“’Tis a collision of wills between two giants, and where it will lead is anyone’s guess,” I added. “But one thing is certain…. There’s no going back now.”
I turned from the window to find John standing in the doorway. He entered the chamber with weary strides, setting his gauntlets on a table as he passed.
“Interesting observation,” he said, dropping into a chair. No clarions had sounded, and I was so stunned to find him home unexpectedly that I rose to my feet and remained there, unable to move for a moment. Something is terribly wrong.
Recovering, I rushed to his side. “Oh, John, my dear lord, you look so tired. Is there anything I can get you?”
“You can get me a scribe,” he said, putting a hand to his brow.
I knew that gesture. “What has happened?” I breathed through cold lips.
“The king has been taken prisoner by Warwick. The queen’s father, Earl Rivers, and her brother John have been executed. So has their friend the new Earl of Devon.”
I swallowed, struggled for composure. “How—?” I asked in confusion, sinking into a chair. This is too much, too much!
“There was a battle at Edgecote. In some strange coincidence, the king’s forces under Devon and Pembroke going north to join the king at Nottingham collided with Warwick’s troops moving south to London. Devon and Pembroke had broken with one another the previous night after a fight over a damsel, and they had separated their forces. Warwick caught them divided the next morning, and crushed them. Then he moved on the king and took him prisoner.”
“Like Henry?” I murmured incredulously. “Two kings…two prisoners?”
John rose and went to the window.
My heart twisted to see the way he stood, leaning his weight on the stone embrasure, his shoulders slumped, a hand rubbing on the old thigh injury from Blore Heath that always ached in damp weather. “I’ll send for the scribe,” I said softly, not knowing if he heard.
I soon learned that none of this had shaken John’s resolve to stand by his king. When a rebellion led by their rabid Lancastrian relative Sir Humphrey Neville broke out in the North, John received orders from Warwick to put it down, but he didn’t answer his brother’s summons. “Not while the king remains your prisoner,” he’d told Warwick. Hoping that somehow all would be mended between his brother and his king, John turned his focus on the Scots and strove to keep peace on the border.
On a sunny autumn day in late October, as I was interviewing a new manservant, two messengers arrived, clad in Warwick’s scarlet livery of the bear and ragged staff. My spirits lightened when I saw their smiles, and I ran to meet them. We gave them ale and nuts in the great hall and listened to the news they brought.
“My lord of Warwick has made peace with King Edward, and to celebrate the end of enemies, the king has ordered a love-day ceremony!”
It was as if a dark curtain dropped on my hopeful spirits. Oh, how I wished to exult with them at this news, seemingly the answer to all our prayers! But half my heart bore the memory of Henry’s love-day celebration after the Battle of St. Albans.
Mounted on Rose, I journeyed to London with John, battling my thoughts all the way as I pretended gaiety. The sun shone bright, and minstrels played their lilting tunes. But, engulfed by the dull ache of foreboding, my misery was almost a physical pain. I leaned over and patted Rose’s silken neck as we passed through Bishopsgate. It was near Henry’s love day that Warwick had given her to me. Gazing up at the birds wheeling in the sky, I remembered that other shining day, the other hopes. Now, as then, there had been deaths. This time the queen’s own father and brother had died. Would Elizabeth Woodville forgive?
Time seemed propelled backward as I watched the procession from my seat in the stands. Warwick and King Edward walked hand in hand to St. Paul’s. The queen followed the king, holding Clarence’s hand, enemies putting away enmity to swear loyalty and friendship forever. As the Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury had done with Henry and Marguerite so long ago…
That day slid into this; memories shifted and I lost time, so that I did not know for a moment where I was. Then I blinked: The past fell away, and the present rose before me. Celebrated with such hope, that other love day had proved as hollow as a dried egg. Would this one follow in its footsteps?
We sat at the royal table, feasting and making merry with King Edward at Westminster, and I caught a glint in Elizabeth Woodville’s eyes when they rested on Warwick during the banquet. All the doubts and misgivings of Henry’s love day flooded me tenfold. I stole a glance at John. He seemed preoccupied. This day must dredge up even more painful memories for him—memories of a time when his father and brother still lived and hoped, a time that had offered promise of peace, a peace the years had proved elusive. Sometimes I felt we were on a ship in an endless storm, waves ever rising and crashing around us. We kept avoiding the rocks, but could we do so forever?
Alas, within three months, Edward’s love day proved as false as Henry’s. As at St. Albans, the deaths had been few, but as at St. Albans, the bloodshed was neither forgotten nor forgiven. The Woodville queen, always vengeful, willing to behead a man for a minor slight, was scarcely willing to forgive the execution of her father and brother. Behind the scenes, Elizabeth worked to redress the books, fanning Edward’s jealousy and Warwick’s rage, until finally she forced Warwick’s hand.
It was said she had tried to poison Warwick and Clarence at a Yuletide feast at Westminster, but they had been warned at the last moment. King Edward had defended his queen when the matter was laid before him, and angrily dismissed the plot as a figment of their imaginations. Following Elizabeth Woodville’s attempt on their lives, they had withdrawn to their estates. John came to Warkworth to greet the New Year of 1470, but we had no heart for celebration, so we sat quietly together as church bells chimed the hour of twelve. I listened to the last stroke fade away. Though I knew cheer would likely not be our portion this year, when the last chime sounded I sent a silent plea to Heaven that glad tidings come to us. For the heart is stubborn and foolish, and hope always triumphs, even in the midst of disaster. On John’s departure, I sought reassurance from a soothsayer, something I’d never done before. But the old woman, toothless and brown as a nut, with skin as wrinkled as a dried raisin, offered no comfort. “Beware the ides of March,” she said, as another of her ilk had said to Caesar fifteen hundred years ago. Her words plunged me into a dark mood, and I could not shake the sense of gloom that descended on me.
Indeed, messengers were soon caught bearing papers that spoke of Warwick’s intent to replace Edward with his brother Clarence. This was followed by reports that Warwick had lost a battle near Stamford in early March dubbed the “Battle of Lose-coat Field” since his fleeing army had shed their coats bearing his emblem as they ran. Taking his daughters and Nan, Warwick had fled to Calais with his son-in-law, Clarence—whose wife, Bella, was now eight months pregnant.
Reading John’s letter, I cried out and clutched my chest. A frightful pain had seized my heart.
Ursula ran to me. “Isobel, dear lady…are you all right? Here, sit!” She helped me into a chair.
The cramp in my chest slowly receded; I inhaled deeply. “I am…fine….” I lied, for my heart had been acting strangely for months. “’Tis merely the letter….”
Ursula took it from me, gasping and murmuring as she read. She laid it down with a heavy sigh. “One good thing,” she said. “Matters cannot get any worse.”
But they did. Even more dread tidings followed. Obeying King Edward’s orders, Calais refused to admit their Captain. In the throes of labor, no doubt brought on by the harsh sea voyage, Bella gave premature birth to a son, born dead aboard the tossing ship, with only Calais’s gift of wine as comfort.
I was at Warkworth, and John was occupied with his duties on the border, when the Northumberland herald arrived to inform me of even worse tidings from Westminster.
“King Edward has proclaimed Warwick and Clarence traitors, and placed
a bounty on their heads. Your gracious uncle, the Earl of Worcester, has been reappointed Constable of England in place of the queen’s father, Earl Rivers, who was executed at Edgecote.”
Not trusting myself to speak, I inclined my head in dismissal. The man withdrew.
I yearned for the comfort of John’s arms after this news, but he did not come home. I wrote to him and received no reply. This bothered me more than I cared to admit, for our thirteenth wedding anniversary neared and, except for the time John had been imprisoned after Blore Heath, this occasion had been filled with plans and celebration through all the troubles of the years. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought he was avoiding me, but I did not permit myself such foolish thoughts. I knew many troubles preyed on his mind as he worked to maintain the peace of the realm against his own brother, and that the estrangement with his family weighed heavily on him. In my loneliness, however, I could not find consolation even in my children’s company, and I ached for him with a desperate longing. Every so often, like lightning from a summer sky, came the thought that thirteen was an unlucky number. Perhaps something had changed, and John was indeed avoiding me. But that made no sense; we had not had a serious argument since Somerset.
Meanwhile, fresh disturbances broke out in the North. Robin of Redesdale had been defeated once, but now he raised another rebellion. And, strangely, this news came to me not from John, who continued his silence, nor from itinerants, for they no longer came seeking shelter, but from Ursula, who learned it from the tavern keeper in the village before she left for York to buy almonds, sugar, and sundry supplies.
The notion that something was wrong grew harder to dismiss.
“AGNES, HOW IS THE FAMILY?”
She curtseyed, but did not look at me. “Fine, thank ye, me lady.”
I watched her, troubled. Her demeanor toward me had changed sharply in the past fortnight, reflecting the same coldness of the shopkeepers in the village, in York, and everywhere else I went. “How is your husband’s cousin, the one wounded at Hexham?”
She swallowed hard, and for a moment she did not reply. Then she said, “I know not where he be, me lady, but he has my prayers. With yer permission, me lady, I’ll tend to the privy now.”
I inclined my head, and she disappeared around the bend of the chamber. She had avoided my eyes both times. But it wasn’t only Agnes; all the servants treated me differently, whispering together and falling strangely silent when I appeared. They did my bidding without smiles and disappeared quickly from my presence. I could not fathom the reason. I had always treated them well, and I was certain they knew how much I cared for them.
Making no further attempt to talk to Agnes, I quit the chamber, headed for the courtyard, and took the path to the stables. The chambermaids and servants I passed along the way stepped aside sharply and bowed their heads, with a murmur of “m’lady” that seemed sometimes fearful, sometimes sullen.
“Where is Geoffrey?” I asked one of the young boy grooms scrubbing the horses.
He retreated a step in my presence before recovering to give his obeisance. “M’lady countess of Northumberland, I know not, but if ’tis yer wish, I can go and find him for ye.”
He seemed nervous. I shook my head. “No matter, thank you.”
I found Geoffrey deep in conversation with the saddler, their heads together. “Geoffrey—”
Both men leapt to their feet. Geoffrey bowed formally to me from the waist, in a way I found disturbing. He had always been courteous, but never obsequious. I looked at the saddler, who seemed to shrink beneath my gaze. I nodded to him, and he hurried away as if wild boars were on his tail.
“Geoffrey, what is happening?”
“M’lady, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, his color rising.
“I’m sure you do,” I replied.
His color deepened to crimson. “M’lady…” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, weighing his words. “Perhaps you should speak to—” He broke off.
To whom? I thought. To Nan, to Maude? To Lady Conyers, Lady Scrope, or Lady Clinton, whose husbands now fight for Warwick, in the enemy camp?
“To the Earl of Northumberland,” he said finally.
“As you are well aware, my lord husband is guarding the sea at Bamburgh from his brother Warwick.” I hurled the words at him. “Who is there to speak to, Geoffrey?” I cried.
Geoffrey swallowed. “Ursula will be back soon from her trip to York.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
He shook his head miserably.
“Send for her now,” I agreed reluctantly. Ursula had a long list of shopping to do, which included buying materials for gowns for the children, and she might be a week unless I summoned her.
Ursula was back the next day, in low spirits. Just before my summons arrived, she had learned that her father’s trial had been deferred yet again.
“The Woodville queen has managed on one ruse or another to keep my father in prison for three years without trial, just as Marguerite did in the fifties when he sided with the Duke of York,” Ursula said despondently.
“What excuse did they give this time?”
“They said there were no jurors to try him.”
I heaved a weary sigh. It could be true. Entire villages had been depleted of men as they all chose sides and left to prepare for battle.
“Ursula,” I said, broaching the subject I had been waiting so desperately to bring up, “something has happened…something that is surely evil. No one will tell me what it is. Do you know?”
Ursula turned pale. “Nay, dear lady Isobel…I know not.”
“Don’t lie to me!” I screamed. “Everyone lies to me!” I broke into frenzied pacing. “They can’t leave the room fast enough when I enter. If I bid them remain, they watch me like a mouse in the company of a snake. I am no longer welcome in the homes of the women I go to aid in childbirth! I have no friends. My lord husband has not come home for a month, nor has he written! Something has happened, and I must know what it is!” I seized her by the shoulders. “You have to tell me, Ursula, or I shall go mad! What have I done?”
Ursula averted her gaze. She grew pale, and I saw that she trembled. A cold knot formed in my stomach. “What is it? What’s so horrible, Ursula?”
She gave me a look of utter misery. “May we go to the river?”
A choking fear caught at my throat as I turned to lead the way. Along the passageway of delicate arches, we went down the tower steps, out the gate, and over the cracked earth wet with patches of snow. We trod to the riverbank, where we had spent so many happy afternoons romping with the children. I took a seat on a stone bench and drew my skirts close to make room for Ursula. From across the way, edged by a long row of larch trees sighing in the wind, sheep watched us as church bells pealed in the village.
Ursula spoke at last. “You asked what you had done, dear lady. ’Tis not what you have done, for you are the kindest, most gracious mistress anyone can hope to have.” She fell silent. I waited. “’Tis what your uncle, the Earl of Worcester, has done.”
I bit my lip until it throbbed like my pulse.
“I learned of it in York. I had hoped to keep it from you. I had hoped for you never to know. ’Tis naught you can change.”
“Nevertheless, I must be told.”
“I see that now….” She heaved an audible breath. “There was a sea battle. My lord of Warwick escaped to Calais, but Anthony Woodville captured twenty-three of his men. He turned them over to your uncle. The Earl of Worcester—” She broke off.
My hand shook as I pleated and unpleated a fold of my gown.
“They were of the better class, so it was thought they would be dealt with less harshly.”
I closed my eyes.
“The Earl of Worcester executed them by driving stakes into their buttocks and out their mouths. They’re calling him the Butcher of England, for he had them—”
My stomach wrenched violently, and the bitter gall of vomit flooded
me. I covered my mouth with both my hands and dropped from the bench to the water’s edge. Ducks scattered with a sharp quacking as I retched.
Ursula moved to my side. She knelt down and encircled my shoulder with a gentle touch. She helped me up and led me back to the bench. I fell onto it, my breath coming in audible gasps. “Agnes—her husband’s cousin—was he—?”
“She thought he might be one of them…but, God be loved, he was not. He is safe with my earl of Northumberland. She received word this morning.”
I closed my eyes. Thank God for this small mercy! Then the sick feeling came over me again. But what about the others? What had they ever done to warrant such agony of death? And the thought came to me, revolving in my head with the crash of cymbals—I am the niece of the one they call the Butcher of England, the niece of the Butcher of England….
I winced and put my hands to my ears to shut out the horrible din, but it did no good. I am the niece of the one they call the Impaler….
“You should not have made me tell you, for what good can come of knowing?” Ursula whispered. “I fear you will not soon sleep again.”
She was right. I did not sleep again, except for one hour in twenty-four, nor could I eat. My heart behaved more strangely than ever, at times pounding wildly and knocking against my ribs, at other times lying still and missing beats. Fortunately the cramping did not come again, for it brought great pain. Yet nothing was as painful as my new knowledge that even John blamed me, and shunned me, and wanted nothing more to do with me. And how could anyone blame him? I was the niece of the Butcher of England, was I not? The niece of the man they called ille trux carnifex et hominum decollator horridus. That savage butcher and horrible decapitator of mankind.
I kept to my room all the next day, sitting on a chair, staring out at the river. By the time Ursula rapped at the door to check on me, I had reached a decision.
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