Page 43 of The Forgotten Boy

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.

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