B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  At last we’d turned our horses through the sleepy village of Seaton Delaval and out into the arable farmland that surrounded the manor, marked on the horizon by the bell tower of an old Saxon church. The porter had let down the rusty drawbridge amidst a terrible shuddering and ear-shattering screeching that scattered the swans and herons on the moat with a wild flapping of wings. As we clattered up to the gatehouse, I’d made a mental note to have the drawbridge oiled. The reeve had met us with anxious eyes and a troubled air, no doubt wondering his fate under a Yorkist lord, and, while two grooms came running to hold the horses for us as we dismounted, he showed me around my new home.

  Near the kitchen, a stream flowed through the garden to a well, and a windmill turned its sheeted arms, billowing like sails on a ship. Pigeons flew around the dovecote and the air bubbled with their loud cooing, while geese, poultry, and partridges wandered around the yard, squawking and sounding their horns. I was shown the spacious kitchen wing, the washhouse, the brew house, and the bake house, from whence had floated the smell of baked bread. My stomach had growled with appetite, and my throat thirsted for the wine and ale to be served at luncheon. Inwardly, though, I’d given a sigh. The manor required much hard work and expense to make it comfortable, for it had an unkempt air, with its run-down dovecote and rampant weeds, the half-rotted wood of the byres, and the ripped sheets of the windmill. Much tending was needed; we’d have to engage the services of many itinerants to mend farm buildings and implements.

  We had entered the main house then and taken the creaky wooden staircase up to the living quarters. I’d noted many buckets that stood ready to catch drips from the leaking tiled roof, but the great hall was paneled and had a lovely minstrels gallery, and the wonderful old Saxon chapel, with the tall tower that I’d seen from the road, radiated warmth. In preparation for our noon arrival there was much bustle in the hall. The tables were already laid with freshly laundered cloths and pewter goblets, and varlets were bringing in saltcellars and spoons and setting them in their appropriate places.

  At the end of the tour, I was shown our bedchamber. To my delight, it commanded a view of the surrounding fields and gardens, and had a privy that was set with sconces on either side of the arrowhead window. I had changed out of my journey-stained attire and, thus refreshed, had made my way to the hall for luncheon. Most of the household staff had already gathered in the hall to await me. I invited them to sit, and with my nod to the ewer, they were offered water in which to wash their hands before grace was said.

  For the next two months I had thrown all my energies into fixing up the house and controlling expenses so that we could squeeze in extra repairs. I went over the household accounts with the reeve, suggesting ways to cut back on the purchases of clothes, wax, wine, spices; on the cost of alms given; on the money spent on supplying livery and buying stock; on the cost of the clergy we employed to sing masses and say prayers; on the expenses of the varlets engaged to clean windows and floors, and to keep the fires, candles, and rushlights lit; even on the number and cost of the staff that took care of the children. The money saved paid not only for additional repairs, but for adornments such as tapestries. And by Yuletide, the manor had repaid my efforts by taking on a truly inviting air.

  The decision to move to Seaton Delaval had been a good one. John had seized every opportunity to come home, and though his visits were usually brief, they filled the house—and my heart—with great joy.

  As we prepared to usher in the New Year of 1463, the sieges of Alnwick and Dunstanburgh went so successfully that Somerset surrendered both to John on Christmas Day. Now only Bamburgh remained in Lancastrian hands. On Twelfth Night, John arrived at Seaton Delaval with a very special guest in tow. “Look who I brought you,” he said, his dark blue eyes twinkling.

  “Uncle!” I cried, throwing myself into his arms in a most unladylike display of affection. “Oh, Uncle, ’tis so good to see you!” Linking arms with him, I turned to lead him to the house, when a familiar voice sounded behind me. I looked back to see Somerset dismounting his stallion with the help of a man-at-arms, his hands bound before him. He stood for a moment gazing at me. I stared, not comprehending. Somehow I hadn’t understood that when Somerset surrendered the castles, he had also surrendered himself.

  “My lady of Montagu, I greet thee well,” he said in a gentle tone.

  “My lord of Somerset—” I broke off, finding no words. I inclined my head in a nod of acknowledgment, aware of the strange look John threw me. Then John gave a curt nod to the man-at-arms, and Somerset was hustled away. A stream of other captives followed.

  “What will happen to them?” I asked, speaking my thought aloud.

  “They are traitors,” my uncle said. “What do you think will happen to them, dear child? Now let us dine.” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I am good and ready to sup!”

  Over dinner, my uncle recounted his wonderful adventures in Jerusalem, Padua, Florence, Rome, and Rhodes. We downed spiced wine and hippocras, and worked our way through a dozen courses. But all the while, I thought of Somerset.

  “So York rules over Lancaster at last,” my uncle marveled, toying with his goblet. “‘What glory can compare to this, to hold your hand victorious over the heads of those you hate?’—Euripides, you know…For a time there, I had not much hope of it. The manner of the Duke of York’s death changed the minds of many, I daresay.”

  “Indeed, it did,” John murmured thoughtfully, pondering his wine before downing it in a gulp. A sorrow came over me, for I knew he was thinking of his father and Thomas.

  “Aye, ‘’tis a rough road that leads to the height of greatness,’” my uncle said, quoting the poet Seneca.

  “A road forced on us by Marguerite,” John replied pragmatically.

  “‘She to Ilium brought her dowry, destruction.’ ’Tis what Aeschylus said about Helen of Troy, and it is proven true again in our day. Ah, history has a way of repeating itself, does it not?”

  John gave a polite assent and moved to another topic. “As to the prisoners, my lord of Worcester, may I suggest we request a general pardon for them from King Edward?”

  “Nay, make an example of them!” my uncle retorted. “Put them to death—and a slow death, at that!” He changed his mind about stabbing a slice of venison and waved his dagger around instead. “Impalement, that is the way! I observed this manner of death employed in Transylvania. ’Tis slow and torturous, and has proved most effective with the Turks. ’Tis how Vlad Dracula solidified his hold over his unruly region of Transylvania. Victims are either impaled through the anus or, in the case of women, their female part. His people live in such fear that none dare break any laws in his land! He has a gold cup placed on display in the market square of Tirgoviste, unguarded from any thief, and the cup remains, even through the night. ’Tis said he has made mothers eat the flesh of their own babes for fear of being impaled if they refused.”

  A varlet offered him spitted boar, and he nodded with appetite. Another servant heaped a load of boiled cabbage on his plate and moved to me. I swallowed hard on the wave of nausea in my mouth and waved the food away. I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Neither did John, for he had turned pale.

  “These are not Saracens,” said John thickly, “but our own people, some of whom were forced to fight for Lancaster against their will.”

  Despite the effort to inject civility into his tone, he sounded angry. His face had hardened as he listened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “Nevertheless their suffering will serve as an example and discourage the Lancastrian cause,” said my uncle. “Do you wish peace? Do you wish the return of law and order? Fear is the most effective weapon there is! Vlad Dracula had his mistress disemboweled for having lied about being pregnant with his child. Now people dare not lie in Transylvania, or even cheat, for terror of coming to his attention.”

  I put down my wine cup, my mouth flooded with the taste of bile.

  “England is not Transylvania.
And you yourself were Lancastrian once,” John reminded him.

  “My situation was quite different. I never fought for Lancaster. I owed my earldom to Henry, but I was connected by birth with the Duke of York, and to your family by marriage and friendship. How could I choose sides? ’Tis why I left the country.”

  “These men were duty-bound to fight for their lord, whatever side he happened to choose, whether they agreed with him or not. They were too poor to leave England,” John said.

  “That is not your problem, nor mine, John,” sighed the earl. “They fought for Lancaster! What matters now is our duty to King, and that duty is to support him with every means at our disposal, including fear. And spare no man for his rank! The only concession Dracula made to rank was to impale his noblemen on longer spikes, and as for the Turks, hear what he did to—”

  I could take no more and rose to my feet abruptly. “Pray, my uncle, some other time, perhaps? I fear I am not up to such talk—” I forced a laugh, and to excuse my rudeness, I placed a hand on my stomach.

  I saw John’s startled look.

  “By the rood, you are with child?” my uncle exclaimed, scraping back his chair and rising to take my hand gently into his own. “Must be love that keeps you in such fair shape and glowing with happiness, for no one can tell by looking at you that your condition is so delicate, my dear.”

  Much as I cared for my uncle, I was sickened by his talk of torture and had summoned up the only excuse that would not oblige me to feign sickness for his entire stay, be it short or long. Yet I had not exactly lied—my stomach was indeed churning. “And that happiness I owe to you, dear Uncle,” I said lightly, to change the subject. “If it hadn’t been for your intercession, and your golden way with words, the queen would not have agreed to my marriage to my lord husband.”

  He patted my hand. “It does my heart good to know you are wed to such a splendid knight. ‘One word frees us of all the pain and weight of life: That word is love.’ Is it not?”

  “Indeed it is, and Sophocles was wise to know it,” I replied, eager to bid him good night.

  John stood, looking stunned by my disclosure. I smiled, gave him an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and when I brushed his cheek with my kiss, I whispered, “No!” in his ear. To my relief, his eyes changed, and I knew he understood. He bowed to me and sat down.

  But instead of retiring to our bedchamber, I stole down to the cellar, where Somerset was held captive. His room was a mere storage cell between some barrels of wine, and the surprised guard gave me entry only upon my insistence, for he had been commanded not to let anyone in.

  I stepped into the chamber, and the key turned behind me. At first I saw nothing; my eyes had to adjust to the darkness. Then I made out Somerset sitting with his head in his hands. He hadn’t looked up when the door had been unlocked or when it was locked again behind me.

  “My lord of Somerset,” I said.

  He jerked up his head. He didn’t move for a moment; then he blinked and rose to his feet. He stood gazing at me.

  “Isobel,” he said, almost reverently, “do I see true? Surely you are not real but a vision sent me from above….”

  “Nay, I am real enough,” I said, suddenly regretting I had come.

  He put out his hand, and after a hesitation I gave him mine. He kissed it and held it tenderly in both his own. “My lord of Somerset, I have come to thank you for the promise you made me at St. Albans, which you have kept.”

  “I need no thanks, Isobel.”

  “It was a kindness that greatly eased my mind,” I replied, ignoring his denial.

  “I did it for you…. I would do anything for you.”

  I dropped my lids, blushing furiously, glad of the darkness as I withdrew my hand from his. “Your Grace, I only wish you to know that I shall always be grateful to you.”

  “Prove it.”

  My eyes flew back to him. “What?”

  “Kiss me.”

  I took a step backward. “You’re mad!”

  “I’m a dead man. I don’t want your prayers. If you wish to thank me, do it now…with your lips.”

  Before I knew it, he had closed the distance between us and swept me savagely into his arms. “Isobel—do you not wonder why I never married? ’Tis because of you!” he said roughly. “As long as the wars raged, I had hope. But now hope is gone!” His mouth swooped down to capture mine, and I felt his burning body against mine. I struggled against his kiss, which suffocated me so that I could not cry out, and fought him hard, beating against his chest with my fists. But he was too strong for me, and I flailed in his arms like a dove in the claws of an eagle.

  The key turned in the lock with a loud click. Jolted by the sound, Somerset relaxed his grip, and I removed myself from his grasp with such haste that I ripped my sleeve. John stood in the entry, staring at me. I pulled my hair and the torn sleeve of my gown over my shoulder, but the look on his face, so wounded, full of pain and disbelief, cut me to the core. In the next instant, his hurt look vanished, replaced by rage. He raised a fist to strike Somerset, but I lunged for his arm, which I caught at the elbow. “Nay, my lord! Strike him not! ’Tis not worthy of you to strike a prisoner—one who did you kindness!”

  “Kindness?” John looked at me with hatred. “Is this kindness—that you steal down here to be kissed by my mortal enemy—the one who murdered my father and my brother—”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Somerset protested. “I tried to dissuade them from it.”

  “So you say now, when no one is left to gainsay you,” John hissed. “I have a good mind to throw you to her uncle—you know what he’d like to do to you?”

  “John, I beg you, say no more! Let it be! I came to thank him for your safekeeping! He promised me at St. Albans that no harm would come to you—and he kept his promise! Oh, John, forgive this trespass—I only wished to thank him, ’tis all.”

  With a jerk of his arm, John shook me off. After glaring at Somerset for a long moment, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room. I ran after him, to no avail. Stony-faced, he would not speak to me and was deaf to my entreaties.

  For the first time in our marriage, John did not come to our bed.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WAVED FAREWELL TO MY uncle with a troubled heart. As soon as he had gone, John dispatched Somerset to the safety of the fortress of Middleham, to be kept there until the king arrived. For the next three days, he held a military hearing in the market square, where he pardoned most of the prisoners and hung the rest. I knew he had acted swiftly so that my uncle would have no opportunity to carry out his designs against the hapless captives. Yet I felt such speed unnecessary, for I had recalled something I’d been unable to share with him. My uncle’s talk of impalement was mere bluster, and his hard demeanor hid a soft heart that could never inflict cruelty. I knew, because he had read me the tale of the doomed royal lovers Tristan and Iseult when I was a child, and before we reached the end, he broke down and wept at their suffering.

  Even at the tender age of six, I understood my uncle to be a proud man who would not wish others to know his weakness. Thus, I never spoke of what I had witnessed, and put it out of my mind so completely that I almost forgot it had happened.

  On the last day of the executions, I did not see John at all, and on the night before he left again, he stayed away from our bed for a third time. I paced in my chamber restlessly, as though movement could grant me peace from my agony of mind. The doleful tolling of church bells sounded the hour of matins, and the nocturnal chants of the monks came floating to me across the stillness of the night. I could bear it no longer. Donning my chamber robe, I went to John in the room he had taken down the hall.

  His eyes were closed. “John,” I murmured, “are you awake?”

  In the moonlight, I saw him open his eyes, but he said nothing.

  “About what happened…Surely you know I intended no harm by thanking Somerset?”

  He didn’t reply, but at least he didn’t turn his back.


  “John, I’ve never given you reason to question my fidelity. Somerset grabbed me. Couldn’t you see I was struggling to get away when you walked in? What more could I do? You are my first love and my last. When we’re apart, I yearn for you, and only when you are safe at my side do I feel I truly live. We are granted so little time together, my love—’tis a terrible thing to waste our moments. Tomorrow you depart again”—I cast a look of dread at the black window—“and I shall be alone; for how long this time, I know not….” I broke off wretchedly.

  His continued silence was extinguishing my hope of forgiveness, but I gave it another effort. “Life is uncertain, my dear lord, and well do we know loss, you and I. Though you’ve won every battle you’ve ever commanded, the fear is always with me that the next one shall claim you. Sometimes I feel that I walk with the shadow of death at my shoulder—” My voice broke, but I forced myself to go on. “If you leave me now, angry and bitter as you are, how shall I bear that? If we part this way and misfortune comes to us, what then? Somerset has cost us much. Do not let him take more.”

  John did not move. I swallowed the despair in my throat and turned to leave, and it was then that I heard his sigh and felt his hand take mine. He drew me down to his side. I gave a small sob of relief as I stretched out beside him on the bed.

  “You are right, Isobel,” he said softly. “We should not waste time on such nonsense, for in the end that is all it be.” I kissed the pulse in his neck. “’Tis just that your uncle upset me at dinner, and when I came to you for comfort and you were not there…” He heaved an audible breath. “To see you in another man’s arms—’tis a sight I hope never to witness again. It well nigh drove me mad. I couldn’t help myself, I wanted to kill Somerset.”

  “My love, let us put it aside, and forget. All that matters is that we are together.”

  Twenty

  HEXHAM, 1464

  “THANK YOU, GEOFFREY,” I SAID, ACCEPTING THE missive my uncle had sent from court, and giving him a warm smile as I opened the letter.