B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  JOHN RETURNED TO LONDON THE FOLLOWING week. Our reunion was bittersweet. To hear his voice, to feel his arms around me, to touch his form as he slept beside me brought profound joy, but my stomach still churned from the horror of that morning on Tower Hill, and the image of my uncle’s death lingered, casting the shadow of guilt over my happiness. Before we left, John took me to St. Paul’s to make an offering and pray for the repose of my uncle’s soul.

  As I made my way up to the altar, leaning heavily on John’s arm, my gaze fell on the bank of candles by the side chantry where years ago Somerset had accosted us. For fear of him, that same day, I had written my uncle in Ireland, pleading desperately for his help. And he had granted it. Now Somerset was dead. And my uncle was dead. How much had changed! How much remained the same….

  Flooded with sorrow, I knelt before the altar and prayed for my uncle—and I prayed, too, for Somerset.

  One great good had come of Warwick’s capture of England. He emptied the prisons, and Ursula’s father, Sir Thomas Malory, was released from his cell in Southwark, where he had spent the last four years. He had repeatedly been kept from trial by his foe, Elizabeth Woodville, who feared that Warwick might tamper with jurors and witnesses to Malory’s benefit, or that Malory might succeed in proving his innocence.

  As church bells tolled the hour of Vespers and nightfall descended on the river, we gathered together in the solar for a cup of malmsey at the Erber. Old Malory, now seventy and bent with age, white-haired and frail, was overjoyed by his freedom.

  “Ten years I’ve spent in prison, under two queens. Not many can boast of that!” He gave an audible sigh and sipped his wine, licking his lips after each taste, savoring each precious drop. “You cannot know how good it is to be free until you’ve been enclosed by three stone walls and a grate for a few years…. Nevertheless, even prison has its uses when you’re a maker of tales as I am.”

  “How is that?” I asked, intrigued.

  “You see, each time I had to appear for a trial, I made the journey from Southwark to the King’s Bench in Westminster by barge along the Thames, boarding the boat at the bridge. My journeys were frequent enough to fix the landscape in my mind—” He tapped his head. “So when I later retold the story of the abduction of Queen Guinevere, one of the details I invented was that Sir Lancelot, in his haste to rescue the queen, rode into the Thames at the bridge and swam his horse to the south bank, before disappearing into the Surrey countryside.”

  “That was in the good old days, when knights rescued their ladies.” John grinned, placing an arm around my shoulders. “Nowadays damsels rescue their knights, don’t they, Isobel?” He raised his cup in a toast to me before he drank. “How things change.”

  Sir Thomas had a thoughtful expression as he regarded us. “Perhaps one day I shall tell your tale of love, for it is quite a story of courage—that is, if I get thrown into prison again by another French—or half-French—queen, God forfend! But first I have some living to do…and some business to attend. My lady wife has written me that a dastardly local brewer hasn’t paid her the money he owes, using the law to back his right to avoid payment. In King Arthur’s time, the law was used for right, but nowadays…” His voice died away. In a wistful tone, he added, “Ah, the law…what troubles would be vanquished if the law functioned as King Arthur intended…. What sorrows eased, what wrongs righted—how greatly it would content mankind and benefit the cause of peace!”

  Toying with his wine cup, John said, “I’ve heard the same words from young Dickon of Gloucester. When he was a boy, he revered his brother Edward…. He believed Edward would bring justice to England and right all the wrongs of the land, just as Arthur had done a thousand years ago.”

  “Well he might have. Had he not wed his witch. But he fell into Vivien’s clutches—” Malory quoted from his tales of Arthur’s court, his voice as melodious as a troubadour’s song. “‘She paused, she turned away, she hung her head, the snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid slipt and uncoiled itself, she wept afresh, and the dark wood grew darker toward the storm.’”

  “Elizabeth Woodville,” I said. “Indeed, ’tis how they met, she and Edward…. Elizabeth waylaid the king in a wood, knelt down before him, and pleaded with tears in her eyes for the return of her lands, and as she did so, she let slip the coil from her hair so that her gilt tresses fell loose around her to mesmerize the young king.”

  “’Tis where I found my inspiration for those words,” Malory replied. He turned to John. “There is also a line or two there for you, my lord.” His rich voice came again. “‘From mine own earldom foully ousted me…’” A hush fell, and Malory said, “Nor did I forget His Grace, King Edward, and the sorceress he wed….”

  He let his wisdom go….

  Then crying “I have made his glory mine,”

  And shrieking out “O fool!” the harlot leapt

  Adown the forest, and the thicket closed

  Behind her, and the forest echoed “fool.”

  A dark silence descended over the table. The thought in all our minds seemed to throb aloud. And here we are: She has wrought the storm; all this has come to pass.

  John broke the dread thoughts that enveloped us. With a slap to his knees, he rose. “Best we retire. We have a hard day’s journey come the morrow, you to Warwickshire to see your lady wife, and we to Seaton Delaval.”

  We came to our feet and bid one another good night.

  Though winter had thrown its dull gray mantle over the world, I felt the warmth of the sun’s rays, for John was at my side. Every so often as we rode together, he turned to look at me and he reached for my hand, and I was reminded of our first journey north together, to Raby, when we were betrothed. That his eyes still shone with the light of love after so many years made me rejoice.

  We celebrated Yuletide of the year 1470 with lavish festivities, since Warwick had made certain money was no problem for us any longer and sent us many coffers laden with gold. The halls of Middleham, where we journeyed for the celebrations, rang with drinking and song, all the louder and merrier to drown out the memories and the fears that burdened our hearts. For Warwick, who held all the cares of the kingdom in his hands as well as the charge of the seas where he was admiral, was deeply disturbed that Marguerite had not yet seen fit to sail for England. It was clear that she did not trust him, and though she had made peace with him, there had been no forgiveness. His strong fist and vigilance kept discontent from exploding into open rebellion, but the absence of a sovereign made his task of ruling the land far more difficult. Twice he went down to Coventry to meet her, and twice she did not come.

  John had charge of the northern coast and spent much time at Bamburgh Castle. The memory of him as he had been that evening on the bluff still flooded me from time to time, and it took all my resolve to banish the image of his anger, the look in his eyes when he had blamed me for what my uncle had done. In last year’s nest, there are no eggs, I’d remind myself with his words, and banish those memories as I had done many others, sealing them away in my mind as bees sealed away intruders in their hives, for time was precious and seeping away, and we did not know how much more we had. What good did it do to poison present joy with past memories? We had to go forward. Aye, John was at Bamburgh, and, aye, he had not come home to visit for two months, but it was not because of anything I had done or that he held against me; those days were past. It was because the land was boiling like a pot of porridge about to explode, and needed careful tending.

  Then, one rainy March day, I heard the distant gallop of horses’ hooves. Peering into the misty horizon from my bedchamber, I thought I made out the emblem of John’s griffin among the riders. I ran down the worn wood steps to the court, and waited in the drizzle.

  John rode through the gates and cantered up on Saladin. He dismounted. Behind him, Tom helped the pup, Roland, down from the cart in which he rode. I rushed to John’s side and took his arm, but I saw immediately that he did not wish to speak. Leaving Geoffre
y to take care of John’s escort, I led him up to our room. He sat down on the cushions by the fire and gave me a weary look. I joined him on the floor.

  “What is it, my sweet lord?” I asked. “What has happened?”

  He let out a sigh. “I come from Pontefract and can only stay a night, Isobel…. Edward has landed at Ravenspur and is marching to York to raise an army…. I leave tomorrow to join forces with Warwick, who is coming north from London to fight Edward.”

  “Pontefract?” I whispered in my confusion. If John had been at Pontefract when Edward landed at Ravenspur, why did he not give battle? Ravenspur stood a mere stone’s throw away. “Raising an army?” I said. “So he did not come with one?”

  “Nay, he came with less than a thousand men.”

  But, my mind cried out, you had six thousand at Pontefract, John! Why did you not give battle when he landed? Why did you not give battle before he went to York?

  My thoughts must have been standing clear in my eyes, for he read them well.

  “Dickon was with him, Isobel…and even if he had not been, I couldn’t bring myself to fall on their little party. We outnumbered them three to one.” He turned stricken eyes on me. “My father and Thomas were outnumbered three to one…. Clifford rode out from the walls of Pontefract to slaughter them. I’d be no better than Clifford.” He dropped his head into his hands.

  I took his hands in my own. “Hush, hush, my beloved…. You did the right thing…. You have always done the right thing, John. There was naught else you could have done.” I bent down and kissed his tawny hair, now threaded with silver, for he would be forty in June. “Come, we have no time to waste. Let us forget all else except our love.” I drew him into my arms and to our bed.

  It was dark when we awoke, and the supper horn sounded soon thereafter. Wine flowed at dinner, and the laughter in the hall reached the heavens. John did not tear his eyes from me, as if he strove to memorize every line, every feature, the shape of each movement. It broke my heart to see him so aggrieved.

  “I wish I could dance for you now as I did that night at Doncaster, my beloved,” I said.

  “A dance, aye…” Turning, he summoned a varlet and whispered to him. The man disappeared, only to emerge again in the minstrels’ gallery. There was a lull in the music before the musicians picked up their instruments and strummed their chords. It was the melody of our first dance together at Tattershall Castle, a wild, lilting tune that had always summoned for me something of the vast, lonely moors. He rose to his feet and gave me a small bow.

  “Lady Isobel, may I have the honor of this dance?” he said in his resonant voice, speaking the words I had heard from him on the night we’d met. From that moment on, I had loved his voice, touched with the accent of the North. The breath went out of me. I rose and gave him my hand. He led me to the dance floor and we took our places. Other dancers joined us, forming a row behind us. We moved a small step to the side, forward three steps, back two, and gave a hop, but I barely knew what I was doing. His eyes held mine, and I could not look away. We reversed the sequence, parted from one another with a step, and drew back together again, and I felt the movement of our breath in perfect rhythm.

  The walls of the room receded as the other dancers faded into oblivion, and there was only he and I in all the world, and the music, and a fiery wind beneath my feet sweeping me forward, sweeping me back. He knelt, and slowly I circled him, my hand never leaving his, his eyes never leaving mine. I turned and circled in the opposite direction, engulfed in remembrance of our youth, of our time of roses, our time of hope. My blood smoldered as the past lived again in my heart, and I felt once more the bruising kisses I had known, remembered with tenderness the children I had borne and the sweet moments I had spent beside the fire with the husband who had been my joy on this earth.

  The music rose in tempo, and again I was galloping wildly with him across the moors, returning to a castle scented with cinnamon loaves, laughing in the embrace of those we had cherished, long dead, who now rose again to greet us, smiling welcome. I was overwhelmed by the music, by the memories, by my beloved. I knew I would never forget a single detail of his face. He came to his feet and took his turn. I stood still as he passed around me. We moved forward a double step, back one…. I remembered the time spent waiting, waiting, not knowing, yearning…the time at Bamburgh of love and pain, and forgiveness….

  We danced palm to palm, face-to-face, in slow and perfect harmony, first in one direction, then the other, and we were two halves of a circle spinning together in eternity, spinning, spinning…. The melody filled all the air, and I could not draw my eyes away from his; I could not move my hand from his. A fiery wind had borne me from Earth back to that magical place where rose petals swirled around me and flowers of fire glimmered in the night, and I never, ever wanted to leave, never wanted the dance to end, never wanted to return to the world I now knew too well.

  But end it did, suddenly and with a clash of cymbals. We breathed in unison as the notes quivered into silence. The song was over. The world had stopped spinning, and the time had come when we two must part to separate paths. Now, just as we had done then.

  But there was still the night; we still had the night. In our room, we sat on the bed after our lovemaking, and John cut a lock of my hair with his dagger. “’Tis soft as angel’s hair,” he whispered, taking the locks to his lips.

  “How would you know?” I laughed. “In any case, my sweet lord, I keep telling you—angels have golden hair, not chestnut.”

  “How would you know?” he demanded with a grin, throwing my own words back at me. “I never saw an angel that had golden hair, only chestnut.”

  I kissed him again, and we made love once more, my being filled with joy and my heart seared with anguish.

  MORNING BROKE TOO SOON. THE CHILDREN stood beside me as we bid John farewell. He was in full armor and only his visor stood open, for the journey to London was fraught with peril. In my soul, I knew why he had gone to such great lengths to see me. As he walked to Saladin, my control broke at last, and choking sobs escaped from my throat. I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck to hold him back. The wind whipped my hair against his armor as I clung to him, refusing to let go. Beneath his open visor, I saw his eyes, and in my heart I let out a silent scream.

  “No!” I cried, pounding his armored chest with both my fists. “No, no…no!” I railed. Two men-at-arms stepped forward and gently pried me from him. John turned back to Saladin, and Tom Gower helped him mount his warhorse. From a great height, John gazed down at me as I fought my sobs. Then he nodded to me, slowly, tenderly, a final farewell, and turned his stallion south. His men fell behind him, silent, somber.

  “Farewell, my love!” I cried out, running after him. “Till we meet again—” Meet again, meet again…

  I watched them ride away, and I began to tremble, and the trembling of my body built into an uncontrollable shaking, and the last that I felt was Ursula’s arms around my shoulders, the last that I heard was the pitiful wailing of my children, and the last that I saw, as the ground rose up to meet me, were shards of sunlight striking his armor like the blows of a sword, before he vanished into the darkness before my eyes.

  Twenty-seven

  BARNET, 1471

  WARWICK HAD BEEN FIRST ASTOUNDED, THEN FURIOUS , when he heard that John had let Edward and Dickon pass at Pontefract. In the Lancastrian camp, there were murmurings of treason. But I understood John’s anguish. There was nothing else—nothing, nothing he could have done! And, as I seemed to have done all my life, there was nothing else for me but to await the tidings that would surely be brought. With the impending battle between Lancaster and York preying on my mind, the days stretched before me like a stormy sea, and to bear them I submerged myself in work, for in work there was a mindless solidity that kept painful thoughts at bay.

  Although there was less need now than ever before to keep expenses down, from force of habit I went over the household accounts minutely with the ste
ward, 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 taking messages, as if by such pretense I could summon back the days of old, where, if there had been troubles, there had also been hope. Just as I had done in days of yore, I questioned the expenses and suggested ways to cut back. As twilight fell over the world, I retired to my prie-dieu to pray for John, and if weariness assailed me, or desolation overwhelmed me, I reminded myself of my blessings and thanked God for the precious moments that had been mine. And so the days passed. Then, one cold day in April, a week before my wedding anniversary, when the snow still stood only half melted, I witnessed a lone rider galloping up the path.

  “I pray you,” I said to Agnes, who was dusting the room, “bring him to me in the solar.”

  “Aye, me lady.”

  Crossing myself, I murmured a prayer and braced myself. Removing John’s old cloak from the peg where it hung, I headed down to the solar. Seating myself carefully, I gathered the cloak to me and forced my trembling fingers to push the darning needle through the cloth as I had done so often before in times of distress.

  “My lady.”

  I glanced up. Tom Gower stood at the threshold of the room. I felt the cloak slip from my fingers, and I rose from my chair with difficulty, a hand on the armrest to steady my legs. He stepped forward, and I saw that he held a missive. I was mistaken! He has not come to bring me tidings of death, I thought, but merely word from John! I gave him a wide smile.

  “Tom, dear Tom…rise, I pray you. For a moment, I thought—no, pay no heed to what I thought—” I took John’s letter from him and held it to my bosom, still smiling. Then I realized that Tom had not returned my smile, and that his face remained as pale and grave as that cold moment when I had first heard his voice. “Tom…how goes the war for the Lancastrians?”