Lady of the Roses (9 page)

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. There was such bustle and comings and goings. We were both very discreet.”

“That’s only forty-five minutes from now! We’ll just make it if we hurry, Ursula!”

HE STOOD BETWEEN THE ALTAR AND A SIDE CHANTRY
, near a bank of candle offerings, his hound beside him. His eyes found me the moment I entered the nave. I hurried to him, and we hid behind a marble pillar in the chantry, protected from prying eyes. Ursula remained a distance away, out of earshot. He took me into his arms, and a melting sweetness poured through me as his lips met mine.

“My love, what is so urgent that we must chance this meeting?” he asked, taking my hands into his own.

I recounted the events with Somerset. The hound watched us, ears moving as if he followed the tale of the night’s doings.

“God damn that fool!” John muttered. He grabbed a side rail as he considered the problem. Strangely, his anger served as a comfort to me. Somehow I knew that if anyone could set things right, it was he, even against such impossible odds. At last he spoke. “I don’t believe you are in any great danger at the moment. Somerset is rash, but not rash enough to damage the queen’s property—for that is what you are, Isobel. And he knows, along with the rest of us, what high store she puts on her property. Therein lies safety for you. No—more likely, he’ll try to push the match for vengeance’s sake. We need to stall for time.”

A match? Marriage to someone else?
I shut my eyes at the horrible specter. John cupped my chin in his hand and tilted my face to his. “Isobel,” he whispered. I opened my eyes. A smile played on his generous mouth. “Beloved, now listen to my news. ’Tis good—nay, splendid—news! I have spoken to my father. He approves our match and will do all he can to see us wed!”

A cry of joy escaped my lips. I offered him my mouth and clung to him with reckless abandon. After the melting tenderness of our kiss, he broke our embrace and looked at me gravely. “But there’s something you must do, and there’s no time to be lost. Write your uncle the Earl of Worcester before he leaves Ireland, and ask for his help facilitating our way with the queen. He stands high in her favor. Marguerite has newly appointed him her papal ambassador to Rome. She will listen to him. My father will speak to her before he returns to the North. No doubt she will refuse at first, but it will seed the thought and speed our way in the end.”

A commotion drew our attention to the entry as the massive door creaked open. John’s hound leapt to his feet. A group of men entered and someone shouted, but I couldn’t make out the words or see him clearly, for he stood in shadow with the light behind him. But when the church door slammed shut, he strode forth and came into view. I gasped. It was Somerset, and he had brought men with him. “I know you’re here!” he was yelling. “Show yourself, knave!”

I looked at John helplessly. Spies were everywhere at court! John took me by the arms and placed me gently behind him. He stepped out from behind the pillar and moved into the open. “I’m here, Somerset,” he called. “I see you come well protected. Do you fear an ambush in God’s house, or come to give one?”

Somerset swung around and marched up with angry strides as John’s hound gave a low growl. When Somerset caught sight of me standing behind John’s shoulder, his lips thinned with a cold smile. “Tish-tish, toying with the queen’s jewels, are you? ’Tis a dangerous game you play, Neville.”

“No more than you. But my intentions are honorable, while yours are not. The queen will appreciate the difference.”

Somerset’s grin faded. “More fool you, if you think there’s any way in hell Marguerite will accept you.” He sneered.

“We’ll see about that.”

I marveled at John’s composure. He had assumed a princely stance, his head held high, one leg forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. The thought came to me that he exuded the righteousness and inherent nobility of his motto—
Honor, Loyalty, Love
—and were it a thousand years ago, here would stand a knight of Arthur’s court, just so. If I had not known it before, I knew it then—I loved him with all of my heart, to the death and forever afterward, into eternity.

“Curse you, fiend!” Somerset drew his sword. A gasp sounded around the church, and a crowd gathered.

“How dare you defile this house of God!” someone yelled. Other angry voices arose, and soon Somerset and his men were surrounded by a rabble of furious citizens, one voice drowning out another: “Lay down your sword before we tear it from you!” “We’re sick of you and your fights in our streets!” “Take your confounded feuds back to the palace!” “Out, out with you!” The crowd picked up these words and chanted with one voice, “Out with you! Out, out!” The outraged citizenry had turned into a mob, and Somerset did not fail to note its ominous tone. He paled and lowered the sword in his hand. Many a lord had died at the hands of a mob such as this, including his father’s friend William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, whose head had been sawed off by a sailor with a rusty sword as Suffolk tried to flee England aboard ship.

A priest pushed through the throng and addressed Somerset. “Best you return to the palace, my lord. Do not tarry, I pray you.”

Somerset flashed John an angry look. “We’ll finish this later,” he hissed as he sheathed his weapon. Cautiously he backed down the nave, surrounded by his men.

The ancient doors were pulled open, flooding the area with daylight. Framed in the entrance, Somerset stood for a moment, a black specter darkened by the light. A fleeting instant later, he was gone. The church doors clanged shut with a thunderous roar that reverberated in my ears. Unaware that I’d been holding my breath, I exhaled deeply.

The eyes of the crowd turned to us, as did the priest.

“I thank you most humbly,” John said.

The priest, short and stout, looked up into John’s face. “I can see you are made from a different mettle from your adversary. We can only pray that such as he do not inherit our world, for then there is but little hope for us all. What name do you have, that we may pray for you, my lord?”

“I am Sir John Neville, son of the Earl of Salisbury and brother to the Earl of Warwick.”

At this a loud cheer resounded through the nave of St. Paul’s. “A Warwick! A Warwick!” the citizenry cried. “God bless Warwick! God bless the House of York!”

The priest waited for the cheers to subside. “You have our prayers, my lord. May God save the Earl of Warwick, the most illustrious knight alive, and his noble brother, Sir John Neville.” Amid another round of cheers, the priest stepped aside and the crowd parted for us, their faces struck with awe. To their applause and blessings, John and I walked down the aisle arm in arm. I dared not look at his face, for pride had so flooded my heart that it had broken its boundaries and wetted my cheeks as tears.

I took leave of him on the steps of St. Paul’s. He returned my ruby cross and galloped back to Westminster to attend his audience with the queen. With a small escort provided by the citizenry, Ursula and I returned to the palace.

“I HAVE DECIDED ’TIS TIME YOU WERE WED,” THE
queen said, pacing back and forth before me like a caged lioness. Somerset stood in the background, his eyes watching me, sultry with desire. “We are negotiating now,” the queen continued, “and may have an announcement for you shortly.”

“May I ask who I am to wed, my queen?”

She checked her steps and looked at me. “You will be informed in good time.” She nodded her dismissal. I saw a warning cloud settle on the queen’s features as she turned to Somerset, and I realized this display was for his benefit.

Ursula was waiting for me in the antechamber to the royal apartments where Marguerite’s ladies wiled away their time, some chattering, some embroidering, others merely awaiting her instructions. With Ursula’s help I dragged myself to my room.

“Bring me paper and pen, Ursula. ’Tis urgent. Go quickly!” I found myself whispering, though we were alone. After only a few months, I had picked up the habit of the court: that it was prudent to keep one’s own counsel, and failing that, to speak in whispers if words had to be uttered at all.

When Ursula returned, I stood on the bed and rested the paper and ink pot on the uncomfortably high window ledge as I wrote. Privacy was too important, and nowhere else in the palace would I find it.

I dispatched the missive to my uncle in Ireland where he was serving as Lord Deputy, and then went to the chapel to pray for its safe delivery before he left. By mealtime, palace whispers reached me that the council meeting had resolved nothing with the queen, and the Nevilles had departed for the North. By the next afternoon I learned why the queen had called me to her solar to inform me that she was arranging a match for me. As I embroidered a portion of tapestry assigned to me, so engrossed in my thoughts was I that it took me time to realize I was seated next to Elizabeth Woodville. She gave me a wily smile when she caught my eye.

“Is all well?” she inquired, as if she well knew it was not. She raised her eyebrows.

“I have been feeling a trifle dizzy. I expect it’s this close work.”

“Then I shall distract you by telling you a humorous tale.”

I waited.

“The queen had a visitor yesterday. He asked for your hand for his son.”

I felt myself pale. She threw me a slanted, feline glance and, clearly amused by my reaction, continued. “It was a great jest…. If you look around, you’ll see the whole court laughing about it.”

I let my glance move swiftly across the room. She was right. Everyone seemed to be eyeing me, and their lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

“Don’t you wish to know who it was?”

I laid down my tapestry. “Pray, Elizabeth, be kind and tell me.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in triumph. “It was the Earl of Salisbury, asking for your hand in marriage to his son, Sir John Neville.”

My head swam. I closed my eyes, conscious of the tittering around me.

“Do you know the queen’s reaction? She laughed him out of the room. Everyone laughed. Somerset laughed loudest of all.”

I opened my eyes at this last remark. “Dear Elizabeth, I beg your indulgence. I need to lie down. I feel most unwell of a sudden.”

With what dignity I could muster, my head clouded and my legs trembling, I left the great hall, followed by the snickering of the queen’s women. In the antechamber, as soon as Ursula caught sight of me, she put away her father’s manuscript, which she had been reading, and came to my side. She pressed herself close so that I leaned into her as we walked, giving me succor without anyone seeing her do so.

I did not see the queen the next day, since I had pleaded ill health, but she sent for me that evening. I went to her in the royal solar, anxiety tearing at me. When I saw she was alone, unattended by her ladies and Somerset, a wave of relief swept me.

“Your Grace,” I said, sinking low into my curtsey, for I had learned that Queen Marguerite placed great store in such exaggerated tokens of respect.

“You may rise.” She waved me to a seat beside her and scrutinized me with her green eyes for an agonizingly long moment. At last she spoke. “The requests for your hand have been coming in remarkably fast and furiously…. Now, it seems, the Earl of Salisbury would have you as bride for his son Sir John Neville.”

She fell silent, her eyes not wavering from my face. I knew she wanted my reaction, but I dared not give it, so I said nothing, though I felt myself redden horribly.

“So you know this already?”

“Aye, my lady queen. Elizabeth Woodville told me of it.”

“Did she also inform you of our reaction?

“She did.”

“What say you?”

I was on treacherous ground, and I knew it. “I don’t know what to say, my liege,” I replied softly.

“You can begin by telling me how this came about, since evidently you and Sir John Neville have met before.”

“It was at Lord Cromwell’s castle, on my way down to Westminster with Sœur Madeleine, my queen. Sir John was present with his brother Sir Thomas. There was a feast. Sir John asked me to dance….” My heart quickened at the memory and I saw him again, gazing at me and holding out his hand; I saw myself take it and move with him to the dance floor; I felt my feet lighten, my being soar….

I fell silent and dropped my gaze to my hands.

She rose from her chair with an angry swish of her silk gown. “He is a Yorkist!” The accusing harshness in the queen’s tone brought me back to reality with the sharpness of a dagger thrust. I threw myself at her feet.

“My lady, he may be a Neville, but he is also an honorable knight and well he knows his duty to the king! But where the heart leads, can we command it not go? I have tried, my queen. But reason is no weapon against love!”

The stiffness left Queen Marguerite. She let herself down heavily into her chair. “My father said that once…in a love note to my mother. He is a rhyme maker, you know….” Her eyes took on a faraway expression. Her thoughts had drifted across the sea, to a place in memory reserved only for her.