B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  I was a trifle nervous to see Elizabeth Woodville after so long, and wondered how she would receive us. But I should have expected it to be as it was. When I curtseyed before her, a spiteful smile descended to her lips and an icy wind seemed to enfold me from the dais. While the king bid us a warm welcome, she said nothing, but I felt her eyes bore into my back as we moved away. I wondered at her nature. Here was a woman who had not only achieved what she had set out to do, but had surpassed it to reach the very pinnacle of power; yet she had within her tight spirit not a groat of generosity.

  The king had gone to great lengths to entertain his father’s dear friend; we enjoyed three delightful days of feasting and merriment before the last banquet. On that unforgettable evening, the Painted Chamber glittered as never before, in the blaze of a thousand candles and torches and the flash of jewels adorning the nobles. The king himself shone like the sun of his emblem, in a yellow velvet gown richly embroidered in gold, while Elizabeth sparkled in black cloth of gold encrusted with diamonds, from the jeweled queenly circlet on her head to the tips of her royal toes.

  Like all the lords and ladies in attendance, John and I wore new attire. I had chosen a magnificent crimson velvet sewn with garnets and edged in sable to match the stunning multitiered ruby necklace John’s mother had given me, and John was clad in a rich velvet surcoat of azure cloth of gold bordered with brown sable and slashed with emerald silk, a furred mantle at his shoulder and a heavy gold chain set with sapphires around his collar. Though he had lost weight due to his exertions in the inclement conditions of the harsh Northumberland winter, he looked exceedingly handsome. As for myself, if I believed John’s compliments, I did not pale in comparison to the other noble ladies.

  “You look impossibly beautiful, my angel. Like a black swan gliding in shining waters. Your hair gleams a raven color against your ivory complexion, and no one can keep their eyes from you. You eclipse even the queen.”

  “Hush now!” I warned, half in jest. “Men have lost their heads for less.” But I smiled. I did feel beautiful this night. I had never owned a more exquisite gown, and Ursula had coiled my hair in a new and most becoming style. Instead of flowing loose or being hidden away beneath a cone-shaped headdress and veil, it was caught at the nape of my neck in a silver net woven with diamonds and crystals.

  No sooner had John left my side than Elizabeth Woodville deigned to pause and shed a few words over me as she swept past on her son’s arm. “I understand you have a son now,” she said, watching me carefully. I curtseyed and inclined my head respectfully. “An heir, whom you have betrothed to Anne Holland, the Duchess of Exeter’s daughter.”

  Again I inclined my head. “Aye, Your Grace,” I said as graciously as I could, hoping to avoid giving her cause for offense, for she was noted for perceiving slights where none were intended. Her young son Thomas Grey watched me with a haughty, remote look. She said no more and, dropping her lids, lifted her chin and moved on. I wondered at the purpose of her attention. Was she jealous because I had a son and, as yet, she had been unable to give King Edward naught but a girl child?

  John came and went as I chatted with the Countess of Desmond, whose company I had much enjoyed during our visit. Finally he left to seek out her husband, the illustrious Earl of Desmond. I had been charmed by both the earl and his countess over the past days, for the valiant, learned Desmond was a remarkably good-looking and congenial man, without arrogance but with a wonderful wit that reminded me of Thomas Neville. In his company I found much cause for merriment. Like my uncle, Desmond was a scholar who had studied the classics and enjoyed poetry and philosophy, but in Ireland he was known for not only his generous patronage of the arts, but also for his charity, humanity, and generosity to the poor. Whereas my uncle enjoys a slightly different reputation. I crushed my wicked thought and stole a glance at Desmond as he stood in conversation with John, Warwick, and Archbishop George. He was as tall as the Nevilles, and equally broad of shoulder and well made. Young Dickon of Gloucester came to join them, and Desmond, looking down with twinkling eyes, engaged the shy boy in conversation with easy grace.

  “The Duke of York was very fond of your lord husband and spoke of him often in the most glowing terms,” I said. “Now I see why. Your lord husband is charming, Countess.”

  “What happened to the Duke of York broke our hearts. He was a noble man, God assoil his soul. We loved him well.” She fell silent, and her warm hazel eyes took on a sad, faraway look. “Young Richard of Gloucester reminds me of his father,” she said abruptly.

  “Aye, my lord husband is very fond of Dickon. He takes much time from his duties on the border to personally instruct the young duke in the art of warfare. He says he has never met a young man who is so determined and has such sense of purpose.”

  “To these qualities, I can add another, dear Countess Isobel. He is near as handsome as his brother King Edward.”

  “I shall tell him you said so. It will greatly please him, for the young duke does not have a grand opinion of himself.”

  “Humility is also a virtue. It seems Gloucester is laden with them…like his father before him, may he rest in peace.” She sighed, made the sign of the cross, and added softly, “If York’s sons fare well in this life, the father will not have died in vain, for we all wish for our children a life better than what we have known. Perhaps with this Sun of York on the throne of England, the people of England and Ireland can look forward to peace and contentment.”

  “Indeed…” I said, reflecting on such a life, one free from worries and war. “I wish we lived closer, you and I. We would be good friends.”

  “We surely would, Countess Isobel.” She took my hand. “Perhaps Fate will be kind and afford us chance to meet again soon.”

  Without warning, the music that had been playing ceased, and a shocked murmur ran through the hall. Everyone turned in the direction of the entrance. A man with a long white beard and leather pants cut high above knobbly knees thumped his way through the room with the aid of a staff. I glanced at King Edward, whose hand had frozen with a wine cup halfway to his lips.

  “Whoa!” he called. “What’s this?”

  The man ambled up to the king.

  “Why, ’tis Clarence’s fool,” muttered Edward.

  “Fool I may be,” replied the Fool, “but tonight, sire, I am the King of Fools!”

  “A dubious honor, I assure you, since fools have been known to lose their heads,” said Edward with narrowed eyes. “Tell me, Your Foolish Grace, why are you dressed in this bizarre fashion?”

  “Sire, my journey here was full perilous as any knight’s. Many times I came near death.”

  “How so?” demanded Edward.

  “I was near swept away by the currents, so high were the Rivers.”

  A deadly silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at the rigid queen. Then Edward let out a roar of laughter. The silence shattered, and relief swept me. Blessed Heaven, but Clarence had made his Fool take a dangerous chance!

  I stole a troubled glance at Elizabeth Woodville. I feared she would not forget this.

  EARLY IN THE NEW YE AR CAME A DISTURBING letter from my uncle.

  My dear niece,

  I wanted you to be the first to know that I have been appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in Desmond’s place. I shall be leaving England shortly, mayhap even before you receive this letter. Our beauteous Queen Elizabeth originated the idea, which was well received by our noble sovereign, King Edward, for Desmond has been lax in some regards, and matters in Ireland stand sorely in need of my attention. May the Lord watch over you and keep you safe until we meet again.

  Given this tenth day of January, 1467, at the palace of Westminster.

  John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, Lord Constable of England, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland

  “What does this mean?” I asked John. But my husband had no answer for me before he left for Pontefract Castle, where he was constable and had pressing business to attend.

  Not long
afterward, we all learned its meaning. Desmond, the charming, beloved Irish lord who had risked everything to support the Duke of York against Marguerite d’Anjou during the years when few dared give overt support, was accused of treason by my uncle, Worcester. When Desmond came in bravely to answer the false charge, he was thrown into prison and his death warrant was sent to the king for his signature. Sir John Conyers brought me the news.

  “At the banquet at Westminster, King Edward pressed Desmond to tell him what he thought o’ his queen, and Desmond told him the truth—that his queen was beautiful, but it might have served England better had King Edward secured the friendship of France or even Burgundy by an alliance with a royal princess. And Edward related his comments to Elizabeth Woodville.”

  I turned away, my head reeling. Is this sufficient grounds for which to execute a man? Dear God, what is happening? With John away, I went to find comfort with Nan at Middleham.

  “This is Elizabeth Woodville’s doing, but the king will pardon his father’s friend,” Nan assured me. “How can he not? The Earl of Desmond stood by him through all the troubles with Lancaster, and he knows, as we all do, that the charge is false.”

  “You must be right,” I replied. “It has been a month since Desmond’s conviction. Edward could have signed the death warrant long before now, and he hasn’t. It must mean he plans to pardon Desmond.”

  On the following Sunday in February, only days after the Feast of St. Valentine, Archbishop George was conducting mass in the chapel, when shouts and the clatter of horses sounded in the courtyard. We hurried outside. Two messengers dropped from their saddles and fell to their knees before Warwick, their travel-stained clothes and sorrowful expressions attesting to the ill nature of the news they carried.

  “My lord, the Earl of Desmond is dead! He was beheaded by the Earl of Worcester on the fifteenth of February.”

  I stared, mouth agape, unable to believe the words they uttered.

  “The king signed the death warrant?” Warwick demanded incredulously through ashen lips.

  “Nay, nay! The king left the warrant unsigned in a drawer in his bedchamber, but the queen grew tired of waiting. She stole the king’s signet ring and forged the king’s signature. She sent the sealed death warrant to the Earl of Worcester, who executed the Earl of Desmond without the king’s knowledge,” the messenger said.

  As we digested this horror, the second messenger informed us of another.

  “His two boys, mere children of eight and ten, were sent to the block with him. One had a boil on his neck and asked the executioner to pray be careful, for it hurt.”

  Warwick groaned; Nan gasped. Archbishop George made the sign of the cross, his lips moving in prayer. I gave a shudder. The Countess of Desmond had lost not only a husband but two of her children. I remembered her praise of Edward: Perhaps with this Sun of York on the throne of England, we can look forward to peace and contentment. Instead the Sun had been shrouded by a vicious black cloud that rained down atrocities.

  I hugged myself against the fit of shivering that seized my body. Once again Elizabeth Woodville had wreaked vengeance on an innocent man for a perceived slight. I had never believed, as others did, that she had committed sorcery to win Edward, and deep down I had always nursed the hope that she was not as wicked as she seemed, but now I faced the hideous truth: Her great beauty hid evil the way a gilded sepulcher hid the rot and stench of decaying human flesh. This creature that held the king in its fangs was a demon vomited up from the bowels of Hell.

  “The king was furious when he learned what his queen had done,” one of the messengers said.

  Too late, too late! With dragging steps, I joined Nan and the others in the chapel to pray and weep for Desmond, and for his wretched countess, now left to mourn a husband and two sons butchered on Elizabeth Woodville’s sacrificial altar.

  AS ILL TIDINGS NEVER COME SINGLY, BUT IN threes, late one morning, after we had returned to Warkworth, I found Ursula missing. I searched for her myself until at last I spotted her red head in a far-off, little-used chamber, where she sat in a corner, weeping.

  “What is the matter, dear Ursula?” I asked.

  “My f-f-father—” she sobbed.

  “What has happened to him?”

  “He’s been imprisoned…with T-Thomas C-Cooke—” She burst into fresh tears.

  My breath caught in my throat. I sank down on the floor beside her. Is there to be no end to the misery that Woodville causes? The verdict on Thomas Cooke’s third trial had come in. This time Cooke was convicted and assessed a fine so enormous, it cost him everything he owned. On top of that sum, Elizabeth Woodville, reviving an archaic law long since fallen into disuse, demanded a ruinous payment of “Queen’s Gold.” Cooke fled the country.

  “But your father—what is his connection with Cooke?”

  Ursula shook her head. “None…he was taken into imprisonment because of his connection to my lord of Warwick.”

  I stared at her, not comprehending.

  “My lady Isobel,” Urusla sniffled, “’tis said the king suspects my lord of Warwick of treason, and since he is too powerful to be imprisoned, the queen has chosen others she wishes taken into custody in his place.”

  I could not speak for a long moment. Finally I said, with more conviction than I felt, “Dear Ursula, Warwick will find a way to get him out.”

  But it was an ill wind that blew through the land. Warwick was away in France on royal business during that summer of 1467, and we both knew the matter would have to wait until his return. Then came a fresh series of harsh tidings in swift succession. Taking advantage of Warwick’s absence, Edward threw a lavish tournament for the bastard of Burgundy, and at the end of September, before Warwick’s return, he announced Meg’s betrothal to Charles the Rash.

  King Edward had chosen Burgundy over France; Elizabeth Woodville had won over Warwick. Archbishop George, Edward’s chancellor, who was to open parliament, absented himself with an excuse of illness. And Edward, in fury, rode to George’s residence, demanded the return of the Great Seal, and appointed a new chancellor.

  When Warwick returned and learned all that had transpired in his absence, he fell into a rage and went about the Erber smashing urns and furniture, pulling down wall hangings, hurling goblets, books, and anything not fixed to the wall. He knew Meg’s future husband and despised him utterly.

  “He’s half-mad. You can see it in his eyes,” he said on a visit to Warkworth. “His father, Philip the Good, loathed him and was sore troubled to leave Burgundy in his hands. Edward will rue the day he made his pact with Charles, for it frees Louis of France to back Marguerite against him—and back her he will!”

  Warwick retired to nurse his rage at his fortress of Middleham, and King Edward, fearful of an uprising against his rule, surrounded himself with two hundred archers when he rode out from Windsor to spend Yuletide in Coventry.

  “Not since that hated monarch Richard the Second has a king seen the need to protect himself with such a bodyguard!” Warwick huffed to us.

  Nevertheless, for the sake of appearances and to reassure the land, Warwick made his peace with Edward as the New Year of 1468 blew in on a ferocious blizzard. Assuming a gracious demeanor in the spring, he escorted Meg from Blackfriars to Margate, where the New Ellen and thirteen other ships awaited to take the bride and her company to Burgundy. But as soon as he returned to Middleham, he summoned John to a meeting.

  It was a sunny morning in the month of July when we left Warkworth for Middleham. But ominous storm clouds, hanging dark and low over the land, gathered in the distance as we approached Warwick’s fortress. We wound our way through the pastoral countryside, our retinue at our side, trotting our horses through rolling meadows, past green pastures dotted with woolly sheep, along grassy riverbanks, and down steep wooded slopes. Wildflowers nodded in the breeze, and lambs bleated gently; the world seemed peaceful enough. But silence was all around us and we did not speak, for our hearts lay heavy in our breasts, and wh
atever it was that Warwick had to tell us, we knew it boded ill.

  Northumberland’s herald sounded the clarions in the Middleham market square, and villagers gathered to the castle with solemn expressions to watch us climb the hill. Warwick, Nan, and Archbishop George met us impatiently in the courtyard, their faces somber. As we mounted the stairs to the keep, I noted the strange hush that engulfed the castle. Chapel priests whispered their prayers, clerks buried their heads in their papers, and servants went about their tasks wordlessly. The knights, squires, and men-at-arms of Warwick’s retinue sat around the halls and on the staircases, polishing their armor and sharpening their weapons, and while they stood to give us due obeisance as we passed, their expressions spoke their gloomy thoughts.

  Nan and I hurried to a chamber adjoining Warwick’s corner suite, which afforded us a clear view of his apartments and where we might eavesdrop on his conversation. Slipping the bolt into place stealthily, we tiptoed to the window and pressed ourselves flat against the wall on either side of the opening, straining to hear what was said.

  Warwick blocked the window with his broad back so that I could not see John, who stood across from him. What passed between them I couldn’t hear. Then Warwick shouted, “Elizabeth has made herself as hated as Marguerite ever was!”

  Snatches of his words floated to us on the breeze drifting through the open window. “Malory still imprisoned…our brother deprived of the chancellorship…French ambassadors left with…leather bottles…empty promises…The Burgundian envoys…loaded like mules with gold…precious gifts…”

  Nan and I exchanged an anxious look, not daring to stir. Warwick was mulling over the humiliation he’d suffered at Edward’s hands on his return from France. He’d brought with him several French ambassadors and a generous offer from Louis for Meg’s hand—but King Edward refused to meet with them and sent the embassy back to Louis with a few beggarly gifts.