As giddy as if I’d drunk too much fine wine, I grabbed the hand she offered, and hurried out to a secluded, shadowy corner of the court, now quieted from the day’s bustle of noise and out of range of the light thrown by a flaring torch in a wall bracket. Ursula gave me a full report of the day’s doings as the men at the watchtower exchanged ribald jests with each other, their laughter drowning out her words to all ears but mine.
“By God’s will, when the mayor and the city fathers learned of Somerset’s challenge, they were ready for him, and hundreds of armed citizens were in the village to drive him off when he arrived with his men,” she said breathlessly in a hushed tone. “But Somerset was so angry at being thwarted that he killed three of their sentries. The irate citizenry wanted blood, and had the Duke of Buckingham not arrived in time to save Somerset from their fury, the mob would have killed him—”
“The Duke of Buckingham?” I repeated, stunned.
“Aye, he was returning from Leicester when he came upon the fracas.”
“How do you know this is true?”
“It’s true—I got it from a groom in the mayor’s stable, who came back from town where he was visiting a maid in the household of a Coventry goldsmith. The goldsmith happens to be a good friend of the mayor’s and was present at the melee.”
I closed my eyes in relief. John was safe. In my mind, I saw the eyes of the rabble, armed with pikes, yelling curses, and ordering Somerset out of their city. I had seen the same fury and heard the same oaths in London.
That night I slept better than I had in weeks. The next day brought a missive from my uncle; I gave the boy messenger a coin and, with my mind spinning, broke the seal, unfurled the letter, and read:
My beloved niece Isobel,
Your letter has arrived safely, and I have given much thought to your request to intercede with the queen on your behalf. Sir John Neville, to whom you have given your affections, is by all accounts a man of impeccable character. As you know, I myself met him on many occasions years ago, when he was but a youth. I find no fault in him. However, I would be deficient in my duty to you and to your dead mother if I failed to point out the reasons why such a match is not in your interest. As it happens, I am due to come to court before my departure for Rome. We shall meet then and discuss this all-important matter in person.
God have you in his keeping.
Given this day, the first of December, 1456, at Dublin Castle.
Your loving uncle,
John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester; Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; Royal Ambassador of His Grace King Henry VI of England to the Papal Court of His Highness Pope Callistus III in Rome
My hands trembled as I folded the missive and slipped it into my bosom. Seized with an urgency for prayer, I made my way into the chapel, seeking God’s help in forming the words that would move my uncle.
He arrived a week later and lost no time sending for me. Soon after I had broken my fast, a page arrived with his summons. I followed the boy as he wove along the passageways, past retainers, messengers, servants, clerics, and all manner of folk both noble and plain, down several flights of worn stone steps, and across the inner bailey and up to my uncle’s quarters in the east tower. My uncle’s servants were carrying in his coffers and setting up his belongings around the spacious chamber. Not one to waste time, he stood dictating letters to two scribes at once, while interrupting himself to instruct the servants where to place various valuables. He looked up when I was announced by the yeoman at the door. His stern features softened, a wide smile lit his face, and he opened his arms. I flew into them.
“Uncle, dear Uncle, what joy to see you!” I grabbed him tightly around the chest, my eyes moist with happy tears as I gazed up at him.
My mother’s brother was my only immediate family still alive, and he had owned a piece of my heart since childhood. He’d read to me on his knee, and played blindman’s bluff with me, and had shown even greater patience with me than my nurse had. I loved my uncle Tiptoft with an all-abiding affection that neither time nor distance could erase. But I felt a pang of sadness to find him changed, for he had reached the seasoned age of thirty. The years must leave their mark, I thought, gazing up at his temples, brushed with silver now; at his cheeks, slack around the jaw; and at the frown lines between the eyebrows, which accented his only unattractive feature: his eyes, which, though a pleasant shade of blue, protruded sharply. Despite this, he was still a handsome man by any measure. Age had not bent him, and he held himself stiffly erect.
He dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand, and the door closed with a dull thud. “Dear child, here, take a seat—” He indicated one of the chairs a scribe had just vacated, and sat down at the desk, across from me. “You’re looking very well,” he said, scrutinizing me. “Very well indeed. Your mother would be proud that you have blossomed into such a beautiful young woman.”
I dropped my gaze. I had been just six years old when the sickness had taken my beautiful mother, Joan Tiptoft, and I would carry her loss with me to the end of my days.
“Aye, she would be proud—as I am, dear child—” He contemplated me for another moment, and then he slapped his knees. “Now, what’s this about Salisbury’s son?”
My mouth twitched with the need to smile. My uncle was not a man to waste time in getting to the heart of the matter. I explained our situation, sparing no details. He listened intently. “I love him, Uncle,” I concluded.
“That is reckless of you, my dear…most unwise. The Nevilles have sided with the Duke of York, and York’s situation is precarious, in view of the queen’s enmity. There is talk that he may be dispatched to the Tower now that King Henry has recovered. The queen hungers for his head.”
“Living at court these past three months has made that very clear to me, but it changes nothing. I love Sir John Neville. We wish to wed. I cannot bear the thought of life without him.” I reached for my uncle’s hand. “When you lost your second wife, Elizabeth Greyndour, you were inconsolable. You swore never to wed again. You have kept your vow. You know what love is, dear Uncle. Save me from a lifetime without love.”
He remained thoughtfully silent for a long while. Then he gave a sigh. “Very well, I shall do my best.” Joy bubbled in my breast, but was dispersed by his next words. “But do not hope too much.”
As I waited in the great hall later that afternoon, reading Horace, my eyes kept stealing to the windows of the state chamber where my uncle had been received by the queen to discuss matters in Ireland—and my destiny. By supper I still did not know what had passed between them, for my uncle had gone from that meeting directly to another with the archbishop of Canterbury. Although the queen invited me to sup at the royal dais with the distinguished company, my uncle’s expression told me nothing, and her thoughtful gaze, which rested on me several times during the meal, added to my onerous burden of anxiety. After dinner, she issued a general invitation to the nobles and her ladies to join her for amusement in her solar. Church bells had pealed for Compline by the time I had a chance to learn from my uncle what had transpired between them.
In his apartment, he bade me to sit, while he stood, arms crossed, rubbing his chin as he gazed at me. “It appears you have had some impact on royal matters in the short time you’ve been here, Isobel. Thanks to you, the Duke of Somerset has offended the queen—so deeply that she has ordered him to Wales and has written James II of Scotland suggesting a match between Somerset and the king’s sister Joan—”
An audible gasp escaped my lips.
“In response to my plea on your behalf—delivered so eloquently, I might add, that I nearly brought myself to tears!—she has agreed to give her consent to marriage between you and Sir John Neville.”
I could barely breathe. I half rose to my feet in shock and sank back into my seat when my legs proved too feeble to sustain me.
“However, before you rejoice, let me advise you that she holds you in exceedingly high esteem. Since you are the sole heir to all my estates and
titles, the price she demands for a match between you and Salisbury’s son is exorbitant and out of all proportion to the income generated by your lands.”
I clutched the armrest of my chair. “How much?”
“Two thousand pounds. You must agree, ’tis a queen’s ransom. There’s no way Salisbury can pay it.”
I felt the room spin around me. I placed a hand to my temple to steady my dizzy head.
“In her own words,” my uncle said, “she is determined to make some money from this.”
I SAW SOMERSET ONE MORE TIME BEFORE HE LEFT Westminster. It was the night after my uncle’s departure for Rome. I was returning from the privy when he waylaid me in the main passageway.
“So you would spurn me, would you—” He grabbed my arm. His breath stank of stale wine, and even in the gloom, I saw that his pupils were dilated with desire. “No one spurns me—”
I screamed for help and tried to shake myself loose. From deep in the darkness, a guard appeared. “Halt!” the man cried, drawing his sword.
Without relaxing his hold of my arm, Somerset turned and looked the man full in the face. The guard lowered the point of his sword and backed away, apologies dripping from his lips. I realized no help would come from this quarter, and I would have to save myself. Withdrawing my dagger from my sleeve, I slashed Somerset’s hand while his attention was focused on the guard. He released my arm with an oath. As he staunched the flow of blood, I tore along the passageway back to my room, nearly tripping in my panic. Slamming the bolt into place, I fell quivering in Ursula’s arms. The next day I kept to my chamber until Ursula came to tell me he was gone.
With Somerset’s departure, calm descended over the castle. I spent much time in the chapel, beseeching the Virgin for help, even whispering the prayer of intercession silently during the hours I spent on my needlework as those around me gossiped and made merry. The great tapestry designed by the king for Westminster Palace was almost completed; soon it would hang in the great hall, where it would bring suitable reminder of the meaning of Yuletide to those who cared to ponder. Thou Shalt Love Thy Enemies was stitched below a scene of Jesus carrying the Cross to Calvary. Aye, forgiveness was a noble sentiment, and one sorely needed at court. Each time I gazed on the tapestry, the angry faces of Somerset, Clifford, Egremont, and others who had lost fathers and brothers at the Battle of St. Albans took form in my mind and replaced those in the mob of enemies that surrounded Christ.
I understood the king’s intent. Gentle Henry had chosen aptly, wisely, and purposefully. But would they heed?
Though I had reason to celebrate the queen’s assent to my match, I was thus seized with wanhope and yearning for John. The laughter and joyfulness of Yuletide assumed a strange hollowness around me, and I felt more alone and empty than ever in the midst of the merriment of the season.
Eight
JANUARY 1457
JANUARY BLEW IN ON A LIGHT DRIFT OF SNOW, and the throng of guests that had descended on Coventry Castle for Yuletide returned to their far-flung estates. I resumed my tasks of schooling the children, running royal errands for the queen, and attending the labors of the loom while awaiting missives from John. But no happy developments came to bring me joy. The queen, believing that the Earl of Salisbury could not—or would not—pay the mighty sum for my hand, actively entertained offers from other prospective suitors, thrusting me into a permanent state of terror that she would choose a match and pressure me to accept. So restless was the unease that dogged me in these early days of 1457 that I suffered from frequent headaches and slept with difficulty, even with the aid of warm possets.
On a bitter-cold morning, I returned to my room to find Ursula weeping, a letter in her hand. “What’s the matter, dearest?” I asked, taking a seat beside her on the gray comforter and stroking her red hair.
Ursula turned swollen eyes on me. “My father’s been taken to prison!”
My indrawn breath expressed the dismay I felt. “On what charge?”
“A false charge—the rape of a nun!”
I stared at her, stunned, shaken, at a loss for words.
“He didn’t do it! He couldn’t,” Ursula cried. “It’s all because of Elizabeth Woodville, I know it!” She broke into a fit of sobbing.
I gathered her close to me as my thoughts filtered back to her confrontation with Elizabeth in the tapestry room the previous week. The Woodville had been taunting a young, overplump servant for days until the girl finally dissolved into tears before us. Ursula had dared comfort her in Elizabeth Woodville’s watchful presence, and at some point the word “Witch!” although given in a whisper, had sounded in the room. It was true that Elizabeth’s mother, Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, was thought to indulge in witchcraft as a means of securing the remarkable good fortune that seemed to pursue her family, but none ever gave voice to the accusation, except behind the Woodville’s back. To my relief, Elizabeth contented herself with a scowl in Ursula’s direction and let the remark pass.
“Surely Elizabeth isn’t that vindictive,” I reflected. “Does your father have an enemy?”
“No—it’s her doing, I tell you, Isobel! She’s a bad one, rotten to the core! She has the ear of the queen, thanks to the French blood they share, and has shown her power many times with others who stood up to her—have you forgotten?”
Evil did seem to befall those who challenged Elizabeth Woodville. One girl’s father lost his position as sheriff; another had her family home ransacked when her father left for London; and the lawyer father of another lost every case he argued in the London courts thereafter and was driven into poverty. Ursula attributed these misfortunes to Elizabeth Woodville, but I considered them merely unfortunate coincidences.
“What am I to do?” Ursula sobbed. “My poor father!”
“Ursula, I’ll write John and ask for his help,” I said, drying her tears with a handkerchief. “We’ll get him out. Your father is a Warwickshire knight, and the Earl of Warwick will surely take an interest in his cause. The Nevilles are not without influence, even against the queen.”
Despite my brave assurances, doubts assailed me as I composed my letter to John. The ignorant cruelties and violent prejudices of life weighed heavily on my spirits, and after many loving words to John, I paused my quill and gave vent to a few tears before continuing. Forcing a lighter note into my tone, I told him of my uncle of Worcester’s visit and all that had transpired with the queen. Then I informed him of Sir Thomas Malory’s predicament and begged his assistance in helping to free Ursula’s father from confinement.
Only days later, a messenger bearing John’s emblem of the griffin delivered John’s reply.
Beloved Isobel,
Your gracious uncle of Worcester sent my father a full report of his treating with the queen on our behalf before he left for Italy, and therefore we are well aware of the sum she has set for our marriage. That does not mean our situation is without hope, Isobel. What is important is that she has agreed to the match. Agreed, Isobel—agreed! My father shall come to Westminster and speak with the queen as soon as we have done with troubles here in Yorkshire unleashed by Egremont and his ruffians, who have broken into the homes of our tenants, smashing windows, stealing property, and killing livestock. On the Scots border, King James II has raided and burned many English farms and homesteads, and we must quieten the region as best we can ere we depart Northumberland. I will send you word as soon as I know more. In the meanwhile, tell Mistress Malory that I have informed my brother Warwick of her father’s predicament and have received his assurance that he will do all he can to obtain Sir Thomas Malory’s release as soon as possible.
Be hopeful of a good outcome, my love, and send us your prayers on all counts. With God’s help, we shall right these wrongs, reach an agreement with the queen, and see ourselves wed, Isobel, my angel.
God have you in His keeping.
Written in haste on Twelfth Night at Raby Castle by candlelight.
Yours always,
John Nevil
le
I brought the letter to my lips and imparted a kiss to his signature, which was given in a clear hand as devoid of flourish and ceremony as he himself. Nothing seemed impossible to John, I thought, folding his missive and slipping it into my bodice. His letter lightened my mood until the next morning, when Elizabeth Woodville appeared at my side on the way to break fast in the great hall. Ursula stiffened. I gave her hand a squeeze. Whatever Elizabeth wanted, Ursula had to hide her true feelings about “this venomous girl,” as she called her. For myself, I still doubted that Elizabeth was responsible for Malory’s imprisonment. Every stone has its flaw, but spiteful though Elizabeth was, I refused to believe she could stoop to such malice for no great reason.
“I have news,” Elizabeth announced, her nose in the air
“Good news, I pray, Elizabeth?” I said pleasantly.
“Splendid…I am to wed Sir John Grey, the heir of Lord Ferrers of Groby.”
I was stunned speechless for a moment. She had aimed high, and she had scored. Such things rarely happened in a world where birth determined how high one rose, and for the most part, one born a yeoman died a yeoman. Yet Elizabeth’s father, a mere knight with no lands or standing, had wed royalty, and now she herself would wed a lord. It was against all odds.
Elizabeth’s father, Sir Richard Woodville, had met Elizabeth’s mother, the newly wed—and newly widowed—fifteen-year-old Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, in France. He’d escorted her to England after her husband’s death, and the two young people had fallen in love on the journey. But Jacquetta, being of royal lineage and the daughter of Pierre I of Luxemburg, Count of St. Pol, required a royal license to marry. Aware this would be denied them, the young lovers had wed in secret and birthed three children before they were ever discovered. While Jacquetta’s royal relatives were disgusted at her marriage, Henry’s new French queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, enchanted by the love match, prevailed on her husband to grant them a royal pardon and then took Elizabeth into her favor.
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