Lady of the Roses (16 page)

“Be still, Isobel. How can I paint your face when you turn this way and that?”

I tried to cooperate, but my eyes, if not my head, kept stealing to the outer court. I wondered if the queen might come. She had said she might, but I doubted it. She would not wish to venture so deep into Yorkist territory, even after the love day.

“Isobel—” Ursula’s voice broke into my thoughts. “You are ready for your chemise now.”

The fine linen shift felt tender as silk against my bare skin as I slipped into it, and my shoes of soft leather, worked in gold, hugged my ankles as lightly as swan feathers. Then Ursula went to work on my hair. Untying the ribbons that held the locks she had wound into curls, she arranged ringlets of glossy hair around my face and wove crystals and tiny white rosebuds through the strands. I threw a loving gaze at my wedding gown, which lay spread out on the bed, shining white silk trimmed in miniver and embroidered in gold thread. Beside it my veil was held by a circlet of cherry blossoms and white roses, and edged with gold lace, crystals, and the glistening pearl that would be draped over my brow in a final touch.

“You’re ready for the gown, m’lady dear,” Ursula said, just as voices at the door announced the arrival of John’s mother, the earl’s countess, Alice Montagu, who had come with her daughters to help me dress and supervise my final preparations. But the countess entered alone; John’s sisters and her ladies remained behind in the antechamber. Ursula quickly threw the camlet cloak around my shoulders so that I did not stand in my shift.

“Madam,” I said, dropping into a curtsey. We had always been formal with one another. I did not yet know her well, and was unsure of her feelings about me. Was she displeased that her lord had paid such a heavy sum for my hand? Did she resent that I came from the Lancastrian camp? Did she see me as too lowborn for her illustrious family, who traced their lineage from kings of Europe descended from Charlemagne? I feared the answers, for I desperately missed having a mother of my own and hoped to have found one in her. But, though I might wish for a mother, with half a dozen girls she had no need of another daughter.

“Perfect,” she pronounced to Ursula after examining my face by the open window. With a gesture of her hand, she indicated that I should turn. “You have also dressed the hair well. I find no fault with it.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Ursula said, stepping back with a curtsey.

“Now leave us.”

I felt myself tense.

“Sit, my dear,” the countess said, indicating the bench. “You have been on your feet for a long while—surely you need to rest before donning your wedding gown.” She regarded me with an expression I could not read. “And it will give us a chance to talk.” She settled into a high-backed chair and smoothed her skirts. “We have not spoken at any length, and I wish to begin by telling you something about myself…. As you may know, mine was an arranged marriage. I was the only daughter of my father, Thomas Montagu. My husband, Richard, was a younger son. Of course, he was well endowed by his mother, Joan, the granddaughter of Edward III and daughter of the great Duke of Lancaster and his beloved Katherine Swynford. But I daresay it appealed to my lord’s father, Ralph Neville, the Earl of Westmoreland, that I was a great heiress, with an earldom for the man I married.”

It was as I had suspected. She did not approve of me, for I brought John little and had cost him much.

“I cannot say I loved my husband when I wed him,” she said.

I looked up sharply. Most marriages were arranged for reasons of commerce, not love; yet I had never heard anyone confess to it before.

“I was eighteen,” she went on in a softer tone filled with reflection. “I prided myself on understanding—and accepting—how the world was designed. I had made a good match, and that was all there was to it, as far as I was concerned.”

I stiffened.
Though I do not bring my husband an earldom, she has no right to shame me so openly.
I lifted my chin and said coldly, “My lady, I know what you imply—”

She reached out, took my hand. “No, you don’t. Let me finish. I married without love, but God was kind. He sent it to me anyway. I was blessed with a good husband, but more than that, an honorable and wonderful man whom I soon came to love with all my soul and heart…. I have discovered a great truth in these years of my marriage. Love is more important than property, possessions, or power.”

Taken aback, I was mute for a moment. “Aye, madam, and I do love John,” I said at last.

“I doubt it not, Isobel. I am glad you have love from the start and shall waste no years finding it. I treasure all my sons, but John has a rare quality about him. He is a romantic. Such men do not love easily, and when they give their hearts, it is for all time. And though he appears strong, he is vulnerable at heart, and will have greatest need of you in times of deepest sorrow—may God forfend. But we live in an uncertain world, and who knows what life brings? ’Tis a great burden for you, Isobel, but also a great blessing to be so loved.”

“I shall be at his side always, and I pray to prove worthy of him.”

She pressed my hand. “I admit I was troubled when John came to us about you. But doubt not, you are indeed worthy of his devotion.”

Again, emotion threatened to overwhelm me. The countess took a silk handkerchief from beneath her sleeve. “Child, you will ruin your makeup,” she said kindly, dabbing at my eyes. “Now ’tis time you have my gift—” She turned toward the door and called in a raised voice, “Jane!” A young woman entered with a small casket, which she set down on the table before the countess. When she was gone, the countess spoke again.

“My son Richard was eight years old when he married Nan Beauchamp, so I did not give it to her. My son Thomas wed a widow, so I did not give it to her. My youngest boy, George, is a son of the holy Mother Church and has no need of it.” She opened the lid and turned the casket around to face me. “Now I know the reason I did not part with it…. It was meant for you.”

There, glittering in the brilliant sunlight, lay a necklace wrought like fine lace in the shape of many roses, with rubies for petals and diamonds for hearts. I gasped, and looked at her in wonder.

She smiled at the question in my eyes. “Aye, for you. Who better? It was given me by my mother-in-law, Joan Beaufort, hence the Red Roses of Lancaster. ’Tis very apt that you come to us from Lancaster. Now I pass it to you.”

I fell into a deep curtsey at her feet. She raised me up. “Daughter, be happy. Love him, and all will be well, even through darkness…. We who have love, have everything.”

We rose, and she clasped the necklace around me.

I fingered it reverently. “Your gift shall always remind me of the ruby dawn of my wedding day,” I whispered. “And of you.”

The Countess of Salisbury enfolded me in her arms and held me close. “On this beautiful day you wed in joy. May peace follow you always.” She threw open the door to the chamber, and I was besieged by a flurry of ladies, including John’s pretty sisters Alice, Eleanor, Katherine, Joan, and Margaret. Dressed in pinks, purples, and scarlet, they fluttered around the room, murmuring approval of all that met their eyes. Two helped me into my gown, two more arranged my veil around me, and another assisted Ursula in sewing fresh roses and cherry blossoms to the hem of my gown. Then they walked me to the looking glass that stood in the corner of the room.

I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, and gasped.
Can this magnificent creature truly be me?
Tulle and shining silk, cherry blossoms and miniver, crystals and glittering rubies had wrought a dazzling transformation, and I shimmered in the mirror like a vision from a land of enchantment. I looked mutely at the countess and Ursula, who each nodded and, stepping forward, held me in close embraces for a long moment.

“’Tis time,” the countess said, releasing me. John’s sisters gathered up my skirt and voluminous long train, and we followed as she led the way down to the courtyard.

MOUNTED ON MY BEAUTIFUL WHITE PALFREY,
Rose, my veil caressing my cheek in the breeze, I waited in the sunshine, as if in a dream.

Minstrels stood in a group in front of me. From the castle tower, Warwick’s giggling little daughters, Bella and Anne, ran out to my side, shrieking with excitement. Garlanded and carrying nosegays, they made a delightful sight with their shining eyes as the countess positioned them behind the minstrels. Warwick appeared from the same entrance, dressed in sumptuous scarlet-and-purple damascene spangled with gems that flashed in the sun. With him came merry Thomas, who glittered in black cloth of gold. Thomas removed his plumed and jeweled cap to throw me a courtly bow, which I acknowledged with a broad smile. Then my eye caught on the noble archway directly ahead, which led to the chapel where John waited. The sight sent my heart soaring.

The countess arranged the folds of my gown over the rubied saddle that had been my wedding present from John. Rose, her braided mane adorned with cherry blossoms and golden tassels, endured the fuss patiently and then snorted, anxious to be off.

“You look like a princess, my dear,” the countess said, smiling with approval.

“A most splendid princess,” the earl corrected, stepping forward. At his nod, the minstrels struck the first chords of the joyful tune that announced the entrance of the bridal party. He gathered Rose’s reins into his hands and led me through the stone-arched gateway of the chapel tower.

Wickets and gates had stood open since Prime to receive everyone who wished to attend, whether rich or poor, old or young, and from far and wide they’d come to wish me joy on this, my wedding day. Their smiling faces greeted me from all directions, and their sighs and cheers followed me. The white rose petals they threw showered me like blessed rain from Heaven, and like the murmur of the sea at ebb tide, their whispered praises and gasps of awe echoed around me as I passed, and wrapped my grateful heart in song.

Arrayed in emerald green velvet trimmed in sable, John stood on the chapel steps, which had been decorated with narcissus, heliotropes, and lilies. His tawny hair lifted in the breeze, a smile played on his generous mouth, and his blue eyes shone with happiness as he looked at me.

Thomas and Warwick helped me dismount, and the earl took me by the hand and led me to John. “Go forth in peace and joy, my son, and may long life together be yours,” the earl said, removing his arm from mine and handing me decorously to John. The look John gave his father in return spoke all he felt and could not find words to say: affection, gratitude, and undying devotion to the beloved man to whom we both owed so much.

The iron-hinged doors of the chapel creaked open, and Bishop George emerged from the dim confines of the nave to stand before us in the open portico. The heady scent of narcissus, lilies, and peonies assailed me as I looked up into John’s face, and I knew that were eternity to pass, I would never forget this moment. Hand in hand, we waited in the afternoon sunshine as George questioned us:
Have the banns been published? Are you within the forbidden degree of consanguinity? Do you have the consent of your guardians?
His voice droned on, and though I replied to every question, I barely heard the words until the very last. “Do you yourselves both freely consent to this marriage?”

We tore our eyes from one another and answered in one cry, “We consent!”
Oh, how we consent!
I thought.

George took the ring from Warwick’s flower-bedecked little daughter Bella, and blessed it. He gave it to John, who slipped it in turn on three fingers of my left hand with the words, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” before fitting it on my third finger. Looking deep into my eyes, he paused, then said gravely, in a loud voice, “With this ring I thee wed.”

Cheers exploded around me, and there came the flapping of a thousand wings as doves were released into the air. A bowl of gold coins was presented to us to scatter as alms to the poor. Laughing, we threw the coins into the air. They caught the sun’s rays and fell glittering over the crowds like golden rain, reminding me of the fiery flowers I had imagined on my beautiful, never-to-be-forgotten night of the dance at Tattershall Castle. Enfolded in blinding happiness, followed by the wedding party, I entered the chapel for my nuptial mass.

THE EARL HAD SPARED NO EXPENSE ON OUR WEDDING
feast. Decorated with boughs of greenery, garlands of flowers, and countless flickering candles, the great hall had been made resplendent with beauty and light. No longer did I feel my feet carry me, as John led me to the head table, where two carved chairs had been set for us in the center before a golden taffeta curtain sprinkled with silver stars; I floated there on a perfumed cloud.

When the wedding guests had been seated and the wine poured, John pushed to his feet. Raising a golden goblet to me in salute, he gave me a gaze of heartrending tenderness. “Lady wife, God grant you health, honor, and joy.”

“And a thousand sons!” yelled Thomas. The hall roared with laughter.

I stood and lifted my goblet to John. “And God grant you pleasure, peace, and health, my lord husband.” It was the first time I had addressed him as “husband,” and the word left an unbearably sweet, honeyed taste in my mouth.

A murmur of
amen
, accompanied by the rustle of fabric and the clink of silver cups, went around the room as guests joined their voices to ours. The earl gave the signal, and servers, carvers, and stewards sprang into action to present the wedding feast of beef, smoked mullet, veal, and all manner of venison, ducklings, capons, rabbits, boar pie with fennels, olives, and rich sauces. With great fanfare and torches blazing, they carried in whole succulent boars on their shoulders, and swans in their plumage. Beer, fragrant mead, and wine of many varieties, sweet, dark, and spiced, were poured from gargantuan barrels in endless streams. Between courses, tumblers performed handsprings, and mummers walked around on sticks like giants. Troubadours recounted the tales of Samson and Delilah, Priam, Helen, and Ulysses, and of Arthur and Guinevere, and accompanied themselves on pear-shaped lutes and stringed viols as they sang love songs. Before the course of sweets, John presented a troubadour to serenade me with words he had chosen: