I found my voice at last. “I am happy for you, Elizabeth,” I said truthfully. Her marriage meant she would leave soon, depriving court of her contentious presence. My mind touched on Somerset, who had been absent for over a month now. His absence had greatly enhanced court life as well. Nevertheless, I ached with a strange inner pain at Elizabeth’s disclosure. Heaven had seen fit to grant her prayers for power and wealth, while mine, for love, remained denied. “’Tis always a great blessing to receive our heart’s desire and God’s favor,” I continued in a sinking tone.
She smiled her catlike smile, and I realized she had caught the strain in my voice. Holding her head high, she swept past me to find a seat as close to the dais as she could wile an usher to give her.
FROM COVENTRY, COURT RETURNED TO LONDON . Though I lit many candles for Ursula’s father, nothing was achieved with regard to Sir Thomas Malory’s release, and he remained in confinement.
“These things take time,” I sighed, reading to Ursula from John’s letter.
She nodded miserably. “But the waiting, ’tis so hard.”
I took her hand into my own. “I know, Ursula.”
Then came a letter to delight my heart, even if it still reported no movement on the case of Sir Thomas Malory. John was coming to London!
With Ursula at my side, I left Westminster Palace early on the eleventh day of January, the day before the Feast of St. Benedict, and with light steps walked to the Fleet, where I would meet John. With our last encounter in the castle garden at Coventry still fresh in our minds, John had decided we should meet in a saddler’s shop, where we might enjoy a measure of privacy.
The Strand lay quiet, even along Savoy Palace and St. Clement’s Danes, and we did not encounter many passersby, despite the fair weather, but once we left behind its elegant cobbled streets and turned into the Fleet, London grew noisy with the bustle of commerce. Everywhere, blacksmiths clanged their metal, street vendors hawked their wares, and donkeys brayed complaints as they plodded along, nodding beneath their weighty burdens.
The wintry day was bright with sunshine, but cold. We walked briskly in the wind, clasping our woolen cloaks tightly around us, taking care to avoid the potholes, mud puddles, and refuse piles that lined the roads. Peddlers called their wares to us. I passed up “hot sheep’s feet!” and stopped to buy a trinket from a thin, pale old woman who looked as if she would drop from illness. With her blessings following us, we turned into Shoe Lane, where the saddler’s shop was located. The narrow street, gloomy beneath the wooden upper stories projecting far over the lower ones of mud and plaster, was filled with litters bearing rich prelates and high-born ladies, and with horsemen in gorgeous apparel. Consulting John’s directions as we walked along, we finally spotted the gilded black-horse sign of Ye Olde Saddler swinging in the wind between a boot maker and an inn. With a flutter of the heart I stepped through the open door. The heavy smell of new leather struck me forcibly as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.
John stood in profile, in a corner by a row of leather goods, admiring a saddle finely stitched with gold thread and studded with a ruby. As he turned, such a smile lit his face that it seemed bright sunlight had burst into the gloomy shop. The old saddler, hammering at the table, left his stool to close the oak door behind us and drop the bolt, and with another bow disappeared into a narrow passageway at the back of the shop. Ursula followed him, her receding footsteps ending in the loud thud of a shut door. In a lightning-fast motion, I was in John’s arms. He kissed me fiercely, sending flaming heat rushing through my blood. Weak-kneed, my head reeling, I leaned back in his arms and glanced to where the old man had disappeared. “Are we safe here?” I breathed.
John laughed. “As safe as we’ll ever be. Somerset’s in Wales, Egremont and Clifford are fomenting trouble in Yorkshire, and the shop owner’s a Yorkist, like most here in London. My family’s done business with him for years, and I’ve bribed him generously. He’ll not return lest we give the word, my angel.” He dragged me back hard against him and recaptured my mouth with savage intensity. I felt the shocking, surging contact between us and returned his kiss with reckless abandon. At last, my heart hammering beneath my ribs, I parted for breath.
“That’s the second time you’ve called me your angel,” I said, locked in his embrace and giving a small laugh as I recovered my composure. “Haven’t you noticed my hair is as dark as chestnuts? Angels have golden hair, my love.”
“You pose two very important points, Isobel,” he said gravely, gazing down at me with his twilight blue eyes. “First, in my own defense, let me say there is nothing I haven’t noticed about you, including your chestnut hair…. Second, my angels have chestnut hair.”
“Oh, John, my love,” I whispered, laying my head against his shoulder, “’tis heaven in your arms.” Heaven, and Earth; sun, and stars; summer, and spring; all things beautiful are mine in this place where joy dwells.
He held me close for a long moment, his cheek against my hair; then he relaxed his hold, took my hands, and looked gravely into my eyes. “Isobel, my father is meeting with the queen as we speak to discuss the negotiations for your hand. I shall send you word as soon as we have news.”
Despite the doubts and fears that were never far away, a hot, wild joy swept me. “I shall pray for us, my beloved,” I said.
THE NEXT DAY, AS THE BELLS OF WESTMINSTER’S clock tower chimed the hour of noon, a page delivered a missive to my room, where I paced nervously to and fro. I took it with a trembling hand. It came not from John but from his father, Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, inviting me to the Erber, his residence in Dowgate. The earl’s barge would be waiting to take me there at the hour of three. Had the negotiations reached a final resolution so soon? If so, was I being summoned to be informed of exceedingly good news? Or exceedingly bad? And why had John not written himself?
I glanced down at my gown, crumpled from the morning’s wear, and picked up the small mirror from the bedside table to examine my face. I heaved a long indrawn breath and laid the mirror down again. Anxiety and sleeplessness had staked their claim; I looked dreadful. It seemed to me that I had waited all my life for this day, and now that it had come, I was unprepared to meet it.
I left in search of Ursula. She was not gossiping with the laundresses or the groomsmen to pick up news, but as I returned from the stables and emerged from the tower stairs into the arched passageway to the great hall, I spotted her bright red head leaving a near chamber where a gold merchant displayed his wares to a group of ladies. I caught up to her side and assumed a casual tone for the benefit of those within earshot. “Ursula, I have lost my silver brooch.”
One look at my face told her that something had happened, and she played along. “Welladay, my lady Isobel, fret not, for I do believe I last saw it pinned to your green gown.”
As soon as we were back in our chamber, I turned frantic and seized her hands. “Ursula, I’ve been summoned by the Earl of Salisbury to his London residence! What should I wear? Oh, my hair is terrible! I should have washed it on Saturday last, when we had sun for part of the day. Help me with my face, and hurry, I pray you—”
Ursula poured me a cup of wine from a flask standing in a corner of the room. “Here, to calm your nerves and bring the color back. White as bleached linen, you are. As to your attire, such an important occasion demands your lavish lavender sarcenet with the silver tissue that you wore when you first met Sir John—” She went over to the corner, and, drawing the gown out from behind the others, set it in front on the peg. Bustling about the chamber, she checked coffers and corners for necessary toiletries, speaking her thoughts aloud as she went. “Where is the pearl and crystal necklace? I was certain I set it in the jewel casket, but maybe I laid it with the hair ornaments—” Gathering a box here, a potion there, a brooch, a clasp, ribbons, and towels, she dumped her load on the bed and resumed her search for misplaced items until she had everything safe in a heap. “That vial of paste is so small, I can’t see it even when it�
��s clear in front of my eyes—ah, here it is—” She rummaged through the items and gave me a smile. “Fear not, dear Isobel. When I’m finished with you, no one will ever forget how you looked this day.”
The wine had a soporific effect on me, and my hands no longer trembled. Ursula left to fetch a pitcher of water, which she set on the bed table upon her return. Stripping me naked while I stood shivering, she went to work scouring my face, neck, and arms with a hot sponge steeped in herbs. She toweled me dry, rubbed rose oil into my skin, and threw a blanket over my shoulders. As I perched on a stool, she turned her attention to my face. She darkened my eyebrows and highlighted my eyes with charcoal, opened a small vial of pomegranate paste, and stained my cheeks and lips with the pink color. She unbraided my hair and brushed it vigorously with a boar brush till it fell in a gleaming stream to my waist, smooth as silk.
Now I was ready to dress. I donned my shift and stepped into my gown with great care. She hooked up the crystal buttons of the tightly fitted bodice and sleeves, adjusted the fur-trimmed plunging neckline to flatter the curve of my shoulders, and fastened my necklaces around my neck. “And your mother’s lovely diamond brooch shall go here—” She pinned it high on my shoulder, on one side of the miniver collar. After fussing with the folds and voluminous train of my gown, she placed a gilt circlet with a dropped pearl over my brow and wove crystals into my flowing hair before attaching a gauzy veil.
She stepped back to assess her handiwork. “You sparkle like a faerie queen, but ’tis a black swan you are, with your long neck and shining dark eyes and hair. Here, see for yourself—” She drew back and held up the mirror for me.
A broad smile lit my face as I gazed at my reflection. Tenderly, I regarded the one who had wrought my magical transformation. “Thank you, dear Ursula.” I hugged her tight.
Ursula disengaged herself when I didn’t let go. “What’s this?” she demanded as I hung my head. “Do I see a tear? You’ll ruin my work!” she scolded. “What’s the matter, dearie?”
“I’m so afraid, Ursula,” I whispered. “What if—” I broke off, swallowing hard. What if this day proves not my beginning, but my undoing? In the silence that fell, I glimpsed a world of mist and grayness, where endless days followed one another in futile succession in a marriage devoid of love. Then I would drone on as thousands of others have done since the world began; I would be as they are and have been before me—a shadow living without light, color, or sound, until death stopped the heart with dust.
Ursula’s voice brought me back to the present abruptly. “Then—” she said, seizing my shoulders and giving the word emphasis as if she read my thoughts, “you shall do as your father urged you…. What did you tell me he used to say?”
“The Wheel of Fortune turns, and if it brings us sorrow rather than joy, we must meet our fate with dignity and grace. For the Hand of God is in all things,” I recited, seeing him smile at me in my mind’s eye. I blinked to banish the image and took up a brighter thought. “But…but first I shall do as someone very wise once advised me….” I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply before releasing my breath and meeting her gaze. “‘Chin up, bosom up—and all will be well,’” I said, forcing a smile on my face.
AT THE BARGE HOUSE, THE EARL OF SALISBURY’S elegant golden craft, festooned in ribbons and hung with tapestries, sat aglitter in the shining waters, but my breath stopped in my chest and I froze in my steps. John was not there. He had neither written nor come.
Fighting for composure, I let Ursula’s hand slip and fingered my mother’s ruby crucifix, which hung among the pearls at my throat. Then, lifting my chin, I forced myself forward with stiff dignity. A stout figure with a grizzled ginger moustache, wearing a tunic embroidered with the Neville saltire, headed toward me respectfully as I passed through the archway and emerged on the wharf.
“Sir John Conyers, at your command, m’lady,” he said with a bow.
I had heard the name before. Sir Conyers was not only a seasoned warrior of the French wars who served in the earl’s retinue, but a good friend of the Nevilles and related to them by marriage.
Ursula gave me a farewell hug. “Courage,” she whispered in my ear. I gave her a squeeze in response. Gathering up my skirts, I accepted Sir Conyers’s hand and stepped onto the barge.
“The Earl of Salisbury bids me inform you that Sir John Neville is at this moment returning from Bisham, or he would have come to escort you to the Erber personally.”
I was momentarily speechless in my surprise. God’s Blood, but such a simple explanation for John’s absence had never occurred to me! “Thank you, Sir Conyers,” I said, a new warmth surging through me as I took a seat on a scarlet cushion beneath the tapestried canopy.
The bargemen set their oars to water, and Ursula’s figure receded into the distance as we streamed away. My mind filled again with a confusion of hope and fear, and my heart took up an erratic beat of anticipation. Surely this is how many a knight feels as battle is joined and he knows not if he will see the morrow, I thought.
Plain wood boats, gilded barges, and brightly painted craft crowded the blue Thames in the fine weather. Sir Conyers waved to one that passed us going in the opposite direction. “Sir Marmaduke Constable, another Neville retainer, and a good friend of mine,” he explained.
I nodded and turned my face to the sun. Clouds flew by overhead, and the wind beat softly around me. We passed stately residences, bathhouses, taverns, and so many churches that their spires seemed to pierce the skies over London like a hail of arrows. The river bustled as densely with commerce as did the streets, but instead of the rumbling of carts and the smell of dung, there came the fresh, almost fragrant smell of water, the mewing of river birds, and the hurried flutter of swans’ wings as they fled our path. Snatches of song reached my ears from seamen on passing ships bound for Calais with cargoes of wool, their sails billowing in the wind. From one of these, a captain standing on his deck removed his cap and threw me a courtly bow, lightening my heart.
A flash of silver caught my eye as Sir Conyers cast a coin to a passing boatman. The startled man dropped his oars and grabbed it. “Get repairs to your craft!” Sir Conyers yelled as we rowed past. The man stood up and waved wildly. “Thank ye, me good lord! Thank ye! May God reward—” His voice faded away into the distance as he cried out blessings.
Sir Conyers threw me an apologetic smile. “His small wood vessel is sorely distressed. I fear he won’t reach shore the next time he takes it out.”
I hoped my smile would convey my approval, for I was deeply touched by his noble gesture. I had seen many such craft and never given thought to the gap-toothed watermen who manned the oars. Turning my attention back to our journey, I saw that we were approaching London Bridge at a rapid pace. Crowded with shabby dwellings, vendor stalls, customers, tradesmen, and passersby going to and fro across, it teemed with bustle. As we drew into the shadow of its arches, I was assailed by the vile stench of traitor heads standing in a row along the bridge, impaled on iron pikes. I shrank back and covered my nose with a handkerchief. However, Sir John Conyers, undeterred, gazed up at the appalling sight of grotesque rotting faces, where ravens perched and pecked, as if scanning for someone he knew. A cold shiver ran down my back. There were always heads on the bridge, but until this moment I had given them scant heed. Now the thought froze in my brain that these were real persons—men who had left behind people who loved them. Drawing my mantle close around me, I lifted my eyes to their grisly remains and, making the sign of the cross, whispered a silent prayer for their souls as we passed beneath the bridge.
Sir John Conyers looked at me then. “You’re cold. Here, m’lady, allow me to give you my cloak—’tis finest English wool and, though it is not furred, I vouch it will keep you warm. We are almost there—aye, there it is…the Erber…. You can see it now,” Sir Conyers said. “The London abode of the Earls of Salisbury since the time of Edward III.”
I peered into the distance. A fair and stately residence of white st
one stood on a wide and welcoming breadth of the Thames in Dowgate. Bedecked with banners of the silver and crimson Neville saltire fluttering from its rooftops, the residence gave out a welcoming air. I lifted my chin and took a deep breath as we drew up.
Sir John Conyers helped me from the barge. With a cheery word of greeting here and there, he escorted me past the liveried porters, sentries, groomsmen, and men-at-arms, and through a broad and noble arch that opened into a gated court. We took the stairs over the buttery to the Earl of Salisbury’s private chamber, and there Sir Conyers issued a gallant bow of farewell.
My heart missed a beat. John stood beside his father’s chair, deep in conversation. One glance told me the room had been cleared of servants and retinue, and we would be alone. The usher announced my name. John looked up. I stood rooted to the ground, searching his face for the tidings he bore, and realization gradually dawned on my clouded, dizzy senses that his face glowed with joy. A quiver surged through my veins. Heavenly Father, good tidings—can it truly be?
John moved toward me, but with such strangely slowed steps that he seemed to float in the air. With my gaze still riveted on him, I heard a chair scrape the floor and a man’s voice say, “Come in, dear Lady Isobel. We have been expecting you.”
Flooded with rapture, my heart pounding in my ears, I regained motion in my frozen body and stumbled forward. John took my hand and placed an arm about my shoulders as I looked up into his face with wonder. He led me toward his father, who had risen from his chair and now stood before a glittering traceried window, the river sparkling with stunning brightness behind him.
The earl was regarding me with a kindly expression. “My child, I know you are anxious to receive the news, so let me dispense with all else and get to the heart of the matter without further delay. The queen has agreed to your betrothal to my son John, and has brought her price down to one thousand pounds, half the sum she had originally demanded. I have agreed to pay in ten installments over six years. Such a severe sum requires sacrifice, and so I regret the two of you will have hard days ahead. However, as John assures me he’d rather take you than all the gold in Heaven, I know you will find a way to manage. Naturally, I will help you as best I can…. Welcome to our family, dear child.”
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