Lady of the Roses (14 page)

“And my lord of Warwick is so broad of chest, and Exeter is so thin,” Ursula raptured amidst the cheering.

“Thin, and clad in drab gray. Without the Captain of Calais’s huge sapphire and diamond cross to dazzle the eyes,” I threw in. But Ursula, blinded by Warwick, failed to note the humor in my tone. He passed us now, smiling broadly in acknowledgment of the crowd’s welcome, a hand raised in greeting. Beside him, Exeter’s gaze burned as he regarded the new Captain of Calais, for it had been his command before it was taken away and given to Warwick.

A mighty roar went up and drew my attention back to those following behind them.

“Ah, ’tis the king who comes now!” I said, rising to my feet, as did everyone around us on all the stands. King Henry walked alone, clad in a white velvet gown unadorned by gems, wearing a plain golden circlet. I thought it fitting that he should process unpartnered. Everyone loved the mild and gentle king; he had no enemy in the world.

Another great cheer went up when the Duke of York appeared, clad in violet, hand in hand with Queen Marguerite, richly appareled in scarlet cloth of gold trimmed with sable, its thick folds garnished with diamonds. Here the crowds chanted, “York! York!” and while many a white rose was flung into the air, the people had not troubled to fashion any daisies. The queen wore an angry expression that gave me pause. Still, determined to enjoy every moment of this day of my betrothal, I banished doubt from my mind and let my glance search for John among the throng of Nevilles and Percies that followed the queen.

“There’s John!” I exclaimed joyously when I distinguished him in green and silver striding hand in hand with puny Egremont. But the sight of Egremont’s scowling face as he came into close view struck a jarring chord. A disturbing thought filtered into my consciousness: The king, taking his queen’s approval of my marriage to the son of a Yorkist lord as evidence of a softening of her enmity, had seized the opportunity to push the lull into a peace, but there was nothing genuine about this lovefest, born of King Henry’s simple mind. All was but hollow mummery. I drew my cloak tighter around me, suddenly chilled, and returned anxious eyes to King Henry’s soft figure.

He was the only one still smiling as he disappeared into St. Paul’s. Our meek and kindly king would rather pardon than punish, and chose mercy over justice, thinking to bring peace to his land. He did not comprehend that such a course might well reap a different harvest by driving good men from reliance on law to reliance on force in order to protect themselves against evildoers. King Henry truly believed in this day; he believed that hand-holding could heal the rift between enemies.

His queen followed him into St. Paul’s, her expression hard as flint, her carriage unyielding. I stirred on the bench and looked at those around me on the stands. No one wore a smile; they all sat silently, staring after her.
They know,
I thought. King Henry’s lovefest had resolved nothing; all remained as it had always been.

I came out of my thoughts abruptly. John had reached the top step of St. Paul’s and stood looking up at the benches where he knew me to be. My distress vanished, and I leapt to my feet and waved wildly to him. He caught sight of me and, after throwing me a smile that warmed even across the distance, retired into St. Paul’s.

What does anything matter when we have one another?
I thought, resuming my seat. We were to be betrothed; then nothing could come between us, for betrothal was as sacred as marriage itself. The Countess of Salisbury clutched my arm, and I saw that the throng of Percies and Nevilles had vanished from the street. The time had come to leave for St. Paul’s, and for my betrothal.

AS CANDLES FLICKERED AND INCENSE DRIFTED
over us, John and I plighted our troth in St. Paul’s, before the archbishop of Canterbury and all the peers of the realm. Immediately following the service, my head spinning with joy, we departed for Westminster Palace. King Henry had decreed that his feast of the “love day” be held in the great hall of Westminster Palace, the largest in Europe, normally reserved for such weighty matters as the meetings of the royal council.

With a gasp of awe, I drew up sharply on John’s arm at the noble entrance of the splendid chamber. Strewn with rose petals, herbs, and fragrant ambergris, the gigantic hall dazzled with beauty. Every inch of stone wall between the long rows of traceried windows on either side of the room was covered with tapestries blazing with jeweled color in the light of flaring torches and thousands of candles set on the banquet tables. Silver goblets, platters, and saltcellars glittered, and urns overflowed with exotic oranges, lemons, and flowers brought in from faraway Spain. The famed hammer-beam roof crowning the room, now fully illuminated in the glorious light, appeared to soar on the backs of the long rows of hovering angels that were carved into the base of each arch, and which looked down now as if to bless all who entered. My eyes were drawn to King Henry’s massive tapestry, hanging behind the royal table, which I had worked on since my arrival at court. Its admonition to “Love Thy Enemies” cried out across the long hall. From the wall niches, statues of Henry’s kingly predecessors gazed out in stern reminder to Yorkists, on one side of the room, and Lancastrians, on the other, that they were all but one family.

Mounting the steps of the dais to be seated beside the queen, I caught the smoldering glance of Somerset, who was walking up at the opposite end to sit next to King Henry. No further word had been forthcoming on his proposed marriage to King James’s sister, but this matter was of no import to me any longer.
Let the past be past,
I thought. Filled with magnanimity, I threw him a smile and a curtsey, whereupon he paused and gave me a gracious bow. I felt John stiffen beside me. I pressed his hand, and we resumed our steps up the dais and stood at our places. Clarions blared, and the king and queen entered. Nodding to right and left, they processed up to their thrones, Henry beaming and Marguerite barely smiling.

A sudden, dire thought came to me:
the king’s peace and the queen’s war
.

But this was the night of my betrothal. There was room in my heart only for celebration, and I dismissed the dark clouds that threatened my joy. I ate as ravenously as ever and drank to my heart’s content. Soon enough John and I would be gone from court to begin our new life together. Only the legal formalities remained, and those would be tended to immediately the following morning.

MY HAND TREMBLED AS I SIGNED THE CONTRACT
in the queen’s presence at Westminster, the last to affix a signature before we left for Raby Castle, the seat of the Neville Earls of Salisbury. Our departure was set for the next day, for urgent business awaited the Nevilles in the North, and John had no wish to leave me behind at court at the mercy of the likes of Somerset. Since neither Ursula nor I in our blissful confusion were of any great use to anyone, I gave the packing of our meager belongings over to the Salisbury household servants.

Before we left Westminster, however, I had matters to attend. The first was to thank the queen, the power that had made my joy possible.

“My sovereign lady, a corner of my heart shall always be yours, and my prayers also, for as long as I have life,” I said on my knees before her, tears of gratitude standing in my eyes. “You have been as an angel guarding me from harm and bestowing on me the greatest gift this earth can offer, that of love…. I shall never forget.”

Marguerite sighed and clasped her slender hands together. I glanced up to find her staring far away into the distance with a strange expression of pain, as if some permanent sorrow weighed her down. A morbid thought came to me: Here stood one of those poor shadows I had feared to be myself, one who moved through the murk of endless days in a world without color or sound. Surely Marguerite had loved someone once—whether Somerset the father or Somerset the son, or perhaps a noble Frenchman? But it was a love that could not be, for she was royalty and must wed a king, though he be mad and chaste. So all her love and her hopes and her fire had come to reside in the child she had borne. And in memory of her lost love, she gave as a gift to others what she could never have herself. Therein her delight in arranging marriages and seeing love rewarded. My heart bowed with sadness for her.

The queen’s hand took mine and raised me to my feet.

“Sweet Isabelle, your joy gives us more satisfaction than you can know…. Now, for a wedding gift—”

A lady-in-waiting brought over the gilt casket where Marguerite kept her jewels; they clinked softly as the queen rummaged through them and withdrew a gold ring in the shape of a swan, set with a sapphire for the eye. It was the emblem of her son, Edward of Lancaster, that she held out to me. “Take this as a token of our affection. You have been a loving and gracious presence here in our court, and we shall miss you. Go thee with God.”

I kissed the hand she offered.

But soon the sadness of the lonely queen was forgotten. Riding in front of John on his palomino, Saladin, I nestled against him, half covered by the folds of his cloak, as we left Westminster for the Priory of the Holy Trinity within Aldgate. Sœur Madeleine had returned to London from Marrick Priory, where she had gone when court had left for Coventry in October, but she had returned for the lovefest. I wished to bid her farewell.

We went by the guildhalls of the silversmiths, harpers, and tapestry makers along the river, and through the crowded streets of the burgher sector, with its grand brick and half-timbered houses. In my drowsy delight, the bustling London streets seemed quite charming, and I bid them farewell with nostalgia. My eye passed over the scene and settled on Rufus, trotting beside us proudly, looking around as if he owned the city. I nudged John. “Checking for Percies, is he?”

“You laugh? I tell you, he can smell one a mile away,” John replied.

“Does he never tire of walking?” I inquired.

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do with Rufus, then?”

“Didn’t I tell you? He has his own horse now.”

I couldn’t control my burst of laughter. When I finally caught my breath, I said, “Surely you jest.”

“I do not.”

“Can Rufus ride?”

“Better than you, m’lady.”

I punched him hard in the stomach with my elbow. And thus we laughed our way to the Priory of the Holy Trinity, and Sœur Madeleine.

We waited in the parlor while a novice went to fetch her. The room was dim and musty, lit by a few sputtering candles and starkly furnished with a table that held an open Bible and two rough-hewn chairs. The rustle of garments drew our attention to the door. An old nun entered, a smile on her face.

“Sœur Madeleine,” I whispered, curtseying, flooded both with joy and sorrow—joy to see her, and sorrow that this might well be the last time we would meet, for she was ailing.

“You have your heart’s desire now, dear one,” she said kindly. Then she turned her smile on John. “And you, my young sir, what do you have to say for yourself?”

John knelt before her and kissed her hand. “Thank you, Sœur Madeleine. You have filled my heart with gratitude to you for all time.” I looked at him, puzzled. “Sœur Madeleine sent an entreaty of her own to the queen,” he explained, “after my father presented his request that we be wed. To have gained the gracious sister’s blessing is no small matter, for Queen Marguerite puts great store in Sœur Madeleine’s counsel. She was her nurse.”

I stared at her mutely. Sœur Madeleine had played a greater role in my happiness than even I had known. I fell into another deep curtsey at her feet.

“Alors—”
She broke off, seized by a coughing spell. She turned aside until she had caught her breath, then she said in a weak voice, “’Tis not so grand a thing. In truth, I merely reminded the queen that her devoted servant for whom she holds great affection, Lord Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, is your uncle. Since he espoused your cause in this instance, it must have merit.” Taking our hands in hers, she whispered a prayer over our heads as we knelt and blessed us with the sign of the cross. “May Love, the great reconciler, unite Lancaster and York in your union,
mon enfant…. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
.” She wore a smile on her face, but her eyes brimmed with tears as she reached out and touched my hair, and I knew she was seeing someone else.
A child lost—a child with dark hair
. My heart twisted for her. Women went into nunneries for many reasons. When life took too much, and left too little, there was always the house of God, where those whose lives had ceased could await their own end. She raised us both to our feet. On impulse, I flung my arms around her, wimple, coif, voluminous cloth and all, and held her close a long moment. I knew that I’d never see her again.

“I will write you,
ma chère-aimée
Sœur Madeleine,” I said, my voice breaking.

“I will pray for you always, Isabelle,” she replied, her lips working with emotion. I watched her turn and walk away. The door closed behind her. I stood for a moment, gazing after her. Then I took John’s hand, and together we stepped out into the bright sunshine.

THE MIGHTY RETINUES OF THE EARL OF SALISBURY
and the Earl of Warwick covered the hillside as far as the eye could see, but I felt alone in the world with John as we trailed after them, exchanging loving glances as we pranced along on our mounts, north to Raby Castle in County Durham, Northumbria.

At Middleham, Warwick parted company from us, taking with him Sir Thomas Malory, who had joined his retinue. Little Anne, standing with her parents, gave me a close embrace and waved farewell, crying out to me, “Forget not—you come back!” I felt my heart melt within me. On the third day, we reached Raby. Standing on a rolling hillside of white narcissus, veiled in soft mist, the castle drifted dreamlike in and out among the trees, its towers and turrets beckoning to me, filled with eternal promise. The sheer beauty of the place made me draw breath sharply.