B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  What does anything matter when we have one another? I thought, resuming my seat. We were to be betrothed; then nothing could come between us, for betrothal was as sacred as marriage itself. The Countess of Salisbury clutched my arm, and I saw that the throng of Percies and Nevilles had vanished from the street. The time had come to leave for St. Paul’s, and for my betrothal.

  AS CANDLES FLICKERED AND INCENSE DRIFTED over us, John and I plighted our troth in St. Paul’s, before the archbishop of Canterbury and all the peers of the realm. Immediately following the service, my head spinning with joy, we departed for Westminster Palace. King Henry had decreed that his feast of the “love day” be held in the great hall of Westminster Palace, the largest in Europe, normally reserved for such weighty matters as the meetings of the royal council.

  With a gasp of awe, I drew up sharply on John’s arm at the noble entrance of the splendid chamber. Strewn with rose petals, herbs, and fragrant ambergris, the gigantic hall dazzled with beauty. Every inch of stone wall between the long rows of traceried windows on either side of the room was covered with tapestries blazing with jeweled color in the light of flaring torches and thousands of candles set on the banquet tables. Silver goblets, platters, and saltcellars glittered, and urns overflowed with exotic oranges, lemons, and flowers brought in from faraway Spain. The famed hammer-beam roof crowning the room, now fully illuminated in the glorious light, appeared to soar on the backs of the long rows of hovering angels that were carved into the base of each arch, and which looked down now as if to bless all who entered. My eyes were drawn to King Henry’s massive tapestry, hanging behind the royal table, which I had worked on since my arrival at court. Its admonition to “Love Thy Enemies” cried out across the long hall. From the wall niches, statues of Henry’s kingly predecessors gazed out in stern reminder to Yorkists, on one side of the room, and Lancastrians, on the other, that they were all but one family.

  Mounting the steps of the dais to be seated beside the queen, I caught the smoldering glance of Somerset, who was walking up at the opposite end to sit next to King Henry. No further word had been forthcoming on his proposed marriage to King James’s sister, but this matter was of no import to me any longer. Let the past be past, I thought. Filled with magnanimity, I threw him a smile and a curtsey, whereupon he paused and gave me a gracious bow. I felt John stiffen beside me. I pressed his hand, and we resumed our steps up the dais and stood at our places. Clarions blared, and the king and queen entered. Nodding to right and left, they processed up to their thrones, Henry beaming and Marguerite barely smiling.

  A sudden, dire thought came to me: the king’s peace and the queen’s war.

  But this was the night of my betrothal. There was room in my heart only for celebration, and I dismissed the dark clouds that threatened my joy. I ate as ravenously as ever and drank to my heart’s content. Soon enough John and I would be gone from court to begin our new life together. Only the legal formalities remained, and those would be tended to immediately the following morning.

  MY HAND TREMBLED AS I SIGNED THE CONTRACT in the queen’s presence at Westminster, the last to affix a signature before we left for Raby Castle, the seat of the Neville Earls of Salisbury. Our departure was set for the next day, for urgent business awaited the Nevilles in the North, and John had no wish to leave me behind at court at the mercy of the likes of Somerset. Since neither Ursula nor I in our blissful confusion were of any great use to anyone, I gave the packing of our meager belongings over to the Salisbury household servants.

  Before we left Westminster, however, I had matters to attend. The first was to thank the queen, the power that had made my joy possible.

  “My sovereign lady, a corner of my heart shall always be yours, and my prayers also, for as long as I have life,” I said on my knees before her, tears of gratitude standing in my eyes. “You have been as an angel guarding me from harm and bestowing on me the greatest gift this earth can offer, that of love…. I shall never forget.”

  Marguerite sighed and clasped her slender hands together. I glanced up to find her staring far away into the distance with a strange expression of pain, as if some permanent sorrow weighed her down. A morbid thought came to me: Here stood one of those poor shadows I had feared to be myself, one who moved through the murk of endless days in a world without color or sound. Surely Marguerite had loved someone once—whether Somerset the father or Somerset the son, or perhaps a noble Frenchman? But it was a love that could not be, for she was royalty and must wed a king, though he be mad and chaste. So all her love and her hopes and her fire had come to reside in the child she had borne. And in memory of her lost love, she gave as a gift to others what she could never have herself. Therein her delight in arranging marriages and seeing love rewarded. My heart bowed with sadness for her.

  The queen’s hand took mine and raised me to my feet.

  “Sweet Isabelle, your joy gives us more satisfaction than you can know…. Now, for a wedding gift—”

  A lady-in-waiting brought over the gilt casket where Marguerite kept her jewels; they clinked softly as the queen rummaged through them and withdrew a gold ring in the shape of a swan, set with a sapphire for the eye. It was the emblem of her son, Edward of Lancaster, that she held out to me. “Take this as a token of our affection. You have been a loving and gracious presence here in our court, and we shall miss you. Go thee with God.”

  I kissed the hand she offered.

  But soon the sadness of the lonely queen was forgotten. Riding in front of John on his palomino, Saladin, I nestled against him, half covered by the folds of his cloak, as we left Westminster for the Priory of the Holy Trinity within Aldgate. Sœur Madeleine had returned to London from Marrick Priory, where she had gone when court had left for Coventry in October, but she had returned for the lovefest. I wished to bid her farewell.

  We went by the guildhalls of the silversmiths, harpers, and tapestry makers along the river, and through the crowded streets of the burgher sector, with its grand brick and half-timbered houses. In my drowsy delight, the bustling London streets seemed quite charming, and I bid them farewell with nostalgia. My eye passed over the scene and settled on Rufus, trotting beside us proudly, looking around as if he owned the city. I nudged John. “Checking for Percies, is he?”

  “You laugh? I tell you, he can smell one a mile away,” John replied.

  “Does he never tire of walking?” I inquired.

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you do with Rufus, then?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? He has his own horse now.”

  I couldn’t control my burst of laughter. When I finally caught my breath, I said, “Surely you jest.”

  “I do not.”

  “Can Rufus ride?”

  “Better than you, m’lady.”

  I punched him hard in the stomach with my elbow. And thus we laughed our way to the Priory of the Holy Trinity, and Sœur Madeleine.

  We waited in the parlor while a novice went to fetch her. The room was dim and musty, lit by a few sputtering candles and starkly furnished with a table that held an open Bible and two rough-hewn chairs. The rustle of garments drew our attention to the door. An old nun entered, a smile on her face.

  “Sœur Madeleine,” I whispered, curtseying, flooded both with joy and sorrow—joy to see her, and sorrow that this might well be the last time we would meet, for she was ailing.

  “You have your heart’s desire now, dear one,” she said kindly. Then she turned her smile on John. “And you, my young sir, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  John knelt before her and kissed her hand. “Thank you, Sœur Madeleine. You have filled my heart with gratitude to you for all time.” I looked at him, puzzled. “Sœur Madeleine sent an entreaty of her own to the queen,” he explained, “after my father presented his request that we be wed. To have gained the gracious sister’s blessing is no small matter, for Queen Marguerite puts great store in Sœur Madeleine’s counsel. She was her nurse.”

  I
stared at her mutely. Sœur Madeleine had played a greater role in my happiness than even I had known. I fell into another deep curtsey at her feet.

  “Alors—” She broke off, seized by a coughing spell. She turned aside until she had caught her breath, then she said in a weak voice, “’Tis not so grand a thing. In truth, I merely reminded the queen that her devoted servant for whom she holds great affection, Lord Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, is your uncle. Since he espoused your cause in this instance, it must have merit.” Taking our hands in hers, she whispered a prayer over our heads as we knelt and blessed us with the sign of the cross. “May Love, the great reconciler, unite Lancaster and York in your union, mon enfant…. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” She wore a smile on her face, but her eyes brimmed with tears as she reached out and touched my hair, and I knew she was seeing someone else. A child lost—a child with dark hair. My heart twisted for her. Women went into nunneries for many reasons. When life took too much, and left too little, there was always the house of God, where those whose lives had ceased could await their own end. She raised us both to our feet. On impulse, I flung my arms around her, wimple, coif, voluminous cloth and all, and held her close a long moment. I knew that I’d never see her again.

  “I will write you, ma chère-aimée Sœur Madeleine,” I said, my voice breaking.

  “I will pray for you always, Isabelle,” she replied, her lips working with emotion. I watched her turn and walk away. The door closed behind her. I stood for a moment, gazing after her. Then I took John’s hand, and together we stepped out into the bright sunshine.

  THE MIGHTY RETINUES OF THE EARL OF SALISBURY and the Earl of Warwick covered the hillside as far as the eye could see, but I felt alone in the world with John as we trailed after them, exchanging loving glances as we pranced along on our mounts, north to Raby Castle in County Durham, Northumbria.

  At Middleham, Warwick parted company from us, taking with him Sir Thomas Malory, who had joined his retinue. Little Anne, standing with her parents, gave me a close embrace and waved farewell, crying out to me, “Forget not—you come back!” I felt my heart melt within me. On the third day, we reached Raby. Standing on a rolling hillside of white narcissus, veiled in soft mist, the castle drifted dreamlike in and out among the trees, its towers and turrets beckoning to me, filled with eternal promise. The sheer beauty of the place made me draw breath sharply.

  “Raby Castle,” John said, “where I was born.”

  “And where we shall wed,” I murmured softly. “Its gifts to me are boundless, my love.”

  He took my hand to his lips and implanted a kiss of such tenderness, my breath caught in my throat. With my white palfrey by his golden stallion’s side, we clambered together over the meadows into the mist toward beckoning Raby, and our destiny.

  Ten

  APRIL 1457

  AS WE DREW NEAR, RABY CASTLE CHANGED ITS demeanor and showed its true face: a stronghold of soaring towers and impregnable walls daring foes to attack at their peril. Nearly a hundred years old and built by the powerful Nevilles on the site of a fortified manor of King Canute, from whom they were descended, it stood tall and defiant, its history rolling back nearly six centuries. Even the intricately carved figures on the battlements seemed to cast a fierce eye on us as we cantered through the stone gatehouse that guarded the drawbridge over the castle moat.

  The castle servants and household, gathered in the court, welcomed us with loud cheers. Many fell to their knees. Clasping their hands, they called out prayers of thanks to the Almighty for our safe arrival. Even the dogs barked greeting, running up to Rufus’s mare with great excitement. He jumped down from his horse’s back with an aplomb that brought surprise and laughter to many a face around us, for he had newly learned this trick. Though I had witnessed his acrobatics several times by now, I couldn’t suppress my own amusement.

  Taking my hand, the earl introduced me to the household and announced our betrothal. Cheers and dancing erupted at the news. His son Thomas embraced me warmly and called me “sister,” while Thomas’s blue-eyed wife, Maude, locked arms with me and took me from John, saying, “She will be yours soon enough. Till then you shall have to share her with us.”

  That evening at dinner I noted, with a softening of my heart, that John had acquired his love of hounds from his father, for the earl showed great tenderness for them.

  “Come, Joselyn,” he said to one of the dogs, “here’s a fine bit of rabbit for you…. Now, now, Bridget, no need to get jealous, there’s chicken for you….”

  As the days passed, I learned even more that pleased me. Every day John’s father distributed five gold nobles in small coins as alms at his gate.

  “I much admire your kindness, my lord,” I said to him one evening.

  “The poor are our neighbors,” he replied. “When the mouths are many, and the money scarce, a farthing’s worth of mussels is a feast for such folk. It gladdens my heart that we can help with their burdens.”

  Aye, Raby Castle was a merry place, filled with music, song, and many guests, for the earl’s generosity extended to everyone. The hall was always full with knights and squires, and no one who asked for lodgings was ever turned away. The earl also much enjoyed new and fanciful dishes, but not for himself. Whenever these were served up to him, he immediately sent them to the tables of his knights and squires, and his guests.

  I once read that you can tell more about a man by the way he treats those below him than those above him. By this measure, John’s father was a man of impeccable character, and I felt supremely fortunate to be marrying into such a splendid family. During the three weeks I spent at Raby before my marriage, I never witnessed him using harsh words or mistreating a servant, and no guest ever left him without a gift. In all these ways the earl lived up to his family motto, Ne Vile Velis—“Wish Nothing Base”—and Raby was, I thought, a house of honor.

  If the Earl of Salisbury had a fault, it was in the care he took with his accounts, to ensure that every pence due him was paid and none stolen by his receivers. I did not blame him for the stern eye he placed on his finances. The king owed him tens of thousands of pounds for the wages of the troops whom he had paid in the French wars, and the Crown had never made good this debt, placing an onerous burden on his finances.

  In this house of merriment, laughter, and charity, the earl’s second son, merry-eyed Thomas, John’s favorite and closest brother in age, reigned the star, for he had a playful and jesting nature despite his mature twenty-seven years, and his perpetual merriment lit up the castle. I learned that first night that it was his wont to never let a song pass at dinner without his banging his tankard on the table and crying out that the song needed drink, which never failed to elicit laughter. Nor did he miss an opportunity to charm us with his wit. One evening, an aging knight-errant passing through described a feast, given by Duke Albert in Rottenburg-on-the-Neckar, that he had attended with Somerset.

  “Duke Albert was most gracious,” the old knight said. “He presented the Duke of Somerset with the princely Order of the Salamander.”

  Thomas leaned over to me and whispered, “The princely Order of the Flea would have been more fitting, for the man is a pest!” He pretended to scratch himself, and I bowed my head to stifle the giggles that choked my throat.

  He also had a way with children, though he had none of his own. Each time he arrived home after being away for a few days, they rushed to greet him from all ends of the castle, and it mattered not whether they were of noble or peasant birth, for Thomas always twirled them around the same. Once I caught him bent double in the midst of giggling children, a hand protruding from his head, braying noisily, pretending to be an ass. At other times he’d amuse them with a sleight-of-hand trick, taking coins from their ears or finding roses in their sleeves. Often, with one voice, they’d beg, “A story—a story!” and after setting a little one on his knee, he would regale them with tall tales of knights and feats of arms. On one such occasion, I found myself listening be
hind the chamber door as he charmed them with a rhyme about a sea of milk:

  In a slumber visional,

  Swam a sweet milk sea.

  With high hearts heroical,

  We stepped in it, stoical,

  And rode the billows so dashingly,

  Smote the sea so splashingly,

  That the surge sent, washingly,

  Honey up for ground.

  “More, more!” they called, giggling with delight, and off he went about a castle with ramparts of custard, where butter formed the bridge, and bread the floor, and dry beef the door. This castle had cheese for columns, a roof of curd, and cream for beams. “More!” they insisted, and he complied without hesitation:

  Wine in well rose sparkingly,

  Beer was rolling darkeningly,

  And merry malt moved wavily,

  Through the floor beyond.

  “Well done, Thomas!” I announced, applauding as I revealed myself. Startled to learn he had a secret audience, he blushed like the root of a beet.

  “And the rhyme maker smiled sheepishly,” I said, inventing a line of my own. Tom blew me a kiss.

  I never laughed so much in my life as I did in those early days at Raby.

  Thomas and his youngest brother, George Neville, differed like wool from silk, for George was bookish and found more enjoyment in scholarly pursuits than in people. At the tender age of twenty-three, he had already been made bishop, and he came to call the banns on the three Sabbaths preceding our wedding. One night, while the earl and his family were away taking care of matters at their castle of Sheriff Hutton, and Warwick was in Calais, I sat embroidering in a lower chamber, listening as John and two of his brothers discoursed on the vices and virtues. Empty flasks of wine lolled about at their feet, and the heads of St. Margaret and the Four Evangelists looked on from the painted murals on the walls. At length, Thomas, growing weary, lifted a flask and toasted the wall. “Hail to the virtues and St. Margaret, good brothers!” he cried, draining the last remaining drops.