He hesitated before he replied. “I know not, my lady. I dressed my lord the marquess in his armor, then he bade me leave him ere the battle started. To bring you this missive…”
Why? The thought stabbed me with the thrust of a dagger. Gower should be fighting at his side.
“And this—”
I came out of my thoughts to find Gower reaching inside his doublet. As he fumbled for what he had placed there for safekeeping, I saw that his fingers were stiff and he moved them with difficulty. When I looked at his face, I knew there was something he kept from me. He took out a velvet pouch and offered it to me. Inside lay the ring given to John years earlier by young Dickon of Gloucester when he’d first come to Middleham. I felt the crushing stab of pain in my breast. It was John who had taught Dickon how to wield the weapons of war. Now the two cousins found themselves on opposing sides of York and Lancaster, as each fought for his brother.
I gazed at the stone, acutely aware of the message John was sending me. If disaster befalls, take this ring to Dickon. By the return of the ring to its owner, the debt Dickon owed John would be redeemed. I felt that I stood outside myself, looking down on the scene from high above. In the fading light of day, the stone, dark blue like John’s eyes, twinkled with the same light I had seen so many times in his.
My heart was beating hard. I turned away, struggling for composure. The time has come to repay my own debt—a debt to Heaven for granting my prayer years ago. I was fifteen then, orphaned and alone in the world, when I faced a choice between the taking of vows or the taking of a husband. I had left the nunnery with Sœur Madeleine, seeking a match at court. Yet I knew how the world was made, what little chance I stood of finding love in an arranged marriage. On that evening at Tattershall Castle, my heart breaking with loneliness, I had gazed up at Heaven and made a plea…and a vow:
Send me love, and if you send me love, you may send great sorrows, and my heart will be lifted to you in gratitude…. Allow me love, and you may allow me great griefs, and never shall you hear me complain, no matter what happens, no matter what losses, what pain, what anguish is my portion. I shall bear all…if you send me love.
That night Heaven had answered by sending me John. Then Heaven had swept away every impediment that kept us apart. Against great odds, we had fulfilled our love and found a life together.
I raised my head and looked at Gower. “You’ve had a long journey, Tom. Tell the cook to prepare you the best meal we can offer, and get rest….”
In spite of myself, tears stung my eyes and my lips trembled. I turned away, and heard his footsteps echo down the hall as he left. Clutching John’s letter, I set out for a little bench on the edge of the woods, safe from prying eyes, dimly aware that John’s pup trailed after me.
My beloved Isobel,
Tomorrow we give battle. Lest I be unable to write you again, I send you this missive for when I am no more.
Isobel, you have been the deepest love of my heart. Memories of the joys we have known together abound this night, and I feel blessed by Almighty God that I have been allowed such happiness. I know not why, but somehow you feel very close to me at this moment, as if you will step out of the shadows at any instant, and smile for me the smile I have loved since my first glimpse of you at Tattershall Castle.
You will find it strange when I tell you that, as I write you, I can almost hear the music of the dance we danced together that night, and I see your eyes sparkling like jewels amidst the candlelight, blinding me—oh, Isobel, how I have loved thee these fourteen years! What comfort you have brought me through all life’s troubles! In a fortnight comes the anniversary of our wedding day, and if I must leave you now, I go with a heart grateful to Heaven for the love and the joy it has seen fit to bestow on me. Yet how fleeting and how few those precious moments seem as I look back—like a handful of gold dust scattered into the darkness, visible one moment, gone the next. If only our hourglass had not emptied so soon, and we could live on together to see our George grown to honorable knighthood!
Alas, Isobel, I have a sense that the last night’s candle has been lit. If tomorrow should prove me right, tell the children how much I love them, and never forget how much I have loved you. And know that when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and how foolish I have sometimes been! But, oh, Isobel, if the dead can return and visit those they love, I shall be with you always, always! And when the soft breeze caresses your cheek, it shall be my breath, or when the cool air touches your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Isobel, my angel, do not mourn my death. Think I am away, and wait for me. For we shall meet again.
Written under my seal this night of the fourteenth of April, Easter Sunday, in the year of Our Lord fourteen hundred and seventy-one, at Barnet.
As if in afterthought, John had added a postscript beneath his signature in a shaky hand: God keep you, my angel. Until we meet again.
THE WORLD WENT SUDDENLY VERY QUIET. I HAD bartered with the Fates for my destiny that day, and the Fates had listened and granted what I had asked. However dark the shadows now, I had to remember how fortunate I was to know a love that few are ever given, a love that dazzled my life with its light as the sun warms and bedazzles the earth. The glory of that love will dry the tears, as it always has, for love transcends all things, even time…even death. I regret nothing.
Nothing.
Yet I could not crush the hope in my breast of a good outcome. Battle did not have to mean the end; if God ordained differently, we might still have time together.
So ran my thoughts as I sat on the bench, reading and rereading John’s letter, Roland at my feet, the wind sweeping the sighing poplars, rustling the leaves of elm and beech, stirring the spruce and larch. The sun set and the birds grew silent, as hymns drifted across the hills. Words and phrases rang in my mind with old familiarity, and suddenly I realized that John had echoed my thoughts, almost as if he had known of my secret pact with Heaven…. I feel so grateful to God…allowed such happiness…a heart grateful to Heaven for the love and the joy it has seen fit to bestow…
Was it coincidence or something more? I fixed my gaze on the dimming sky. John, wherever you are, I hear you…. I hear you, my love…. Godspeed you back into my arms….
THREE DAYS LATER, AS I WORKED IN THE GARDEN with the children, making a game of gathering twigs for firewood, as Roland yapped and ran around with his ears flapping, I paused to stretch my aching back, and my glance fell on three horsemen galloping up to the house. I dropped the basket of twigs I carried, and ran to meet them.
As I neared them, however, my steps slowed. I knew from their expressions that they bore ill tidings. The thought struck me that no matter how prepared we think we are for loss, never are we truly ready.
Two of the men were wounded, and they dismounted with difficulty. Holding myself stiffly erect, I listened to their report, but I was having trouble with my hearing, and their words kept fading in and out.
“Battle…Barnet…king’s brother Clarence…treason…abandoned Warwick’s side…joined Edward…furious battle…thick fog…confusion…friend slew friend…York prevailed…Warwick…fled…slain…The Marquess of Montagu fell in the thickest press of his enemies, fighting valiantly to the end.”
The words echoed around me like the howling of the wind: The Marquess of Montagu fell in the thickest press of his enemies, fighting valiantly to the end. To the end to the end—
Behind me, I heard my children shriek with delight as they chased one another with their twigs.
I opened my eyes to find myself in bed, tended by Ursula. Tears swam in her eyes. I grabbed her sleeve, tried to rise, to form a question, but she gently pushed me back.
“Nay, Isobel, dear, hush now….” she whispered. “Hush, dear Isobel….”
I fixed my gaze on a patch of sky visible through the window. I must have passed out
when I was given the news of Barnet. Remembering my vow, I blinked back the tears that threatened, and forced my lips to curve into the semblance of a smile—
I am the most fortunate of women…. Thank you, Heaven…. Thank you, John….
AS SOON AS I REGAINED MY STRENGTH, I TRAVELED to the Scots border near Bamburgh with Tom Gower to see young Dickon, now the most important man in the kingdom besides the king himself. I had a request, and it could not wait, as it concerned a matter of the utmost urgency. As Gower knelt before Duke Richard in the Gloucester tent, I returned the ring Dickon as a boy had given John. Not trusting myself to speak, I did not say much but let Gower speak for me.
“My lord duke,” Gower said, “on the eve of the Battle of Barnet, my lord gave me this ring and said I should take it to my lady if anything…if anything happened to him. He told me to have my lady bring you the ring…and you would understand.”
The young duke took the ring and stared down at the stone for a long moment. When he looked up again, his eyes were moist.
“Do you know how I came to give him this ring, Lady Isobel?” he asked me softly.
I shook my head. “He…never spoke of it, Your Grace, though he wore it…to the end.”
“It was at Barnard’s Castle. I was nine years old. I had failed a tournament and was ashamed, for John had come all the way from the Scots border to Barnard to watch me tilt, and I was hiding from him—hiding from Lancelot, the bravest knight Christendom ever knew…. But he wouldn’t leave until he found me. We sat together on a bluff overlooking the thundering River Tees, and he told me something I have never forgotten: In last year’s nest, there are no eggs…. My cousin John was right, my lady. We cannot look back, only forward. He said something else. Something that seems even more important now than it did then…. He said that if we let honor and conscience guide our lives, we shall face God without shame when the time comes, and that is the best any man can do.”
I swallowed on my tight throat and dropped my lids, for tears had begun to sting. I felt the young duke take my trembling hand. And then I found out what Gower had kept from me that day when he had brought me John’s letter.
“Lady Isobel, those who call John a traitor do not understand as I do. ’Tis true that he wore the king’s colors beneath his armor, but he did so not because he was a traitor to his brother Warwick or to Lancaster. He fought beneath his brother’s banner and died wearing the colors of his king because, as a man of honor and integrity, he could not live with his torn loyalties. John went to his death determined to remain true to both whom he loved, to the end, as best he could. It is my firm belief that John stands before God without shame this day, Marchioness Montagu.”
Unable to speak, blinded by tears, I kept my head down. Gower had dressed John for battle. He had known there was no hope when he’d delivered John’s missive.
“Dear lady,” Dickon said, “whatever it is you wish to ask, know that if it lies within my power, it is already granted.”
I recovered my composure and found the words, “Your Grace…I request the wardship of my son, George. He is…he is the light of my heart now…. It would be difficult…difficult…to give him up.”
I saw the young duke swallow. Then he said, “Marchioness, I shall have the papers signed forthwith and delivered to you at Seaton Delaval within the week.”
“Thank you, my lord.” As I left the tent, I was swept by an impulse I could not suppress. Turning, I said, “There is much about you that reminds me of my John, Your Grace. He loved you truly.”
The young duke didn’t reply. He merely gave me a taut nod of acknowledgment, but I saw that the corners of his mouth worked with emotion. I knew he had loved Warwick’s daughter Anne since childhood and had been unable, as yet, to surmount the obstacles that kept them apart, even though her husband, Edward of Lancaster, lay dead on the field of Tewkesbury. Silently, in my heart, I blew him a kiss and wished him love.
For love is all there is.
Epilogue
1476
ON THE THIRD OF MAY, TWO DAYS AFTER MAY Day and my fourth wedding anniversary to William Norris, I left for Bisham with Ursula, Geoffrey, and Gower.
“Are you sure you will be all right, Isobel?”
William’s eyes rested on me with heartrending tenderness and concern. From astride my horse, I gave my husband a smile of reassurance.
“I am fine, William…. I will be fine.” I bent down and laid my hand gently on his cheek. “You worry too much. I’ll send word from Bisham when I arrive.”
He nodded and stepped back reluctantly. I spurred Rose. Ursula, Tom, and Geoffrey fell into a canter beside me. I waved until William was out of sight; then, with the need for pretense gone, I sagged in my saddle and pressed my hand to my brow to steady my dizzy head. Since the birth of my dead child the previous year, I had been ailing. I knew my heart was giving out at last. A few weeks ago, I could barely stand; soon I would be unable to sit erect. It had begun with fatigue that had descended on me after Barnet and worsened. Now there was bruising that did not heal. My body told me I had not long to live, and I wished to die in Bisham.
John lay buried in Bisham.
For centuries Bisham Priory had been the final resting place of the Neville family, and it was to Bisham that John had been brought after the Battle of Barnet to be buried with his brother Thomas, and his father and mother, and with Warwick, who had died with him. His brother Archbishop George, who had gone over to Edward before the battle, had dabbled in treason against King Edward soon after Barnet, and spent years imprisoned in the fortress of Hammes in Calais. His confinement under such harsh conditions had broken his health. Dickon of Gloucester had finally procured his release, but George had died last month, after only two years of freedom. He was buried at York Cathedral, the only Neville not to lie at Bisham Priory.
“Are you sure you’re all right, dear lady Isobel?” Ursula asked.
I gazed at my beloved friend, my mind crowded with memories. Her father, Sir Thomas Malory, was another who had died at Barnet. In those early days after that terrible battle in the fog, Ursula had comforted me in my grief at John’s death and never breathed a word about her own loss. So many deaths, so much sorrow…To how many was it given to enjoy long life and die in their own bed, untouched by war? No one I knew. Maybe one day my children’s children might be blessed with such a world, but that time was not ours. Soon after Barnet came the Battle of Tewkesbury. York had triumphed there, too, and dear King Henry had died at the Tower the following night. Murdered, it was said, by King Edward.
“Now, Ursula, don’t you start,” I scolded gently. “I’m fine. ’Tis a fine May day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the woods are beautiful. What more can I ask? See the blossoms…” I reached up and plucked a flower from a wild cherry tree as we passed beneath a bough bent low and bright with blossom. On such a day nineteen years ago, John and I were wed at Raby Castle, and I wore cherry blossoms in my hair. Sorrows, aye, but happiness too. Such happiness… If the road I had trodden had been scattered with thorns, it had also been richly petaled with roses.
After Barnet, I had been determined to dwell not on the sorrow but on the happiness that had been mine, for the specter of Countess Alice had haunted me from the day I received news of John’s death. With my weak heart, it would have been a small matter to give in to my grief, but my children were still so young. They needed me, and I had made the vow to Heaven. It proved a good decision. The love I had known, even as it faded into memory, had sustained me. I fingered my jeweled saddle. The gilt was gone now, the leather thin and cracked, but the ruby still sparkled with brilliance, just as it had that day I went to meet John in the saddle shop.
“My lady, pray be truthful,” Ursula said in a plaintive voice.
I turned my gaze on her. I couldn’t fool Ursula; she knew me too well; and in any case I remained in her debt. Through maidenhood, marriage, motherhood, and widowhood, she had stood by me, this dear friend, and held my hand, and mou
rned with me, and celebrated with me.
“I need to go to Bisham,” I whispered, so Geoffrey and Tom wouldn’t hear. “’Tis time, Ursula….”
She didn’t reply right away, and when she did, I saw that tears stood in her eyes. I had caught tears in her eyes too often of late, and I couldn’t help an inward sigh. It is always harder on those who are left behind.
“Aye, my dear Isobel,” she said in a barely audible voice, “I know about your heart…but it has been so for years. I hoped to be told I was wrong.”
I reached out and patted her hand. “Do not grieve for me, Ursula, beloved friend. I am at peace.”
I inhaled the lovely, scented air, admiring the ever-changing scenery, for the tender green of springtime brightened the landscape. Even the animals rejoiced. Dappled sunlight lit the woods, the world resounded with birdsong, and the forests quickened with the footsteps of fox and deer. In the fields, newborn lambs and calves struggled to stand. We trotted along the winding path in silence, twigs and branches crackling around us as squirrels chased one another around the trees.
I had a sudden sense of time propelled backward—at fifteen, I had journeyed south along this same road, seeking my future, and after John’s death, I had again faced the same choice: to wed again or enter a nunnery. I thought of Sœur Madeleine. She had died soon after I last saw her in London when I was betrothed to John, but I had been so much more fortunate than dear Sœur Madeleine. I had living children. Life had taken from me too, but, oh, how much it had given in return!
The image of Marguerite as she had been when I visited her in captivity flashed into my mind. I willed it gone, for it dredged up great sorrow of what might have been. After her son’s death at Tewkesbury, fire and joy had deserted her. Bereft, crushed by the misfortune, she sat all day in a chair, a vacant look in her eyes as she gazed back at the past, and that was the way I had found her when I visited Wallingford Castle. Though she knew me and was able to speak, she had become an empty shell, a repository of memories. I thought of Countess Alice. What Marguerite had dealt to others had come back to her, but where lay comfort in that? More than any of us, she had written her own story; yet she could not wash it out with all her tears, return to her victims what she had torn from them, and by so doing, save herself….
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