a freedom he would never taste again, and my raised eyebrow told him so.

  “We’ll see about that,” the man-at-arms said with a scowl. “Wait here.”

  Patiently we sat beneath the fierce gaze of the guards while the Gypsy captain stood holding the reins of the lead horse, fearful to stir lest they unsheath their swords. The man-at-arms finally returned with Conyers who held my missive, the seal now broken. I shrank into my saddle, but Conyers strode directly to Geoffrey and barely glanced my way. He broke into a broad grin.

  “Geoffrey, you rogue,” he said with a slap on Geoffrey’s back that nearly felled him, “how did you gather this bevy of wild beauties? I half expected you to be dancing for us tonight when I heard you were here. Never would I have guessed women were one of your many talents.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, my lord.” Geoffrey grinned back good-naturedly.

  I realized suddenly how fond I was of these two men, loyal friend and loyal servant. Conyers turned back to the sergeant-at-arms. “Let them pass, and offer them what comfort there is. We have few here, my ladies”—his smile passed gallantly over us all—“as you will soon see, but we are happy you came, and most likely some of us will be even happier tonight.”

  Geoffrey broke into a broad smile and shepherded us and our cart of supplies past the guards into the camp.

  IN THE DINING TENT, MEN CROWDED THE LONG plank tables, filling the space with rowdy conversation and bursts of laughter as they drank their ale and awaited their commander’s arrival, for one sweep of the scene told me John was not yet present. While my dance troupe dressed and made ready in a small area at the back of the enclosure, I hid behind the curtain that shielded us from men’s eyes and watched for him, my gaze touching nervously on the table, set with tall-backed chairs, where he would sit with his highest officers.

  At one side of the enormous tent, a wide flap stood open, admitting the fading light of day and a view of the fields lit by the rosy glow of the setting sun. As I looked in that direction, a general commotion took place, and there was the rustle of garments as men stood to receive their commander. John entered with Sir John Conyers and his knights. I pulled back behind the curtain to catch my breath. Then, fortified once more, I looked again. John was making the rounds, greeting a man here, a man there, laughing and pausing to rest a hand on many a shoulder as he passed along to the high table. It was a side of him I had never seen before. He evinced a genial ease and camaraderie with these men that could exist only between those who had fought together and shared danger, who had entrusted one another with their lives and proven true time and again. Here was his own private world, a world of which I could never be part. I drew back, overcome by an inexplicable sadness.

  When everyone was seated and the first course had been served, the Gypsy captain gave the signal to the minstrels, and the merry notes of the first melody floated over the hubbub of conversation. I nodded to four of the dancers and parted the curtain for them. They twirled into the hall, bright and beautiful in their costumes, midriffs exposed, hips swaying, their raven hair loose, bare legs visible through the slits. Men cheered and whistled. The girls smiled and blew them kisses as they danced, eliciting hoots of admiration from the soldiers, one of whom suddenly stood with a hand to his heart and cried out, “For mercy’s sake, either marry me or slay me now!”

  I peeked out from behind the curtain, seeking John. He sat engrossed in conversation with Conyers and paid the dancers no heed, his mind clearly elsewhere. This distressed me. What if he doesn’t notice me? What if he leaves the hall before I have a chance to dance?

  Rousing applause broke into my thoughts. The first number had end
ed. The girls moved to the beat of the next melody, which was faster and wilder than the one that had gone before. John ignored them, still absorbed by his thoughts. Although he glanced up when the dance ended, his eyes held a faraway expression. A silence fell. I waited for the clash of cymbals to announce my entrance, and checked that my veil was secure against my hair. The music changed to a slow and sultry beat. My heart in my throat, I glided onto the floor, surrounded by a circle of dancers who shielded me from sight with blue and green ostrich feathers. I struck my pose, head turned shyly over my shoulder, eyes downcast, a hand holding my veil away from my body, the jeweled toe of one bare foot pointing out from beneath my gown. The girls withdrew their plumes. Men gasped at the strange sight I made, a dancer veiled from head to toe. They had never seen such a thing.

  With one hand gripping my veil tightly over my face and the other sweeping its folds back and forth across my hips, I took long, languid steps to one side, then to the other, careful to keep my face averted from John. The minstrels quickened the beat of the music, and I broke into a long, sensuous twirl. Across the dance floor I writhed, veils sweeping around me, hugging my body, revealing a glimpse of jeweled ankle here, a glimpse of thigh there. I saw many of the men put down their ale to watch more intently, not knowing what to expect but unwilling to miss whatever came next. I twirled across the floor, pausing to reach out here and there to brush a shoulder, caress a cheek, or meet a glance with a promise in my eyes, all the while keeping my veil secured firmly across my face. Finally, my breath in my throat, I dared to look in John’s direction. Oblivious of me, he had tilted his chair back to talk to his friend Marmaduke Constable, behind Conyers, a gesture reminiscent of the banquet at Lord Cromwell’s castle that squeezed my heart in memory.

  But, dear Heaven, doesn’t he recognize me yet? On either side of him, Lord Clinton and Conyers sat relaxed in their chairs, giving me their full attention, smiling in enjoyment but also without a hint of recognition. Have I disguised myself too well? My heart cried out to John—John, it’s me, my love, look at me, want me, I’m here….