Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ISMAY MAY 1458

Afterward this year was held a counsel at Westminster, to the which came the young lords whose fathers were slain at St. Albans by the Duke of York, and they were lodged without the walls of London. The city would not receive them because they came against the peace. The Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury came but only with their household men in peaceable manner and thinking no harm. Then the other lords and bishops of the land treated between the parties for peace.

"How do I look?" Elizabeth demanded.

Ismay took her time observing her friend, knowing that Elizabeth's nerves needed a thoughtful and truthful reply. It was no accident that Ismay chose the compliment that would most give Elizabeth confidence: "You will do your mother very proud."

"And my husband?"

Right. It was easy to forget that Elizabeth had been a wife for almost four months. Her marriage had been part of the whole tense affair of the late winter. King Henry had recovered his health and determined to reconcile all England's enemies. It was the only time Ismay had ever heard Duchess Cecily sound anything less than composed. When the summons came for the Duke of York and the Neville family to attend the king in London and account for the Battle of St. Albans, the duchess had said bitterly, "My father, my brothers, my husband, my sons. Will that woman leave me with no one?"

That woman being Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England. If the king, in his mildness, was prepared to both forgive and forget, his queen would do neither. And with a five-year-old son to fight for, she had become only more implacable as time passed.

Which made the fact that they were all presently staying at Queen Margaret's castle of Greenwich extremely awkward.

But Elizabeth was fourteen and newly wed and more concerned with the fit of her golden gown and the straight line of her blackwork-embroidered kirtle that showed beneath the deep V-cut of her bodice. Ismay straightened the edge of one attached sleeve that did not need it and adjusted the short sheer veil that fell from Elizabeth's covered hair. It was odd to have her own hair loosely dressed and showing its rich brunette while her younger friend must now, as a wife, cover her hair.

"Your husband," said Ismay firmly, "could never be anything but proud of you."

He'd better be. John de la Pole may not have married Elizabeth for love, but if he ever wanted his father's estates returned to him, he would shower attention and respect on the Duke of York's daughter.

Ismay grabbed Elizabeth's hand and asked on impulse, "Are you happy?"

Astonishment was all the answer she needed. It conveyed both the "Of course I am" uttered by Elizabeth and the unspoken What has happiness to do with any of this?

Swallowing a sigh, Ismay followed Elizabeth out of the small bedchamber that she shared now with only ten-year-old Margaret, and into the social battlefield that was the English court.

Within ten minutes of entering the crowded hall, noisy with talk and music, Ismay saw two people that put a huge smile on her face and reminded her that not everything was terrible this spring. John Neville, twenty-six and eternally restless, stood attentively next to his brand-new bride, Isabella Ingaldsthorpe. The elegant and self-possessed seventeen-year-old was a stranger to Ismay but currently her favorite person in England. Queen Margaret's ward had a larger inheritance than Ismay, and her marriage into the Neville family was another intended way to bind the warring camps together.

Better her than me , Ismay thought.

And immediately regretted it when Edward appeared at her side. "So what do you think of Father's newest proposal?"

The honest answer was I'm trying to forget it . But she wasn't prepared to be quite that honest with Edward, and he had the unnerving ability to see right through lies and equivocations. So she turned it back on him. "You must be pleased it's not you threatened with an eleven-year-old bride."

"I didn't mean Edmund's proposed marriage to Margaret Percy—awful as that is, poor boy, he'll have to wait years to get her in bed."

It was no use being offended by Edward's frank talk. Ismay simply pushed the image away, as she had grown adept at pushing away many images she didn't like.

Edward's blue eyes searched the crowd as he continued. "No, I meant the proposal that you marry Lord Egremont."

"It has not gone as far as a proposal," Ismay retorted.

"Hasn't it? Are you sure? Because I don't think my father considers your assent a necessary part of the whole thing. The king wants peace. Father wants to keep the lieutenancy of Ireland and his place in the succession. He's already wed Elizabeth to a Lancastrian. What better way to prove his commitment to peace than marrying both his son and his ward into the devilish hands of the Percys?"

He put a hand on her shoulder and pointed. "And there he is. Thomas Percy, Lord Egremont. I suppose he's not so bad. Could be older. Could definitely be uglier. How will you like being the wife of a man twenty years your senior?"

Ismay couldn't help but look. She'd seen Egremont before but steadfastly avoided coming to his personal notice. Of course she didn't want to marry him. He was thirty-six, a Percy, and had dark, unfriendly eyes and a face that looked as though he'd never once smiled. Throw in his undying hatred for the Yorks and Ismay couldn't think of anything she'd rather do less than marry Egremont.

"Don't worry," Edward said, with that unnerving air of having read her mind. "You could always ruin your reputation and then no one would have you. Of course you'd end up in a convent, but getting there might be fun. You have only to ask and I'll help you along the path of ruin."

His wicked grin snapped Ismay out of her silence. "If I didn't know you were teasing, I'd slap your face for that. Actually, I'd do it anyway if I didn't want to cause a scene. Go bother some girl who doesn't know you half as well as I do."

The problem with Edward was that you could never stay angry with him. He kissed her cheek, like he did his own sisters, and went whistling across the room in the direction of a lovely young wife standing alone.

Ismay shook her head, as much to dislodge unpleasant thoughts as to express disapproval. There was no point in disapproving of anything Edward did. Where everyone else in the York household—and most people in England—lived in fear of the Duke of York's ire, Edward would simply listen to whatever reprimands his father gave him then merrily go on to do exactly as he pleased.

Probably that was why Edmund was his father's favorite.

As though summoned by her thoughts in the same way as his older brother, Edmund appeared at her side and everything within Ismay tightened and relaxed. She knew that wasn't actually possible, but it was how Edmund made her feel.

With the softest whisper of a touch along her hand, he said, "Come hide with me. The herb garden is particularly aromatic this afternoon."

The herb garden was aromatic beneath the fitful spring sun: sweet basil and lemon balm, and white chamomile flowers swaying in the same breeze that tugged at Ismay's hair. Edmund touched the end of one loose plait; it was enough for her to swing around. And then she was in his arms.

"I missed you." His words seemed to be delivered straight into her heart.

"You saw me yesterday."

"At Mass. Sitting with my mother. Not the ideal circumstances."

Ismay rested her head on his shoulder, the summer-weight wool of his doublet warm beneath her cheek. She wondered how much Edward knew. He and Edmund were very close. And though Edmund insisted he hadn't breathed a word, one could never discount Edward's ability to sniff out secrets. Especially where romance was concerned.

"Has your father spoken to you yet?" Ismay asked.

Edmund didn't need to ask about what. There was only one topic that obsessed everyone these days: how many marriage alliances needed to be made to create peace.

"Not formally. No one's talking formally right now. We're all just nibbling at the edges, trying to figure out how much we have to give to get what we want, and where we cannot afford to give any longer."

If Edward was a natural soldier and leader and, in his instinctive way, a politician, it was Edmund who had the real gift for politics—the ability to hold the big picture in his head at all times and see how each individual act fitted into the puzzle that was currently English government.

But Ismay had the directness of a girl who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it. "And will your proposed marriage to Margaret Percy soon be moved from the edges of discussion to the center? Or is that something your father is not prepared to give?"

What she meant was, Is it something you're prepared to give? Are you ready to sacrifice what you might want today for the needs of your family?

Maybe it was because she was an orphan and an only child, but Ismay couldn't see how one family member's wishes could command everyone else. Even if that family member was hovering closer to England's throne than was comfortable.

Then again, she had already watched Elizabeth—one year younger than herself—marry with no qualms except the quality of her gowns and the public esteem in which her bridegroom was held.

"Ismay." Edmund shifted so that her head came away from his shoulder, and he dipped his own head to meet her eyes. "I'm not worried about my father's position on the matter of my marriage. Not yet. Why worry about what he thinks when I don't know … when I'm unsure …"

Sometimes she marveled that two brothers so wildly different could be the best of friends. Had Edward of York ever once considered that a girl—any girl, any woman—might not be head-over-heels in love with him?

"Edmund, do you think I'm in the habit of casually kissing any man of my acquaintance?" Ismay asked, a little asperity in her voice.

He, so much fairer of skin and hair than she was, blushed. "No, of course not. But we are apart so often. Indeed, we have spent many more days separate than together. I would never hold you to a kindness that might change over time."

"My love is not a kindness. And I suppose," she said, with growing confidence, "I shall simply have to keep reminding you of that every chance I get."

With that, she went on tiptoe—Edmund was nowhere near as tall as Edward but still a good five inches taller than Ismay—and kissed him. Softly, at first, but not at all timidly. She would never be afraid of Edmund, or afraid of herself with him.

Ever the gentleman, Edmund responded gently at first. But they were both fifteen, old enough that a rush of desire could spark a raging response. His hands went from her shoulders to her waist, and he pulled her against him. The sensible (Scottish) part of her warned that they were in a public garden—all too easily stumbled upon—and that this was hardly the way to introduce the subject to the Duke of York. But that sensible voice sounded as distant as though it were coming from Scotland. In the end it was Edmund whose common sense prevailed, and the kissing stopped. But they clung together for a few moments, breathless and trembling, and Ismay wondered if one could die from sheer delight.

"Well, well, well."

The shock of another voice spiked through Ismay like lightning, and she jolted away from Edmund. But even in that movement, she'd recognized the voice and knew they'd been discovered by perhaps the only person in the world who wouldn't immediately ruin things.

She squared her shoulders and turned fiercely to Edward. "You of all people should know better than to sneak up on a clearly private moment."

"Not that private," he said, and in his amusement ran a thread of warning. "I may have the gift of defying father, but how would he like it if he knew his favorite son and his wealthy ward were embracing in the very heart of Greenwich Palace, where any Lancastrian could see and take advantage of such knowledge?"

"There is no advantage to be taken," Ismay shot back, "because there is nothing to know. Everyone knows how close I am to your family."

"And yet I've never been the recipient of such kisses. More's the pity."

Edmund might have been quieter and calmer by nature than either Ismay or his brother, but he could not be bullied. "You know I would never compromise Ismay's honor or that of our family," he said steadily. "Our feelings are private, but my intentions are not. I intend to marry her, if she'll have me."

"Really?" Edward asked extravagantly. "Will you have him, little Ismay?"

"I'm not going to propose to her in front of you," Edmund said, as rudely as he ever got. "And do you really want to play the game of who knows the most devastating secrets about the other? I can't even count the number of women I've found you kissing. And a great deal more."

Edward laughed, all warning gone in apparent delight at his brother's show of spirit. "You think any of that would be a surprise to Father?"

"Mother wouldn't like it."

Ah , thought Ismay as Edward's eyes briefly darkened. A hit. Because if Edmund was the Duke of York's favorite, Edward was patently his mother's.

"Really, Edmund, you don't know me at all if you think me likely to carry tales to anyone. The only secrets the York family cares about are political ones. And unless Ismay has the means to undo the current government, she's harmless. Love where you will, little brother. But take the advice of your elder—kissing in gardens is one thing; if you intend to take it further, find someplace more comfortable."

He strolled away whistling, leaving Edmund flushed and Ismay wondering if there was anything that could truly touch Edward of York's heart.