B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  The hoots and calls of the soldiers, and the gazes of Clinton and Conyers, who now leaned close to watch, finally penetrated John’s concentration. He tilted his chair back to the table and gazed over at me, but still with only half a mind. This was my chance. I twirled forward to his table, stepped up on tiptoe and swung a thigh swiftly, boldly, across the table at him, and retreated again. The minstrels broke into the melody of our first dance at Lord Cromwell’s castle and I cast my outer mantle to the floor. Dancers whisked it away. I was now covered only by a single sheer veil, as are Saracen women of the harem when they dance for their lords and masters. While some of the dancers fanned me with the ostrich feathers and others clapped to the beat of the wild melody, I writhed sensuously before him, letting my veil slip from across my cheeks for a mere instant. Then, as he lifted a goblet of wine to his lips, I displayed a leg, bare to the mole on my thigh.

  John froze. He leaned forward in stunned disbelief. Tearing his gaze from the mole on my thigh, he ran his eye up my leg, up over my bosom, to my face. He met my gaze. He set his wine cup down and stared at me. Then slowly, very slowly, a grin began to spread across his handsome mouth, and the creases I so loved made themselves visible to me.

  I widened my own smile and gave him a wink.

  I RETURNED TO BURROUGH GREEN, WREATHED in joy. My mission had been accomplished successfully, and as John assured me when I left, he would not soon forget my Gypsy dance. “The memory shall keep me warm on many a cold winter’s night,” he promised as he kissed me farewell. As if our reunion had brought us good fortune, more news arrived from John on the heels of my visit. He had raised the siege of Carlisle and killed six thousand Scots. His victory meant that King Edward no longer had to hurry back to the North and delay his coronation. The date was set for June twenty-eighth, four days after John’s birthday on St. John’s Day. John came home to celebrate his name day, and the following morrow we left for London to attend Edward’s coronation.

  However, everywhere along the way to London, we heard the people murmuring about the choice of date. “Sunday?” they’d gasp. “But Sundays are unlucky this year!” Then they’d cross themselves to keep the Devil away. I’d had the same reaction when John had given me the news; even he had been troubled. For the day of the week on which fell the anniversary of the Massacre of the Holy Innocents, December twenty-eighth, was unlucky throughout the year. And this time it had fallen on the Sabbath. King Edward apparently cared naught for superstition. That date suited him, so preparations went forward for the crowning of England’s Yorkist king.

  When we arrived, we found London thronged by cheering masses displaying the White Rose of York, which was sold by the cartload on street corners and by hawkers from aprons brimming with the flower. “Fresh white roses for sale!” they cried. “Buy a fair white rose for our fair White Rose King!” The palace of Westminster, where we went to greet King Edward and John’s brother Bishop George, now his chancellor, bustled with the coming and going of innumerable staff. Cooks and helpers milled in the kitchen, conjuring all manner of toothsome delights into creation; carpenters hammered and pounded, making necessary repairs around the palace and on the royal barge, building tables and making chairs; while cages of swans and pheasants, and sacks of fruits, vegetables, sugar, and spices poured into the royal kitchens on carts, horses, and the backs of mules. The halls teemed with courtiers and nobles, and their retinues and ladies, and we had to thread our way through crowds everywhere we went. On our way to the king’s chamber, I gave a cry of joy, for my eyes alighted on a dear, familiar figure.

  “Maude!”

  She was with her uncle, Lord Cromwell. We embraced with delight.

  “How are you, Maude?” I said. “You seem happier…. Are you?”

  “Indeed I am. The defeat of the bitch of Anjou has done my heart much good.”

  Promising to seek one another out over the next few days, we left for the king’s chamber. We found him chatting amiably with a goldsmith whose wares, spread out on a table, gleamed and flashed in the light.

  “This is the goldsmith Master Shore, and he has made us a fine sword that shall be our offering as soon as the crown is placed upon our head,” Edward laughed and, flinging an arm around the man’s shoulder, he pointed to a golden sword set with rubies. Unaccustomed to familiarity with royals, the man colored and attempted an awkward bow. Edward removed his arm and moved to embrace us. “He’s the best goldsmith in London,” Edward said, slapping the man’s back before he left. “Almost as good a goldsmith as you are a commander, Cousin John! I owe my coronation to you, you know. If you hadn’t raised the siege of Carlisle, I would have had to come north—but now—”

  He gave me a lingering glance filled with admiration. “Truly, you sacrifice yourself for your king, John. To think you could be at home with your beauteous wife instead…. Here, let us walk together. The garden is profuse with the most splendid adornments.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder, and we strolled out to the garden. But as Edward talked of finances, state troubles, and military strategy, his glance touched on each of the ladies we passed along the rose-lined paths. I realized that, for him, adornments meant not flowers but women.

  In spite of the money woes that seemed to plague the young king—for he’d had to borrow ceaselessly these past three months to pay the troops and expenses of the government—King Edward threw himself a lavish coronation. He made his state entry into London the next day, and was met by the mayor and aldermen in scarlet and four hundred citizens clad in green. They conducted him from Lambeth Palace across the bridge to the Tower. At a rich banquet that evening he created thirty-two Knights of the Bath, two of whom were his young brothers, eight-year-old Dickon and eleven-year-old George, and he gave each knight a sumptuous gift. The following afternoon, the king rode in procession from the Tower to Westminster, preceded by his Knights of the Bath in their blue gowns with hoods of white silk.

  His coronation took place on Sunday morning in Westminster Abbey. The archbishop of Canterbury anointed him and placed on his head the priceless crown of King Edward the Confessor, which he wore to Westminster Hall as he walked beneath a glittering canopy of cloth of gold. He took his seat at the dais, beside his brothers and other members of his family, while we arranged ourselves around an adjacent banquet table. To my surprise, the hall was dimly lit, with only a few torches on the walls, and no candles. At first I thought this was a money-saving concession. But as we took our seats in the low light, torches appeared in the shadowy dark depths of the cavernous hall and moved toward us out of the blackness, accompanied by soft chanting. As the torches drew closer, we saw that they were borne by hooded monks. They divided into two long rows and filed past the dais and down both sides of the hall, chanting their song until it faded away into the darkness that enfolded them.

  Immediately varlets scurried to light the candles on the tables, and the hall filled with light. In the flicker of their flames, the beautiful colored glass in the soaring windows came to sparkling life, as did the banners and tapestries that decorated the walls, while the jewels that encrusted the hats and gowns of the nobles dazzled the eyes. All at once, from above, came the flapping of wings. We looked up to find hawks and falcons swooping and diving through the hall to our delight, pausing now and again to seize an apple or a plum from the silver bowls on the tables. The jangle of tambourines caught our ears, and a brightly colored Gypsy troupe made their entry to the beat of the lilting music of their strolling Gypsy minstrels. They were dressed Saracen-style in low-cut bodices with their midriffs exposed over their jeweled skirts, and I recognized the captain of my troupe when he passed close to our table. He gave us a low bow, and I threw him a white rose. John leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Warwick arranged it at my suggestion.” Then he gave me a naughty wink, and I laughed knowingly.

  And so it continued through the night—acrobats whirling in the air in the most stunning and unbelievable acts as we marveled; the finest troubadours in the land singing
to us as we listened dreamily; and a set of twin dwarfs and their magnificent black bear performing daring and dangerous feats to bring us to the edge of our seats.

  The ancient hall of William Rufus, filled to capacity with its illustrious guests, rang with cheers and brimmed with the boundless gaiety of those celebrating the end of war and a new beginning. We feasted on goose, swan, and pigeons in puff pastry with rich sauces, fried trout and partridge tails, and rice pies decorated with flowers; and we drank the finest, sweetest wines, spiced hippocras, malmsey, and fragrant beverages, toasting the health of our handsome new king at every opportunity. At the conclusion of the evening, in a spectacular display that drew gasps of awe from us all, an angel in white silk and silver dropped down from the hall’s magnificent hammer-beam roof to bless King Edward IV and bid us a good night.

  The festivities resumed the next morning, and later that day, King Edward created his brother George Duke of Clarence, and his little brother Dickon Duke of Gloucester. Before we departed for the North, I heard Edward promise Dickon the gift of a golden garter. “You shall have it, Dickon,” he whispered, “as soon as I can pay for it.”

  Amid such merriment, we took our pleasure and, finally exhausted with joy, we made our way back north, drowsy with delight, the evil omen of the Massacre of the Innocents long since forgotten.

  FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR THAT FOLLOWED Edward’s coronation, I enjoyed a measure of calm and life took on a pleasant uniformity I’d not known during my marriage. The best news in these months was the death of Marguerite of Anjou’s cousin King Charles VII. His loss robbed her of all French support, at least for the present. Charles’s son, the new King Louis XI, had hated his father and always sided with his father’s enemies. He not only imprisoned Marguerite’s envoys, but sent her friend Brézé to languish in a gloomy prison. Nevertheless, King Louis cared deeply for his kingdom and could be swayed to change policy. For this reason, Warwick was determined to wed Edward to a French princess. But according to various reports that came our way, King Edward, whose support rested on the favor of England’s merchants, preferred a trade alliance with Burgundy over a marriage treaty with France. I knew enough to be concerned by this. It would not bode well for John if his brother and the king fell out with one another over France.

  In November, a messenger arrived from Nan, who had taken up residence at her castle of Middleham. She wrote that the ailing countess was sinking fast. I packed up the children and journeyed to see her. While my spirits were immediately lifted by Warwick’s daughters, little Anne and Bella, who ran to embrace me with shrieks of delight and open arms, I was deeply saddened by the sight of the countess. Maude had married again and moved on to a new life with her third husband, Sir Gervase Clifton, but the countess remained trapped in that moment in time when the news of Wakefield had been brought to us.

  “How long has she been like this?” I asked Nan.

  “For months…I lose count,” Nan replied.

  Refusing to eat, the countess had wasted away, and her skin was stretched taut over her bones. Whereas she was once unable to sleep, now she lay in permanent slumber, not even opening her eyes. I went over to the bed, where she lay stiff and still as a corpse. Her matted gray hair was strewn across the pillow, and her face bore an expression of deepest pain. But whether it had roots in the body or in the mind, I could not tell. I touched her hand and found it ice-cold; I bent down and kissed the sad, furrowed brow. She did not stir. But it was then I heard the moan that came from her lips as if entwined in her breathing, without beginning or end, rising and falling in volume and dying away like a soft wind that passes gently through a field only to stir again.

  “Nearly a year has passed since the earl and Thomas died,” I said, stroking her cheek. “She never recovered, did she?”

  Nan met my eyes, and in them I saw my own sorrow reflected. “No…she died at Wakefield, too.” She turned her sad gaze on the lifeless figure who still lived.

  I kissed John’s mother one last time and heard the sighing of her breath. “Your many kindnesses to me live in my heart,” I whispered.

  THAT NIGHT WARWICK CAME STREAKING THROUGH Middleham as unexpectedly as a star streaks through the heavens, blinding all else in the light of his glory. Nan rushed around frantically to attend his every whim. Wine flowed, and we spent the evening feasting lavishly on boar, peacock, and swan. Even beggars at the door were given generously of the rich fare, for it was Warwick’s custom that every man be allowed to take away as much meat as he could fit on a dagger, and those too poor to own one were permitted to fill their stomachs until they could swell no further. Thus fortified, they set out again into the cold world, carrying their praise of Warwick all over the land, so that even those in faraway Bohemia heard of him. He carried the name “Kingmaker,” for having unmade Henry and put Edward on the throne.

  The evening was splendid in all regards except for one: John was not at my side. He was detained in the North. Warwick relayed his greetings to me, and a welcome message.

  “He has left to pick up a party of Scottish nobles from the border and escort them to York. They are to meet with Edward’s commissioners to discuss a peace treaty. He says to tell you that he is determined to make a visit to you very soon.”

  “Papa, why do you have to leave again?” his little Anne demanded tearfully.

  “I must go to London to talk to the French ambassador, my child,” Warwick said, stroking her hair as she sat on his knee. “I am planning a marriage for our brave King Edward.”

  “Indeed?” I said. “Who does King Edward wish to wed?”

  “Edward? He’s too busy whoring to give that any thought, so I shall decide for him,” Warwick replied. “I intend to secure a treaty with Louis XI and seal it with marraige to a French princess, so that France does not render aid to the bitch of Anjou.”

  I was shocked by the manner in which Warwick spoke of the king, and I couldn’t help but wonder what King Edward would think of Warwick’s wedding plans when he was told. A little shiver ran along my back. The Sun may have risen in splendor, but the future suddenly seemed vague and darkened by shadow.

  YORKIST ENGLAND

  1462–1471

  Nineteen

  1463

  I LOOKED AROUND OUR MANOR HOUSE AT SEATON Delaval, much contented. A gentle snow drifted past the windows and bright sunlight flowed through the slated shutters, casting a glow through the great hall, which had been decorated with ribbons, greenery, and berries for Yuletide and the New Year festivities of 1463. On the dais, the hearth crackled with burning logs, giving out warmth. In one corner, men played at dice; in another, ladies held hands and danced in a circle; and in the center of the room, children played Hoodman Blind, shrieking with delight as they tried to escape the clutches of the hooded one. The smell of spiced wine and gingerbread cake floated in the air as servants carried around great trays laden with sweets and fragrant drink. How much there is to be grateful for! I thought. So many good things had happened for us in the nearly two years since King Edward’s great Yorkist victory at Towton.

  There was only one thing I would change. Our family had grown by yet another daughter. Margaret gave us a brood of four girls, and though I loved them deeply, it also pained me that I had failed to provide John with the strong arms of sons. My hand had hesitated as I put quill to paper to inform him of the birth of our girl. I knew he had to be disappointed. A man needed sons to help him fight his battles, whether in the courts, on the field, or on the manor. Yet his reply bore no evidence of it. He talked about the joy the news had brought him, how he looked forward to seeing his beautiful little daughter, and how he hoped matters on the border would settle down long enough to permit him a visit to Burrough Green. I had brought his missive to my lips and kissed it tenderly, but with an inward sigh. After all these years, he still stood alone, no boys at his side to help him in the world.

  There’s plenty of time to have more children now that we’re close and he comes home more often, I told my
self, remembering.

  I had made the decision to move to Northumbria the previous year, 1462, for we saw little of John in Cambridgeshire. He was always in the North, securing the Scots border and fighting against the Lancastrian remnants that still vexed the land. To excise that cankerous sore and rid the realm of their threat, John had placed the three Lancastrian-held castles of Alnwick, Dunstanburgh, and Bamburgh under siege. Faced with the prospect of not seeing him for months on end, I moved our household from Burrough Green to the fortified manor of Seaton Delaval, far north in Northumberland, which had been confiscated from the Delaval family and given us by King Edward.

  We had set out on our journey north as soon as I regained my strength after Maggie’s birth in September. Along the way, news reached me of Countess Alice’s death. Though I was grateful that she had finally been granted rest, I was unable to shake the painful sense of loss that dogged me, and I wondered how John did and wished I could be there to comfort him.

  Autumn colors still clung to the Midlands when we left, but winds already blustered in gloomy Northumberland, and freezing sleet covered the earth. No livestock grazed outdoors, and we encountered few travelers along the way, for animals were given shelter and wise men did not venture out in such weather. Trotting our horses and rolling our carts across the rugged and lonely terrain of Northumbria, we had traversed hills and valleys, passed endless barns and small dwellings, and sometimes a shivering traveler that necessity had forced outdoors. As we’d entered the final stretch of our journey, the road before us climbed so steeply that all we saw was the vast sky rising ahead, so that it seemed the stony path would lead us directly to Heaven. I took it as a good omen.