Page 48 of The Forgotten Boy

ISMAY

SEPTEMBER 1460

And this same year came the Duke of York out of Ireland and landed in Lancashire. And there he sent for trumpeters to bring him to London, and there he gave them banners with the royal arms of England. And so he rode forth into London ’til he came to Westminster to King Henry’s palace.

And there the Duke of York claimed the crown of England.

Ismay had been arguing with Father Pierce for half an hour now. If she hadn’t known and loved the priest since before she could walk, she would have simply issued an order and dared him with a stony stare to defy her. Cecily of York had imparted some very useful lessons over the years.

As a seventeen-year-old girl, her orders did not carry the same weight as those of a duchess in the wider world. But Ismay was not currently in the wider world; she was at Havencross. She was Lady Ismay of Havencross, home for the first time in seven years to oversee her estate in person. And no matter the opposition, she would not back down on this.

Truth to tell, Ismay still felt a bit bewildered by how she’d ended up here. She had dutifully—gladly—kept her word to the duchess and stayed with her and the boys while they were moved to London by the Lancastrians and kept under house arrest. In December, a rushed Parliament declared every York and Neville lord not only traitors to the crown, but outlaws. They and all their heirs were now legally dead, their property forfeited. All of these boys and men—whether Ismay liked or loved or hated them—had long been entwined in her life, and all had become “lords of time past.”

Which was when Duchess Cecily took charge. Never had Ismay more admired the woman than in those weeks after the fall of Ludlow and the vindictiveness of Parliament. Another woman might easily have collapsed beneath the weight of such blows, but not Cecily Neville. They could take away her title, but they could not take away her strength or intelligence.

Ismay knew that information managed to flow between London, Calais, and Dublin—plans were being made, money was being raised, pawns were being set in their places for when the Yorkists once again came to the chessboard.

Apparently Ismay was one of those pawns. And, for the first time, her use wasn’t solely as a reluctant possible bride. In fact it involved something Ismay wanted so much that she couldn’t quite believe it was being offered to her. “We need you at Havencross,” the duchess had told her. “For the future.”

And just like that Ismay returned to Northumberland for the first time since she was ten. The Lancastrian Earl of Somerset sent two dozen of his men to escort her, and Ismay knew that if she’d been any less female, any less single, any less young, the Lancastrians would never have allowed it. She had no doubt that Somerset was angling now for her guardianship, either to enrich himself or one of his retainers. He saw in her nothing but a vulnerable girl.

His mistake.

Ismay had spent the first three months proving to her steward and her housekeeper that she knew how to run an estate. Who wouldn’t, having been tutored personally by the most formidable woman in England? She then spent the next three months raising a company of armed men. The Duke of York had more than once availed himself of the hundred men that owed Havencross fealty, but in his farseeing wisdom had never attempted to completely pull them into his own ranks. That served him well now, for Ismay was the Lady of Havencross and her parents had both been beloved. The men would follow any orders she gave.

And then it was only a matter of waiting. The worst thing about being in Northumberland was how far she was from everything that was happening, and how long it took to get even the briefest of messages through. Edmund had managed it twice from Ireland—his letters for her passing through his mother’s hands in London before making its way north and reaching her in May. It was much creased but the wax seal looked more or less intact, and Ismay decided not to worry about anyone else having read it. It’s not as though she would deny anything if asked.

In the last week of June, Edward crossed the channel from Calais with his uncle and cousin. Between them, Salisbury, Warwick and the now eighteen-year-old Edward, the Earl of March, entered London without violence and then routed the royal army at Northampton. With the king firmly in their control and Queen Margaret fled to her power base in the midlands, all of England waited for the Duke of York to make his move.

Ismay had one brief note from Edward in London, which she thought kind of him considering how busy he must be running around fighting and, no doubt, whoring. The next message gave her little warning, for it had been sent by courier just twenty-four hours ahead of its sender. It announced that Edmund and the Duke of York had landed near Liverpool on the ninth of September and Edward had ridden to meet them. And now the brothers were coming to Havencross, having convinced their father he needed Ismay’s men to join his army.

Edmund’s note had been warm but brief, eager to see her but never willing to presume anything. It was Edward who had scrawled at the bottom: Better find a priest if you want one. We’ve not got much time.

Hence today’s argument.

The conflict between her and the priest was straightforward: Ismay had asked Father Pierce to perform a marriage ceremony. He had declined.

“You are too young,” he said.

“My mother was fifteen when you married her to my father,” Ismay countered.

“Three weeks of banns are required beforehand.”

“There are allowable exceptions, as you well know.”

“You are all alone here,” he said, “with only a single maid and no ladies to aid and advise you.”

“As far as I am aware, only one woman is required for a marriage.”

“You are deliberately and with intent deceiving your guardian.”

And there lay the priest’s true objection: the Duke of York.

Having spent nearly nine months in Ireland—keeping safely out of reach of the vindictive Margaret of Anjou—the Duke of York was ready at last to make the final gamble for the English throne. The Yorkists expected their recent victory at Northampton to be the first on their path to ruling.

Northampton, Ludford Bridge, Blore Heath, St. Albans—Ismay sometimes thought she marked the passing of her life more by the record of battles fought than the calendar. Especially since the duke’s two oldest sons were now of an age to fight. And not just fight. The victory at Northampton might be credited to the Earl of Warwick, but it was Edward of York, just eighteen, who had crossed from Calais with his cousin and by all accounts fought brilliantly. Not that Ismay planned to tell him so; Edward had a high enough opinion of himself without needing to be flattered by her.

But no matter Edward’s skill, it was Richard, the Duke of York, who looked set to once again be the most powerful lord in England. Ismay understood Father Pierce’s reluctance to offend him. But she would not be budged. She might not plan to flatter Edward, but knowing that she had him on her side was a comfort.

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