The Golden Widows

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘I suppose I can but surely…’

  ‘Done, then.’ He took her hand with a brief bow. ‘My thanks. May I advise you to wrap yourself warmly. Buskins if you have any. It will be almost as cold as fishing. If you could be in the great hall after dinner, I shall send a page to fetch you.’ He smiled, touched his hat in salute to her and even though she was protectively scaled with caution and spined with knowledge, she still felt that somehow or other, she was on a hook and a man’s clever hand was reeling her slowly in.

  Elysabeth

  12th January 1462

  Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire

  The snow that had fallen briefly on St Stephen’s Day returned several days after Epiphany, at first falling delicately like loose feathers shaken from an upstairs coverlet. Any man with weather lore would have observed the pale marigold tinge to the heavy clouds and not ventured far, but for Elysabeth and her brother, John, setting out from Stony Stratford, there was no choice. They could not afford to stay overnight in the town, even though they had just sold the Duke of Bedford’s sword to a London merchant who traded in such mementoes. The money, not as much as they had hoped, was needed to pay for Lionel to return to Oxford (once he finished his studies, Holy Church would take care of him), to repay some of her parents’ many debts, provide John with better armour and maintain a lawyer on her Chancery case.

  Elysabeth felt laden with guilt and shame to see the sword lost but powerless to help. She had sheathed her pride and written to Lady Ferrers again before Christmastide but the answer had come from Bourchier: ‘Pay what is owing on your dowry!’ The responses to her petitions from the king’s sisters had not been so frosty, merely ‘no’ couched with formal indifference. Papa had been disappointed but gracious.

  ‘By Heaven, my darling, where else would you stay but with those who love you? And we’ve always been in debt, haven’t we, Jacq? It’s been a way of life.’

  ‘Snowballs!’ exclaimed John, crashing through Elysabeth’s thoughts as usual. His recent service as a soldier had not dulled his exuberance. ‘I’ll wager the children will be waiting to ambush us.’

  ‘As long as it’s just the children.’ Not for the first time, she looked round to see if they were being followed. Thankfully, apart from Master Burcote, two armed menservants and the two donkeys bearing John’s new breastplate and the sacks of oats in which the gold coins were hidden, no one was following in their wake. Thieves had more sense; the mantling across the fields was already deeper than rabbit-nose height and any fool could see it would thicken.

  They preferred to keep to the lanes, avoiding the churned main roads. Each of their party knew the track well but Elysabeth could not drop her guard. The initial beauty of snowfall usually thrilled her but today she saw it as a white veil concealing a pox-scarred harridan – all those hazardous ruts and holes hidden from wayfarers. The horses disliked it, too, planting their hooves carefully, and several times John and the lads dismounted when they remembered there might be a pothole ahead, preferring to test the way on foot rather than have the precious beasts risk broken limbs.

  By the time they joined the Northampton road for the last mile to Grafton, it must have been past four o’ the clock and the wick of day was burning low. Copious steaming horse dung sullying the snow suggested a large company had recently passed. All to the good, but even though the preceding hooves had compacted the loose snow into useful dints, the rising cold was freezing the ruts into slippery ice. Fresh snow crystals began to flutter down, settling with uncertainty on the hats and shoulders of the men and melting into the horses’ manes.

  Scarcely half a mile from the village, the nonchalant snowflakes became right evil as though some malicious hand had sliced a featherbed with a sword blade and emptied the entire contents over an upstairs windowsill. Even keeping the hedges in their sight without stumbling into the roadside ditch on either side the road was an effort, especially when both humans and horses had their heads bowed to avoid the blinding snow.

  ‘Listen, John!’ Elysabeth exclaimed, interrupting a further grumble from her brother. ‘I think I heard voices.’

  ‘So did Joan of Arc.’ But he understood the reflex of fear underscoring her voice. ‘Thieves don’t make such a hubbub, Elysabeth.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ agreed Burcote, shaking the garnish of snow from his hat, ‘probably some other poor fools trying to get home.’

  They passed a line of loaded, miserable-eyed sumpters halted on the road. At the front blocking anyone else’s progress was an untidy group of horsemen. The raised voices clearly concerned a chariot that had tumbled into the ditch. It lay almost upside down, its uppermost door thrust back. Grooms were struggling to unharness the frightened draw-horses, and several menservants were struggling to heave a large wooden travelling chest that must have been strapped to the chariot’s rear up the bank. A portly man was up to his boot calves down behind them bawling instructions. The Woodvilles’ sudden muffled arrival surprised the nearest gentlemen and they started apart, gloved hands hovering at their scabbards.

  ‘Good day to you, sirs!’ exclaimed John, saluting them. He dismounted and strode forwards, his hands held clear of his sword belt. ‘I see you’ve had bad fortune.’

  Elysabeth, edging her horse forwards, was better able to see that in their midst sat a woman, hunched in the snow, with her arms wrapped around one bent knee. No doubt she was the occupant of the coach because servants were holding a cloth above her as a man in a dark robe crouched beside her, examining her outstretched leg.

  ‘God be thanked, perhaps this youth can tell us where we are,’ exclaimed an authoritative female voice and one of the people beside the injured woman unfolded into a tall, elderly lady. Her skin was like the palest white leather within her pleated, widow’s coif and her upper lip betrayed the sunray lines bestowed by living long. Discerning eyes, the colour of speedwells passed over John and inspected Elysabeth who inclined her head with obligatory politeness, before the demanding stare snapped back on John.

  ‘Where would you like to be, mistress?’ he asked roguishly, lifting his hat to her.

  ‘A pox on your manners, you young varmint! Answer my lady!’ It was the large man who had been supervising from the ditch. Elysabeth heard the metal clink of a chain of authority beneath his mantle as he ranged himself at the woman’s side.

  Her impertinent young brother ignored him. ‘Then, where would you like to be, my lady?’

  ‘On the road to Towcester, lad, not this God forsaken byway. Well, where are we, for the love of God?’

  ‘About half a mile south of Grafton, my lady.’

  ‘Grafton! There,’ she snapped at her servants, ‘I told you we took the wrong road from Stony Stratford. All these years and they haven’t put up a decent fingerpost. Plaguey blizzard. Where’s the nearest religious house?’ She turned before he could answer, announcing to her entourage, ‘We’ll put up there.’

  ‘There isn’t one, my lady,’ John intervened. He included the chamberlain with the farmer’s complexion as he added, ‘You could take a track westwards at Grafton and that will bring you once more to Watling Street, but you are probably looking at eight miles to Towcester from here and with this depth of snow already, I warn you, you’ll never make the town by nightfall. You are welcome to stay the night at our house.’

  Instantly, the ancient dame looked him and up and down, assessing now what he might be worth.

  ‘That might be wise, madame.’ The advice came from the man who had been tending to the injured woman. He rose, brushing the snow from his black hose.

  ‘John!’ Elysabeth murmured, indicating that they should leave the strangers to discuss the matter. He had the wit to pay heed and drew rein where she halted her mare at sufficient distance to give him a dressing down.

  ‘Mother will skin you, John! And Father won’t return from Northampton tonight with this snow. How could you make such an offer? There must be at least twenty of them.’

  ‘Exactly, but the old drago
n is someone import—’

  ‘Young man! We’ll accept your offer.’ The old dragon came in person, standing at the apex of her entourage rather like a besieged Frankish princess agreeing to surrender her citadel to the Saracens. Yet Elysabeth detected a relief in the announcement; the accident must have badly shaken those old bones.

  John plunged back through the snow. ‘Mind, my lady, there could be reasons you might not want to stay the night with us.’ His cheekiest smile accompanied his bow.

  ‘Why, are there more fleas in Northamptonshire or don’t you wash your sheets at Grafm—’

  ‘Grafton, madame, and I think we might manage clean bedding. Some of your party might like to put up at the village inn or else sleep by the hearth in our hall.’

  ‘I will sleep by the hearth in your hall if need be.’ She drew breath, no doubt to give orders, but the large man who made himself known as old woman’s chamberlain wanted his two penneth. His mistress would not be allowed to suffer any indignity.

  ‘Are you aware, boy, that this is the Lady Catherine Neville, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk?’ His tone implied that a modest Northamptonshire dwelling might be utterly inadequate for a Neville, let alone a duchess.

  ‘No.’ John gave not the slightest indication of awe although his bow and smile respectfully deepened. ‘Madame, your humble servant.’

  ‘I don’t think humble applies,’ murmured her grace with an ambiguity that was hard to interpret. ‘And your name, sirrah?’

  He had one eye on the irritable chamberlain as he bowed yet again. ‘John Woodville, son of the Lady Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Duchess of Bedford.’ Like her brother, Elysabeth relished the inbreath of astonishment from the dowager’s servants although the lady seemed unruffled.

  ‘Permit me to introduce my eldest sister, Lady Grey of Groby.’

  Elysabeth had already dismounted, ready to curtsey. ‘I wholeheartedly endorse my brother’s offer, madame.’ Even if they never heard the last of it from Mother.

  ‘Yes, well, Jacquetta, eh.’ The duchess tasted their mother’s name as though it was some exotic food once tried and found unappealing. ‘Hmmpf!’ With a little shrug and a mutter beneath her breath, she turned for further discussion with her officers. Elysabeth, remounting with the help of Burcote, wondered if her high and mightiness had changed her mind but she was wrong.

  ‘Could you lead me there straightway and could your man remain here to escort the remainder of my people?’

  ‘Our pleasure.’ Another bow. Smirking, John returned to wait by Elysabeth’s stirrup while their prospective guest gave further orders. Elysabeth raised her gloved hand to mask the scolding she had ready.

  ‘Heaven’s mercy upon us, you idiot! You realise we could be snowbound with her come morning?’

  He grinned. ‘Elysabeth, I told you before, we need new friends. This ancient duck is not only the king’s aunt but Warwick’s as well.’

  ‘John, I remember her now. She used to terrify the maids-ofhonour. Her second husband was one of the Greys of Codner.’

  ‘So she’s a distant in-law of yours. Be sweet to her.’

  ‘But the woman is a veritable battle-axe!’

  ‘Then,’ chuckled her younger brother, ‘there’ll be two of them at the board tonight.’

  The torches to guide them in were spitting above the gatehouse in the last gasp of light. Elysabeth expected a berating from their mother for causing the maternal heart such severe anxiety and she was not disappointed. But Jacquetta had drawn breath now, blinking in astonishment at the half dozen strangers who were dismounting in her courtyard and clearly expecting to come in.

  ‘Mon Dieu? Who are zeese?’ she hissed at Elysabeth, and setting her to one side, exclaimed in her best English, ‘But why did you not send ahead to warn me, my dears?’ The sweet tone was deceptive.

  ‘Good evening to you, Jacquetta,’ said their noble visitor with a discernible hint of cattishness. ‘I am afraid I am your guest for the night.’

  ‘Mother, permit me to present Lady Catherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.’

  ‘I know who she is,’ Jacquetta snapped at her son. Then, rearranging her features in a smile that resembled John’s at his most manipulative, she added, ‘Well, you ’ad better come in, Lady Catherine. Where on earth did my children find you?’

  ‘In a ditch, Jacquetta. I expect you wish they’d left me there.’

  *

  Seeing the two older noblewomen standing together in the solar was like comparing an English broomstick to a Burgundian shovel. Changing before supper, Jacquetta had chosen to brandish her comparative youthfulness by wearing a jewelled collar that required a low bodice and creamy, unblemished cleavage to lend perspective. Her English counterpart wore a pectoral cross of amethysts that cleverly drew attention to itself rather than to the drooped bosom of its owner.

  Her grace of Norfolk had abandoned the widow’s garb for the evening. Upon her temple, Elysabeth could see a bruise that would yellow by the morrow, but a splendid cone cap covered in red brocade shot with gold thread covered her hair. Pleats of scarlet silk scarfed the old lady’s shoulders and throat and tucked in beneath a collar of gris, safeguarding her against the cold, and the fent of brocade beneath the dangling cross matched her headdress. The rest of the ducal person was swathed in an exuberant blood-red velvet.

  ‘This is priceless, Elysabeth,’ chuckled John, like an exuberant puppy pushing past her to peer in at the doorway. If he had possessed a tail, he’d have wagged it. ‘I’ve never led two duchesses in to supper before.’

  ‘It’s not a dance, John. You only need escort our guest,’ sighed Elysabeth. She had just come from tweaking the table linen into perfection. She was weary and famished. The delay while the kitchen servants struggled to create a supper worthy of Lady Catherine had nettled her temper and appetite even further.

  ‘Tally-ho, then. My money’s on this Norfolk bird. What say you? There’ll be enough feathers flying to stuff a cushion by bedtime.’

  ‘Behave!’ She shoved him in. Her mind was obsessed as to whether the capons would be sufficiently roasted by the time they had finished the onion tartlets, but she managed a sensible exchange with Lady Catherine’s steward and then an even more sensible one with the man in the black gown, who introduced himself as my lady’s physician. She learned that the injured woman, Lady Catherine’s bodyservant, had suffered shock to the nerves rather than injuries to her person and was now seeing to her mistress’s clothing chests. Nothing and no one had been left at the roadside.

  One of the knights in the retinue joined her, touching his wine cup to hers. ‘Your health, madame, and thank you for rescuing us.’

  She nodded graciously, estimating that in a few heartbeats he would be ladling flattery. The look in his eyes was warmer than the mulled wine between her fingers. He was an attractive fellow though proved to be nobody she had ever heard of.

  ‘Did you lose your husband recently, Lady Grey?’ His spatula fingers rose and uncurled, indicating her sober robe of green-black.

  ‘At St Albans in battle a year ago, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, madame. It must pain you to travel through there whenever you ride to London.’

  She nodded. ‘Indeed, it does, sir. Thankfully, I have little cause to journey south these days.’

  ‘But surely a lady as beautiful as you would be welcome at the court?’

  She could not be bothered to inform him she had attended other courts, Chancery, for instance, and she had not been welcome there either. A shake of her head did not deter the gentleman.

  ‘I was at Westminster a few days since and believe me, madame, I saw no lady who could light a candle to your beauty. What’s more, my lady, I find it impossible to believe that you are here like…like a violet hiding in the undergrowth. You, the daughter of a lady, whose husband once ruled France.’

  ‘You flatter me, sir. Unfortunately, our family took the old king’s part in the civil strife so you see we are definitely not welcome at
Westminster. If truth be told, I doubt her grace of Norfolk is happy to spend a night beneath our roof. No doubt she will be amused to tell others of our reduced estate.’

  ‘My lady is no gossip, I assure you. These are difficult times but the new king is determined to reconcile York and Lancaster so, if you will forgive my counsel, Lady Grey, stay proud of who you are.’

  She smiled. ‘Pride, sir, is about all I have left.’

  Well, that put a stifler upon the conversation. A sure test of seeing whether his interest had been merely a feeler to her wealth.

  ‘Dinner awaits us, sir.’ It was a relief to see her mother’s steward signalling that all was in readiness.

  ‘Excellent,’ murmured the knight, bowing for her to precede him through to the high table. ‘I find myself a very hungry man tonight.’

  In their father’s absence, Elysabeth was both amused and perturbed that it fell to seventeen-year-old John to play the host. Like a King of Misrule, he escorted their ancient visitor to the high board and seated her in his father’s chair with such uncharacteristic solemnity that his younger siblings began to giggle. Behind Lady Catherine’s gaunt shoulder, Jacquetta sent her brood a glare calculated to reduce them to bread and water for a week.

  Tom was more subtle than his younger uncles and aunts but several times during the repast, Elysabeth noticed him aping their noble guest’s way of craning her neck when she was listening and several times she observed him whispering behind his hand, making the others laugh unkindly.

  The knight, who had escorted her from the solar and was seated next to her, observed her concern. ‘Perhaps you should consider seeking her grace’s patronage for your sons, Lady Grey, or if you’d prefer, I could mention the matter for you,’ he offered smoothly.

  His breath played upon her ear; beneath the cloth, his hand ventured onto her left knee.

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I honestly would trust neither my oldest son’s manners nor my younger son’s wits at present,’ she replied, lifting his fingers aside.