Page 17 of The Forgotten Boy

Diana cast a glance at the open office door, but wisdom—or self-preservation—kicked in belatedly and she retreated before Clarissa could discover her eavesdropping on such a sensitive matter. Now was not the moment to pass on tales of a ghostly boy to a still-grieving sister. The last thing she wanted was to precipitate a crisis that might hasten Sir Wilfred’s threat.

She may have only been at Havencross a few weeks, but already she could feel the place working its way into her heart. She loved it here. She adored the Northumberland sky and the moors and the hills and the complete absence of shellfire and blood. There weren’t a lot of jobs on offer in the middle of nowhere for a war nurse.

There aren’t any jobs on offer that also have Joshua Murray working there, her mind whispered traitorously.

Whatever was happening at Havencross—middle-of-the-night knocking, irritating pranks, invisible footsteps, schoolboys seeing ghosts—Diana would just have to figure it out on her own. As for Clarissa, Diana had only one goal: help the damaged headmistress heal from her brother’s loss. At least enough to get her to London next summer and keep the school open.

She’d dealt with dying men by the hundreds. Surely she could cope with a single ghost and one traumatized woman her own age.

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.

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