Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

ISMAY MAY 1455

Then was there a mortal debate between Richard Duke of York and Edmund Duke of Somerset, who ever steered the king against York. But the people loved the Duke of York because he preserved the common good of the land. Then York, seeing that he might not prevail against the malice of Somerset, gathered privately a great many men about the town of St. Albans. And when the king was there, York beseeched the king to send out the Duke of Somerset, who was an enemy to all the land. The king, by advice of his council, answered and said he would not.

Ismay's twelfth birthday passed entirely unnoticed at Ludlow Castle. It wasn't because of her status as ward rather than family member—for the York family had been as welcoming as they were capable of being, and indeed Ismay had made great friends with Elizabeth and Margaret, who were only a little younger than she was. Once the Duke of York had decided it worthwhile to keep her in his household, Ismay had joined the girls in their rooms and in their tutoring and, like them, watched the eldest daughter enviously. Anne, now sixteen, was already a duchess in her own right; she had officially married the Duke of Exeter when she was only eight. Now of an age to be a wife, she still spent a great deal of time with her mother, and the younger girls thought her impossibly grown-up and glamorous.

But as Ismay's twelfth birthday dawned at the end of May, the entire York household had been on edge for days. The Duke of York and his wife's nephew, the Earl of Warwick, had marched their personal troops south more than a week ago after being summoned by the king. It wasn't King Henry they feared—it was Lord Somerset, who had been thrown in prison by York during the king's last illness. Ismay didn't understand all of the story, but she knew that anyone as wealthy, as powerful, and as royal-blooded as the Duke of York must always be worried about enemies.

The household was kept well informed during their lord's absence, with a constant relay of messengers riding from the south, so they all knew that the king had marched out of London with an army in response and camped at St. Albans. (Of course, by king, they meant Queen Margaret. Henry might have been present, but it was his queen who had the backbone.)

The children had been haunting the battlements as often as they could sneak away from their various tutors and servants, not least because both Edward and Edmund were with their father and the siblings were eager for news of their brothers' adventures. Today Ismay had been sent after six-year-old George by the exasperated nursemaid who'd lost him for the third time since breakfast. He was forever wishing to catch up to his older brothers, always complaining that he couldn't go off with his father and ride into battle. Not that Edmund had been in battle—he was only twelve—but Edward at thirteen was as tall as many soldiers and skilled beyond his years.

Ismay caught George in one of the turret stairs before he could reach the open air. But they were near enough to the top that she heard the shout from the guards: "Rider coming! Banner's ours!"

The impulse was to dart up and look out. Instead, Ismay grabbed George by the hand and hurried him down the stairs. When he protested, she said, "We'll meet him in the courtyard. Maybe we'll beat the others."

But Duchess Cecily was there before them. For a woman who appeared constantly unworried and unhurried, she always had the strings of her family members in her hands and each twitch brought her directly to the critical point.

George tore himself from Ismay's grasp and ran to his mother. Next to her, Elizabeth held three-year-old Richard in her arms. Margaret grabbed Ismay by the hand, and they hovered just behind.

The messenger was a familiar face, and he wasted no time in formalities. "A victory, my lady. A great victory at St. Albans! Somerset's army is defeated, and King Henry is safe in our lordship's hands."

"Casualties?"

"None of note in our ranks, but Somerset was killed in battle." Then, with a smile that could only be described as jubilant, he added, "And so was Henry Percy."

Everything happened very quickly after that. Duchess Cecily was often noted for her efficiency, and at no time was it put to better use than immediately following the news of the Yorkist victory. Without any outward sign of hurry or fuss, the entire household—children and all—was transferred to London in just over a week. That was no minor feat, considering the duchess was also heavily pregnant.

Though she had maintained her perfect composure in victory as well as defeat, her daughters and Ismay were as jubilant as any common Yorkist soldier. Somerset was a bitter enemy of the duke, and the Percys … well, the bad blood between the Percys and Duchess Cecily's brothers had long ago hardened into the deepest hatred. With this victory, not only had the Duke of York been named Protector of the Realm, but his wife's brother and nephews could glory in having the North firmly under their control.

Ismay had never been to London; she was overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise, yet dazzled by the luxury of Baynard's Castle along the Thames. She would have been content simply to watch from the fringes as important visitors came and went, as the duchess dressed with care for court, as they attended mass at St. Paul's Cathedral.

The older boys were in and out of Baynard's Castle. Edward, now Earl of March, came with his smile and his charm, trailing the glamour of the battlefield behind him. And Edmund, the Earl of Rutland, came as well. Always a shade paler, a shade less noticeable, many shades less outrageous than his older brother, Edmund came with less glamour, but with lots of stories—not of himself and his own exploits but stories of the court, lively sketches of men and women that made his sisters and Ismay laugh.

But even in his most devastating impressions, Edmund was never vulgar or cruel. Queen Margaret's loathing of the Yorks might be returned a hundredfold, but Ismay felt that Edmund would be able to find something good in Satan himself.

And though nothing was ever said, Ismay was certain that Edmund was behind the great honor bestowed on her and Elizabeth: to attend a court reception at Westminster Palace. They were only twelve and ten, respectively, but an important family is an important family. Especially an important family just a few heartbeats removed from the English throne.

Ismay was no fool. She did not have Elizabeth's bloodline, but she was an heiress of no small fortune. An heiress with no family to negotiate for her, meaning her marriage was in the hands of the Duke of York. With him in the ascendant, there might not be a better moment to create an alliance.

She just didn't expect a proposal to happen at the reception itself.

They were escorted by the Countess of Warwick—for Duchess Cecily had given birth to a stillborn daughter ten days ago and was still in bed—and introduced to a handful of men and women. Edward was extravagantly welcoming, and Edmund was touchingly anxious that they enjoy themselves. Ismay would have been glad to spend the whole evening ignored by everyone else. But no possible York connection could be ignored by the crowd, not even two young girls.

Though most were eager to speak to Elizabeth, Ismay found herself captured by John Neville. The younger brother of the Earl of Warwick, and thus another nephew to Duchess Cecily, John was best known for one thing: his overriding hatred for all things Percy. Since the age of eighteen, he'd been involved in raids against his family's powerful northern adversaries and been called to account by the king himself. But for a Neville, a king's demands ranked somewhere below their own family honor. With the death of Henry Percy at St. Albans, John was in a very good mood. Between telling Ismay all about the battle—indeed, more than she cared to know—he asked her about Havencross and seemed both surprised and pleased by her grasp of estate matters.

"Not many girls immerse themselves in questions of land and tenants," he told her. "You have a good steward, after all, and an excellent guardian."

"No matter my steward or guardian, Havencross is mine. My father made sure I understood that as early as I was able."

"You were fortunate in the estate your father left you."

"I would rather have my father than the estate."

Edmund, who stood close enough to hear without making himself part of the conversation, flashed her a look of sympathy and approval. John flushed, and almost Ismay apologized for making him uncomfortable. But she was saved the dilemma when a servant wearing the white rose of York appeared in front of their small group and announced that the Lord Protector requested Ismay's presence. Alone.

Since she'd had exactly one private interview with the Duke of York since arriving in his household, Ismay bit her lip and queried Edmund with her eyes. Across the ten feet that separated them, he gave a small shrug of ignorance, but also a smile calculated to raise her spirits.

The Duke of York was in a small, square room down one of Westminster's innumerable corridors. The black walnut paneling swallowed up light so that the elaborate candelabras appeared like islands in the midst of a dark sea. York looked the same as he always had: thin-faced, dark-haired, with severe lines, and hooded, searching eyes. He sat behind a desk, reading from a stack of papers and making notes. Standing next to him, younger and taller and far more dashing, was his wife's nephew Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.

"My lords." Ismay executed a painstakingly practiced curtsey.

While the Lord Protector continued reading, the Earl of Warwick ran his eyes up and down Ismay as though assessing a horse he wished to buy. Or not buy, if his expression was any indication.

"How old are you?" Warwick demanded.

"Twelve."

He snorted. "I've seen ten-year-olds better developed."

Ismay flushed, and was suddenly grateful for the shadowy room. Then the Duke of York addressed Warwick: "My wife tells me the girl has been bleeding for six months now. She's thin but no longer a child."

Ismay nearly burst into flames. Keeping her eyes fixed on the toes of her shoes, just peeping out from beneath the heavy blue silk skirt, she tried to pretend she was elsewhere.

"Look at me, girl," commanded Warwick.

She lifted her head and set her face into the chilly, neutral lines she'd learned from Duchess Cecily. That seemed to amuse him. "A little spirit. That's good. Johnny would soon tire of a bloodless bride."

Ismay froze, her eyes locked on Warwick's. Bride? Johnny?

Johnny. All at once, she understood why John Neville had gone out of his way to speak to her tonight. Not about herself or the things she liked, but about Havencross—her manor house and estate that ran across a good part of Northumberland. Of course Ismay had understood that there would be men who wanted Havencross. But understanding was a completely different thing than thinking of that restless, impatient, twenty-three-year-old she'd just left wanting to marry her. Ismay didn't want to marry Johnny. She didn't want to marry anyone yet. She knew what the onset of her monthly bleeding meant, she understood—as did all who lived around animals—the nature of what happened in the marriage bed. But the thought of being left alone with a grown-up man who expected her to do … that?

Ismay must have looked as appalled as she felt, for Warwick growled, "It's not as though I intend to drag you to the altar tonight. But it's just as well that plans are made. And it would be a fine match."

For Johnny , she thought spitefully. A younger son in a family of twelve without any land of his own.

The Duke of York had a knack for reading the undercurrents of any situation and speaking to the point when necessary. "You may think Johnny too old, but I assure you, Ismay, there are men a great deal older who have approached me. Do you really wish to marry a man with children older than you are? There need be no announcement at once, but I wish you to seriously consider the matter."

The words I wish coming from the senior duke in England, the Lord Protector of the Realm, and her legal guardian meant "I command . " Ismay could only be grateful he had confined his "wishes" to her considering the matter rather than requiring her immediate assent. Maybe she could make herself so disagreeable to John Neville that even Havencross wouldn't tempt him.

Maybe she would ask Edmund to help.