Lady of the Roses (2 page)

Will I never feel the sun before clouds gather?

Will my heart never dance before it dies?

Will I never know your love, beloved?

You are lost to me, lost to me….

I lifted my gaze to Heaven. The sky was awash with color. As I sang, the clouds turned to gold and deepened into rose. A lone bird soared high above, free to roam where it willed. I followed it with my eyes and my words until it faded from my sight. The sky changed again, and now, like fire, the rose glow caught the earth, bathing all the world in tender beauty. I don’t know what came over me, but of a sudden I was swept with an indescribable yearning I could neither define nor understand. Yet I knew instinctively that the only potion that could banish the emptiness, that could break the loneliness, was that elusive thing the wordsmiths called love. I brought the song to a close, bent my head, and closed my eyes. Silent words fell from my heart, and, bartering with the Fates, I sought a gift and made a promise.

“Isabelle.”

I blinked. It took me a moment to reorient myself. “Aye, Sœur Madeleine?”

“We can go to the banquet, if you wish it.”

Disbelief left me speechless, incredulous. My mind spun with bewilderment, and when at last her words registered, I laughed in sheer joy. I laughed at the sky, at the clouds, at the servants taking the horses from the guests arriving in the courtyard below. I threw my arms up and laughed, and I twirled from the window seat, laughing. I clasped my hands together to my lips in prayer, and I murmured
thank you
to Heaven, half laughing, half crying, and twirled again. Then I looked at Sœur Madeleine. A tender smile hovered on her face as she watched me.

I rushed to her side, and, taking her hand to my lips, I kissed the wrinkled skin. “Thank you, dear Sœur Madeleine.”

She blushed.
“C’est rien,”
she murmured. “’Tis nothing. But if we are to go, I daresay we had better hurry,
ma petite.
”

I ran to my coffer and rummaged for my new gown: a rich lavender silk and silver-tissue sarcenet, embroidered with tiny silver leaves, which I had never had occasion to wear before. The high-waisted gown, with its low neckline trimmed with miniver, fell in voluminous folds into a train at the back, and it shimmered like moonlight as I took it out of the coffer.

“You must be very careful, Isabelle,” Sœur Madeleine said as she helped me into the magnificent dress and arranged my long hair loosely around me.

“Why?” I replied, half-drunk in my joy.

“You are too beautiful, with your swan neck and so big eyes, and I fear there are Yorkists at the banquet. Rapists and murderers, all of them.”

“Not all, surely?” I said, teasing in my delirium. I wondered if Sœur Madeleine had drunk too much wine. She had never complimented me before, and why should she, when my eyes were not blue, but brown, and my hair not gold, but dark as chestnuts? If only I had a mirror! But mirrors were forbidden at the priory, for, as the nuns kept reminding us, the only eyes that mattered were the eyes of God. “I saw some Yorkists once,” I said gaily, “and they didn’t look like rapists or murderers.”

Sœur Madeleine gave a shocked cry, and for a moment I feared I had made a disastrous mistake that would cost me the banquet. But she said only, “
Mon dieu
, what is the world coming to?”

“I found them attractive, as a matter of fact,” I giggled. I was drunk, surely, or I would never have dared to make such an admission.

She gaped at me. “I should report you to the queen!”

I bent down and kissed her forehead with a smile. Bending came naturally to me, for though I was a head shorter than most men, I was taller than most women. “But you won’t, will you?” I laughed, not comprehending what made me so bold.

“
Mon enfant
, you are impossible. I don’t know why I let you ’ave your way with me, but to tell you true, I love you like my own. Maybe because your dark hair and eyes, they remind me of—” She broke off, seemed to catch herself, and added, “Of Anjou.” She fell silent, in reverie.

I, too, returned to reverie. But the scene that came to me made me giggle aloud.

“What do you find so amusing?”

“Nothing,” I lied, wiping the grin from my face with effort. I had never confided my secret memory to anyone, and certainly I had no intention of sharing it with Sœur Madeleine, no matter how drunk on joy I might be. In the previous spring, I had gone north to Yorkshire to visit friends, and we had been returning to Wensleydale after a day’s outing picnicking in a meadow filled with wildflowers. Singing and laughing, we rolled along in our cart, the sun shining brightly on the pear orchards shedding their blossoms over us. At a turn of the River Ure some distance yet from the manor, the woods parted, and two young men suddenly emerged from the river. Caught by surprise, they stood naked as babes for a moment before they quickly covered themselves as we passed—but one covered his face instead of his manly parts. My friends and I burst into sidesplitting laughter and strained to see more as our two bodyguards cursed and the driver whipped the horses and barreled past. That sight, our first ever of a naked man, kept us in merriment for weeks.

But in these months I hadn’t forgotten the one who had covered his face, and sometimes I even saw him in my dreams, though only fleetingly, as I had in life.

“Listen to me,
mon enfant
,” Sœur Madeleine said, taking me by my shoulders. She seemed suddenly grave, and I grew fearful. “You are young, romantic, but you must be realist. Love has little place in life. A young girl who is Lancastrian must wed with a Lancastrian. If she has no wealth, she must wed for wealth, old, ugly, and toothless though he be; and if she has some land like you, she must wed for more. To love is to open oneself to pain, and in this world filled with troubles, there is trouble enough without love to worsen matters. ’Tis best to see all Yorkists as rapists and murderers. Do you understand, Isabelle? Do you?”

It suddenly occurred to me that old people were filled with empty warnings about life, and I felt a rush of relief. I could dismiss her words like a faint rumble of thunder that had moved far away and no longer touched us. “Aye, Sœur Madeleine, I understand,” I said to please her, my mood as bright as ever.

AT THE FIRST CALL OF THE SUPPER HORN, I CROSSED
the castle courtyard with Sœur Madeleine beneath a violet sky set with a solitary star, and wound my way up the stairwell to the great hall, trailed by my fellow guests. The hum of conversation grew louder the higher we went, until a raucous din told us we had reached the passageway to the chamber. Crowds thronged the entry, some engaging in conversation, others of low rank waiting to be seated. Heads turned as I passed, and I couldn’t help but take pleasure in my gorgeous gown and the bows and admiring glances that followed me.

Though privy to the banquet preparations earlier, I was taken aback by the splendor of the hall. A heavy scent of roses wafted up from the scattered petals on the floor, and the room danced with light from the many flaring torches and the candles flickering on the tables and in the deep recesses of the windows. Behind the dais where Lord Cromwell would sit, a fire blazed in the enormous stone hearth bearing his coat of arms. Silver, pewter, and the panes of glass in the windows reflected the flames so that even the banners and tapestries decorating the paneled room twinkled with jeweled lights.

Across the hall, a few knights and ladies were already at the tables below the windows, and the chamberlain led us to them. We passed Master Giles and Guy, seated with other heralds, squires, clerks, scriveners, and their wives at a lower table below the salt, reserved for commoners, bare of fruit and silver, and set with wooden bowls and cups instead of pewter and horn. They gave us a bow as we passed, and the admiration in their eyes lightened my step. Arriving at our table, I noted with delight that we had been seated next to the dais. With a crosscurrent of greeting, and a nod from Sœur Madeleine, I slipped in first, next to a burly knight with a florid complexion who stood to give a courtly bow. Sœur Madeleine took the end of the bench, and her lips remained pursed as she inclined her head to the knight in greeting, so I gave him a little smile, which I was soon to regret.

Other knights and ladies, clergy, and those of rank came to join us at our table, and with each placement, the ruddy knight edged closer to me, forcing me to slide toward Sister until all space was exhausted and any further movement in that direction would have either pushed Sister off the end of the bench or alerted her to the knight’s antics and guaranteed a scene. Faced with this choice, I suffered in silence and tried to ignore his thigh and shoulders pressing into mine, and his bold glances that raked my bodice.

A sudden flourish of trumpets stilled the buzz of conversation. Like everyone else, I hastened to rise, adding to the rustle of silk that rippled through the hall.

Gazing around at his guests with a broad smile of welcome on his rosy face, and followed by an entourage of lords and ladies, Lord Cromwell entered, a pleasant-looking, fair-haired young lady on his arm whom I took to be his niece, Lady Maude. Though I had been to banquets now and again with my father, I had become accustomed to the stark regimen and drabness of the nunnery, and I couldn’t help but stare spellbound at the colorful group entering the hall, their gorgeous velvets and gold cloths aglitter with gems. Then I noticed the hound at the rear of the procession. It pranced with an air of hauteur and bore such a lordly expression that I almost laughed aloud. I glanced at its owner, and a wave of recognition flowed through me. But how did I know this knight? And if I had once seen him, how could I have forgotten such a face?

Save for the hound at his heels, he walked alone at the end of the group, lean, broad-shouldered, and taller than the others, his tawny head brilliant in the candlelight, his eyes scanning the crowd as if he searched for someone. Somehow I knew it was a maiden, and a strange pain twisted my heart. For one so tall, he bore himself with grace, and there was about him an unmistakable air of knightly nobility, from the fine straight nose and square jaw down to the high boots he wore in lieu of the courtier’s pointed-toe shoes. Despite his fashionable attire of green velvet embroidered with rich gold thread, his sun-bronzed complexion and muscular thighs spoke of a man who spent more time riding in the sun than drinking at feasts. A voice spoke in my head:
Ah, yes,
it said.
Whoever she is that he searches for, surely she is the most fortunate of women.
At that moment he turned his head and caught my stare. The hint of a smile touched his generous mouth, and his cheeks creased, flashing dimples. My breath caught in my throat. I knew his smile was not intended for me, yet I blushed furiously and hastily dropped my lids.

Lord Cromwell took his place at the center of the dais and gave a speech of welcome. As he spoke, I thought I felt the green knight’s gaze on me, but I made a resolute effort not to let my glance stray to the dais, where he sat. Instead I occupied myself by counting the beauties present in the hall…at least four, and their heads shone like spun gold at the tables. I stole a glance down at my own hair. Though it was thick, shiny, and long almost to my waist, it fell straight as a Roman road behind me and in the candlelight seemed as dark as raven’s feathers. A sense of my own inadequacy swept me. If I had been given to envy, it would have engulfed me now, but as I sat admiring the fair ones, there was only acceptance tinged with regret that I couldn’t count myself a beauty like them, for beauty would have drawn his eye to me. No, the young knight couldn’t have noticed me; it was just me, wishing it were so.
Wishing…

My father’s oft-repeated words echoed in my mind:
Be content, and remember, there are always those who have more than you, and always those who have less.
I decided to count my blessings: I had asked to come to the feast, and here I was, and I would enjoy myself to the hilt.

After grace, servants poured rose water into the small basins set out for hand washing. I dipped my fingers into mine and held them out to a passing servant to be dried with a linen cloth. When everyone had washed, the basins were removed, and the pantler distributed bread, butter, and pig fat while the butler and his boy helpers poured jugs of wine and beer. Sister quickly downed her cup and accepted a refill.

“Bah!” said the knight at my elbow, startling me. Setting down his wine cup, he spat on the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wine’s sour and smacks of pitch! Can our lord not afford better?”

“Where have you had better?” came the reply from someone down the table. “Tell us, and we’ll go there!” A chorus of laughter met this remark.

“You are quite mistaken, monsieur—this wine is excellent. Very fine indeed,” announced Sœur Madeleine, tipping her cup for a longer draught. “As it comes from Bordeaux, there can be no question about that.”

I took a sip. The wine did taste of pitch, but at the priory it had been worse: so greasy, flat, and muddy with sediment that I always closed my eyes and filtered it with my clenched teeth when I drank. Sister was truthful: Compared to that wine, this was very fine.

The knight acknowledged Sister’s remark with a “humph” that left no doubt where he stood on the matter, and turned his attention to the fresh herring pie that had just been placed on his trencher, seasoned with ginger, pepper, and cinnamon. I caught his garlic breath as he reached across me to dip into the salt, and lost my appetite.

“What, you don’t eat?” he asked with his mouth full, tearing a piece of bread for himself and spreading it with a thick layer of the pig fat. “A young lady like you should not lack appetite for life!” He gave me a wink and dug his thigh into mine again. I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair.

“
Oui, mon enfant
, eat,” Sister chimed in. “You are too slender as it is.
Mange, ma petite
.” Then she tapped me on the knee and said, “You are causing some interest across the hall. Do not encourage them, Isabelle.”

I glanced in the direction she indicated. A table of young men were indeed eyeing me, and when they found my gaze on them, a curly-haired young fellow picked up his goblet and toasted me with a drink. In no way did he resemble the young lord on the dais, and I glanced down. “Aye, Sœur Madeleine,” I said, and realized my voice was tinged with melancholy.

Obediently I ignored the young men and nibbled my bread while the ruddy knight beside me gave a belch and picked his teeth with a dirty fingernail. The thought came to me that he was probably married, and at that moment I made a vow never to give my consent to a match by the queen, unless I felt some affection for her choice, no matter how much pressure she brought to bear. A nunnery would be preferable…. My eyes stole wistfully to the knight at the dais. How splendid he was! He was laughing at a joke someone had made, and it made no sense to me that my heart should twist again with the yearning I had felt when I’d watched the beauty of the sunset.

Having no one else to turn to, I decided to make the best of the evening. “Do you know who they are that sit at the High Table?” I asked the ruddy old knight, prepared to view the food he chewed in exchange for information.

“Indeed I do!” he replied, munching. “The lady next to Lord Cromwell is his niece, Lady Maude, and she’s wed to the dark-haired knight seated on her right. His name is Sir Thomas Neville. And see there…that’s his younger brother Sir John Neville, sitting on Lord Cromwell’s left.”

At the name “Neville” I threw Sister a nervous glance. Fortunately the crowd in the hall had grown rowdy, and Sister was so engrossed in her capon and wine that this information failed to reach her. Although she drank heavily, her cup remained filled; I realized suddenly that a varlet hovered nearby, constantly pouring as though she were born royal. I gave this no more thought, rejoicing instead that I could feast on information without her reprimand, despite my rapidly declining spirits.

Though I had an uncle who had been created an earl, the Nevilles were of the blood royal and counted many a lord, earl, and duchess among their number. Their climb to power had begun in the twelfth century through the marriage bed, when Robert Fitzmaldred wed the heiress of Henry de Neville from Neuville in Calvados and their children took the mother’s name.

Family feuds in successive generations made bitter foes of the two branches of Nevilles, driving one to champion the White Rose of York, and the other the Red Rose of Lancaster. The successes of the Yorkist Nevilles also brought them into clashes with yet another powerful clan—the Percies. Long a law unto themselves in Northumberland, the Percies resented the steady erosion of power and wealth to these Nevilles, whom they viewed as upstarts. Yet through all the troubles, Fortune kept her smile fixed firmly on the Yorkist Nevilles, and the marriage bed, where they had made their richest conquests, continued to bless them. Through his wife, Nan Beauchamp, whom he had wed at the age of eight, Richard Neville, the eldest of the four sons of the Earl of Salisbury, had recently been created Earl of Warwick, the premier earl of the land.

“You are very knowledgeable,” I said, warming a little to the knight. His uncouth manners and sideways glances into my bosom no longer offended me, since he had proved so helpful. “Can you tell me more?” I leaned close so that the raucous bursts of laughter from our companions along the table as they exchanged court gossip would not deprive me of a word.

“That young man beside Lady Maude is quite a knight,
pardieu
! Now there’s a tale—”

I glanced at Sir John Neville. He had tilted his chair back and was engaged in conversation with Lady Maude behind Lord Cromwell’s back. I looked away before he could notice me. A question was throbbing for an answer.

“These Nevilles, are they from the Yorkist or the Lancastrian branch?” I asked as casually as I could manage. So that the ruddy knight would not see in my eyes what the answer meant to me, I occupied myself by picking up a piece of the grilled hare now on my plate and making a show of swirling it around the spicy mustard sauce. But he surprised me by laughing; an uproarious, belly-shaking laugh that occupied him for quite a spell. I watched him curiously.

“You are an innocent one, aren’t you?” Still laughing, he turned to the others down the table. “She wants to know whether these Nevilles are Yorkist or Lancastrian!”

“I’ve been in a nunnery, sir.” I felt myself blush as I tried to explain my ignorance.

“Then you do have a good deal to learn, and lucky the man to teach you!” he guffawed.

The ladies smiled, and a few of the men snorted with laughter. One, who turned out to be Lord Cromwell’s seneschal, took pity on me and said, “They are
the
Yorkists, my lady.”

I turned back to the ruddy knight, and he picked up where he had left off. “Indeed, each time King Henry slips into madness—excuse me,
illness
—the queen and Richard, Duke of York, vie to rule the land as Protector of the Realm. Sometimes York has the upper hand, sometimes the queen. But no matter—these Nevilles have stood staunchly by York through thick and thin since the very start of the troubles…. Aye, I see you’re beginning to understand. They are sons of the Earl of Salisbury and brothers to the Earl of Warwick.”

I felt as though someone had struck me a reeling blow, and I must have blanched, because faintly, as if through a wall, I heard him say, “Are you all right, Lady Isobel?”

I nodded. “’Tis merely…the hare is tough.” I laid the morsel down on my trencher and swallowed on my tight throat. “Pray continue.”

“Well, here’s a tale for you…. There are the Nevilles, and there are the Percies, and the two clans hate one another, right—you know that much, eh? Good. Now, see Lady Maude there…she’s the heiress to the Cromwell lands and estates, which include several former Percy estates confiscated from them by Henry IV for treason back in early 1400. So when she married Sir Thomas Neville right here in this castle two years ago, that meant the Nevilles would one day lay claim to several strongholds that had once belonged to the Percies. Seems that Lord Egremont, a hot-tempered younger son of the Earl of Northumberland who’s landless himself—and such a rowdy fellow that no heiress will marry him!—didn’t take too kindly to the idea of Percy lands falling into Neville hands, no matter that the properties in question had been confiscated more than fifty years ago. So Egremont lay in wait for the bridal party at Stamford Bridge. They say that it was thanks to the younger son, Sir John—who’s as valiant a soldier as you’ll find anywhere—that the Nevilles—taken by surprise, mind you, and with a much smaller army—routed the Percies! Though he’s a third son and but twenty-five years of age, his father, the Earl of Salisbury, puts great store in his counsel. Aye, lady, I’d fight with Sir John Neville any day…that is, if Lord Cromwell gives the word. I’m in his service.”