Lady of the Roses (22 page)

She grinned. “He must have been furious.”

“Surely so…he had to settle for Guisnes instead.” I laid down my needle. “How bitter is that? He thinks the world is his, and now he sees it isn’t.” I smiled and, resting my chin on my elbow, gazed out the window. “Imagine his jealousy, his dismay, each time he gazes over the marshes at Calais…being able to see Calais but not take it…the prize he’s coveted so eagerly, for so long, the prize he can’t have, that belongs to another.” I turned to her happily. “I find it sweet, Maude.”

Maude jabbed me with her elbow, laughing. “You could be Calais, Isobel—don’t you see? You, too, are the prize he’s coveted for so long and can’t have.”

I fell silent for a moment. Then I burst out laughing. “Oh, Maude,
imagine
being destined to failure in both love and war! How woefully sad. I am almost sorry for the wretch.” We heaved in merriment.

Our glee proved brief, for tidings of great sorrow soon reached us. While Warwick, the Earl of Salisbury, and the Duke of York were out of reach of their enemies, their friends and retainers were not. The queen renewed her efforts to exterminate Yorkist support, and terrible reports came to us of the doings in the town of Newbury. There the Earl of Wiltshire—the coward who had fled the field of St. Albans—conducted an inquest with great harshness. Not content with confiscating all the lands and property of the people, he ordered a large number of the men to be hung, drawn, and quartered.

The duke’s enemies were reaping a rich harvest from the downfall of York. Income from offices vacated by their removal, annuities from their forfeited estates, and fines exacted from those who had been pardoned were divided liberally among the queen’s favorites. More heads appeared on London Bridge and more quartered bodies at the city gates. Exeter, who had hated Warwick since the day the Keeper of the Seas title had been taken from him, received a commission to put out to sea and destroy him.

If the queen thought to deter York’s support in this brutal manner, she soon found herself mistaken. Her cruelty engendered even more sympathy for the cause of York, and yet another ballad made its appearance on the gates of Canterbury. Praising Salisbury as the essence of prudence and Warwick as the flower of manhood, it proclaimed the desire of the people that the Yorkist earls return with an armed force and assume the guidance of the kingdom.

In those days, as I helped Countess Alice supervise the household staff, keep a stern watch on purchases, receive petitioners, arbitrate quarrels, organize meals, arrange for repairs to the castle walls and defenses, pay the servants, plan their festivities, supervise the care and education of the children, and nurse the sick, my eye was never drawn long away from the castle gates, where those who entered might bring tidings. Journeymen reported what they had learned in towns where they had passed through seeking work, while merchants brought information they had garnered in abbeys and inns along the way where they had sought shelter for the night. Emboldened by her success at Ludlow, the queen had appointed more commissions of inquest in Kent and in other counties that had given warm reception to the Yorkists. The hated executioner of Newbury, the Earl of Wiltshire, had been named to these commissions in order to strike fear into the hearts of those who embraced York.

“But it is Wiltshire’s own heart that is struck with fear,” the countess commented one cold winter’s day just after Christmas Day, after the subdued festivities of Yule were behind us. “Under guise of fighting Warwick, he went down to Southampton and commandeered some Genoese ships. Then he fled to Dutch-land. It seems he is well aware of Warwick’s regard for the common people, and is terrified of revenge for his cruel doings at Newbury.”

“How brave he is,” I said with disgust, remembering the pretty duke whom I’d first seen quitting the queen’s audience chamber at Westminster.

“Indeed, it appears that the French queen surrounds herself with the most valiant and worthy hearts our land can offer,” Countess Alice replied with biting sarcasm.

That evening, the last of the old year of 1459, we went together to chapel to light candles and pray. Countess Alice said, “No matter what comes, we must never lose sight of what matters most: Our lords live. As long as they are safe, we have hope that all will be righted in the end.”

I nodded, and into my mute assent I poured all my heart. Wrapped in our thoughts, we went to the solar to sip a cup of wine and bid silent welcome to the New Year of 1460. The countess worked on her tapestry; I played the lyre; and Maude sat in the window seat, listening to my song while gazing out at the stormy blackness. It was a fearsome night. The wind moaned around the castle walls as I sang of love and death, and it seemed to me that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode in the night, bringing death, plague, wars, and famine, wreaking havoc, and promising worse to come. I lifted my eyes to the window, and in a trick of my imagination, I thought I saw their ghostly shadows galloping across the darkness, and that one of the figures was a woman and bore the form of Marguerite d’Anjou.

Ending the lament, I broke into a lilting melody, hoping the merry sound would banish my terror.

A few weeks later, on a foggy January night, the countess confided that she was leaving for Ireland. All had been readied, and there was no time to be lost. Maude and I packed her coffer in secret. After a tearful and anxious farewell taken in the dead of night, we watched her depart quietly with the pilgrim. When she wrote to us about her safe arrival there, she also informed us that Warwick was expected to arrive in Ireland shortly thereafter to confer with the Duke of York on their plans to return to England. “I regret I am not there with you, dear Isobel,” she wrote, “to assist you with the birth of your babe who is soon due. I shall pray for you and the little soul that all goes well and that God grants you and my grandchild a safe delivery.”

But all did not go well. In March, as winter gathered up its drab attire and the fields made ready for spring, I was in the stables, feeding Rose a handful of sugar, when the first pains came. I staggered outside. It was too early yet; my child was not ready to be born for a month. Several youths came running to carry me to my bedchamber. The midwife was sent for and attended me, along with Ursula and Maude, during my long and arduous labor. I heard them but dimly through the spasms of cramps that kept me moaning in pain through the night, conscious only of the hands that wiped my brow with cool water.

When morning broke, there was only silence except for the song of the birds. No running of feet or children’s laughter; no commands or chiding of the servants by their superiors. No clanking of breakfast dishes. Only silence. I realized my pains had ceased. “Is it a boy or a girl?” I asked.

Neither Ursula nor Maude answered me.

I struggled to rise and see for myself, but my body felt like a leaden weight. I fell back against the sheets, drained, panting. “Boy or girl?” I demanded again.

After a hesitation, the midwife said, “A boy.”

“Where is he? Is he all right? I want to see him.”

“Later, Isobel. You are weak. You need your rest.” Ursula’s voice.

I sighed with relief and let my heavy lids slip down over my eyes. Ursula was right; I was exhausted.

“John will be so pleased,” I whispered. “I shall name him John.
John
. Then I shall have two Johns to love.”

I must have drifted off into sleep, for when I awoke, the light was fading fast and the sky had grown bleak. Stronger now, I easily pushed myself up on an elbow. Ursula was dozing at my bedside, but the movement startled her and her eyes flew open. The room was quiet.
Where was my babe?

“I want to see my little John….” I reached out my hand to Ursula, who gripped it tightly. She didn’t reply. What was wrong? Where was everyone? Why wasn’t my baby crying?

Ursula gazed at me. Her mouth trembled at the corners, and tears shone in her eyes.

“I am sorry, dear Isobel, so sorry, my dear lady…. Your babe…” she said in a thick voice, and broke off.

I stared at her in confusion. As the monks chanted the evensong, their voices drifted in through the open window. The music’s sweet harmony conveyed to me the pain of loss wordlessly, urgently, as with the sharp blow of a sudden dagger thrust. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I turned my head and looked at Ursula.

“He took…no breath,” she managed, squeezing my cold hand in both of her own.

My little one was gone from my arms before I had ever held him. My tiny, beautiful child was born dead.

I closed my eyes.

FOR THE NEXT WEEKS I DROWNED MY SORROW
in the joyful babble of my children and buried myself in the management of the estate as I mourned my newly born babe and pined for John. Faithful Rufus must have missed him, too, for his eyes had taken on a sad look, and he followed me everywhere I went, as if I could lead him to John. The girls also marked his absence. “My friend John coming home?” asked my two-year-old Annie. I felt an instant’s squeezing hurt. John had not been home enough for Annie and Izzie to grasp the concept of father, though Annie understood that of friendship. “Soon,” I replied, flooded with sadness for my girls. “Your friend John shall be home very soon, God willing.” And I pressed them both to my heart.

Many a sleepless night I kept to my knees in the chapel, praying for my living John and for my little one who had gone to be with God. April came, bringing with it springtime’s beautiful flowers and blossoming trees, just as it had done on my wedding day three years earlier. Feeling a need to be close to John, I gathered up his cloak and journeyed to Raby with Ursula, taking a party of horsemen with me for protection. I spent the afternoon of our anniversary alone, hugging his cloak by the edge of the waterfall where I had passed my wedding night, and then I plunged into the pool for a swim, as I had done with John before breaking fast on our first morning as husband and wife. The falls thundered with the same mighty roar, but oh how much had changed in three short years.

I planned to spend the night in the cottage, embroidering more griffin emblems on John’s cloak, for I had found this pastime brought me solace in times of distress. But the emptiness of the place mirrored my desolation and evoked none of the joy of my wedding night. The dying day took my strength with it as it departed. Slowly, wearily, leaving the splashing waterfalls behind, I wound my way back to the castle before darkness fell. The next day, drawn by an overpowering need for my sweet little girls, Annie, Izzie, and Lizzie, I returned to the safety of the fortress of Middleham.

In May, Countess Alice wrote from Calais with news that lifted our spirits. On their voyage from Ireland to Calais, she and Warwick had sailed past the queen’s new “Keeper of the Seas,” the Duke of Exeter, without the loss of one ship. For lack of money, or for fear, Exeter had not tried to attack, but had watched Warwick sail past him without a shot.

“He holds the grand promise of another Somerset,” I said to Maude with a small laugh.

Then, in early July, Warwick’s own messenger arrived. We received him in the open courtyard, where all the household could hear his tidings.

“My lord of Warwick bids me inform you that he landed in Kent on the first day of July. Men have flocked to his banner, and he is marching to London at the head of a large army!”

Cheers went up. The messenger presented the letter he had brought and, placing our heads together, Maude and I pored over it in silence, for it contained nothing of interest to the household, only cordial greetings to us, advice regarding the repair to a castle wall, and assurances that the countess was well in Calais. But then we came to his last paragraph. Maude and I exchanged a fearful look, and my heart jumped in my breast. Breathing in shallow gasps, I read it aloud to the household:

“‘Wishing to avoid bloodshed, again I begged an audience with King Henry, stating that I would speak with him or die, and again I was refused.’” I braced myself so that my voice would not shake as I read Warwick’s last sentence. “‘Battle is imminent.’”

IN A STATE OF TERRIBLE ANXIETY, I PRAYED WHILE
I awaited further news, and embroidered more griffins on John’s cloak. But the dire thoughts that drummed in my head were never far away: What if York lost? What if Warwick was killed? What then for John and Thomas—would the queen keep her word and let them live? Would she release them, or keep them in confinement forever? One thing was certain: If the queen won the battle, she would send the Percies to take Middleham and Raby, and turn us out into the streets. Attainted of treason, we would likely receive no pardon, and if pardoned, we would be homeless, as would be all our friends and kin.

Two weeks passed. No other messengers came. Evil dreams plagued my nights when I slept. Then, one day, clarions sounded in the village. I dropped the chain of daisies I was making with little Annie and Izzie on a patch of turf near the fishpond, and rose to my feet, my heart in my throat. All around me servants froze in the midst of their tasks; then they sprang to life and ran screaming into the castle, into the kitchens, into the stables, wherever they thought to find refuge, while retainers and men-at-arms grabbed their weapons and clambered to man the ramparts. Suppressing the sheer black fright that swept through me, I gathered up my girls and hurried into the chapel. I fell on my knees before the altar and with my eyes closed recited the Ave Maria.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum—”

A clamor arose outside. I closed my eyes tighter, murmured the Ave louder. Then, strangely, Rufus bounded into the chapel, barking wildly.

I opened my eyes. John stood smiling down on me, shining like an archangel in the flickering light of the burning candles. I blinked to focus my vision, unable to believe the evidence of my eyes.
John?
Slowly I rose. My hand shook as I raised it to his face to make certain he wasn’t a dream, that this was truly him. His cheek was rough with the growth of a beard, but around his smile I glimpsed the dimpled creases I so loved. I traced the line of chin and nose and found it solid; I touched the hair, and it was as thick as I ever remembered. The impact of his penetrating blue eyes engulfed me so completely that my knees trembled.