Lady of the Roses (40 page)

“How would you know?” I laughed. “In any case, my sweet lord, I keep telling you—angels have golden hair, not chestnut.”

“How would you know?” he demanded with a grin, throwing my own words back at me. “I never saw an angel that had golden hair, only chestnut.”

I kissed him again, and we made love once more, my being filled with joy and my heart seared with anguish.

MORNING BROKE TOO SOON. THE CHILDREN
stood beside me as we bid John farewell. He was in full armor and only his visor stood open, for the journey to London was fraught with peril. In my soul, I knew why he had gone to such great lengths to see me. As he walked to Saladin, my control broke at last, and choking sobs escaped from my throat. I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck to hold him back. The wind whipped my hair against his armor as I clung to him, refusing to let go. Beneath his open visor, I saw his eyes, and in my heart I let out a silent scream.

“No!” I cried, pounding his armored chest with both my fists. “No, no…no!” I railed. Two men-at-arms stepped forward and gently pried me from him. John turned back to Saladin, and Tom Gower helped him mount his warhorse. From a great height, John gazed down at me as I fought my sobs. Then he nodded to me, slowly, tenderly, a final farewell, and turned his stallion south. His men fell behind him, silent, somber.

“Farewell, my love!” I cried out, running after him. “Till we meet again—”
Meet again, meet again…

I watched them ride away, and I began to tremble, and the trembling of my body built into an uncontrollable shaking, and the last that I felt was Ursula’s arms around my shoulders, the last that I heard was the pitiful wailing of my children, and the last that I saw, as the ground rose up to meet me, were shards of sunlight striking his armor like the blows of a sword, before he vanished into the darkness before my eyes.

WARWICK HAD BEEN FIRST ASTOUNDED, THEN FURIOUS
, when he heard that John had let Edward and Dickon pass at Pontefract
.
In the Lancastrian camp, there were murmurings of treason. But I understood John’s anguish. There was nothing else—nothing, nothing he could have done! And, as I seemed to have done all my life, there was nothing else for me but to await the tidings that would surely be brought. With the impending battle between Lancaster and York preying on my mind, the days stretched before me like a stormy sea, and to bear them I submerged myself in work, for in work there was a mindless solidity that kept painful thoughts at bay.

Although there was less need now than ever before to keep expenses down, from force of habit I went over the household accounts minutely with the steward, examining carefully the daily purchases of victuals and consumption, the number of meals served, the cost of the youths we kept for running errands and taking messages, as if by such pretense I could summon back the days of old, where, if there had been troubles, there had also been hope. Just as I had done in days of yore, I questioned the expenses and suggested ways to cut back. As twilight fell over the world, I retired to my prie-dieu to pray for John, and if weariness assailed me, or desolation overwhelmed me, I reminded myself of my blessings and thanked God for the precious moments that had been mine. And so the days passed. Then, one cold day in April, a week before my wedding anniversary, when the snow still stood only half melted, I witnessed a lone rider galloping up the path.

“I pray you,” I said to Agnes, who was dusting the room, “bring him to me in the solar.”

“Aye, me lady.”

Crossing myself, I murmured a prayer and braced myself. Removing John’s old cloak from the peg where it hung, I headed down to the solar. Seating myself carefully, I gathered the cloak to me and forced my trembling fingers to push the darning needle through the cloth as I had done so often before in times of distress.

“My lady.”

I glanced up. Tom Gower stood at the threshold of the room. I felt the cloak slip from my fingers, and I rose from my chair with difficulty, a hand on the armrest to steady my legs. He stepped forward, and I saw that he held a missive. I was mistaken!
He has not come to bring me tidings of death,
I thought,
but merely word from John!
I gave him a wide smile.

“Tom, dear Tom…rise, I pray you. For a moment, I thought—no, pay no heed to what I thought—” I took John’s letter from him and held it to my bosom, still smiling. Then I realized that Tom had not returned my smile, and that his face remained as pale and grave as that cold moment when I had first heard his voice. “Tom…how goes the war for the Lancastrians?”

He hesitated before he replied. “I know not, my lady. I dressed my lord the marquess in his armor, then he bade me leave him ere the battle started. To bring you this missive…”

Why?
The thought stabbed me with the thrust of a dagger.
Gower should be fighting at his side.

“And this—”

I came out of my thoughts to find Gower reaching inside his doublet. As he fumbled for what he had placed there for safekeeping, I saw that his fingers were stiff and he moved them with difficulty. When I looked at his face, I knew there was something he kept from me. He took out a velvet pouch and offered it to me. Inside lay the ring given to John years earlier by young Dickon of Gloucester when he’d first come to Middleham. I felt the crushing stab of pain in my breast. It was John who had taught Dickon how to wield the weapons of war. Now the two cousins found themselves on opposing sides of York and Lancaster, as each fought for his brother.

I gazed at the stone, acutely aware of the message John was sending me.
If disaster befalls, take this ring to Dickon.
By the return of the ring to its owner, the debt Dickon owed John would be redeemed. I felt that I stood outside myself, looking down on the scene from high above. In the fading light of day, the stone, dark blue like John’s eyes, twinkled with the same light I had seen so many times in his.

My heart was beating hard. I turned away, struggling for composure.
The time has come to repay my own debt—a debt to Heaven for granting my prayer years ago.
I was fifteen then, orphaned and alone in the world, when I faced a choice between the taking of vows or the taking of a husband. I had left the nunnery with Sœur Madeleine, seeking a match at court. Yet I knew how the world was made, what little chance I stood of finding love in an arranged marriage. On that evening at Tattershall Castle, my heart breaking with loneliness, I had gazed up at Heaven and made a plea…and a vow:

Send me love, and if you send me love, you may send great sorrows, and my heart will be lifted to you in gratitude…. Allow me love, and you may allow me great griefs, and never shall you hear me complain, no matter what happens, no matter what losses, what pain, what anguish is my portion. I shall bear all…if you send me love.

That night Heaven had answered by sending me John. Then Heaven had swept away every impediment that kept us apart. Against great odds, we had fulfilled our love and found a life together.

I raised my head and looked at Gower. “You’ve had a long journey, Tom. Tell the cook to prepare you the best meal we can offer, and get rest….”

In spite of myself, tears stung my eyes and my lips trembled. I turned away, and heard his footsteps echo down the hall as he left. Clutching John’s letter, I set out for a little bench on the edge of the woods, safe from prying eyes, dimly aware that John’s pup trailed after me.

As if in afterthought, John had added a postscript beneath his signature in a shaky hand:
God keep you, my angel. Until we meet again.

THE WORLD WENT SUDDENLY VERY QUIET. I HAD
bartered with the Fates for my destiny that day, and the Fates had listened and granted what I had asked. However dark the shadows now, I had to remember how fortunate I was to know a love that few are ever given, a love that dazzled my life with its light as the sun warms and bedazzles the earth. The glory of that love will dry the tears, as it always has, for love transcends all things, even time…even death. I regret nothing.

Nothing.

Yet I could not crush the hope in my breast of a good outcome. Battle did not have to mean the end; if God ordained differently, we might still have time together.

So ran my thoughts as I sat on the bench, reading and rereading John’s letter, Roland at my feet, the wind sweeping the sighing poplars, rustling the leaves of elm and beech, stirring the spruce and larch. The sun set and the birds grew silent, as hymns drifted across the hills. Words and phrases rang in my mind with old familiarity, and suddenly I realized that John had echoed my thoughts, almost as if he had known of my secret pact with Heaven….
I feel so grateful to God…allowed such happiness…a heart grateful to Heaven for the love and the joy it has seen fit to bestow…

Was it coincidence or something more? I fixed my gaze on the dimming sky.
John, wherever you are, I hear you…. I hear you, my love…. Godspeed you back into my arms….

THREE DAYS LATER, AS I WORKED IN THE GARDEN
with the children, making a game of gathering twigs for firewood, as Roland yapped and ran around with his ears flapping, I paused to stretch my aching back, and my glance fell on three horsemen galloping up to the house. I dropped the basket of twigs I carried, and ran to meet them.

As I neared them, however, my steps slowed. I knew from their expressions that they bore ill tidings. The thought struck me that no matter how prepared we think we are for loss, never are we truly ready.

Two of the men were wounded, and they dismounted with difficulty. Holding myself stiffly erect, I listened to their report, but I was having trouble with my hearing, and their words kept fading in and out.

“Battle…Barnet…king’s brother Clarence…treason…abandoned Warwick’s side…joined Edward…furious battle…thick fog…confusion…friend slew friend…York prevailed…Warwick…fled…slain…The Marquess of Montagu fell in the thickest press of his enemies, fighting valiantly to the end.”

The words echoed around me like the howling of the wind:
The Marquess of Montagu fell in the thickest press of his enemies, fighting valiantly to the end. To the end to the end—

Behind me, I heard my children shriek with delight as they chased one another with their twigs.

I opened my eyes to find myself in bed, tended by Ursula. Tears swam in her eyes. I grabbed her sleeve, tried to rise, to form a question, but she gently pushed me back.

“Nay, Isobel, dear, hush now….” she whispered. “Hush, dear Isobel….”

I fixed my gaze on a patch of sky visible through the window. I must have passed out when I was given the news of Barnet. Remembering my vow, I blinked back the tears that threatened, and forced my lips to curve into the semblance of a smile—

I am the most fortunate of women…. Thank you, Heaven…. Thank you, John….

AS SOON AS I REGAINED MY STRENGTH, I TRAVELED
to the Scots border near Bamburgh with Tom Gower to see young Dickon, now the most important man in the kingdom besides the king himself. I had a request, and it could not wait, as it concerned a matter of the utmost urgency. As Gower knelt before Duke Richard in the Gloucester tent, I returned the ring Dickon as a boy had given John. Not trusting myself to speak, I did not say much but let Gower speak for me.

“My lord duke,” Gower said, “on the eve of the Battle of Barnet, my lord gave me this ring and said I should take it to my lady if anything…if anything happened to him. He told me to have my lady bring you the ring…and you would understand.”

The young duke took the ring and stared down at the stone for a long moment. When he looked up again, his eyes were moist.

“Do you know how I came to give him this ring, Lady Isobel?” he asked me softly.

I shook my head. “He…never spoke of it, Your Grace, though he wore it…to the end.”

“It was at Barnard’s Castle. I was nine years old. I had failed a tournament and was ashamed, for John had come all the way from the Scots border to Barnard to watch me tilt, and I was hiding from him—hiding from Lancelot, the bravest knight Christendom ever knew…. But he wouldn’t leave until he found me. We sat together on a bluff overlooking the thundering River Tees, and he told me something I have never forgotten:
In last year’s nest, there are no eggs….
My cousin John was right, my lady. We cannot look back, only forward. He said something else. Something that seems even more important now than it did then…. He said that if we let honor and conscience guide our lives, we shall face God without shame when the time comes, and that is the best any man can do.”

I swallowed on my tight throat and dropped my lids, for tears had begun to sting. I felt the young duke take my trembling hand. And then I found out what Gower had kept from me that day when he had brought me John’s letter.

“Lady Isobel, those who call John a traitor do not understand as I do. ’Tis true that he wore the king’s colors beneath his armor, but he did so not because he was a traitor to his brother Warwick or to Lancaster. He fought beneath his brother’s banner and died wearing the colors of his king because, as a man of honor and integrity, he could not live with his torn loyalties. John went to his death determined to remain true to both whom he loved, to the end, as best he could. It is my firm belief that John stands before God without shame this day, Marchioness Montagu.”

Unable to speak, blinded by tears, I kept my head down. Gower had dressed John for battle. He had known there was no hope when he’d delivered John’s missive.