B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  I stared at him. “Why?”

  “M’lord of Montagu gave me money already…. He gave us all money. Even the dead.”

  I was momentarily speechless in my surprise. “What do you mean?”

  The man explained. Soon after the battle of Hexham, John had caught a Lancastrian envoy loaded with gold and silver in the huge amount of three thousand marks. The money was meant to buy armor and supplies for King Henry’s troops at Bamburgh, and—more important—to pay the wages of the Lancastrian soldiers. The men had not been paid for months, and had refused to fight unless they received what they were owed.

  “The gold rightly belongs to me lord of Montagu as commander. But he didna keep it as he might have…as anyone else would have…. Nay…he didna keep it, but ordered it divided equally between his men, every last one of us, even the ones who had been slain, and this he had delivered to their widows…. For many, sore hurt and sick, the money was a godsend, m’lady. It rescued them and their families from dire straits.” He fell silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice shook with emotion. “There’s nothing we woudna do for him, m’lady,” said the tough old soldier. “We’d march to the ends of the earth for him, m’lady, every last one of us.”

  LESS THAN TWO WEEKS LATER, I RECEIVED A MISSIVE from John. He’d been summoned to York on Trinity Sunday, the twenty-seventh day of May, 1464, to meet King Edward, who was on his way north. I immediately made preparations to join him in the city with the girls, whom he hadn’t seen for a month. With a cart laden with the children and a travel chest rumbling behind us, we sought lodging at St. Mary’s Abbey in York. John arrived the next morning, but King Edward had reached York earlier than expected, and John had not long to spend with me.

  “I hope to dine with you tonight,” he said as he mounted Saladin. We were surrounded by nuns, whose gazes shadowed us as they moved through the grounds, so he embraced me only with his eyes.

  After taking luncheon in the hall, I sat near the banks of the River Ouse while my girls frolicked on the lush grass, playing Catch Me If You Can and shrieking with delight as they evaded one another. It didn’t seem possible that the twins had already celebrated their sixth birthday, Lizzie had turned five, and Maggie was nearly two. I watched a flock of magpies fly overhead, their cries mingling with the pealing of church bells and the children’s laughter. A bottomless peace drenched my spirits. What more be there to life, when I am here with my children, and the man I love is safe? Life had been so busy of late that I’d had no time to reflect on my blessings, but now I shut my eyes and sent a prayer of gratitude up to Heaven.

  The dinner hour came and went, but still John did not return. After hymns, Ursula put the children to sleep, the nuns retired to their cells, and the abbey grew silent. Back in my room, I reluctantly let Ursula prepare me for bed. I had just removed my gown, and stood in my shift, when the loud sound of heavy rapping and shouts came at the gate, followed quickly by the shout of a distressed nun. I flew to my barred window and threw open the shutters. With the help of several sisters who had rushed to her side, the nun was cranking the gate open. I stood on tiptoe, straining to see through the high, barred window. There followed the clippity-clop of horses’ hooves as four riders galloped in, some bearing torches. Amid the neighing of horses, they dismounted. I did not recognize the men in the darkness, for their faces were covered against the cold wind, but even in the blackness I had no trouble making out Saladin. With a broad smile, I turned back to Ursula. “It’s John!”

  “Is Geoffrey with him?” she asked softly, rushing to my side. I threw her a glance. Even in the gloom I saw that she blushed. So that’s how it is…. I gave her a smile. “Go to him, Ursula,” I said softly. When I looked out again, John was striding to my room. I threw open the door, not knowing what to expect—whether good or bad. But that something had happened, I did not doubt.

  John stood beaming at me with such a look of elation on his face that he lit up the passageway like a torch. I drew him inside. “Tell me!” I cried. He seized me so fiercely by my arms that I almost cried out with pain. “Isobel,” he said, his voice deep, exultant. “I come to you no longer as Lord Montagu, but as the Earl of Northumberland!”

  Twenty-one

  1464

  WE SLEPT LATE THE NEXT MORNING. JOHN CRADLED my head on his arm, and I snuggled close to him, for it was cold outside, and the wind howled.

  “And how is the Earl of Northumberland this fine morning?” I inquired.

  “Very fine, dear lady, for the Earl of Northumberland is a rich man, and he will never have to borrow from his brother again,” John replied, planting a kiss on my brow.

  “How rich is he?” I asked, stealing a look at his face.

  “Oh, about a thousand pounds a year.”

  I gave a little gasp.

  He laughed. “You find that impressive, but what if I told you he was powerful too?”

  “Tell me about his power.”

  “This Earl of Northumberland, he has a brother, and between them the two rule a great swathe of territory across the whole of northern England—the Midlands, in the South, and into Wales. They are the realm’s greatest peers and the mightiest force in the land.”

  “And where does this great Earl of Northumberland live? Surely not in some leaky, drafty manor house?”

  “Of course not. He owns castles…Alnwick, Warkworth—”

  “Warkworth? Warkworth is exquisite and designed for every comfort!”

  “So it is. I have heard tell that the Earl of Northumberland receives his food steaming hot, for the varlets can reach any room in the castle from the kitchen within minutes, it is so well designed.”

  “If that is so, I think I shall wed the Earl of Northumberland, for I should like very much to live at Warkworth and dine on steaming-hot plates of delicious food, and be powerful, and have nice dresses and jewels to wear. Besides, I have heard tell he is very handsome and of great prowess.”

  “That he is, for I have seen him myself,” John laughed. “And when would my lady like to wed him?”

  “The sooner, the better,” I replied, climbing on top of him.

  I COULD NOT BELIEVE THAT THE TWO JEWELS OF the earldom of Northumberland, the castles of Warkworth and Alnwick, were ours! While John chose Alnwick as his favorite, Warkworth soon became mine.

  Alnwick Castle lay on a wide stretch of the River Aln, in the far northern reaches of England, so near to Scotland that John could come home for a night’s stay when he was patrolling the border. With its stateliness and life-size stone sentinels guarding the battlements, it looked what it was: a powerful fortress designed to repel enemies. But Warkworth, a few miles farther south, on a loop of the River Coquet, was smaller, and felt to me like more of a home. Each stood high on a hill bordered by forests, and each commanded magnificent vistas of river and rolling terrain. We moved with ease between the two residences, sometimes as often as three times a year, for in our absence, repairs were made and cleaning done without disrupting our peace.

  But while John had shed his poverty, he could not shed his responsibilities. As I was soon to learn, these would claim ever more of his time and energies. In the meanwhile, two months after John received his earldom, I learned the joyful news that I was expecting another child. This time I knew for certain that it was a boy. So, while John returned to his duties on the borders and to Bamburgh Castle, where Henry had taken refuge, I occupied myself with moving from Seaton Delaval into our sumptuous residence at Warkworth Castle and making preparations for the delivery of our son.

  In celebration of John’s elevation to the earldom, I threw a feast for him at Warkworth and invited everyone dear to us—the lords Clinton, Scrope of Bolton, Scrope of Masham, and Marmaduke Constable, and their wives and children. The king’s brother Clarence came, for he was deep in love with Bella, and Dickon of Gloucester came with him, for Dickon was in love with her sweet sister, Anne. Both princes hoped to wed Warwick’s daughters, and Warwick had urged the matches on Edward
. But, so far, Edward had remained noncommittal.

  Even Maude came from Tattershall Castle, where she lived with her new husband, Sir Gervase Clifton, whom she had married just before Lord Cromwell’s death in ’62. And what joy it was to see her! She had grown plumper since the coronation, but otherwise had not changed much.

  “Your castle!” she said, stepping into the great hall with its semioctagonal walls. “Look at those grand soaring windows, and this passageway of arches, and that stone table built into the wall! Why, I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  “And that small stairway in the far corner behind that pillar—” I drew her toward the dais. “It connects with the wine cellar and the kitchen, so that wine and food can be brought to us at a moment’s notice!”

  “This is no fortress, but a true home.” Maude gave me a long and loving look that mingled remembrance of things past with hope for the future. “And now, another child to bring laughter into these splendid halls,” she said. “I’m so glad for you, Isobel!” As she embraced me, I felt a touch of sadness, for Maude still had no children.

  Bishop George officiated at the thanksgiving mass we held at the church, where twenty choirboys sang for us in angelic voices, and afterward we moved outside for the banquet, set on the riverbank. It was a lovely summer evening. Rushing breezes swept the poplars and the weeping willows, bearing the sweet fragrance of flowers, and twilight bathed the castle walls with a rose glow. As we dined—on liver pie, roasted pheasant, turtledoves, pastries of capers, truffles with raisins, and hot capon fritters sprinkled with sugar—I glanced at John, and my heart warmed. He wore his silver circlet, and rich earl’s robes of bright blue velvet furred with miniver and trimmed with gold, and never had he looked so handsome, or so happy.

  JOHN CAME HOME OFTEN IN THESE DAYS, BUT Bamburgh Castle weighed on his mind, for it remained in Henry’s hands, and the Lancastrians continued to make trouble by raiding the countryside around them. Their continued hold on the castle posed a significant threat to the Yorkist regime, for it stood on the sea and could be used by Marguerite as a point of invasion. But in August 1464, despite the urgency of Bamburgh, as the sun shone gloriously over radiant orchards rich in fruit, and fields bright with green and gold crops, parliament was cancelled, and John was abruptly summoned to a royal council meeting at Reading Abbey.

  “How can it be more important than securing Bamburgh? What can it mean?” John said as he stopped for the night at Warkworth on his way south.

  “Does Warwick have any idea?”

  “Nay…none…”

  I grew troubled and knew I’d have no rest until I heard back from John. But when his missive came a week later, I realized that my worries, far from being over, had only just begun. I read no further than the first paragraph before my hand began to tremble uncontrollably.

  “Ursula!” I called, rushing into the nursery. She was not there. “Ursula!” I ran through the arched passageway. Blessed Mother, how can this be true? “Ursula—”

  She was by the well, with Geoffrey. She turned, and grew pale as she looked at me. In one swift movement, she was at my side, a hand around my shoulder. I showed her the missive, for I could not form the words. She read, and cried out on a breath. Closing her eyes, she put out a hand to Geoffrey for support.

  King Edward IV, England’s twenty-two-year-old golden warrior king, had cancelled parliament and summoned his lords to Reading to inform them of a matter of far greater import to the realm than a threat of invasion by Marguerite. While this new matter also constituted a threat, it lay close to the king’s bosom and he did not see it as such, for he was a man blinded by love. On May Day, the first of May, 1464, Edward had taken a wife and wed her secretly at the manor of Grafton Regis. Born the daughter of Jacquetta, former Duchess of Bedford, and a lowly knight, she was the mother of two small boys and the widow of Sir John Grey, son of a Lancastrian lord, who had died at Towton—

  She was Elizabeth Woodville, Marguerite d’Anjou’s former lady-in-waiting.

  Shaken by the thought of the woman to whom I had bid farewell with such a happy heart seven years earlier—a great beauty, to be sure, but also coldhearted, vindictive, arrogant, envious, and avaricious—I pressed close to Ursula as I read the rest of John’s missive. The royal houses of Europe were already buzzing with the news, which they found more scandalous than when John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, uncle to the King of England, had wed lowborn Katherine Swynford seventy years earlier. For this was the king himself. And while John of Gaunt had obtained the king’s consent, King Edward had wed his bride secretly. By this marriage, a deed committed behind Warwick’s back and hidden for four months, Edward meant to proclaim that he was his own man and would not answer to anyone, not even to the one who had made him king. As John had written, Edward made the situation blazingly clear to Warwick at Reading. “Be forewarned, Cousin. I may be young,” he had said, “but I am no stuffed wool sack to be pushed around like Henry, no crown to be worn by others—especially you.”

  But Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of England?

  For some reason, Duke Humphrey’s last words came to me. As he’d sat on his horse, awaiting the Battle of Northampton, where he died, it was claimed that he said, “Here we are, all that we tried to avoid has caught up with us now, God help us all.”

  My hand shook violently around John’s letter. “Holy Mother Mary,” I said to Ursula, unaware that I spoke aloud until I heard my own words. “May God save England…. May God save us all.”

  That night I had a bad dream, the same one I’d had at Westminster before my marriage. I was caught in the rain, and I was wet, shivering. I had hugged myself and realized it wasn’t rain that had soaked me, but blood. When I’d looked up again, John smiled at me. He gave me a flower: It was a white rose, and happiness enfolded me. Then I dropped it. He bent down to retrieve it for me, and when he stood again, it was no longer him, but the stranger whose face I could not see. He handed me a red rose, and I saw, with horror, that it was merely a white rose soaked in blood.

  I had awakened to find myself sitting bolt upright in bed.

  A dream, ’tis all it is, I thought with relief. Oh, thank God! For it had felt so real, just like that other time. From now on, I would have to put thoughts of Elizabeth Woodville aside and focus on our blessings. I had not seen her in a long time. Perhaps she had changed…. Perhaps, she had softened as Somerset had….

  But it proved difficult to get away from the subject of Edward’s marriage, for everywhere the talk was of her. The news had raced its way across the land like a wildfire that would not be put out until it was quenched by the seas. When John and I paid Warwick a visit at Middleham two months later, he seethed.

  “Rivers?” Warwick spat. “Bah! He’s a Lancastrian lordling, a nobody for whom no one has anything but contempt. All England has laughed at them. Now his daughter is queen!” He paused, his face a livid red, a pulse throbbing in his forehead. “All my great plans for the kingdom have been foiled by the arts of a woman and the infatuation of a boy.”

  “You do Edward wrong by dismissing him in such manner,” John said quietly. “He is no boy but a fine military commander who has pulled off two great victories against impossible odds.”

  “And since Towton, he’s contributed nothing—nothing,” Warwick spat, “to his own success! And you’re a fine one to take up his defense—don’t you know what he said about you? He said, ‘I shall stay where it’s warm and comfortable. Let Montagu take care of sieges and Lancastrians. He’s more suited to rough beds and inclement weather, for he’s a soldier by nature.’ Edward was busy whoring in Leicester—that’s why you had to fight Somerset alone at Hexham!” Warwick slammed a fist on the table.

  I listened with a heavy heart. Clearly the king had no idea what John sacrificed for him in performing his duty and winning him the many victories that kept his throne secure. And certainly Warwick had reason to be angry. King Edward had played him for a fool and humiliated him in the eyes of all Europe by sending
him on an embassy to France to discuss a marriage with a French princess, when Edward had already been married.

  OUR CONCERNS VANISHED WHEN, WITHIN TEN days of the Feast of St. Valentine, the twenty-fourth of February, 1465, nine months after John had received his earldom, I gave birth to a beautiful boy child we named George.

  Our joy, though pure, was short-lived, for Elizabeth lost no time stirring up trouble, and shocking news soon arrived that affected us personally. Ambitious and vengeful, she and her brood of twelve siblings swarmed the echelons of power, stuffing themselves with the riches of others and destroying those who stood in their way. In a shocking display of raw greed directed at us, the richest noble lady in the land, John’s sixty-five-year-old aunt the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, whose husband, the late duke, had saved the day for Edward at Towton, was made to wed the queen’s eighteen-year-old brother, John Woodville.

  “I swear I shall have that Woodville’s head one day for this diabolical marriage they have foisted on my blood!” Warwick fumed to us at Middleham. “Wherever there is money or a title to be had, they force themselves on the premier families of the realm, and in defiance of law and convention marry the heirs against their will, no matter how young! Even worse, the Woodvilles subvert the laws of inheritance so that wealth and titles, once in their hands, cannot pass to the next of kin if their spouses die before they are old enough to have children of their own! And Edward, the fool, blinded by love, scarcely notices.”

  And because he lets her have her way, his queen grows bolder, I thought.

  “You’d best not wait to find an heiress for your babe,” Warwick warned John, “or by the rood, there won’t be one left for him by the time he reaches marriage age. These Woodvilles breed like maggots!”

  After he left, I went directly to the nursery. Putting Elizabeth Woodville out of my mind, I cradled my child close to my heart and sang to him as he stared at me with Neville blue eyes as dark and clear as his father’s.