Lady of the Roses (32 page)

Hark to the birds,

They sing for you.

See the blossoms that drape the May,

They bloom for you.

Breezes blow,

Windmills turn,

Peace reigns o’er the land,

Peace reigns….

So hush, my sweet Georgie,

God’s in His Heaven,

He smiles on you.

John took his brother’s advice and negotiated the betrothal of our little George to the king’s nine-year-old niece Anne, the heiress of her father, the exiled Lancastrian Duke of Exeter.

“It cost a hefty sum, and there won’t be enough money this year to repair the cracked tower at Warkworth, so it shall have to wait. But it’s a grand marriage, and nothing is too good for our son,” John said, gazing at our babe asleep in my arms. He bent down and gave him a kiss as I watched, and my heart burst with love for them both.

ELIZABETH WOODVILLE WAS CROWNED QUEEN OF
England in May 1465, on the first anniversary of her secret May Day wedding to Edward. It was a lavish affair, on which King Edward spared no expense. In an effort to accent her royal lineage, he sent with great ceremony for her mother’s relative James, Count of Luxemburg, who came over to England accompanied by a brilliant retinue, in a ship decorated with flowers, ribbons, and silk cloth. No Nevilles attended her coronation. Warwick was away in Boulogne to negotiate a treaty with Burgundy, and John had his hands full on the border keeping the peace, besieging Bamburgh, and negotiating with the Scots. Edward’s chancellor, Archbishop George, assisted John.

No doubt many others would have liked to stay away but dared not, for no one was pleased about this marriage except the Woodvilles—and perhaps my uncle, the Earl of Worcester, who had apparently won the queen’s favor. His letters to me from court were filled with praise of her beauty and charm, and I wondered that such an intelligent man could be taken in by her. Ah, but my uncle had always been an incurable romantic who admired female beauty with the ardor of the knights in his manuscripts. If a woman was fair, he believed, then she was good, and love was worth any price a man had to pay. No doubt he had flattered Elizabeth Woodville with his appreciation of her beauty and of a marriage made for love, and with adoring acceptance had carried out her wishes and commands. And Edward’s vain queen had responded with her favor. Naturally, since I was well acquainted with her character, I did not believe for an instant that she loved Edward. But that he loved her was what mattered.

When King Henry was betrayed by a monk in Abingdon some two months later, he was turned over to Warwick, who paraded him through London with his feet bound to his stirrups and then committed him to the Tower. King Edward at least saw to it that he was given spacious quarters, and that his imprisonment was a comfortable one, even permitting him visitors from time to time. I went to see him there myself, bringing with me a basket of sweetmeats and candied rose petals.

“I remember with affection your many kindnesses to me and my lord husband over the years. I pray for you daily, Your Grace, that you remain content and receive comfort,” I told him. More than that I dared not say.

“You have my deepest thanks, my lady Isobel,” Henry replied gently.

But before I could present him with my basket, the door opened to reveal one of Elizabeth Woodville’s three brothers, Bishop Lionel Woodville, attended by the queen’s two sons, eight-year-old Thomas and six-year-old Richard Grey. I would have departed then, but Henry didn’t allow it. “Stay, my dear,” he said, waving me back into my seat. “You have only just arrived.”

Bishop Lionel brought up a point of clerical law with Henry, while the two boys chased one another around the room in a game of pretend swordplay. Suddenly, to my horror, I heard the older one say to the younger, “Ah, I have won! And I, King Edward, shall slay you, Henry the usurper!” I turned to see him holding his wooden sword to his brother’s chin. The younger boy, finding no answer, turned to King Henry and said, “What do I say to that?”

Henry rose gently and came to the boy’s side. Resting a hand on his shoulder, he faced Thomas Grey. “Here is what you say, dear child…. ‘My father had been King of England, possessing his crown in peace through his reign. And my grandfather had been king of the same realm. And I, when a boy in the cradle, had been without delay crowned and approved as king by the whole realm, and wore the crown for forty years. Every lord throughout the land paid me royal homage and swore fealty to me, as they had done to my forefathers…. My help cometh from God, who preserveth them that are true of heart.’ That is what you say, my child.” With a tender smile on his face, he resumed his seat.

The boys looked at one another in confusion, and Thomas lowered his sword from his brother’s throat. “So who won?”

Henry smiled but made no answer, and returned to the point of clerical law Bishop Woodville had raised. And the boys began to chase one another around the room again, this time as Saladin and Richard the Lionhearted.

My heart went out to Henry. Had he wed a woman of a different quality from the one who had been chosen for him by the Dukes of Somerset and Suffolk, the destiny of this gentle-hearted king, and of England, would have been very different.

THE NEXT TIME I SAW WARWICK, IT WAS AT THE
glorious celebration he threw for George, who had been raised to archbishop of York by King Edward. Never did I attend such a glorious feast. All the nobles of the land were present, including the king’s bosom companion, Lord William Hastings—except, since Warwick had shunned Elizabeth Woodville’s coronation, the king and queen were absent.

Three hundred tuns of wine and a pipe of hippocras flowed all night; and so many pigs, swans, and thousands of other birds and beasts were slaughtered for the occasion that it required the services of sixty-two cooks. Among the elaborate subtleties presented was a life-size Samson in marchpane, and many other courses of the most artfully prepared and toothsome delicacies of jellies, tarts, and custards. For entertainment, Warwick brought in a Nubian, who performed incredible feats with butterflies. They flew about the hall, sorting themselves by color into crimsons, yellows, and blues, and forming circles, spirals, and figures of eight. When they were done, they disappeared into a large painted urn. The event proved so extraordinary that the feast became legendary through the land. As I heard later, it also became the talk of the Continent, which no doubt pleased Warwick. Even his friend King Louis of France was said to have been impressed.

Remembering Elizabeth Woodville, however, and the evil things that happened to those who drew her ire, I gave a shudder.

“Such as she can never be happy,” I said to John one evening. “Her happiness lies in making others as miserable as she is herself. And if she doesn’t succeed in this, her sense of failure leads her to strike back until she does triumph. Look at poor Cooke….”

Thomas Cooke was a rich merchant and a former mayor of London who had refused to sell a tapestry to Elizabeth’s mother for the paltry sum she offered. It was said, in fact, that he had not wished to sell at any price. But when he refused it to Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, he was suddenly accused of treason and thrown into the Tower. At his trial, he was found innocent by an impartial and distinguished judge, but Elizabeth Woodville had flown into a rage and demanded of the king that Cooke be tried again. Aware that his queen had much to do with the charge of treason brought against the old mayor, the king appointed a panel of appeal judges that included his brother Clarence and Warwick—two of her many enemies. They released Cooke, but she had demanded a third trial, whose verdict had yet to be determined. Meanwhile the queen’s father ransacked the old mercer’s house, pretending to search for proof of his guilt, and carried off all his valuables, including the tapestry in question.

That evening, over a flask of wine in our solar at Alnwick, John broached the subject with Warwick, who was visiting for the night. “Wicked she is, the queen, but your blunt condemnation of her is dangerous, brother. Why not hide your feelings as everyone else does?”

“I, and the king’s brother Clarence, have decided not to make pretense of how we feel about Edward’s choice of wife, for one simple reason: We are the only ones who can. ’Tis our hope that by so doing, we shall make Edward aware of the true nature of the despicable woman he has so rashly wed, and of the damage she does to his reputation. She is another Marguerite—and, like Marguerite, she’ll cost him and his heirs the throne in the end.”

“Edward is blinded by love—you cannot make him see things as they are. Hide your disdain, brother. No good can come of it. I fear for your safety, and our own. You hold our destiny in your hands. I beg you to reverse course while we can still save ourselves.”

“I know what is best for us, and for England!” Warwick had replied, red in the face, as he stormed out.

John plunged himself all the harder into pleasing the king by efforts to bring peace to the Scots border, but Bamburgh would not surrender. Yet we managed to find comfort, for after a year, there was still no sign of a royal child.

“Maybe we have nothing to fear,” I said to Ursula hopefully.

“If she proves barren,” Ursula whispered back, “we will be safe.” And, taking a candle offering, she gave me a knowing look as she went into the chapel to pray.

AS THE YULETIDE OF
1465
APPROACHED, I LEARNED
I was with child again. I hummed as I decorated the castle for the sacred season, dreaming of another son for John. Meanwhile John turned his energies into winning Bamburgh from the Lancastrians. Blasting a hole in the walls with one of Warwick’s cannons, he stormed the fortress. The Lancastrians surrendered under a general pardon when they found their captain, Sir Ralph Grey, dead. However, Grey regained consciousness the following day; he had been merely knocked unconscious by the ceiling that fell on him. Though wounded so badly he was unable to stand, he was taken before my uncle, who presided at trial in Doncaster. My uncle had him propped up on pillows to hear his sentence, and Grey was shown no mercy. He was carried onto the scaffold to be beheaded. I was troubled by the ruthlessness my uncle had shown. But, determined to enjoy the Christmas season, I didn’t permit myself to dwell on it.

John finally arrived at Warkworth on Christmas Eve, exhausted and nursing a violent cold and a raging fever. I put him to bed, my first concern, as always, to ensure he received the care he needed to bring him back into not only bodily health but also good spirits. To that end, I engaged the best minstrels and mummers I could find, and invited many friends to feastings at our gorgeous castle of Warkworth, where we had moved for Yuletide. There, we whiled away many evenings in the company of such as Lord Clinton, Lord Scrope of Bolton, Sir John Conyers, and their ladies and retinues. Though Warwick could not attend, he sent his troubadour to one of these feasts.

At Warwick’s request, John wore his circlet and earl’s robes, and the man, following Warwick’s orders, dedicated his song to John and launched into the tale of Guy of Warwick, who first slew a giant cow on Dunsmore Heath and then slew the dragon of Northumberland. “Your noble brother Warwick the Kingmaker,” announced the troubadour, “bids me declare before all ye gathered here that you, my lord, have slain the dragon of Northumberland with the same zeal and ease as the legendary hero Guy of Warwick!” The man pumped his fists in the air and called out to the hall, “Woe to Percies! Long live Nevilles!” He was hailed by roaring cheers and the stomping of feet.

By the Twelfth Day of Christmas, when he had to leave again, John was back to himself. At this time came exceedingly happy news. The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Earl of Desmond, the beloved, brave, and noble friend of the Duke of York’s who had, at great risk to himself, taken up the cause of York and given the duke refuge in Ireland after the disaster at Ludlow, was coming to England in August to report on Irish affairs to his good friend King Edward. We were invited to attend the royal banquet planned in his honor at Westminster.

THE FOLLOWING YEAR, ON THE ELEVENTH DAY
of February, 1466, Elizabeth Woodville gave birth to a daughter she named Elizabeth. The babe was baptized by the archbishop of Canterbury and Archbishop George, with the two grandmothers, the duchess Cecily and the duchess Jacquetta, in attendance as godmothers. Edward reached out to Warwick once again, inviting him to be godfather, an honor he accepted for the peace of the realm.

The ceremony of Elizabeth’s churching that followed at Westminster Palace eclipsed even the elaborate fanfare over the birth of her first royal child. Warwick gave us the details when next he visited Alnwick. It seemed the parvenue queen, whose beauty had captured a royal heart as well as a royal hand, sat at a table in solitary splendor, on a golden chair in a magnificently bedecked hall, and before her had knelt the highest noble ladies in the land.

“Several Bohemian dignitaries happened to be visiting Westminster, and they could not believe what pomp and reverence the Woodville claimed for herself. For three hours she kept the king’s sister Meg and her own mother, Jacquetta, on their knees before her, not deigning to utter a single word to them as she dined!”

“But this churching is known to have been done before,” John replied.

“Aye, it has been done on occasion, but never for three hours—and those queens were of royal birth, not lowborn like her!” he roared. “Every so often, her mother would request permission to stretch her tired muscles, which was granted. But when the dancing began, the Woodville sat watching, and even the king’s sister Meg had to keep coming back to curtsey to her…. The Bohemians had never seen anything like it!” Warwick’s expression evidenced his utter disgust. As if to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth, he emptied his wine in a single draught.

On the heels of the birth of the princess Elizabeth came ill tidings. Little Anne Holland, the daughter and heiress of the Duke of Exeter, who had been promised in marriage to our Georgie, was snatched away by Elizabeth Woodville for her son Thomas Grey, with a payment of four thousand marks. Now I understood her puzzling attention to me at Desmond’s banquet. She had been preparing the wound for the sting. When we saw the Duchess of Exeter at Middleham months later, she made us an apology as best she dared. “Matters of marriage are not necessarily ours to decide these days,” she said.

More and more, Edward set Warwick aside for the Woodvilles. Not long after Elizabeth’s churching, the issue of another marriage arose, straining the breech between Warwick and the king to its most threatening point.

The marriage of Edward’s sister Meg, his only unwed sister, was a matter of vital national importance. Would she marry into Burgundy, as the queen wished, or into France, as Warwick advised? This alliance, already a bitter battleground between Elizabeth and Warwick, grew into a test of their wills.

I did not always side with Warwick in his opinions and his feuds, though he held our family fortunes in his hands, for he could be insufferably arrogant at times. But on this occasion I sympathized with him. No one had worked harder, paid a higher price, or risked more than Warwick to raise Edward to the throne and beat back his enemies. Now that Edward felt himself secure, he was moving Warwick aside, not for some other Yorkist supporter, but for the Woodville upstarts who had fought for and clung to the House of Lancaster until the very last moment.

We knew Elizabeth’s jealousy of the Nevilles stood at the root of Edward’s growing hostility to Warwick, including the question of Meg’s alliance. To prove her star ascendant over Warwick’s, Elizabeth was willing to go to any lengths, for there was a poison running in her veins that made her blind to the consequences of her actions. In this regard, and in many others, she resembled her friend Marguerite, who had held sway over poor Henry through the weakness of his mind. Elizabeth wielded the same power over King Edward, for an obvious but very different reason.

Warwick, on his part, might have improved his relationship with Edward had he struck a conciliatory note, but instead he quarreled with him at every turn. John, deeply concerned by his brother’s attitude to the king, took the matter up with him when he visited Alnwick Castle again.

“You are richer than Edward, more popular with the people, and more admired throughout the land. Be content with that, Dick. Don’t fan his jealousy. You cannot keep overshadowing the king, as you did with the Bohemians, by throwing a feast with sixty-four courses after he’s given a banquet and served fifty! ’Tis dangerous. Edward will resent us even more.”

“Edward needs to be reminded of our power! ’Tis all that keeps us Nevilles safe from harm.”

“The king rules England, Dick, and he favors Burgundy over France for purposes of trade, not merely because his queen wishes it. ’Tis not for you to say what shall be done.”

“I know best what’s right for England. This wanton boy has no talent for anything but whoring! ’Tis his lust that gave us this vile queen. By pretending to be virtuous and refusing to bed him, the Woodville witch wiled that fool Edward into handing her a crown!”

John paled, placed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “Guard your tongue, brother, or you’ll bring us all down.”

Warwick threw off his hand with an angry shrug and strode to the door.

John called out after him, “Beware, lest you force me to part ways with you! You are mistaken to believe that I will follow blindly wherever you lead.”

Warwick turned around and glared at John for a long moment before he marched out. From this scene, I turned away with a heavy heart.

MY CHILD WAS ANOTHER GIRL, BORN ON THE
fifteenth of June as summer bedecked the fields with wildflowers. We named her Lucy. Two months later, leaving all our children at Warkworth—for there was plague in London—we departed for the South, accompanied by a large escort of men-at-arms and baggage carts. Even Duchess Cecily, who had retired to a life of prayer at Berkhamsted and was seen little after her husband’s death, came out of seclusion to honor the charming, revered, and much-loved Thomas Fitzgerald, Earl of Desmond, who had been such a staunch friend to the Yorkist cause.

I was a trifle nervous to see Elizabeth Woodville after so long, and wondered how she would receive us. But I should have expected it to be as it was. When I curtseyed before her, a spiteful smile descended to her lips and an icy wind seemed to enfold me from the dais. While the king bid us a warm welcome, she said nothing, but I felt her eyes bore into my back as we moved away. I wondered at her nature. Here was a woman who had not only achieved what she had set out to do, but had surpassed it to reach the very pinnacle of power; yet she had within her tight spirit not a groat of generosity.

The king had gone to great lengths to entertain his father’s dear friend; we enjoyed three delightful days of feasting and merriment before the last banquet. On that unforgettable evening, the Painted Chamber glittered as never before, in the blaze of a thousand candles and torches and the flash of jewels adorning the nobles. The king himself shone like the sun of his emblem, in a yellow velvet gown richly embroidered in gold, while Elizabeth sparkled in black cloth of gold encrusted with diamonds, from the jeweled queenly circlet on her head to the tips of her royal toes.

Like all the lords and ladies in attendance, John and I wore new attire. I had chosen a magnificent crimson velvet sewn with garnets and edged in sable to match the stunning multitiered ruby necklace John’s mother had given me, and John was clad in a rich velvet surcoat of azure cloth of gold bordered with brown sable and slashed with emerald silk, a furred mantle at his shoulder and a heavy gold chain set with sapphires around his collar. Though he had lost weight due to his exertions in the inclement conditions of the harsh Northumberland winter, he looked exceedingly handsome. As for myself, if I believed John’s compliments, I did not pale in comparison to the other noble ladies.

“You look impossibly beautiful, my angel. Like a black swan gliding in shining waters. Your hair gleams a raven color against your ivory complexion, and no one can keep their eyes from you. You eclipse even the queen.”

“Hush now!” I warned, half in jest. “Men have lost their heads for less.” But I smiled. I did feel beautiful this night. I had never owned a more exquisite gown, and Ursula had coiled my hair in a new and most becoming style. Instead of flowing loose or being hidden away beneath a cone-shaped headdress and veil, it was caught at the nape of my neck in a silver net woven with diamonds and crystals.

No sooner had John left my side than Elizabeth Woodville deigned to pause and shed a few words over me as she swept past on her son’s arm. “I understand you have a son now,” she said, watching me carefully. I curtseyed and inclined my head respectfully. “An heir, whom you have betrothed to Anne Holland, the Duchess of Exeter’s daughter.”

Again I inclined my head. “Aye, Your Grace,” I said as graciously as I could, hoping to avoid giving her cause for offense, for she was noted for perceiving slights where none were intended. Her young son Thomas Grey watched me with a haughty, remote look. She said no more and, dropping her lids, lifted her chin and moved on. I wondered at the purpose of her attention. Was she jealous because I had a son and, as yet, she had been unable to give King Edward naught but a girl child?

John came and went as I chatted with the Countess of Desmond, whose company I had much enjoyed during our visit. Finally he left to seek out her husband, the illustrious Earl of Desmond. I had been charmed by both the earl and his countess over the past days, for the valiant, learned Desmond was a remarkably good-looking and congenial man, without arrogance but with a wonderful wit that reminded me of Thomas Neville. In his company I found much cause for merriment. Like my uncle, Desmond was a scholar who had studied the classics and enjoyed poetry and philosophy, but in Ireland he was known for not only his generous patronage of the arts, but also for his charity, humanity, and generosity to the poor.
Whereas my uncle enjoys a slightly different reputation.
I crushed my wicked thought and stole a glance at Desmond as he stood in conversation with John, Warwick, and Archbishop George. He was as tall as the Nevilles, and equally broad of shoulder and well made. Young Dickon of Gloucester came to join them, and Desmond, looking down with twinkling eyes, engaged the shy boy in conversation with easy grace.

“The Duke of York was very fond of your lord husband and spoke of him often in the most glowing terms,” I said. “Now I see why. Your lord husband is charming, Countess.”

“What happened to the Duke of York broke our hearts. He was a noble man, God assoil his soul. We loved him well.” She fell silent, and her warm hazel eyes took on a sad, faraway look. “Young Richard of Gloucester reminds me of his father,” she said abruptly.

“Aye, my lord husband is very fond of Dickon. He takes much time from his duties on the border to personally instruct the young duke in the art of warfare. He says he has never met a young man who is so determined and has such sense of purpose.”

“To these qualities, I can add another, dear Countess Isobel. He is near as handsome as his brother King Edward.”

“I shall tell him you said so. It will greatly please him, for the young duke does not have a grand opinion of himself.”

“Humility is also a virtue. It seems Gloucester is laden with them…like his father before him, may he rest in peace.” She sighed, made the sign of the cross, and added softly, “If York’s sons fare well in this life, the father will not have died in vain, for we all wish for our children a life better than what we have known. Perhaps with this Sun of York on the throne of England, the people of England and Ireland can look forward to peace and contentment.”

“Indeed…” I said, reflecting on such a life, one free from worries and war. “I wish we lived closer, you and I. We would be good friends.”

“We surely would, Countess Isobel.” She took my hand. “Perhaps Fate will be kind and afford us chance to meet again soon.”

Without warning, the music that had been playing ceased, and a shocked murmur ran through the hall. Everyone turned in the direction of the entrance. A man with a long white beard and leather pants cut high above knobbly knees thumped his way through the room with the aid of a staff. I glanced at King Edward, whose hand had frozen with a wine cup halfway to his lips.

“Whoa!” he called. “What’s this?”

The man ambled up to the king.

“Why, ’tis Clarence’s fool,” muttered Edward.

“Fool I may be,” replied the Fool, “but tonight, sire, I am the King of Fools!”

“A dubious honor, I assure you, since fools have been known to lose their heads,” said Edward with narrowed eyes. “Tell me, Your Foolish Grace, why are you dressed in this bizarre fashion?”

“Sire, my journey here was full perilous as any knight’s. Many times I came near death.”

“How so?” demanded Edward.

“I was near swept away by the currents, so high were
the Rivers
.”

A deadly silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at the rigid queen. Then Edward let out a roar of laughter. The silence shattered, and relief swept me. Blessed Heaven, but Clarence had made his Fool take a dangerous chance!

I stole a troubled glance at Elizabeth Woodville. I feared she would not forget this.

EARLY IN THE NEW YE AR CAME A DISTURBING
letter from my uncle.