Sun Ascendant

Winter 1470

Isobel Fenton leaned against the cold stone of her gilded prison, watching the Earl,

and his brother, Robert Langton in the courtyard below. She couldn’t hear what they

said but, once Robert had ridden through the inner gatehouse and out of sight, the Earl

spun on one foot and came with angry strides back inside. She retreated to her room

rather than face her captor.

She felt small inside, withered. But for her father’s untimely death she would still be

living on her own manor. She fled from the memory, every part of her mourning his

loss as much as she did her liberty. By now she would have been married to Thomas

Lacey and living at Beaumancote as her father intended. Geoffrey Fenton had not

foreseen Thomas’s attempt to steal her lands and inheritance any more than he had

believed the Earl capable of betraying the trust placed in him to protect Isobel’s

interests. Yet, here she was, climbing the narrow curving steps towards the room set

aside for her at the top of the tower.

She stopped outside the heavy oak door to catch her breath, as if by entering the

chamber she accepted by default the Earl’s claim upon her. There had been a moment

when Isobel had let herself believe that the Earl’s brother, Robert, may have been

fostering some romantic feelings for her. Now she could not believe that he would

feel anything but disgust, and his leaving the Earl’s estates without a kind word or soft

look for her confirmed her suspicions. She was spoiled goods in his eyes, and she

should no longer hold any hope that he would see her in any other light. And if Isobel

was so reduced in Robert’s opinion, to the Earl’s wife, the bitter countess, she was

nothing but gutter swill and the target of the slighted woman’s venom.

Could Isobel blame her? If she found herself set aside by her husband for a woman

living under the same roof, would she not feel justifiable rage? Isobel struggled to

imagine such an eventuality. She was neither married nor likely to be, and this blank

surface of the door seemed to reflect the only future she could envisage.

With reluctance, Isobel took hold of the big iron handle, and pushed. Sitting by the fire, her face partially obscured by her widow’s coif,

Ursula Bere was mending Isobel’s smock with tiny stitches. She hadn’t asked how it had come to be

torn, nor did Isobel enlighten her maid, but she thought that Ursula had probably

already guessed. Isobel sat opposite her.

“Would the priest hear my lady’s confession?” Ursula asked.

“He was busy,” Isobel evaded, not wanting to admit she couldn’t face the man’s

patronising patience and the shame she felt every time she thought of confessing. And

partial confession seemed worse than none at all, like trying to deceive God.

“Ursula, what are mistresses supposed to do?”

“Do, my lady?” Ursula blinked. “Give their lord what a wife cannot — or won’t.”

“What is that?”

Ursula went quiet as she stitched, her mangled hands surprisingly agile. “Respite

from the cares of his life, the court, his travail. Give him a little of the life he might

have had if he could have chosen it for himself. Love, perhaps.”

“How can you say that? The Earl has everything.”

“Does he?” Ursula continued working on the linen, drawing the rent seam together,

making the tear invisible. Isobel wished she could do the same for her hurt, for

Robert’s, then found herself reflecting on the Earl.

“He has no heart,” she said finally, almost to herself.

“Doesn’t he?” Ursula said again. “My lady is very young — ”

“It has nothing to do with age!” Isobel snapped.

“My lady is hungry, perhaps? Or tired?” Ursula said, putting the smock down and

rising. “My lord is demanding and forgets you need rest.”

Isobel frowned and blushed. “Why are you so patient and forgiving? I never hear

you complain even though I know your hands hurt you, and Jesu knows I make your

life no easier stuck here like this.”

Ursula sat again and held out her hands in front of her, the scars accentuated in the

light of the fire like rumpled cloth. “I have nothing to complain about. My good lord

lets me live here; I have enough to eat and my lady to serve, and when my boy

comes…” She smiled vacantly, letting the words drift with her thoughts.

“Your hands,” Isobel ventured tentatively. “Did you fall in the fire?”

“The fire?” Isobel waited. Ursula ran a length of thread through the wax of an unlit

candle. “This will help make the seam stronger,” she said, and began to hum quietly.

“Not fire … the countess … no, no, shhh, not a word, not a word…” She wobbled her

head, beginning to rock, and Isobel feared she would lose Ursula’s train of thought.

“The countess burned your hands?” she pressed. “Why?” Ursula’s humming

became a thin song, and her eyes rolled. Isobel wanted to shake her but bit back her

impatience. “Did you do something to anger her?”

Ursula stopped crooning, grabbing both of Isobel’s hands between hers. “Do not

make her angry. I merely wanted to please my lord, make him happy; he was so

unhappy…” She released Isobel’s hands and held out her own before her again. “We

were boiling water for her bath, her ladies and I, and someone must have told her

about my lord, for she came into her chamber, took hold of my hair and dragged me

to where the water heated in a cauldron. I begged for mercy, but she thrust my hands

in the water. Not for long. It didn’t take long.” She smiled sadly. “I didn’t see my lord

again. He sent me away and found me a husband, and now I have my son who will

come and fetch me. Did I tell you about my son? He is a good boy, dutiful.”

Isobel frowned. “The Earl discarded you like … like…” She ground to a halt, aware

that this was exactly what she had desired. She pursed her mouth. No, not to be

discarded, but released, let go — on her terms, not his. And why would he do that?

Ursula ceased rocking, and now her owl-like face peered at Isobel from the confines

of her coif.

“Why do you look at me in that way?”

“My lady does not understand. My lord did not forsake me, he saved me. He made

me invisible.”

Isobel’s ire deflated like a popped blister, feeling suddenly very stupid and very

young. “Did you love him?” she asked eventually.

“Yes, of course. He is so very fair-featured and noble-hearted. People say King

Edward is handsome, but he knows it too well, although he has a way about him. But

my lord was never vain like that; he would rather be hunting with his dogs than

dancing. I did love him. He was kind to me.”

“Then … he did not force you?”

Ursula surprised Isobel by clapping her hands and laughing. “Why would he do

that?”

Taken aback, Isobel said the first thing that came to mind. “Because he has no

heart.”

“It is true he did not love me, but he had a heart once, before she stole it. But you

are here again, and now you can give it back.”

“I do not have his heart. He took me against my will, and now keeps me here in the

same manner,” Isobel said. “I wish to return to my people; I want to go home to

Beaumancote.”

Ursula might have replied, but a knock at the door forestalled her, and she went to

open it. She came back with a fardel of coarse wool, secured with a strip of linen.

“There!” Ursula exclaimed, placing it on Isobel’s knees. “My lord has sent you a

gift.”

Isobel unwound the cloth wrapping, revealing a red and white striped piece of fabric

with a bell swinging from the end. She held it up, her brow screwed in a frown. “Why

would I want a hood?”

Ursula gasped and plucked the head-covering from Isobel’s hand.

“What are you doing? Give that to me!”

Ursula held it out of reach. “This is not for my lady; there has been a mistake.

Perhaps it was meant for me? What will my son say? What will he say?” She began

rocking again, clutching the hood to her bony breast.

Isobel retrieved it from her. “For goodness’ sake stop that, it is only a hood,

although why my lord should send it to me I do not know; this is what servants might

wear. Or a jester.” She removed her own headdress and replaced it with the new one,

laughing as she jangled the bell.

Moaning in horror, Ursula snatched it from Isobel’s head. “No, my lady, not

servants — ” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “— fille de joie. In Leicester, it is

decreed that all harlots wear them as a mark of their … trade.”

In the scant moment it took Isobel to translate the French and the expression on

Ursula’s face, her mouth fell open in dismay. “Why would he insult me with this?”

She shook the hood like a dog with a rat, making the brass bell sing. “Who delivered

it?”

“A boy from the kitchens, my lady.” Adding insult to injury but leaving Isobel none

the wiser. “My lord would not send such a thing to you.” For once Isobel had to agree.

“My lady must tell him — ”

“No,” Isobel said quickly, then, “I shall not bother him with this; it is best ignored.

Whoever sent it will gain no pleasure from the slander.” Re-wrapping it, she hid it in

the bottom of her chest beneath her clothes, but it left an ugly taint and every time she

looked at the chest she imagined the hood shouting to be released, waiting for

recognition.

It was not long before Isobel found herself summoned to the Earl’s chamber. He

smiled on seeing her and gestured to a padded box in front of him. “Open it — it is a

gift.”

Cautiously, given her last experience of an unexpected gift, Isobel lifted the lid of

the box only to find another inside: a chequered board in alternating squares of brown

wood and white bone. “Oh!” She extricated the folding games box with care, putting

it on the table in front of her to examine it more closely. Her finger outlined the

carved ivory frieze framing the board with scenes of hunting and music, dancing and

courting couples.

“Look inside,” the Earl suggested, and she did so, gingerly unlocking it and hearing

the rattle of gaming pieces. The interior, as exquisite as the outside, had a pattern of

green and white intersecting darts contained within panels of ivory. Isobel selected a

pawn with one hand and a carved counter in the shape of a white rose in the other.

“Well?” the Earl asked, perching on the edge of the table, swinging one leg and

smiling at her childlike awe. “I cannot have you complaining of being bored when I

am away.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Isobel said quietly. “It is very beautiful.”

“Set up a game of tables for us; I have not played it for a while.” He slid to his feet

and hooked his chair towards him before his page could dash forward to help. “Some

wine, I think, and wafers.” He ruffled the head of the greyhound sitting next to him.

“These long evenings are made for entertainment, are they not?”

Isobel removed the chess pieces and selected the discs of green and white bone.

“Will you be away long, my lord?”

“Ah, is that why you are quiet?” Taking the green counters, he began laying them

on his side of the board. “I must see to the affairs of my estates, and I will be paying a

visit to your own manors to ensure their security. His Grace will also expect me at

Court. But I should be back for Margaret’s wedding, and that is nigh on six weeks

from now.” The wedding of the Earl’s middle daughter had been the focus of frenetic

activity for the past few months. He mistook Isobel’s silence for regret. “I would take

you with me, but the days in the saddle are long and I ride hard. Estate business

makes for a poor companion, Isobel; you must remember when it took your father

from home.”

She nodded, but back then she had had her servant Buena and Alfred her dog for

company, and her cherished garden and own things around her. And no wrathful

countess to avoid. When Isobel had first been brought to the Earl’s estate, she had

been expected to serve his two younger daughters, Margaret and Cecily, and the hours

spent with them had given her some comfort and respite from loneliness, but ever

since the countess had discovered that the Earl had taken Isobel to his bed, she had

been banned from their presence. “My lord, might I be permitted to see Lady

Margaret before she weds?”

He finished setting up his counters and sat back with his fingers interlaced over his

stomach, watching her place her last piece. “You know that is not possible.”

“I know that I am not permitted, but that is not the same.”

“Nonetheless.” His fingers jerked restlessly. “Why is it so important that you see

her?”

“I would like to know whether she has kept up with her Latin studies…” He raised a

brow, so obviously wasn’t taken in by that. She tried again. “She is so young. She is

not ready for marriage.”

“She is prepared; she knows her duty as a wife and will be obedient. More so than

you,” he added, in an attempt to lighten her mood. She responded with a barely

constrained huff. Why did men have to be so blind? Or was it that they knew, but

chose not to see?

“My lord, I am not speaking of saying ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ to her husband, but of those

other … duties men expect. She is still a girl in a child’s body, and he is such an old

cog … I mean,” she amended hastily, “Lady Margaret is delicate in her manner, and

he is … not.”

“I see, so my choice of husband for my daughter is to be determined by her delicacy

of feeling, is that it? Perhaps you consider a boy her age a better match than this lord

you liken to a bull-bottomed ship? This is not a matter of personal happiness — she is

not some girl from a town who can marry where she fancies — this match secures an

alliance with a family whose estates will extend our influence beyond our own.”

“He is so old — ”

“He is over forty winters, but he is established and loyal and he has no surviving

male heirs to dispute his estates on his death. Please God she has a son first, but Margaret will make a very wealthy widow, and then she

will be able to marry where she wishes. But, until then, she is a daughter of this family, and she will do her duty as

do we all.”

“As must I?”

He suddenly leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We must all do our duty, Isobel.

If we are free to follow our hearts it leads to nothing but ruin, as this realm now

suffers. Would Warwick and the Duke of Clarence be so disaffected if King Edward

had done his duty instead of marrying his desire? Look where wedding Grey’s widow

has brought us — to the brink of misrule — elevating Elizabeth Woodville and her

family above their station and causing a rift I fear cannot be healed. The king should

have made a match with a royal princess abroad as Warwick had brokered for him. He

should…” The Earl severed his remark. Isobel had never heard him speak out about

the king like this before. He resumed in a more moderate tone, “If my brother had

married our father’s choice he would be better placed than he now finds himself —

without great estate, lacking affinity, and with neither the wife he married for love nor

a child to remember him. Those of us who have responsibilities beyond ourselves

must bear the burden of them in return for the riches and honours we earn.”

“But why can happiness not be found in a suitable match?” she pressed, accepting

the wine his page offered and selecting a pink and green marbled wafer from the

gilded dish.

“What is happiness?” He held up a wafer and his own goblet. “The freedom to

starve? To watch your neighbour take your land, your animals? To whom do my

tenants turn to settle disputes? Who will defend you and your inheritance from

Thomas Lacey’s ambition, Isobel? I will do these things because it is my duty to serve

King Edward and protect my affinity, and to do so I must make a sacrifice of my

happiness. I will do my duty, but in return I expect absolute loyalty and obedience and

that includes deciding my daughter’s marriage.”

“My parents married for love.”

He sat back. “Did they. Is that what you were told?” Isobel glared at him.

“I do not say that affection might not grow between a couple, Isobel, especially if there are

children, but sometimes there are greater considerations than love, and comfort has to

be found elsewhere.”

“For a man, perhaps, but a woman cannot.”

“You are testy today! Women have the consolation of the children they bear, denied

to men because of Man’s warlike nature as determined by God.” She tutted. “Do you

doubt this?”

“Do you believe it, my lord?” she enjoined.