Lady of the Roses (25 page)

As for Maude, she proved inconsolable. “Life is a war, so why can’t I just die?” she said one day, pushing away the broth I brought her, her voice a barely audible whisper. I placed my arms around her shoulder tenderly, smoothed her fair hair, and laid a kiss on her pale brow. I understood her despair, for Thomas was the second husband she had buried, and she had no children to laugh around her in her darkness. The Erber, emptied of Thomas’s merry jesting and laughter, seemed an unbearably silent place, even for me. But soon Maude would leave for Tattershall Castle to be with her jovial uncle. Once she was away from memories, I felt sure, healing would begin.

Meanwhile, since London’s mayor was a Lancastrian, Warwick and John had much to do to keep the city under control, while also gathering up a new army to replace the one lost at Wakefield. Men galloped in and out all day long, bearing news. Led by John and Warwick, the council chambers at the Erber and Westminster Palace filled with the harsh harangue of male voices arguing policy and strategy. During these bleak days for York, one of Warwick’s most vital tasks was to reassure his foreign allies that the Yorkist cause still lived. He dispatched letters to his friends Philip of Burgundy and the Duke of Milan, and also to the Pope, in care of my uncle in Rome, whom he designated his papal ambassador. That his friends did not desert him upon the death of the Duke of York and the rout of the Yorkist army attested to his reputation and prestige throughout Europe. Loss and danger were all around us, and no one could predict what the future would bring, but we had Warwick, and so we still had hope.

At this time of disaster, however, I gained a new insight into Warwick’s heart, one that did not please me. I was passing his council chamber as he stood dictating a letter to the Pope. Distinctly, so that I could not doubt what came to my ears, I heard him refer to the deaths of his father and brother as “the murder of my kin.” Shocked, I halted in my steps. The earl and Thomas—how could they be mere “kin”?
They were his father, his brother!

Gathering my composure, I resumed my steps. But this I knew I would never forget.

NOTHING MARGUERITE HAD DONE IN THE PREVIOUS
decade alienated her from the people as did her actions at Wakefield. This was no rabble that had died there, but the noblest blood of England—the most honorable and patriotic. Common decency had demanded their dead bodies be treated with respect. York had lost to Marguerite, aye, but not because he was no match for her or because she was more clever. He had lost because he was not as ruthless as she. He had been a white knight fighting a black queen, a native son battling a foreign intruder. And the people came over to York as they had never done before.

Yet even now, even after the queen’s ghastly doings at Wakefield, John urged Warwick to try to gain an honorable peace agreement with the Lancastrians and put an end to the fighting. “For the sake of the poor devils of this land who must fight and die for us, we owe them to set aside our own feelings and give them peace, if peace is attainable,” John said to me one night, adding after a pause, “And for poor Henry’s sake, too, and for the oaths we took to him before God.”

But Marguerite’s ears were deaf. She was already planning a triumphal march on London, where she meant to deal with Warwick as she’d dealt with the Duke of York. Henry was to be rescued, and then she and her favorites—Somerset, Clifford, and the Percies of Northumberland—would divide the spoils and rule as they saw fit. The specter of another battle loomed so darkly over us that when John entered our chamber with a smile one day, I cried out, “My love, if there is good news, I beg you to tell me!”

“There’s been a battle at Mortimer’s Cross. Edward of March won! He checked the advance of the Lancastrians Jasper Tudor and the Earl of Wiltshire—and he did it without Warwick’s arm! By this victory Edward has borne out the promise I foresaw in him.”

Oh, how good it felt to see that smile I so loved! I threw myself into his arms and covered his face, neck, and hair with wild kisses and tears of joy. Over a celebration of spiced wine and the hot rye bread and coil of sausage that John loved, as we sat lounging on cushions by the fire, I learned what had transpired, and what a splendid tale it proved to be!

“On Sunday, Candlemas Day, the portent of three suns was seen in the sky.”

Startled, I sat erect. “Three suns? I’ve never heard of such a thing…. Weren’t they frightened?”

“Indeed they were. The sign created confusion and alarm in the Yorkist ranks. The men thought it an evil omen and took it to mean the terrible conflict of the king and the queen and the Duke of York, which had resulted in the captivity of the king, the flight of the queen, and the death of the duke. They saw it as their defeat. But March turned this around and claimed it auspicious. ‘Have no fear,’ he told them. ‘The three suns betoken the Holy Trinity and our victory! Therefore be heartened and in the name of Almighty God let us go forward against our enemies.’”

“How old is he now?” I asked, pondering his wisdom.

“Nineteen,” John replied. “He was outnumbered by Marguerite’s army, yet he still won the battle. They say Edward is taking the sun as his emblem along with the rose.”

“The three suns may have been a good omen for Edward of March,” I said with a happy heart. “And Edward of March is a good omen for England.”

“I do believe he’ll make a worthy king, God willing,” John replied.

“What about Wiltshire and King Henry’s brother, Jasper Tudor? Do they live?”

“Tudor escaped…. Wiltshire fled the scene before battle.” John was unable to resist a smile. I gave a giggle and shook my head, savoring this light moment offered us by England’s great coward.

In a change of tone, John said gravely, “For the rest, Edward dealt with his father’s murderers as they had dealt with his father—” He fell silent, and his mouth worked with emotion. I knew he was thinking of the earl and Thomas. I averted my eyes until he was able to speak again.

“Three thousand Lancastrians died at Mortimer’s Cross. Jasper’s father, Owen Tudor, was beheaded in the marketplace at Hereford. His head was placed on a pike, and then a madwoman combed his hair and washed away the blood on his face.”

The thought struck me that this woman had loved Tudor, and grief had turned her mad. For now I knew the power of grief. Pity flooded me.

John’s voice interrupted my dismal thoughts. “Tudor never believed he was actually going to die. Not even when he saw the headsman or when they stripped him to his doublet. Even then he expected pardon, for he’d played no true role in the conflict. Not until the collar of his red velvet doublet was ripped off did he realize he was going to die. Then he said, ‘Now that head which used to lie on Queen Catherine’s lap, shall lie on a pike.’ And went to his death bravely.”

“So ends the handsomest man in England, who rose from Groom of the Wardrobe to wed a queen…and many another who took no willing part in this conflict.”

Our eyes met, and we clinked our goblets together. “To all the fallen, both Lancastrian and Yorkist…may they find eternal rest,” John said quietly.

ON A STORMY DAY IN FEBRUARY, A WEEK BEFORE
the Feast of St. Valentine, scouts galloped into London to inform Warwick that Marguerite was closing in on London. Leaving the city in John’s hands, he immediately led his army north to meet her. One morning, I found John in the great council chamber at Westminster Palace, alone, pondering a missive in his hand. He was lost in thought.

“From Warwick?” I asked anxiously.

He laid down the letter with a sigh. “I fear I must go to him, Isobel. He needs me, whether he knows it or not.” Rising from the table, he went to the window and gazed at the river. I watched him run a hand through his hair, a gesture I took for weariness and uncertainty. Again I wondered about my husband, how he really felt about his legendary brother, whom the world hailed as another Caesar. I went to him and laid a hand on his sleeve.

“And why do you feel Warwick has need of you, when he asks not for your help?”

“On the way to St. Albans, scouts reached him with differing reports of Marguerite’s whereabouts, so that he knows not where she is.” John heaved an audible breath. “I know not why, but I sense that something is wrong…. Warwick is out of his league. He may be admirable on the seas, but despite his own belief in himself, he is no great soldier on land.”

“But what will happen to London in your absence? ’Tis too dangerous to have it unguarded.”

“I’ll leave Sir John Wenlock in charge. He’s Warwick’s protégé, completely devoted to him, a good man and trustworthy…. He can manage things till I get back.”

“Go to Warwick, then, and doubt not that he will be grateful to have you at his side, for though he’ll not admit it, he holds your counsel in high regard, my love. Nan has told me so.”

He turned and looked at me, his eyes soft. He bent down and kissed my brow. “I shall leave at cock’s crow,” he said.

“John…can you send Sir Thomas Malory to report back to me as soon as—” I broke off, finding the words difficult to utter. “—If—after—you give battle?”

He looked at me sharply. Reading my great fear, he drew me to him and laid his cheek against my hair. “Aye, my angel.”

In the courtyard by the mounting block, I took my leave of him the next morning in the light of a bleak gray dawn. It was the sixteenth of February, two days after the Feast of St. Valentine. Gazing up at the sullen sky, I offered a silent prayer for John’s safe return and watched him depart with Rufus beside him, riding his own mare. But the sight that had brought me laughter so many times no longer had the power to do so.

As John had promised, he sent Sir Thomas Malory to report to me. He arrived on the eighteenth of February, and it was ill tidings he brought.

“The second battle of St. Albans, fought yesterday morning”—he hesitated—“ended in defeat for York, my lady. The Earl of Warwick has fled to Calais.”

I bowed my head and gave pause for a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord for Warwick’s escape. But Malory had said nothing of John.

“And—and my lord husband?”

Malory took a moment to reply. “M’lady, I have saved for last the news I had no wish to bring you…. My lord of Montagu is captured.”

I bit my lip to stifle the cry that rose from my heart. He gave me his hand and guided me to a chair. As I stared at him, my mind in chaos, Malory broke the rest of the news.

“The Earl of Warwick stopped in London on his way to Sandwich and Calais to apprise Duchess Cecily of his defeat at St. Albans. Fearful of Marguerite, she persuaded him to bear her small children, the lords Richard and George, to Calais with him this very night.”

“What about Nan and the children?”

“Sir John Wenlock is to take them to Calais as soon as possible. Warwick believes you have nothing to fear from Marguerite and has made no arrangement for you to leave with the rest of the family.” He regarded me gravely.

I nodded in assent. “Aye, I agree with my lord of Warwick.”

“That is good, for he has left a task in your hands that concerns my lord of Montagu.”

My mind was a mixture of hope and fear as I waited for the old knight to remove a missive from inside his tunic and hand it to me. “My lady, the Earl of Warwick gave me this ere he fled, and bade me bring it to you with instructions that you lose no time taking it to the queen, now that disaster has befallen York. In this lies Lord Montagu’s only hope.” I accepted it with stiff fingers. The missive, addressed to Marguerite, bore Warwick’s seal, and before Malory took his leave of me, he explained its contents.

“Have Geoffrey saddle Rose!” I cried to the sentry at the door. “Find Ursula! Fetch the children! We leave immediately for St. Albans!” I tore out of the chamber.

TAKING THE TWINS AND LEAVING LIZZIE BEHIND
in her nurse’s care, I galloped north toward St. Albans, accompanied by Ursula and a dozen men-at-arms. But the picture Malory had given me of what had transpired seemed incomplete, and many unanswered questions preyed on my mind.
How did York lose this battle, when they have won every other battle so brilliantly, even against the heaviest of odds? What went wrong?

“I can make no sense of it!” I said to Ursula as we rode together.

She said nothing. I threw her a sharp look and realized there was something she kept from me. “You know what happened, don’t you? Your father told you, didn’t he?”

Silence.

“Ursula, I have to know!”

“I shouldn’t…mustn’t—I promised I wouldn’t!”

But she did, for we were closer now than sisters, and there was nothing we could keep from one another. Filling in the details her father had omitted, she gave me a full account of the disaster that had taken place. “You must never repeat what I’m about to tell you! My father owes his freedom to my lord of Warwick, and never would he wish to offend.”

“It dies with me, dear Ursula. I vow it on my father’s soul.”

As Ursula related, Warwick and John had argued. Warwick had decided to await Marguerite at St. Albans and fixed his camp on a field called No Man’s Land, fortifying it with many guns and a load of curious devices called caltrops, as well as nets and shields bristling with nails, which he hid in the ground. Mortified by his brother’s choice of location, John had argued for a change in the positioning of the camp. “You’ve left your rear open to attack, brother!” he’d exclaimed, shocked.

Always sensitive to criticism, Warwick had replied heatedly, “No one attacks from the rear.”

“You’ve gone to such length to protect your front, you’re forcing Marguerite to attack your rear!” John had shot back.

“Who are you to question my judgment, I, the hero of England?” Warwick had bristled, squaring his shoulders.

“God’s Blood, Dick, Father always put his trust in my advice—not because he cared less for you, but because there are a few things he knew I understood better than anyone else, and one of those is strategy.”

Warwick relented. “Very well, then. If you insist, we’ll adjust the position tomorrow.”

“But you’ve no time to lose! It lies unprotected tonight.”

“No one attacks at night,” Warwick flung back in disgust. “’Tis dishonorable!”

John had looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Has she not proven to you with our father’s head that she cares not a whit for honor? You can’t afford to take the chance!”

Warwick had shrugged his broad shoulders dismissively. “In any case, there may not be time.”

“How close is she?” John demanded.

“I don’t know…exactly. The scouts are not back yet.”

John had stared at his brother with disbelief for a long moment. “For God’s sake, man, send out others! You’ve got to find out where she is. But you must begin adjusting your position—
now
. If Marguerite catches us here, she’ll destroy us!”

Warwick refused. A compromise was reached. When the scouts returned, if time permitted, the camp’s position would be readjusted. A scout came back later that night to report she was eleven miles away.

“If we begin right away, we can be done by daybreak,” John said.

Warwick gave a nod of assent.

“I wish you had started earlier, brother!” John said as he left to supervise the change of position, still troubled by Warwick’s unprotected flank.

But Marguerite had not been as far away as the scout had reported. On learning that Warwick was at St. Albans, and that his flank lay open to attack, she pushed on under cover of darkness and arrived in St. Albans at three the next morning. Warwick, caught in the midst of his preparations, was taken by surprise, completely unprepared. Utter confusion broke out in the Yorkist camp. In the darkness, Warwick’s guns proved more dangerous to his own men than to the enemy, and many were killed by his own side. After Marguerite’s victory, the town and abbey of St. Albans were thoroughly pillaged by her rampaging troops, who were giddy with victory. Not even the beggars were spared. Three thousand men died that night, mostly Yorkists, but only two Lancastrian nobles fell. One was Lord Ferrers of Groby, the lord Elizabeth Woodville had ensnared as husband.

This time Elizabeth Woodville’s sad tidings brought me not a moment’s glee. It was merely another sorrow to lay with the rest.
Pray God, I’ll be spared her fate.
My hand strayed to Warwick’s missive, which I’d tucked into my bosom in search of reassurance. “Thank you, Ursula. Now I understand everything. But I’ll not dwell on misfortune while there is hope.”

AT THE FAR REACHES OF MARGUERITE’S CAMP, I
ordered Geoffrey and the others to return to London for their own safety. He argued with me as hard as he dared, but I stood firm. I cared too much for him and for each of these lives to place them in Marguerite’s hands. Then, girding myself with resolve, I nudged Rose forward.

Night had fallen, and campfires burned before us as far as the eye could see, glittering like stars in a dark firmament. Men were clustered around them, some warming their hands, others roasting meat on the spit or drinking and making merry with their female company. The aroma of cooked meat filled the air. I went up to a group of sentries and asked to be taken to the queen’s tent. One man, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood, merely pointed a thumb to someone else farther up, a barrel-chested man-at-arms, evidently his commander.

The man drew himself up to his awesome height and approached me. “Who are you?” he demanded fiercely in the thick twang of the Northern men.

“My name I will not give,” I replied, summoning the haughty dignity of rank to garner his respect.

“Your business, then?”

“My business is urgent, and it is with the queen. ’Tis not for your ears.”

He scrutinized me with beady eyes, his gaze moving between Ursula, the children, and me, and back again. After a long moment, I said, injecting a measure of disgust into my tone, “What? Are you afraid of women and small children?”

The man gave a nod. “All right, the royal tent’s straight ahead. Ye canna miss it.”

I made my way through the camp, followed by the tittering of ruffians and much frank and lecherous assessment of my form. Then, suddenly, in the distance, someone called my name.

“Lady Montagu—”

A man with curly brown hair came running up to me out of the shadowy light of the campfires. I drew up my palfrey, and waited, puzzled.
What friendly face could possibly know me in this place of enemies?
The man reached my side and looked up. With pleasant surprise, I found it was William Norris.

“My lady, ’tis good to see you again,” he said, panting.

“And you, William. I’ve wondered how you’ve been in these years since we last met.”

“I thank you for your concern, my lady…. Have you come to see the queen?”

“I have.”

“Aye, I heard Lord Montagu was taken prisoner.”

I swallowed thickly.

“I hope the queen grants your request for his pardon…. He is a valiant knight. You made a worthy choice…Isobel.”

He said my name so softly that it was barely audible, but I caught the tenderness in his tone. Such, then, were the men who had died in these battles of York and Lancaster: men who loved, men of goodness, men who had fought because honor and their lords commanded it. Tears stung my eyes, and I bit my lip against the emotion that flooded me. “These are sorry times for us all, William. I regret the death of your lord Duke Humphrey.”

“He was a fine man,” he said.

A silence fell between us. Some ruffian called out drunkenly, “Hey, Norris, give ’er to me if ye dinna want her! I’ll know what to do wi’ ’er.” I heard guffaws. William looked at me gravely. “May I escort you to the queen?”

“That would be a kindness,” I replied.

He took my bridle and led my restless palfrey forward.

AT MARGUERITE’S TENT, MY WAY WAS BARRED
again by another sentinel. As William reasoned with him for admittance, the flap was pulled back and a man emerged. I swallowed as I looked upon the face of the Butcher of England. Lord Clifford’s truculent brown eyes glared up at me with hatred. “You have no business here!” he spat, and whirled on William. “You, too! Begone.” William cast me a look of agonized helplessness as he made his obeisance and withdrew.

“You are mistaken,” I replied. “I bear tidings of a most urgent nature for the queen.”

“Urgent to yourself, no doubt. Be assured the queen has no desire to see you. You may leave.” He pointed the way I had come.

Another voice came from inside the tent, and a man stepped out. It was Somerset. He froze in his steps when he saw me, and a rush of color flooded his cheeks. After a moment, he recovered. “Lady Montagu—”

I was surprised to hear him address me by John’s new title, awarded by York’s parliament, and I softened somewhat before him, for he seemed changed. Certainly he was nothing like Clifford. I searched for the word that eluded me, and it came at last:
humbled
. Time seemed to have humbled Somerset.

“I’ll handle this, Clifford.” He waited until Clifford disappeared back into the tent. “Here, allow me to assist you from your palfrey,” he said, offering his hand as gallantly as any true knight.

I gripped it tightly and alighted. “I thank you, my lord Somerset.” I looked up into his face and met his eyes. But I looked away hastily at the disquiet I saw there. He led me into the tent and announced me to Marguerite, who was pacing as she dictated a letter to a scrivener. The tent surprised me with its spacious opulence. It bore every comfort: a large silver coffer, many candles, a table covered in damascene with a pitcher of wine and a plate laden with apples, a large bed covered in blue satin embroidered with the prince’s insignia of swans and feathers, several gilded camp stools, even a settee. Many lords stood about Marguerite, and in a carved chair beside the scrivener sat Henry.

She swung around when she heard my name, and Henry smiled. “Welcome, my dear—”

Marguerite didn’t let him finish. “She is not welcome!” She turned to me in fury. “I told you last time never to come to me again for a favor! The nerve of you to seek me out, after all you have done to make me suffer, you and your kin—the damned and contemptible Nevilles, who made their alliance with the Devil himself, York!”

I stared at her in astonishment. A wild look lit her eyes, and she trembled from head to toe.

“Have you forgotten his deceptions—that falsely sworn traitor whom my lord King Henri pardoned time and again? That malicious traitor who—against all the oaths he swore—put forward a false claim to the throne and spread lies about us to provoke our subjects into fighting against us? And,
mort dieu
, all this while declaring he intended us no hurt, but merely sought the welfare of the realm. That liar and slanderer! But now his venomous purposes stand revealed for all the world to see! York was after the throne from the first—he lied and killed for it! As God has shown, we are the true monarchs, and God Himself has seen fit to punish York and those that rose up with him against their oaths!

“Now you come here expecting me to pardon your husband—a traitor who, with the connivance of his foul brother Warwick, slandered my name, impugned my honor, called me
bitch
and our royal prince
bastard
? Who drove me and my child into the forest at Northampton, and into the hands of robbers? Have you any idea what I suffered there? God alone knows! Aye, God”—she pointed a finger up to Heaven—“God helped me to escape them. Those ruffians fell into an argument over their booty, and He sent me a fourteen-year-old boy to help me ride away with him, all three of us on one horse!

“We fled through the forest. Do you know what it is to be friendless and alone in the forest, at the mercy of robbers and every hideous evildoer who hides there? One of these accosted me—
très hideux et horrible en l’aspect
—and the ruffian prepared to take advantage of us. But I knew what to do! With the help of God it came to me—I confided to that
hideux
man our rank and placed my child in his hands and said, ‘Save the son of your king!’ He proved loyal and we reached Wales—
oui
, God helped me to survive all this, and has given me victory over my mortal enemies this day! Never will I forget or forgive what these foul Nevilles and Yorkists made us suffer. So there is your answer. Your husband dies!”

And with that she fell silent, glaring at me with a triumphant look that bespoke her own madness. A gentle voice broke the silence. “Nay, dear queen, John Neville is a good man. He was my chamberlain. I pardon him—”

Marguerite whirled on Henry. “You pardon everyone! That is precisely the problem! You shall remain quiet, my lord, because they all die, all of them. Not only the Neville, but also the others to whom you promised pardon, your captors who held you while we fought—Lord Bonville, Lord Berners, and Sir Thomas Kyriell.”

“They didn’t hold me. They protected me.”

Marguerite ignored Henry and turned back to me. “This time they have gone too far. We shall crush them all—all the voices against us shall die. Then we shall rule as before.”

“Nay, Marguerite, dear wife,” said Henry, rising from his chair. “That is not the way. I promised them pardon, and we had a good time together, singing and laughing under the apple tree—”

“Henri, sit down and be quiet before I dispatch you to a monastery.”

“I like monasteries. ’Tis peaceful in—”

Breathless with rage, she glowered at him. He dropped back into his seat and sat quietly, mumbling to himself under his breath. Then she turned her wild eyes on me. “Go now—” She pointed angrily to the entry flap.

“My queen, I fear you have misjudged my intent in coming here today. I come not to seek a favor, but to parley one life of value against another.”

Marguerite hesitated. “What do you mean?”