B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  I glanced at him, riding beside me on Saladin. He didn’t permit himself a backward glance but rode stiffly erect. In last year’s nest, there are no eggs. Had he not always reminded me that looking back did no good? I turned my own face forward, so I would not look back to the place where I had left behind so many of my happiest memories.

  Life at Seaton Delaval proved more difficult than ever before, burdened as we were by grief. We were enemies living among enemies, with no kin at our side, our friends blown away by evil winds. While the Percies rejoiced and feasted, we counted our meager income and drowned ourselves in work as best we could. It was hard on the servants, too, for they had to relearn their duties. One day I caught Agnes replacing the rushes, and I had to tell her to never do that again unless I gave her the order. I kept careful tally of the candles, watching to make sure they didn’t burn needlessly. And I helped the seamstress darn clothes and make new gowns for our girls, who, with the exception of little Lucy, too small to make much difference, outgrew their dresses every few months. But expenses were always high and income short, and John had to find ways to borrow. Every night I went to bed weary but never without a fervent prayer for his safety. For as hard as it was for me, it was worse for him: humiliated, derided, doing the work he hated, living the soldier’s barren life with little warmth or comfort, his life and limb dependent on the outcome of the next skirmish.

  As if to underscore our losses, a soggy spring damaged crops and reminded us that a poor harvest loomed ahead and many would die of starvation come the winter. We could help but little, for we no longer had the gold mines of Devon to draw from, and my own battles in these days lay with the household accounts. I went over them minutely with the bailiff, examining carefully the daily purchases of victuals and consumption, the number of meals served, the cost of the youths we kept for running errands and carrying messages. I questioned expenses and found ways to cut back on the number of scribes and clerks to deal with the correspondence and keep the records connected with the management of the estate. When the wages came due, I paid them myself, taking a moment to have a private word with each servant, to offer congratulations on a name day or the birth of a child or praise for good work done, or a suggestion as to where improvements could be made.

  I saw little of John, who had been obliged to borrow money from his dear friend Lord Scrope of Masham, now that he could no longer go to Warwick. And Scrope had given it to him most generously, without requesting collateral. Lord Scrope, who sided with Robin of Redesdale and Warwick in the feud against Edward. This time, however, I understood John’s need to be alone, for I myself felt the same.

  There’s so much to mourn, I thought, helping the chandler pour hot wax into the molds for the candles. Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead but, as my hands were not free, I wiped at them with my sleeve. We still received the poor and gave shelter to itinerants, but for one night at a time, for our means did not provide for greater generosity. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, delivered to us at the New Year of 1470, were now rampaging through the land, and with an ever-growing sense of dread I listened to the tidings that were brought me. What I came to fear more than the pilgrims and mercers who stopped for a night were John’s missives. More often than not, they imparted grievous tidings. Since I could not doubt their truth, it left me no room to hope the tidings might prove false.

  In June, Edward followed up his brutal blow by taking from John the wardenship of the East Marches, which he gave to Percy, leaving John only the command of the West Marches, which bordered Scotland. John’s visits grew few in number, since Seaton Delaval lay a great distance away. But now when he came home and felt an urge to ride the moors, I galloped at his side, and sometimes we made love in an old abandoned sheep shelter with the wind howling around us. Alone, surrounded by the vast landscape, we felt nature’s healing touch, and the ancient Roman forts and burial sites that marked the scenery seemed to draw the thread of time around us and assign us a place in God’s great plan. We always returned to Seaton Delaval tired but somehow fortified to meet the morrow.

  That autumn John finally came home for a visit again. Rufus was no longer at his side, for he had died on my birthday, Lammas Day, the first of August, at the venerable age of fifteen, and John had acquired another pup, named Roland. My delight to see John vanished at the sight of his face, lined by inclement weather and ravaged by sleeplessness and mental anguish. I had to turn away for a moment and dig my nails into my palms to steady myself before giving him welcome. He had aged terribly this summer.

  In our bedchamber, I bathed him in a wooden tub filled with warm water. The young pup watched us quietly from the hearth.

  I fingered John’s scars more gently than usual as I lathered him. He seemed fragile to me now, this strong man I had loved with all my heart, all my life, but never was he more precious. I sensed him slipping away from me, and so I fought harder to keep him close.

  I offered him a loaf of the fresh, hot rye bread he loved, and a sampling of the finest aged cheese I could find in our meager pantry.

  He shook his head and instead took the hand I rested on his shoulder and gave it a tender kiss. As I stood behind him, I bit my lip, my anguish almost overcoming my control. The pup wagged his tail when my glance touched on him, as if to give me courage. I forced a smile and, bending down, I laid my cheek against John’s and slipped my arms around his bare chest. Inhaling deeply, I savored the warmth of his nearness. “I love you,” I whispered.

  “And I you, Isobel,” he murmured. “To the end of my days…”

  I rubbed him down with towels and an herb-scented sponge, and helped him into his chamber robe. Setting a flask of wine on the floor in front of the fire, I sat with him on the cushions and nestled in his arms. He remained silent for a long while, sipping thoughtfully. Then he said, “I bring news, Isobel.”

  I felt my throat closing up. “Not now, my sweet lord,” I said hastily, smothering his words with my lips. “There’s time enough for the tidings you bear. But now—now is our time…ours, for love….”

  His arms encircled me and his mouth came down hard on mine. My tired soul melted into his kiss, and in the frenzied tempo of our love, an exquisite harmony flowed between us as it had always done. The real world spun away, and we soared higher, ever higher, into the infinite heavens, where a million stars shattered around us, bringing us, at last, contentment and release.

  THE NEWS JOHN CARRIED WAS SOMBER INDEED. Some of it I already knew from the itinerants, but it was worse to hear it from his lips. Warwick, incredulous that Calais had refused him entry, had sailed about for a month in disbelief before swallowing his pride and seeking refuge in France in May. During this time he came to accept the realization that England would rather keep Edward on the throne than receive Edward’s rash, foolish brother Clarence in his stead. Warwick and the French king had put their heads together and hatched their plans. What emerged from these meetings shocked the world.

  ’Tis too frightful to be true, I thought. But it was true indeed; we had to face it. The Spider King had lured into his tangled web both Warwick and Marguerite and turned them into allies against Edward. Together they would invade England and restore Henry VI to the throne. Their reconciliation was a tribute to Louis’s powers of persuasion, for greater foes never lived: Marguerite hated no man more than Warwick, and Warwick loathed her more than he detested Elizabeth Woodville. For the Woodville had not done to him what Marguerite had done. Notwithstanding, Warwick had groveled at the feet of his father’s and brother’s murderer, singing his apologies and begging Marguerite’s forgiveness.

  Too horrible, I thought, walking in the woods being stripped bare by autumn’s breath. John had left to attend his duties at Pontefract Castle, where he was still constable. Bitterly, I wondered why Edward had left him the post, for Edward had followed up his brutal blows of March and June with yet another cruel strike: He had deprived John of the wardenship of the West Marches on the Scots border, and given it to his
seventeen-year-old brother Dickon.

  Dried twigs crunched beneath my feet as I leaned against a tree to catch my breath. He might as well have plunged a knife into John’s heart. “Why…what did I do?” John had asked me, mortified.

  Nothing, I thought, except sacrifice for your king, who’s betrayed you and keeps betraying you. Aloud, I said, “You have been true to your king, but your king has not been true to you, my love. Loyalty is a virtue that works both ways.” I had come to loathe Edward, faithless and reprehensible as he was, but I stopped short of advising John to abandon him; it would be up to John to pass that judgment.

  Finding it necessary to keep moving, I resumed my steps over crackling twigs and pushed back the thorny branches that barred my way. For some reason, I thought of Somerset. ’Tis an impossible situation in many ways, Malory had said after Somerset accepted Edward’s pardon. Only time will tell. And in time, Somerset had returned to the fold of Lancaster and had died there.

  Animals darted across my path; others froze to watch me cautiously. At a little brook, I sank down and, immersing my face in the water, drank thirstily. My tongue was parched and swollen, and my heart pounded in my chest so randomly, I feared my breaths were numbered. The brook murmured softly; I stared down at my rippling reflection and the sky behind me. It all looked so peaceful…. But peace was ever an illusion. I looked up at the sky, framed by the dying leaves. To seal their pact, Marguerite’s sixteen-year-old son, Prince Edward, was betrothed to Warwick’s daughter sweet Anne, who was in love with Dickon. Into my mind flashed an image of Prince Edward. At Coventry, when he was six years old, he had spoken with relish of beheadings.

  The betrothal would take place in December at Amboise. Dickon had taken the news hard. Trapped at court among the Woodvilles, whom he hated as much as John did, he kept to himself. Loyalty to Edward was Dickon’s fiercest trait; yet his lot was easier than John’s, for Dickon still had one brother at his side. Both of John’s brothers were traitors, and he was a hated Neville in enemy territory, discarded by his king and despised by everyone else, forced to endure many humiliations at Percy’s hands. And Percy, being Percy, saw to it that the wound engendered by the loss of John’s earldom and commands was constantly rubbed raw with insult.

  John’s predicament preyed on my soul night and day, depriving me of sleep and plunging me into an agony of heart I had not known before. John’s brother George didn’t present a large problem; he was an archbishop and safe from Edward’s wrath, and he could make his peace with Edward one day. But Warwick was a different matter. He was a rebel who had risen twice against his king, and Edward had no choice but to hunt him down and kill him. How could John bear that? How could he help Edward slay his brother in battle, or deliver him up to Edward to be beheaded as a traitor? John had always hated treason. With his every breath he’d striven to live up to his motto: Honor, Loyalty, Love. For a long time he refused to see his brothers as traitors. Now he was one himself; whether he supported his brother or his king, he was a traitor to one or to the other.

  Dear God! I cried out. Are You there? Can You hear me? Can You not help us?

  Whom would John choose—how could he choose? I threw my head back and screamed at the sky. God curse you, Edward! God curse you, Elizabeth Woodville! May the devils of Hell feed on your rotten souls!

  FILLED WITH SECRET SHAME, I WENT ABOUT MY duties quietly after my rampage in the woods. I should not have cursed them; yet I had, and the curse, once released, could not be taken back. I would pay for it—there was no doubt in my mind about that—but it did not allay my guilt. I spent more hours at my prie-dieu praying for forgiveness, and even longer praying for John, that God grant him strength in the black depths of his despair, whatever choice he made. Then, one day, John came home again.

  He was more gaunt than ever before. The loss of his earldom had taken all he had to give. He was like a hollow shell, merely going through the motions of living. I laid my head against his shoulder and we walked together to the house. In our bedchamber that night, we sat by the fire in one another’s arms.

  “Warwick has written me from France,” John said. “He is returning to England with Marguerite to fight for Henry’s crown….” He looked at me with anguished eyes. “He begs me to return to his side and fight with him. He says ’tis where I belong.”

  I drew a deep breath and forbade myself to tremble. Half in anticipation, half in dread, I asked, “You’ve made your decision, haven’t you?”

  “I have no choice. I wasn’t with Thomas, and Thomas died…. I must be there for Warwick.” John’s expression darkened with unreadable emotion.

  So I was right. Thomas’s words had haunted him since Wakefield, and he blamed himself for his brother’s death.

  “All my life I’ve fought for peace and tried to live an honorable life. But peace is a dream, Isobel, and honor an elusive quest. Whichever way I turn, I find no hope of peace, and no honorable way out. Right or wrong, I must stand with my brothers now. To go against kith and kin is to fight a gale alone, my love. I cannot do it anymore.”

  It was what I had wanted him to do; it was the only thing he could do. Now that the decision was made, I felt nothing. No despair, no joy, no doubts. Nothing.

  I laid my hand on his. “You’ve always done the right thing, John. Not many can say that about their lives. So be it, my love.”

  On the night of John’s departure, I felt weary and went to bed early. I awoke from slumber to find myself lying on a blanket of rose petals in the castle courtyard at Warkworth. Strangers milled around, but they paid no heed to me or to the music that played. I recognized the lilting Celtic melody I had danced to at Tattershall and looked around for minstrels, but saw none. When I stood up, red and white petals rained down on me. I raised my eyes to the sky, but there was no sky, just turrets. Then, in a blinding flash of light, John appeared in the castle gateway, resplendent in armor and surrounded by a retinue of gorgeously appareled knights, his banner of the griffin flowing in the wind. My heart thundering in my breast, I hid behind a stone pillar before he could see me, for he rode not Saladin but King Edward’s ebony charger, and he seemed somehow changed. As he entered the courtyard, a mist began to gather at his feet, and his charger reared in terror, neighing fiercely. I found it strange that John smiled at this. He soothed the restless horse, but so gently and with such grace that he almost seemed to be dancing with the beast. Then he looked in my direction, as if he knew I was watching, and threw me a red rose. I slipped quickly back behind the stone pillar with my pulse racing. After a moment, I dared to look again, but there was no one there, just impenetrable mist, and through the mist I saw a red rose lying at my feet. The castle courtyard stood empty. Only the music played….

  I opened my eyes. I lay in bed. It was dark outside. Just a bad dream, I thought. I inhaled a long breath and lifted my eyes to the night, wondering what the morrow would bring.

  BEFORE THE END OF SEPTEMBER, ANOTHER REBELLION arose in the North. King Edward’s new Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy, did nothing to crush it. When Edward received no response from John, he marched north to stamp it out himself. Warwick took the opportunity to land in Plymouth, where men rallied to his standard. The news of his landing reached Edward at York. He immediately sent a summons to John, ordering him to meet him in Doncaster with the portion of the royal army under his command.

  I was picking apples in the orchard when the messenger rode up. Leaving my children and the servants, I hurried to him. The man knelt on one knee. “Marchioness Montagu, I bring you a missive from your lord husband, the marquess.” The man was avoiding my eyes. I took what he handed me, prepared to accept whatever came. “Tell Cook to prepare you a good meal. And make yourself comfortable before the fire in the kitchen. It promises to be a cold evening.”

  I watched him leave, with a calmness of spirit that baffled me, for I knew the tidings he brought had to be cruel. And they were. Near the town of Doncaster, John had halted his march and addressed his troops. They al
l knew, he said, that he had always been loyal to Edward, even against his own brothers and his kin. But the king had deprived him of the earldom of Northumberland and given it to Percy, whose father and brothers had died fighting for Lancaster. “I told them King Edward left me a pauper, with only a magpie’s nest to maintain my estate,” he wrote. “And I left it to them to make their own decision, whether to follow me or leave. The men did not hesitate. Almost to a man a great shout went up. ‘A Warwick!’ they cried. ‘A Montagu!’”

  So the army would follow their commander. It did not surprise me. I remembered the almost reverent way Agnes’s relative had spoken of John. “There’s nothing we woudna do for him, m’lady,” the tough old soldier had said. “We’d march to the ends of the world for him, m’lady, every last one of us.” The wind whipped my skirts around me as I folded the missive and went in search of the messenger. I found him enjoying a piece of apple pie and flirting with Cook. He rose, chewing briskly and gulping a swallow of food before bending down on a knee.

  I motioned him to rise. “When did you leave my lord husband?” I demanded.

  “Two days ago at Doncaster, m’lady.”

  “Did my lord husband seize the king?”

  He colored and bowed his head. “Nay, m’lady…”

  There was something he wasn’t telling me. But I’d find out what it was. “What happened, then?”