Welcome to our family.
Heaven had conspired with all the angels of God’s realm to hand us a miracle! Floating in euphoria, I turned my gaze on John. Our eyes locked. Breathing in unison, we stood together as flowers of fire rained down on us in dazzling embers.
Nine
FEBRUARY 1457
MERRYMAKERS SKATED AND SLEDDED ON THE frozen Thames, and children hurled snowballs at one another on the palace grounds despite the bone-chilling cold. But my heart did not notice, wrapped as it was in a cocoon of celebration. Laughter and sweet dreams were my warm companions in these days as I waited for John to return from the North. I remained at court, but Somerset was still away in Wales and Elizabeth Woodville had retired to her family estate of Grafton Regis to prepare for her wedding to Sir John Grey, lightening the atmosphere so that even the tidings that came on the third of February, the day after Candlemas, did not dull my happy mood.
Though the queen had given her assent to my marriage, King Henry had attached his own conditions, and before we could be betrothed, the three Richards—the Earl of Salisbury, the Duke of York, and the Earl of Warwick—would have to fulfill them. Negotiations were to begin at once. These conditions included a demonstration of peace and goodwill between the chief Yorkist and Lancastrian foes. The Yorkists were to found a perpetual chantry to pray for those slain at St. Albans, and the Duke of York was to pay reparations to Somerset and his mother for the loss of Somerset’s father. John’s brother Warwick was to do the same for the family of Lord Clifford.
Messengers came and went with their missives, and on occasion the Earl of Salisbury and the Duke of York made brief appearances at court to engage in discussion, but John, detained in Yorkshire by troubles on the border, did not come with them. Eventually agreement was reached. To seal the pact and celebrate the end of enmities, there was to be, by order of King Henry, a “love day” festival on the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation. Our betrothal would be solemnized at St. Paul’s immediately following the ceremony.
As February drew to a close, the Yorkist and Lancastrian leaders began to descend on the city with their retinues. The Nevilles were among the first arrivals, and my reunion with John was ecstatic. From the moment I flew into his arms, we were inseparable.
The Duke of York and his duchess, Cecily, were the next to arrive. They piqued my curiosity, for theirs had been a rare love match, and they were inseparable, so it was said. Cecily had always followed her lord wherever he went, even to France and the fringes of the battlefield, deterred neither by pregnancy nor by hardship.
The damp smell of the river floated through the open windows of their residence of Baynard’s Castle, and gulls mewed noisily when we arrived to pay our respects. We found each member of the family in the solar, engaged in attending their interests: The duke stood by a massive carved desk, going over legal matters with his steward, while the duchess, clad like a queen in an opulent gown of azure velvet trimmed in royal ermine, supervised her servants as they unpacked her valuables. As John’s father introduced me, I curtseyed low and kissed their hands. Despite the silver at his temples, York’s sun-bronzed complexion and nut brown hair gave him a darker aspect than his fair wife, but he was not as austere as his lady and his smile held warmth. My eye lingered on the Earl of Salisbury’s youngest sister, Cecily, whose namesake had been John’s sister and my uncle’s first wife. Called the “Rose of Raby” for her beauty and “Proud Cis” for her pride, Cecily, Duchess of York, was lovely and, though nearly forty years of age, had kept all her teeth so that her years sat lightly on her shoulders. More surprising, she was as tall as her husband and slender as a willow, even after innumerable childbirths. Ten of the children born to her had survived, of whom the youngest, a four-year-old boy named Richard, had remained behind at their castle of Fotheringhay with his brother George. The two oldest sons had accompanied them to London.
Fourteen-year-old Edward, Earl of March, York’s heir, had been reclining on a window seat, stealing glances at a group of noble ladies on the quayside as he examined his sword for rust. Now he rose and gave me a courtly bow.
“My lady Isobel, I did not know Cambridgeshire grew such exquisite roses!” he said. Golden-haired and handsome, he’d already gained the full stature of a man. “I shall have to visit. Mayhap I can find one of such rare loveliness to grace my life, eh, Cousin John?” He gave John a merry slap on the back and chuckled good-naturedly.
“Roses it has aplenty,” John replied, “but none as fair as my lady Isobel.” His gaze on me felt as soft as a caress.
From Edward’s side, his brother, thirteen-year-old flaxen-haired Edmund, Earl of Rutland, gave me a shy smile and a bow.
“We wish you well, my dear,” the Duke of York said, “and we look forward to your wedding feast, which we plan to attend.”
“Indeed,” the duchess added, her generous, well-shaped mouth curving into a smile as she gazed at John. “You have chosen well, nephew.” Turning to me, she said, “How fares your uncle, the Earl of Worcester?”
“Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. My uncle is leaving Rome on pilgrimage to Jerusalem as we speak. Instead of returning to England at the end of his service, he may linger to study Greek in Padua.”
York and Salisbury exchanged a glance, but what it meant, I could not tell. Nor did I allow myself to ponder it. All I knew was that I would soon be wed to John, and that was all that mattered.
Nobles continued to pour into London over the next few days, and each brought so many retainers with them that the mayor feared fights would break out between the rival factions. But all went well, and peace prevailed. The last to arrive was Warwick. True to form, England’s new Captain of Calais made a lavish, blazing entrance. With clarions blaring, he came by river in a large vessel, sails billowing, preceded by the music of twenty minstrels in two colorful barges painted in his colors of scarlet and gold. Thirty other barges followed, bearing his retinue of six hundred troops in scarlet jackets flaunting his emblem of the bear and ragged staff woven front and back in silver and gold.
Cheering crowds thronged the bridge and lined the river, some even standing in the water, their jubilant cries ebbing and flowing like waves as he sailed past. Warwick stood on the gilded prow of his sailing vessel, clad in crimson velvet and cloth of gold, his profile in relief against the rippling waters and blue sky as he glided toward us. He cut a fine figure; yet I found myself disturbed by his extravagant display, fearing it would draw more ire and envy to all the Nevilles.
While most of Warwick’s retinue followed him by water, a stream of others came clattering through the massive gates of the residence, carting coffers of gifts, adding to the excitement. River birds shrieked and water lapped at the water gate as Warwick disembarked from his ship and climbed to the green where I stood with John, his father the Earl of Salisbury, his mother Countess Alice Montagu, and John’s brother George, bishop of Exeter. The only absent family members were John’s brother Thomas, who had remained behind in the North to maintain order in his father’s absence, and Thomas’s wife, Lady Maude Stanhope, who had elected to stay with him.
“Lady Isobel, allow me to congratulate you,” Warwick said in his nasal tone, giving me a kiss on the mouth, as was the custom. He presented his lady, Nan Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick. Wearing the newly popular cone-shaped headdress with a trailing veil, and most elegantly attired in sable and a jeweled gown of damascene that befitted the wife of the richest baron in England, she was pleasant and petite, with blue-gray eyes, and hair that I guessed to be light brown from the tendrils that escaped her stiff head covering. Countess Nan greeted me warmly, and her two daughters, five-year-old Bella and three-year-old Anne, curtseyed sweetly. Both were fair-haired, pretty children, but it was little Anne who stole my heart. Fixing her large violet eyes on me, she reached up to take my hand and said, “Good to see you. Thank you for coming. I ’preciate it.” Astounded, I looked at Countess Nan. “Did she just say what I think she said?”
I glanced back at the child. She stood smiling up at me proudly, as if she understood quite clearly all that had transpired. I decided little Anne and I would be good friends.
Warwick greeted his family, then turned to me. “Ah, my lady Isobel, it seems your wedding gift has arrived—” His rings glittered as he made an expansive gesture toward a groom who was leading a stunning white palfrey across the green turf down to us at the river’s edge. The horse’s coat glistened so brightly in the sunshine that she seemed to sparkle as she paraded toward us. Coming to a stop in front of me, she flicked her silver mane and gave a snort and a stomp, as if to say, Here I am! I stared at Warwick in wonder. Could this glittering palfrey actually be meant for me? His lavish generosity was the stuff of legends, and he gave away to the common people as much meat and drink as they could carry home with them, enough that they jested the local taverns served his ale and sold his meat. But this was scarcely to be believed! This was a gift a king might give his queen.
“Aye, Lady Isobel,” Warwick said, reading my expression as he took the jeweled reins from the groom and handed them to me. “She is yours. May you ride together in good fortune.”
I accepted the palfrey from Warwick in stunned amazement, not trusting myself to speak. She wore an ornate and heavily gilded saddle studded with a large ruby. It was the one John had been admiring when I met him at the shop in the Fleet. My eyes misted with tears of happiness. Tears, whether of joy or sadness, had been my steady companions since the day I met him. Dipping into a curtsey, I bowed my head, recovered my composure, and, taking John’s hand tightly as I regarded his brother Warwick, said, “But I am not worthy of such munificence, my lord.”
“Indeed you are, Lady Isobel,” Warwick replied. “Even this magnificent creature cannot dislodge our debt to you. But for your courageous warning to us at Barnet, the House of York might well have come to grief. It was your intervention alone that saved us. Now to more pleasant matters…” At a nod from one of his knights who was just drawing up in one of the barges, he said, “Where is Mistress Malory?”
“Why, she awaits there—” I replied, indicating the crowd by the wide-arched entrance to the gated court.
Ursula’s bright red–haired figure appeared from their midst, intense astonishment on her face that she should be thus singled out by the great Earl of Warwick.
“Come, dear mistress,” Warwick boomed. “For you, I have a more splendid gift—”
I heard Ursula gasp, and I turned behind me to look in the direction into which she gazed. A sad-eyed older knight, dressed in a gray doublet and hose, with long shaggy white hair, disembarked from a barge that had just moored, and began to limp across the dock. Ursula ran to him, skirts flying. “Father, Father!”
I swallowed back the emotion that gathered in my throat as I watched her joy.
THE DAY OF THE PROCESSION ON THE FEAST OF the Assumption, the twenty-fifth of March, dawned bright and sunny. Larks sang, narcissus and lilies announced the advent of spring, and London, wreathed in smiles, throbbed with anticipation. On each side of the street by St. Paul’s, stands had been erected for the use of the nobles, and hung with gold-fringed banners and tapestries—Yorkist households on one side, Lancastrian on the other.
Heavy crowds had already gathered when I arrived at the Neville loge to observe the grand event. Waving white and red roses fashioned from cloth, wood, and paper, and jostling one another for space in the streets, on rooftops, on walls, and on balconies, the common people craned their necks in an effort to gain the best view of sworn enemies walking to St. Paul’s to vow undying friendship. The Countesses of Salisbury and Warwick and the children Anne and Bella mounted the steps of the ribbon-festooned stand that was set aside for their use, and I followed behind them with Ursula, murmuring greetings to John’s many sisters and their families. The top bench, however, had been left vacant for the use of the countesses. Amid shrieks of excitement, little Anne and Bella scrambled up to claim the seats between their mother, Countess Nan, and grandmother Countess Alice. I took my place beside John’s mother, delighted to find I had a fine view of the street below.
Wild cheers erupted as the procession appeared in the distance, minstrels leading the way. “My lord the Earl of Salisbury comes first,” John’s mother announced.
We craned our necks to see his tall figure clad in wine and sapphire velvet. “He’s walking hand in hand with Somerset,” I noted.
Ursula leaned close. “Ah, I see Somerset now,” she sniffed. “He doesn’t look so good in crimson.”
“He doesn’t look so good in any color,” I whispered back. We gave a giggle and parted to look further as John’s mother fought to suppress a smile.
“There’s my noble Earl of Warwick—he comes next, walking with the Duke of Exeter—” Ursula exclaimed with such rapture that I turned to look at her in surprise. “How magnificent a figure is my Earl of Warwick, our Captain of Calais!” she drooled. “The bravest, most chivalrous knight in Christendom!”
I glanced quickly at Countess Nan, seated farther along the row. She might not approve of Ursula’s adulation of her husband, innocent though it be. But little Anne and Bella had raised such a chorus of delighted shrieks at the sight of their father that they drowned out Ursula’s comments. Indeed, the jubilant cheers of the crowd and their cries of, “A Warwick! A Warwick!” made her words audible only to me.
I leaned close and whispered, “He always attires himself most sumptuously, and this costume of black cloth of gold suits him exceedingly well.”
“Who can ever compare with him?” Ursula said, straining for another glimpse. “He overpowers the Duke of Exeter as the sun outshines the moon, does he not?”
“It would be hard not to, with such a load of gold and jewels,” I whispered in her ear, growing bolder as I teased. “Warwick sparkles like the sun itself.” Ever since Warwick had taken up the cause of Ursula’s father, she had sung his praises. I had attributed this to gratitude, but now I suspected something more. Welladay, I thought, admiration is kin to love.
“And my lord of Warwick is so broad of chest, and Exeter is so thin,” Ursula raptured amidst the cheering.
“Thin, and clad in drab gray. Without the Captain of Calais’s huge sapphire and diamond cross to dazzle the eyes,” I threw in. But Ursula, blinded by Warwick, failed to note the humor in my tone. He passed us now, smiling broadly in acknowledgment of the crowd’s welcome, a hand raised in greeting. Beside him, Exeter’s gaze burned as he regarded the new Captain of Calais, for it had been his command before it was taken away and given to Warwick.
A mighty roar went up and drew my attention back to those following behind them.
“Ah, ’tis the king who comes now!” I said, rising to my feet, as did everyone around us on all the stands. King Henry walked alone, clad in a white velvet gown unadorned by gems, wearing a plain golden circlet. I thought it fitting that he should process unpartnered. Everyone loved the mild and gentle king; he had no enemy in the world.
Another great cheer went up when the Duke of York appeared, clad in violet, hand in hand with Queen Marguerite, richly appareled in scarlet cloth of gold trimmed with sable, its thick folds garnished with diamonds. Here the crowds chanted, “York! York!” and while many a white rose was flung into the air, the people had not troubled to fashion any daisies. The queen wore an angry expression that gave me pause. Still, determined to enjoy every moment of this day of my betrothal, I banished doubt from my mind and let my glance search for John among the throng of Nevilles and Percies that followed the queen.
“There’s John!” I exclaimed joyously when I distinguished him in green and silver striding hand in hand with puny Egremont. But the sight of Egremont’s scowling face as he came into close view struck a jarring chord. A disturbing thought filtered into my consciousness: The king, taking his queen’s app
roval of my marriage to the son of a Yorkist lord as evidence of a softening of her enmity, had seized the opportunity to push the lull into a peace, but there was nothing genuine about this lovefest, born of King Henry’s simple mind. All was but hollow mummery. I drew my cloak tighter around me, suddenly chilled, and returned anxious eyes to King Henry’s soft figure.
He was the only one still smiling as he disappeared into St. Paul’s. Our meek and kindly king would rather pardon than punish, and chose mercy over justice, thinking to bring peace to his land. He did not comprehend that such a course might well reap a different harvest by driving good men from reliance on law to reliance on force in order to protect themselves against evildoers. King Henry truly believed in this day; he believed that hand-holding could heal the rift between enemies.
His queen followed him into St. Paul’s, her expression hard as flint, her carriage unyielding. I stirred on the bench and looked at those around me on the stands. No one wore a smile; they all sat silently, staring after her. They know, I thought. King Henry’s lovefest had resolved nothing; all remained as it had always been.
I came out of my thoughts abruptly. John had reached the top step of St. Paul’s and stood looking up at the benches where he knew me to be. My distress vanished, and I leapt to my feet and waved wildly to him. He caught sight of me and, after throwing me a smile that warmed even across the distance, retired into St. Paul’s.
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