Lady of the Roses (6 page)

“Perhaps this will help?” He withdrew a scarlet rose from beneath his cape. “My lady, ’tis the mate to the one I sent you in your sickroom.”

A gull mewed on the river, a bargeman slammed into the landing with a loud oath, and the knowledge washed over me in a violent flood: This was the young man who had lifted his glass to me from across the room at Tattershall Castle. Gazing up at Sir John Neville that evening, I had turned on this squire unseeing eyes blinded by looking too long into the sun.

IT WAS THE END OF SUMMER.

In my tiny chamber, I abandoned the manuscript of Chaucer that I was reading and, standing on my bed, I gazed listlessly out the high window. Fingering my mother’s crucifix, which I wore at my throat, I watched a deluge of rain drench the palace grounds. My sixteenth birthday, on Lammas Day, the first of August, had come and gone, marked by scant ceremony. The queen had sent me a silver plate of candied rose petals and gingerbread cakes, tied with a silk ribbon, while a gathering of ladies accompanied by a royal minstrel had sung to me in the great hall and then departed, laughing. It was a kind gesture, to be sure. But I didn’t know these women, and I recalled with aching pain, as if from a fragment in a dream, a childhood memory of my mother’s warm and loving embrace as she crowned me with rosebuds and twirled me around, laughing, and of my father’s face, shining with tenderness as he watched me and sang, “A posy, a posy for my fair little damsel—”

I drew my cloak close around my shoulders. With September had come a raw wind that blew through the palace halls, hissing softly through the cracks in the walls and furling the tapestries. It was not merely the weather that depressed me.

Though I had prayed much and said little to anyone during these weeks since my arrival, I had learned a great deal about state affairs, and certain issues that had seemed meaningless at the priory now took on great significance in light of my feelings for Sir John Neville. The queen hated Richard, Duke of York, and lived for his destruction. At the heart of their conflict lay York’s superior claim to the throne by birth, which the queen saw as a threat to her, and on York’s part it was the mismanagement of the affairs of the realm by the queen’s favorites. York could do nothing about his birth, and Marguerite was unwilling to give up her favorites. It all seemed so hopeless….

Below me, across the thinning grass, messengers passed to and fro on foot, striding urgently on palace business. Their grave faces tightened the knot in my stomach. I thought of King Henry, whom the queen had sent to Coventry to be nursed back to health away from the pressures of court. When in possession of his faculties, King Henry VI had served as peacemaker between the queen and the Duke of York, but his void always unleashed a bitter duel between them. With the help of young Henry of Somerset, and that of his late father, Edmund, before him, the queen had hatched two plots to murder York but failed both times. Her greatest achievement had come in 1450, when she banished York to Ireland. Even there she failed: York turned his exile into triumph by settling old quarrels at the Irish court, maintaining order, and offering justice. His rule, the best Ireland had ever known, won the hearts of the Irish to the cause of York, so the queen recalled him—and tried to murder him on the way back.

During these weeks, I also received an education in the perils of life at court as I learned more about the reckless and violent men around the queen. Dalliances and amours abounded, and wary of competition, the women threw me hard looks as they swished past in their gaudy damascenes, with their noses lifted in disdain, while the men paid me bold and unwelcome attention. As a result, I dared not befriend anyone, lest they proved false, or worse—dangerous. Half-hidden hatreds and jealousies charged the air, and I watched as many a person was dispatched to the Tower for a carelessly spoken word. Fearful of joining their ranks, I kept very much to myself. Never was I as lonely as in those early days at court, facing an uncertain future, my heart filled with thoughts of the one I could not have, and with no company save Ursula and, on rare occasions, Sœur Madeleine.

Abruptly, one day in mid-September, the king reappeared at court. Although he didn’t attend council meetings, he was frequently seen at mealtime, sitting meekly on his throne, as demure as a damsel. Initially, during these appearances, he gazed at his queen with lackluster eyes, then turned and stared at the ground, seemingly oblivious of what went on around him. As I learned, the queen had brought him back to court before he was completely well in order to rid herself of the Duke of York, who was about to take over the reins of government.

Gradually, however, I witnessed a change in King Henry. His expression turned cheerful and gentle, and he smiled kindly at everyone who approached. As he became more the man he had been, he gave out an impression of great goodness. Although still a prisoner of the darkness of his mind and feeble in his will, he struck me as a compassionate figure. The queen, always so austere and proud with others, also changed in his presence, exuding a solicitous and maternal side, so that the king’s eyes, when they alighted on her, shone with affection and implicit trust. One night, in our chamber, I mentioned this to Ursula, with whom I’d come to share a deepening friendship.

“Aye, such trust,” Ursula whispered, glancing around our empty room before she spoke, “that he cheerfully allows himself to be pillaged into debt.”

“Hush!” I said fearfully. “’Tis treason what you speak, Ursula!”

“Then I’ve just put my life in your hands.”

Indeed, court seethed with turmoil and traps, and I was reminded of that fact when the queen sent for me one evening after supper. A fat cleric round as an egg was leaving as I approached, attended by two hooded monk manservants who followed after him, heads bowed. I did not see him at first, for he was cloaked in shadow as he glided noiselessly through the hall, and his sudden greeting, coming forth from darkness, jolted me. I recoiled with a cry.

“Ah, my child, forgive me for startling you. The queen is free now, and you may enter.” He gave a wave toward the queen’s apartments, scrutinizing me in a manner I found most unpleasant. Nor did his fish eyes soften his demeanor as he murmured,
“Benedicite,”
in dismissal. I curtseyed, gave my thanks, and hurried away greatly discomforted, for there was something sinister about the man.

The queen paced to and fro in her chamber, dictating to her scrivener, who was perched at a high desk near the window. With a wave, she indicated that I should take a seat and wait.

“—and cease your threats on the life of our bailiff of the lordship of Hertingfordbury and leave our other tenants in peace there, or you shall know our displeasure to your peril, Edmund Pyrcan, squire—” she continued, gesticulating with her hands in the French manner as she spoke. She paused and, exhaling sharply, picked up a sheaf of papers. Leafing through them, she selected one. “Ah, here it is—from the abbess of the convent of Stratford le Bow. Direct this letter to our masters of horse, aveners, purveyors, and other officers of our stable, and sign it from me, as usual. They are to be commanded not to take any belongings of this abbey, nor to lodge there, nor even to pass through the town, for we are granting the abbess our full protection, and they violate our order at their peril….” She put that down and picked up another letter. “Ah, here is a more pleasant matter—
l’amour
—” Her voice held a wistful note. “Affairs of the heart interest me, and I much enjoy the arranging of marriages,” she said, turning to me. “’Tis one of my happier duties….”

“To our well-loved John de Vere, Earl of Oxford,” she dictated. “As you well know, we have Elizabeth Clere in our service, and she has confided to us her affection and regard for a certain young man in your service, by the name of Thomas Denys, so we are writing to you to implore you earnestly to do what you can to persuade the young man to readily agree to this proposal. You may undertake to inform him that we shall be generous to them both, if he will agree to the match. We ask you to do your best in this matter, as we shall do for you in the future. May the Holy Trinity keep you—and so on.” She waved her hand at her clerk and turned to me. “Lady Ingoldesthorpe. Here, come and sit with me for a while, until my other ladies arrive.”

I curtseyed and settled myself on the low cushion she indicated, as close to the fire as I could get. The storm that had descended over London earlier that morning had intensified, and now the wind howled. The silk curtains draping the walls moved with the drafts that blew in through the spaces in the stone, and I shivered. The queen must have felt the cold draft too, for she went to warm her hands at the fire. She stood there for a time, her face turned to the window. Then she gave a soft sigh and took her seat. “How I miss the sun of Anjou. England is always so dreary. Naught but rain, and cold most miserable.”

“Maybe spring will come early,” I offered.

“You will find that London is as unpleasant in spring as it is in winter. For that, no doubt, we owe a debt to its citizens. They are an ungrateful lot.
Mordi
, grumbling and complaining are all we hear! They are never content, no matter what we do for them. I shall make sure we are not here in the spring.”

Just then the creak of a door and a rustle of silk drew my attention to the entry. There stood a young woman of surpassing beauty. She carried herself with a bearing more regal than the queen herself, and her loveliness lit up the room like a torch. Her complexion was ivory, and her shining hair, which streamed down her back, glimmered with a faint silver halo. If any feature could be criticized, it was perhaps her green eyes, which were small, not large, and held a sly expression. The girl, perhaps two or three years older than myself, drew to the queen’s side and whispered in her ear. I caught a few words of French, and the name Edward, and understood that the queen was anxious about her little prince. The three-year-old child nursed a cold, and she had sent the girl to check on him.

The queen nodded.
“Bien…bien.”
She turned to me. “Lady Isobel Ingoldesthorpe, have you met Elizabeth Woodville? She is also a newcomer to court. Her mother, the Duchess of Bedford, is French. From Luxemburg.”

I murmured the niceties and gave Elizabeth a smile. She responded with a feeble nod and looked away as soon as the queen had turned her attention back to me. I was struck by her rudeness. Even the girls at the nunnery hid their dislike of one another beneath a mask of civility. “
Alors
, Isabelle, are you happy with us here at court?” the queen inquired.

“Aye, my queen. Everyone has been most gracious.”

She laughed. “Indeed, you have attracted a fair amount of attention, just as we expected.”

“My lady?”

“
Eh bien
, you have had three suitors already for your hand in marriage, one for each month you have been here. Only Elizabeth can match that tally, but she is not my ward, and so it does me no good.” She threw a warm smile in Elizabeth’s direction, which Elizabeth returned with one of her own, as dazzling as sunlight.

Stunned at the news, I stared at the queen.

She patted my hand kindly. “
Vraiment
, perhaps you didn’t know? I thought everyone knew everything that happened at court before it happened, but not this time, I see. In any case, the suitors are of no import. You were not informed, because they offered too low a price.” She bent near and lowered her voice. “You will fetch a great sum for the royal treasury, my dear. For that you should be proud.”

I didn’t know how to respond to this, so I mumbled my thanks.

“It must sound quite banal to you, so fresh from the nunnery, this talk of money, but you should regard it as performing a great duty to the king. God knows, I myself was happy to bring him a treaty of peace. I was fifteen, you know, when I arrived on these shores, quite alone.”

Not a treaty, but a truce,
I corrected mentally, promptly chastising myself for the disloyal thought. “Aye, my queen,” I murmured. Fifteen was too young to be married off to someone you had never seen, sent off to a foreign country, and torn from family, friends, and all that had been familiar and dear to the heart.

She threw me a glance. “Are you sure you have no French blood, like Elizabeth?”

I shook my head.

“
D’accord
, I suppose you need not be French to be beautiful…or lonely.”

My heart went out to her, for I had a sudden appreciation of her plight. She was a woman thwarted at every turn: an outsider who could never belong, a woman married but with no husband, and no love, and no true hope of happiness, except her child. The smile I gave her must have shown my sympathy, for she gave my hand a squeeze. “There is something about you
très charmante.
I think we shall be friends, Isabelle, don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”

At these words, Elizabeth turned her bright green eyes on me for the first time, and her full gaze held warning. I knew then that she regarded me an interloper and would protect at all costs what she viewed as her territory.

“I have made a decision!” Queen Marguerite announced suddenly. “You shall be my lady-in-waiting, Isabelle. Just like Elizabeth.”

“WE HAVE AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER,” URSULA
said kindly, placing a gentle arm around my shoulder. “Shall we seek out a wisewoman? Perhaps she can bring you comfort with good tidings.”

Gazing at her from my bed, where I had been playing my lyre and dwelling on thoughts of Sir John Neville, I shook my head sadly. “I have no faith in prophecy, Ursula. If my fortune is good, I shall hope too much and be fearful lest it proves wrong. If I get a bad fortune, I shall dread my future. ’Tis best to keep away from wisewomen.”

“Then what say you to a stroll along the river to see the sunset?”

Perhaps Ursula was right, and fresh air would banish my melancholy. In any case, I was to take up my duties as the queen’s lady-in-waiting when she returned from Kent, where she had gone to attend the trial of a group of rebels. Soon enough I would have little free time to spend as I wished.

We took the path down to the riverbank. The palace grounds were quiet, and we met few people along the way. The rains had ceased, and the late September wind swept through the gardens, rustling the autumn leaves that still clung to the trees and stirring the sweet, damp smell of evening. Turning a corner, we stepped through an arched stone gate. Abruptly the palace walls gave way to the sky, offering up a sunset without boundary. The Thames was dotted with gilded private barges, and its rippling currents caught the crimsons and golds of the sky, which soaked the water, dazzling my eyes.