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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.
