B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  I had grown very fond of this man, who had become my right arm. In John’s absence, he guided me in my dealings with our various bailiffs, rent collectors, reapers, grangers, carters, smiths, plowmen, shepherds, herdsmen, and other farmworkers on our scattered estates, and I found in him a veritable fountain of knowledge. With his genial good nature, he reminded me of King Edward, and not only was he pleasant, but he worked hard and accomplished much. As Heaven knew, we sorely needed his help. Our money woes never seemed to leave us, despite the income from the gold mine, and limited the help we could hire, but this older man accomplished more in a day than most youths did in a week.

  I broke open the seal and bent my head to read.

  My dear niece Isobel,

  Much has transpired since I left you. I have been made most welcome in London by our gracious sovereign, King Edward IV—long may he reign over us!—and I must admit to you that I have been extremely impressed by him. He is the handsomest man and prince I have ever laid eyes upon, being taller than all other men I have known and broader of shoulder, and he is also extremely amiable. But, clearly our young king is nothing like our meek Henry. Exceedingly able and perceptive, as well as a great and courageous military leader, he is a great statesman. Recognizing my talents immediately, he found merit in my arguments against leniency. My dear niece, you may take pride in knowing that your uncle, already a high peer of the realm and famed as one of the world’s great scholars, has been duly recognized by our King Edward IV. In appreciation of my wise counsel and staunch devotion to the cause of York, His Grace has appointed me Lord Constable of England, with the power to try cases without a jury and no right of appeal from my courts.

  I lowered the missive in my hand, my mind reeling. Great power had been placed in my uncle’s hands, a power that would test his true mettle. He had always been proud, and now I feared his pride blinded him to the truth about himself. Like Marguerite d’Anjou, who saw herself as a peacemaker even as she drove men to the sword, my uncle had thought himself a loyal Lancastrian even as he’d fled for Italy to avoid the wars.

  But what troubled me more was his belief in his own righteousness. My uncle was noted for his piety; yet he’d watched with admiration the gruesome sight of Saracens being put to death by impalement, this man who’d wept at the tale of the fictitious lovers Tristan and Iseult.

  Which was the real John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, my uncle?

  I made the sign of the cross and bent my head back to his letter.

  However, our new king is too merciful, and despite my strenuous objections and the greater wisdom conferred on me by my years, King Edward has extended Somerset the olive branch. Embracing him as his cousin and his friend, the king said, “Let us put the past behind us where it belongs, Henry,” and granted him forgiveness and favor, and Somerset knelt to him in acceptance.

  I laid down the missive. My uncle was mistaken: It was not learning and age that made for wisdom. It was a man’s heart, and I need not doubt that King Edward’s remained in the right place. For shame, is this your thanks to the uncle to whom you owe your happiness? I thought, swept by guilt. However, only days after his appointment as Lord Constable of England came tidings that fanned my misgivings again. John brought them to me himself.

  “The Earl of Oxford and his eldest son have been arrested for treason.”

  “Are they guilty?”

  “Most people feel they are not. But your uncle will decide the matter.”

  John said nothing more, and I dropped the subject. My uncle had become a sensitive subject for us both. Not long afterward came the news that my uncle had found the earl and his son guilty, and the earl had been beheaded on a scaffold still wet with his son’s blood. The whole matter made my stomach tighten into such a knot that I was unable to take food for two days.

  John, who was at home when we received the news, took to his horse, and I didn’t see him again until dusk. He returned long after dinner had been cleared away. I sat with him and watched as he ate silently, a faraway look in his eyes. I knew he was remembering his own father and brother, and Clifford’s brutal treatment of them at Wakefield. Whether my uncle’s executions were warranted or not, there was no need for the added cruelty of having the son executed in front of the father, and of making Oxford lay his own head down on a block lathered in his son’s blood.

  Edward, in a burst of generosity, had not attainted the Earl of Oxford, so his remaining son, seventeen-year-old John de Vere, who’d taken no part in his father’s treason, would inherit his father’s earldom. But how could this kindness ever outweigh my uncle’s ruthlessness? Soon afterward came news that this young heir had come to blows with another youth over some disagreement, and this had brought him before my uncle’s court once again. He was sentenced to have his arm severed at the elbow. This time, however, King Edward commuted the sentence, which was considered unduly harsh by everyone. My uncle, this man I had seen weep at a manuscript, was carving himself a reputation for great cruelty.

  The weeks passed. My concerns about my uncle faded in the glow of better tidings. Marguerite, despairing of Scotland’s help, had left England to seek help in France, and only the fortress of Bamburgh, where King Henry resided, remained in Lancastrian hands. Sir Thomas Malory, traveling to the border on royal business, stopped at Seaton Delaval for a brief visit with Ursula and brought us interesting news.

  “Shocked by the sight of their young king bareheaded and unarmed, riding beside Somerset, and believing King Edward to be in mortal danger, the people of Grantham tried to drag Somerset from his horse and slay him!” he said. “But golden-haired Edward laughed and told them that he and his erstwhile foe were now the best of friends! The townspeople scratched their heads at this turn of events…. On my soul, King Edward is the most amiable, good-natured, and courageous monarch that ever sat the throne of England!”

  “King Edward is not only generous, he is right,” I said thoughtfully. “We must put the past behind us and move forward as best we can. But, Sir Thomas, isn’t Somerset in a difficult position? Not everyone is as forgiving as Edward, and now he finds himself trying to gain acceptance among men who are kin to those he has slain.” I was thinking of the many ambushes and attempted murders of the Nevilles. How must John feel? Somerset, even if he wasn’t physically present at Wakefield, had taken a hand, however reluctantly, in the slaughter of the Earl of Salisbury and of Thomas, and he had certainly been active in the many other ambushes and waylayings.

  “Aye,” Sir Thomas Malory sighed. “’Tis an impossible situation in many ways. There are those who will never forgive. I have seen him taunted. Some even turn their backs on him when he walks past. They whisper openly and snicker behind their hands. So I know not the answer to your question, my lady. Only time will tell.”

  Indeed it did. Before the year was out, Somerset had defected back to the Lancastrians, joining King Henry at Bamburgh. From that fortress, he and his Lancastrian friends wore John out keeping the peace as they raided the surrounding countryside. John’s visits home to me grew fewer in number, and shorter in duration.

  Though he had promised to return to Seaton Delaval for our seventh anniversary, he didn’t arrive until after dark on the twenty-sixth of April, and his homecoming wasn’t what I expected. He rode up wearily, an expression on his face that I had come to see in the days when Marguerite ruled the land. At his side rode faithful Rufus and John’s new squire, Thomas Gower, the one I had known as “the pilgrim” in the depth of the troubles with Lancaster.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We gave battle at Hedgeley Moor,” John sighed, dismounting. I took his arm as we walked together. “One of our Neville relatives—you know that rabid Lancastrian Humphrey—”

  I nodded. Humphrey Neville was descended from a first marriage made by John’s grandfather, Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, to Margaret Stafford, while John’s line was descended from Earl Ralph’s second wife, Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster. Humphrey
’s quarrel with John’s father concerned the inheritance of certain property he felt should have gone to his side.

  “I discovered he had plotted with Egremont’s brother to ambush me—”

  A gasp escaped my lips. Egremont was long dead, yet his legacy lived on and the Percies still made trouble for John. I had come to loathe their name, which had been coupled so often with the word “ambush” that it never failed to remind me of the anguish of those days that had led to the horror at Wakefield.

  “Nay, have no fear, ’tis over,” John said. “The Percy is dead, but Humphrey escaped to Bamburgh.” He sighed heavily as he sank down into a chair in our bedchamber. “There can be no peace in the land until I find a way to wrestle that impregnable fortress on the sea away from the Lancastrians.”

  Rufus made himself comfortable by the hearth. He cast John a sad look and wagged his tail in commiseration. I sent Tom Gower away and undressed John myself, pulling off his high boots, removing his doublet and hose, and untying his shirt. After sitting him down by the fire and covering him with a blanket, I went to the door and sent a servant down for wine and sweetmeats.

  “Let us worry about that later,” I said, returning to his side. “Now we shall eat, drink, be merry…and make love.” I kissed the back of his neck as he sat in the chair, and I slipped my hands beneath the blanket and down over the rippling muscles of his chest. He turned and reached for me.

  AFTER JOHN LEFT, HE WROTE ME DAILY. ONE BY one, the castles in the North and the West surrendered to him, until only Harlech in Wales held out. Favorable reports also came from across the land about King Edward. His charm was so great that he had won the hearts of his people, and they adored him almost as much as they loved Warwick. Merchants’ wives pressured their husbands to loan him money, and men, too, often gave generously to Edward’s purse, though they could not be sure they’d ever see their gold again. But each time I met King Edward, I heard the same troubling refrain from him. “Money, money,” he’d moan, “why is there never enough money?” Well did I understand his concern, for it was the same as ours. But then he’d turn his gaze thoughtfully on Warwick, who was richer than any king, and I felt that cold shiver run down my spine again.

  At this time, Warwick decided to reunite his mother in burial with his father and brother at Bisham Priory, for in his will the earl had expressed his wish to be buried with his Neville ancestors. Accompanied by John and Warwick riding bareheaded, with banners fluttering before them in the cold wind, the bodies of the earl and Thomas were conveyed from Pontefract to Middleham, to join Countess Alice, and from thence the three were taken to Bisham. All along the way, people gathered to pay their last respects, removing their caps to stand quietly and watch the chariots rumble past, covered in black silk and drawn by gleaming ebony stallions. At the priory we were met by John’s brother George, the bishop of Exeter, now Edward’s chancellor, and Edward’s young brother, fourteen-year-old Clarence. But the king had not come. Again I felt that cold shiver of warning that told me something was amiss.

  Attired in black, my face covered by a veil, my mind awash in memory, I rode behind the caskets of the three I had come to love as my own kin. I saw merry Thomas in the hall at Raby, surrounded by children. Wine in well rose sparkingly, he sang; beer was rolling darkeningly, and merry malt moved wavily, through the floor beyond….

  I wiped away a tear.

  At the door of the priory church, John performed his father’s bequest and distributed forty pounds in gold coins to poor maidens about to be married. I watched the earl’s last act of charity on this earth, a charity characteristic of him throughout his life. As clarions blared farewell, tabors drummed, and monks chanted their dirges, the coffins were lowered into their sarcophagus. One by one, I blew them a kiss in my heart.

  Immediately after the funeral, John took to horse and did not return for many hours. I watched him ride away, wishing he could turn to me for solace. But, strong and silent as he was by nature, there was much he knew not how to share with me, and much that eluded me about him. He is like the wind, I thought, and one cannot capture the wind.

  The next day, I went back to Seaton Delaval. Before any word arrived from John, a travel-dusty pilgrim appeared at our door one May evening, begging shelter. Ursula came to me in the kitchen, breathless. “The pilgrim has news, dear lady! Come—” Seizing my hand, she dragged me to the hall, where a man sat eating at a trestle table.

  “See,” he explained, repeating what he had told Ursula, “my lord o’ Montagu delivered the Scottish nobles safely to York, and he was on his way to his headquarters in Newcastle to await my lord o’ Warwick and King Edward when he learned that Lord Somerset and King Henry were encamped near the town of Hexham.” The man spoke between long draughts of ale and mouthfuls of bread soaked in broth. “My lord o’ Montagu needed no second invitation, m’lady! I was passing through m’self and saw the fight, and afterward I spoke to one of the soldiers—”

  “Is Lord Montagu safe?” I demanded, my heart in my throat.

  “Safe and snug as a bug in a soiled mattress in a dirty tavern, m’lady. Have no fear—”

  With a wide smile, I ordered him a capon and wine. As we waited for the bird to be cooked, he told his tale of Hexham.

  “As I was saying, this man-at-arms, he was one who took part in the battle, and I’m relating it to you as he himself told it to me, so upon my soul ’tis as God himself saw it—” The pilgrim took time to cast an eye heavenward and make the sign of the cross. “‘My lord o’ Montagu,’ he says to me—the sergeant says this, mind you—‘My lord o’ Montagu is the most valiant knight and the best commander a fighting man can have! Here’s the traitor Somerset camped in this meadow near Hexham on the banks of Devil’s Water, and without waiting for reinforcements, m’lord o’ Montagu galloped to meet treacherous Somerset, whose life King Edward said was forfeit on capture—’” The pilgrim paused to down his ale. “‘Crushed ’em like that—’” He snapped his fingers. “This is me talking now…. God’s own truth, m’lady, I saw it with m’own eyes—may the Lord Almighty smite me down if I lie! M’lord Montagu attacked with such suddenness and so fierce, that’s why the entire battle took but minutes, though Somerset’s army outnumbered his by more than two hundred men…. Aye, England never ’ad a finer general or a more manly knight than good Lord Montagu—may God bless him and reward him, so say I!”

  The wine and capon were brought, and he settled down to dig into his meal. Even if this last compliment had been inspired by the hope of more wine, it deserved a full reward, and I took the pitcher to pour his cup myself.

  “King Henry escaped,” the man added, licking his lips as he watched me pour. “But Somerset was caught, and he lost his miserable head in Hexham’s market square—and good riddance to him, I say!”

  My hand stilled, the wine half poured.

  “M’lady!” the mercer said anxiously, putting down his knife and leaping to his feet. “M’lady, ye’ve gone so pale! Is there anything I can do for ye?”

  I inhaled a deep breath. “’Tis nothing but a passing faint,” I replied, setting the pitcher down.

  I retired to my prie-dieu, and there, before my prayer book and an urn of lilies, I said a prayer for Somerset’s soul, and my eyes filled with tears I did not understand.

  TWO DAYS AFTER THE BATTLE AT HEXHAM, I learned from my maidservant, Agnes, that one of John’s soldiers, who had been wounded, had come to stay with her while he recuperated. The soldier was a cousin of Agnes’s husband, a tanner by trade, and unmarried, with no family to care for him. I gathered together some compotes and jams, wine and dried beef, and what coins I could spare, and rushed to her house, accompanied by Geoffrey.

  We had not far to go, since Agnes lived just past the village church, but the journey was not pleasant in the cold rain. Assailed by the rancid stench of the dyes and animal hides in the adjacent tannery, where Agnes’s husband worked with his sons, we dismounted in front of the rude abode, of wattle and daub, that stood in a
small field. Hens squawked and flitted out of our way, and a cow ambled over to sniff us as we crossed a path made uneven by muddy ruts. We reached the shelter of the low-hanging thatched roof, and Geoffrey banged on the door. A young girl welcomed us inside. Blinded by the darkness, I stood for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The two-room house had only one small, unglazed window to let in the light. The shutter was half-closed over it, and the room was sooty from the fire lit the previous night in the center of the hut, making it hard to see. A clay pot of burning rushes soaked in sap provided the only light in the house and stood on a trestle table in the corner of the room, where a man lay on a pallet, his chest bandaged. He had been staring at the ceiling, but now he turned his head to look at me.

  “M’lady of Montagu!” he cried out in great excitement, struggling to kneel to me as I crossed the floor of rammed earth covered with straw. There came a thump and a groan as the old soldier tumbled heavily to the floor. Geoffrey rushed to his side and got him back into bed, but he tried to rise again. I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Nay, be still, my good man,” I said.

  With moist eyes, his voice trembling, he seized my hand in both his own and covered it with kisses. “M’lady, I am not worthy—”

  “Indeed you are,” I said. “You fought for my lord husband and were wounded in the service of our king. You are most worthy.” Smoothing my skirts, I took a seat on the stool. Geoffrey brought the basket of gifts he had dropped at the door when he’d run to the man’s assistance, and set it down beside me. “Here are a few items that I pray will help restore you to health—” I showed him the meat, wine, and compote. Then I presented him with the coins. “I hope that you can buy whatever else you need with these….”

  The man stared at the coins and looked up at me with moist eyes. “I canna take it,” he said.