Chapter Twenty-Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ISMAY OCTOBER 1459

In every society this quarrel made an entrance; so that brother could hardly admit brother into his confidence, or friend a friend, nor could anyone reveal the secrets of his conscience. The combatants on both sides attacked each other whenever they happened to meet, and—now the one and now the other—for the moment gained the victory, while fortune was continually shifting her position.

In her six years with the York family, Ismay had grown accustomed to the high tension and major drama of politics. She accepted the heavily armed retinues among which she—with the duchess or her daughters—traveled, and the intensive arms training always taking place at Ludlow when they were in residence. She no longer looked twice at royal messengers or worried about the attentions of court officials, because she knew herself to be only on the edges of the devouring interest. It was York himself, and his wife's Neville brother and nephew, Salisbury and Warwick, who consumed all the crown's attention.

And with Queen Margaret in the ascendant, all the crown's enmity.

Ismay had never felt the air so tense and taut as had filled Ludlow for the last two months. Sometimes she imagined it cutting against her skin as she moved through her days, but all the fears and damage remained mostly invisible. It showed mainly in sharpened tongues and fragile tempers.

The saving grace of all these long, uncertain weeks was that the family was together. Ismay had never spent so much time with Edmund. Even with all the tension, there were plenty of stolen moments together, making everything bearable.

Everything except goodbye.

The royal army had been sent against them. The Earl of Salisbury and his men had been ambushed at Blore Heath but managed to fight their way free to Ludlow. Salisbury, his son Warwick, and the Duke of York had been named traitors. And tomorrow, outside the walls of the town, it would all be decided by men wielding swords.

Men including Edmund and Edward.

The afternoon was passing quickly. Ismay's hands trembled as she searched the castle forecourt crowded with men and horses. Servants preparing to join the Yorkist army dug in against the town walls. How many of these men would be alive this time tomorrow?

Keep him safe, keep him safe, keep him safe.

She spotted Edward, always the easiest to see as, even at seventeen, he towered over every man Ismay had ever known. He was in a corner between the stable and the outer wall, talking to a pretty girl. Edward would be talking to a pretty girl on his death bed. But he saw Ismay and tipped his head in the direction of the chapel.

The shadows inside the round chapel dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene made it hard to distinguish anything except the fair head where Edmund knelt before the altar. She drew closer, moving softly so as not to disturb his prayers.

"I'm not praying," Edmund said without turning his head. "Or at least, not in the way the priests would have me pray."

"What are you doing?" Ismay knelt beside him.

He angled his head sideways and gave her a look so filled with longing it warmed the very air between them. "I cannot offer petitions tonight. I can only make demands. That we win. That we lose none we cannot bear to. That the town is safe. That the castle is not breached."

Ismay nodded.

Edmund drew in a long breath and let it out shakily. "May I give you something, Ismay?"

"A question?" she teased. "I thought you could only make demands tonight."

"Of God. I would never make demands of you."

"Of course you can give me something."

He pulled an object from his pocket, small enough to enclose in his fist. He took her right hand, palm up, and released it.

A ring. Of dark, heavy gold with a square gem set in it. There was not enough light to make out anything more.

"A garnet," Edmund said. "And it's inscribed."

"What does it say?"

" My loyalty is fixed . Which it is, forever." He bit his lip, a gesture that always made her want to kiss him. "Will you marry me, Ismay?"

"Edmund," she said, her throat too tight for her to speak.

"I'd do it tonight if we could. I'm not afraid to die, Ismay. I am afraid of not having loved you long enough. Of never getting to …" He sat back on his heels and ran his hands through his hair. She'd never seen him look so frustrated.

He dropped his hands. "Sometimes I think Edward's right. I think too much and let it get in the way of what I want. Not that I would ever take advantage of you—oh God, I don't know what I'm saying. Except this: I will come back to you. It's just a battle, Ismay. My father, Salisbury, and Warwick are the best soldiers in England. We'll come through it, I promise. And when we do, I'll tell father everything and we'll get married. He can't object on account of our age—mother was only fourteen when they were married. That is, of course, if you want to marry me?"

She took his face in her hands. "Yes," she said, and kissed him, forgetting that they were in a chapel, forgetting everything except her fear and love, and her desire to violate every rule of decency and modesty. She wanted to have this memory to keep with her always.

Ironically, the only person at Ludlow who would have cheered them on was the one to stop it.

"Sorry," Edward said, silhouetted in the chapel doorway, "but Mama is looking for Ismay, and Father is ready to join the men in camp."

Ismay took care to conceal the ring in the pocket tied beneath her skirts before joining the family in the forecourt. The family leave-taking was brisk and professional—no doubt anyone with more personal things to say had found a private place to say them. Like her and Edmund. She fingered his ring while she watched them ride out of the large castle gate and down the hill to where their army was encamped by the River Teme.

She spent the next several hours helping with George and Richard (which mostly meant keeping them from escaping their bedroom in order to spy out what was happening), and only when the younger boys had fallen deep asleep was Ismay released to her little room nearby in Pendower Tower. With all of the Duke's daughters elsewhere she had it to herself, and Ismay spent a long time crouched over a candle flame trying to stamp the poesy ring on her memory. She could not wear it, not yet, so she threaded it through the rosary chain she wore around her neck and tucked it beneath her shift.

She did not expect to sleep, but she must have because she woke later to the sound of many raised voices. She listened for a minute, wondering if this was a natural occurrence the night before a battle. But she could feel the wrongness in the air. Something had happened.

Ismay threw on her simplest gown over her shift, lacing it quickly, and lit her candle. The middle of the night was no time to wander Ludlow Castle in the dark; there were too many additions, wings, and traps for the unwary. As it was, she tripped twice before reaching the great hall.

She had seen the hall filled with people on many occasions, but never like this. No tables or benches were arranged, only the rush-covered stone floor and dozens upon dozens of anxious men. Ismay blew out her candle and set it down against a wall then went on tiptoe looking for Edward.

It was the Duke of York she found first, standing slightly apart from everyone except for the woman in his arms whose hair cascaded around her shoulders. It took longer than it should have for Ismay to identify her as the duchess. She had never seen Cecily Neville so … unbound. As Ismay watched, the duchess touched her husband's lips with her fingertips, and into Ismay's head came a phrase she'd heard long ago to describe Cecily as a girl: the Rose of Raby, she'd been called.

Turning away from that most private moment, Ismay hastily shifted her gaze and marked Edward against the far wall. He was in close conference with Salisbury and Warwick, but Ismay didn't falter because Edmund was there too. She didn't care what rumors she sparked tonight. She had to know what was wrong.

She slipped in behind Edmund and touched his arm.

He spun around like a spooked horse. "Ismay! What are you doing up?"

"What has happened?" she asked. When Edmund did not immediately answer, she shifted her gaze to Edward. She had never seen his mobile, affectionate face set so hard.

"We've not got time for women and children," Warwick said dismissively.

Edmund rounded on the older man. "It's the women and children who will have to watch Ludlow fall tomorrow, cousin , because of your man." If Edward had never looked harder, Edmund had never sounded harsher.

Taking her hand, Edmund strode away from the group and kept going until they'd left the hall and found a quiet space in the solar. The tapestry of a hunting party that Ismay and the duchess had been halfheartedly working on loomed on its frame against one wall.

"We've been betrayed," Edmund said simply. "One of Warwick's commanders has taken his men over to the Lancastrians. It leaves us hopelessly outnumbered, besides the fact that Trollope knew all our battle plans. Father's given our men leave to slip away how and as they can. No sense in wasting lives."

Ismay thought of the duchess touching her husband in public in a way she never did. "You're running."

"If we don't, then tomorrow my father's head will be piked on Ludlow's wall with Salisbury and Warwick. And probably Edward and I as well."

She forced away the horrific image of Edmund's bloody head and asked, "Then why are you still here?"

"We had to make a few plans. Salisbury and Warwick will go south and take ship back to Calais—Edward will go with them. My father and I will ride west through Wales and make for Ireland, where his rule is solid."

"If you are taken—"

"We won't be. Edward and I spent our childhoods riding through these hills, and the Welsh are loyal to our cause. We'll be all right. And so will you be," he added. "If we had time, we'd try to get you and Mother and the boys to an abbey, but really you need not fear more than rude manners. Neither side makes war on women and children."

It's the women and children who will have to watch Ludlow fall tomorrow …

"And the town?"

He hesitated—answer enough for Ismay.

From the hall, someone shouted for Edmund. "I have to go," he said. "Be safe, Ismay."

He kissed her long and desperately, and her cheeks were wet when they reluctantly pulled apart. Would Edmund be safe? Would she ever see him again? She had thought watching him ride into battle would be horrible, but this was excruciating. How long would she have to wait for news? How long until she knew if he was safe?

He kissed her once more, perhaps as afraid as she was, and that delay gave those in search of him time to come upon them together. Sadly it was not Edward but someone much, much worse.

Warwick.

The earl stood just inside the door and looked the two of them over in a leisurely manner that made Ismay wonder how long he'd been standing there. But perhaps his own imminent danger kept him from making malicious comments.

"It's time to go, cousin," Warwick said smoothly.

Ismay stood with the duchess in the inner court and watched the two little bands of horsemen slip out the postern gate. One group for Calais, one for Ireland.

The Duchess of York allowed Ismay to slip her hand into hers. "They will be all right," Ismay said, with more confidence than she felt.

"Yes, of course they will." With a nearly visible effort, the duchess composed herself and said briskly, "You should know, Ismay, before he left, my lord asked me to tell you that, should you think it wise, you are free to accept the king's offer of clemency. Your estate is far from here, you have no husband, and no men committed to our cause. He would understand if your primary concern were to protect yourself."

Ismay knew, from her tone of voice, the duchess would not understand if she made that choice. Not that such consideration weighed in the balance. There was no choice in this matter, not for her.

"Yours is the only family I have had since I was ten years old," Ismay said firmly. "I stand with York to the end."