Cecily smiled at Richard’s attempt at humor in such a serious letter, but despite Eleanor Cobham’s involvement in witchcraft, she had felt a little sorry for Gloucester’s widow upon hearing that she had died alone in her prison at Beaumaris Castle three years before.
I would send for you, Cis, and I know you will chastise me for not keeping my promise to you, but tension hangs heavy over the city. It pleases me to know you are safely back at Fotheringhay and I beg your patience for a while longer. There is much to do to reconcile the two sides—for it is now clear to me there are two sides: York and Lancaster—and to facilitate this, I have sent the king, queen, and prince to Windsor, where they are safe. In truth, the battle unnerved the king, and we on the council are fearful for a return of his affliction.
Why are there two sides now, Richard? Cecily wanted to ask him. With Somerset dead and York restored to the council and swearing allegiance to Lancastrian Henry, why should anyone take sides? Unless Queen Margaret had other ideas and was still poisoning Henry against Richard. She grunted. How wise to send the queen away as well, my lord, she thought. If she is out of sight, perhaps she will not come to mind.
Cecily had wondered how Margaret had taken the news of her friend Somerset’s death and then had been surprised to learn how quickly Somerset had been supplanted in the queen’s affections by his own son, the new young Duke Henry. Let us hope he is more like his mother, quiet Eleanor Beauchamp, Cecily mused. ’Tis certain he is too young as yet to have influence on the king and queen as his father did.
She read Richard’s few final affectionate lines with a smile, marveling that after all this time and the duress of the past year, Richard had not forgotten how to be tender. “And I adore you too, my beloved Dickon,” she murmured, using his old nickname for the first time in years and kissing the parchment. I pray you retain King Henry’s approbation now and we can settle into a peaceful time again.
Saintly Henry. She conjured up his long, pleasant face and ready smile, his nose almost always in a prayer book, and she shook her head. If only he could be more of a king rather than the ineffectual pious man that he is. How long will others greedy for power stay loyal to him, she wondered, for in our times a king must be able to govern to keep his throne, and he has surely not demonstrated good governance.
She sighed and snuggled down in the tester bed, tucking Richard’s letter under the pillow. It was taking her a little longer this time to recover from the delivery, but she was for once enjoying the ministrations of Constance and Gresilde and allowing herself to rest. Richard would be here soon, she hoped.
BUT IT WAS late August before Richard could leave London and see his Ursula. He spent time holding the baby, and Cecily would tiptoe from the room and leave him whispering to his new daughter. She would go and find Meg, whose downturned mouth gave away her jealousy for the newcomer, who had surely stolen her father’s love.
“Just wait until she starts screaming, Meggie,” George told her one day, much to Cecily’s amusement. “Father will come and play with us then. Now let us go and fish. Please?” His liquid blue eyes and sunny smile pried Meg out of her grumps and she ran off happily with her brother, hand in hand. It continued to astonish Cecily how close these two children were.
Cecily walked among the flowers in the well-kept castle garden, admiring the late roses and thinking about all her children. A twinge of sadness marred the reverie. Constance had counseled that, considering Cecily’s age, Ursula ought to be the last child.
“You will have to advise Duke Richard of this yourself, Constance,” Cecily had retorted, “for I shall not.”
A gardener doffed his wide straw hat and bowed to her, and the man was rewarded with a few words from the duchess, who asked about a species of yellow rose that had caught her eye.
“I be calling it Rose of Raby, m’lady. After yourself, m’lady,” the leather-faced old man told Cecily, beaming. He cut one of the pale blooms and presented it to her. “Dame Boyvile did tell me ’twas your name once. She said the rose was like the color of your hair, if I may be so bold, m’lady. It did seem fitting.”
“I am deeply honored, Master Williams. You should allow me to take a cutting to plant at Ludlow.”
Anne and her attendant came skipping down the steps into the garden, giggling together like the young girls they were. Anne waved gaily to her mother, and Cecily saluted her. She observed the spring in her eldest daughter’s step and the confident smile of motherhood. Her baby daughter was thriving too, and Richard had granted permission for them to stay on with Cecily. He had no intention of allowing the vicious Exeter anywhere near Anne for the time being, Cecily was happy to know. Besides which, Exeter was the queen’s man and thus Richard’s foe. The queen’s man, she grumbled under her breath. How many times a day does Margaret of Anjou spring unwanted into my thoughts? Is she truly more powerful than the king?
“Nan, my dear,” Cecily called purposefully. “Come and see this new rose Master Williams has cultivated. He chooses to call it Rose of Raby.”
And she pushed the queen from her thoughts.
Baynard’s Castle, London
FEBRUARY 9, 1461
The queen. Aye, she was our real enemy.”
Cecily must have spoken aloud, for the sound jolted her out of a doze on the comfortable cushions a dozen hours after Margaret’s nightmare had awakened the castle. How long had she been reminiscing this time? she wondered. Certes, it must be an hour or more, and Gresilde should be returning at any moment, judging by the dying embers of the fire and the angle of the shadows from the wintery sun’s rays on the floor.
Stretching her limbs, she got up to look down on the river, its edges rimed from the icy mists that wisped around the boatmen bundled up in warm woolen cloaks. She thought that this must be how the River Styx had been imagined by the ancient Greeks.
But on a finer day the Thames will sparkle, as it did on that Lady Day morning almost three years ago when, Cecily mused, London witnessed one of the most remarkable and yet improbable scenes ever to play out in its colorful history. Cecily frowned as she gazed through the polished horn panes in the window, trying to recall every detail of the Love-day, and how it had come about.
Richard’s time in the sun after he had accepted a second protectorate in that autumn of little Ursula’s birth was again short-lived. Poor little Ursula. Her time too was short. Her sunny disposition shone in this world for eighteen months until on a day like today her light was extinguished one frigid morning in January here in this castle. Was that before or after Richard had been almost murdered by young Henry Somerset’s men? Thank God for the mayor, who by some miracle had been nearby with his escort and had rescued him.
London was seething with armed men, she recalled, and Richard had warned her not to set foot outside Baynard’s that winter. He had wanted her to return with the children to Fotheringhay but had given up, she chuckled now, when she refused to be parted from him again.
“You should see yourself, my dear,” he had teased her, with his neighing laugh, now heard rarely in these troubled times, “standing proud and tall as though you were the queen herself.”
“Sweet Jesu, Richard!” she remembered protesting. “You compare me with that she-wolf? I have not one whit of her malice, let me tell you, but twice her backbone, eight times her offspring, and a hundred times her husband.”
Richard had swept her up in his arms then, and they had spent a passionate hour in the warmth of her tester bed. “Proud Cis,” he had murmured. “How I love you still.”
Cecily found a tear was trickling down her cheek as she relived that scene, whispering, “And how I still adore you, Richard, my one and only love.”
She swiftly brushed her hand across her eyes and concentrated on that Lady Day of 1458. It was the only one of Henry’s lamentable attempts at reconciling his warring nobles that earned him Cecily’s respect. He did try, she thought. But his Love-day, as it had since been dubbed, was a sham.
It should have been s
impler to bring about reconciliation on the council once Somerset was dead, she told herself, but Henry could not resist Margaret’s spiteful bias against Richard. Henry tried to be fair, she supposed, agreeing to Richard’s being named Protector again during a milder attack of his previous malady, but at that time, with Margaret’s insistence, he had shown marked favor to the cubs of Richard’s enemies: Henry Beaufort, the new, young, and volatile duke of Somerset; the new earl of Northumberland and his brother, the rebellious Lord Egremont; and John, Lord Clifford—all blinded by hatred over the death of their fathers at St. Albans. Others who had declared themselves enemies of the duke of York included the earls of Wiltshire and Shrewsbury and Lord Beaumont, not forgetting Henry’s half brothers, Edmund and Jasper Tudor. And eventually Humphrey of Buckingham, who had remained neutral as long as he was able but in the end had sided with the king and queen. It went without saying that Anne’s husband, Exeter, would also cling to Lancaster.
And who was with us? Cecily sighed. My brothers, Richard and William, my nephew Warwick, and my sister Kat’s son, John of Norfolk. Others would join them, she remembered, but when Warwick had arrived from Calais on St. Valentine’s Day, he was greeted with relief by Richard and Salisbury. Surely securing the captaincy of that most vital of garrisons and staple town for Warwick had been Richard’s most important achievement, Cecily thought now. Thanks be to God for Warwick’s command of Calais and the seas.
Her brother’s son had become a force to be reckoned with, she admitted now. As charismatic and decisive as his father was not, Warwick’s exploits as Captain of Calais in the last two years had captured the people of England’s imagination. He had garnered a reputation for generosity to those less fortunate, shown himself wily and brave both in politics and on the battlefield, and yet with all the world at his feet, some even wishing he were king, he had remained loyal to Richard. And how Ned looks up to his cousin. But, she now worried, let us hope he remains on our side.
She watched a barge being rowed past Baynard’s, its colorful canopy proclaiming its noble owner, but she could not make out the emblems decorating it. It was on such a barge that Henry and Margaret had arrived at Paul’s Wharf from Westminster that sunny twenty-fourth day of March for Love-day. A stiff breeze had made the royal pennants and banners stand straight out from the awnings, and Margaret’s lithe figure was enveloped in an ermine-lined cloak. Cecily grunted, thinking of the queen processing up Paul’s Hill Lane to the great church at the top of it. How beautiful she still was, Cecily reluctantly admitted, though arrogance and anger were beginning to pinch her lovely face.
Hundreds lined the streets that day, but, Cecily grimaced, the spectators were not the usual citizens eager to take time from their busy lives to see their sovereign in full regalia processing among them. These were soldiers, guards, and armed retainers of the lords attending this extraordinary ceremony. One bad word, one false step made by one of the opposing lords, and these men were ready to do battle. Cecily doubted that Henry felt the hostility in the air; he was congratulating himself on a magnificent show of camaraderie and courtliness.
The bells in the soaring spire of St. Paul’s began to ring merrily, their carillon echoed by all the churches in London. Cecily remembered she had worn her crimson cloth of silver, her Neville colors, for the occasion. Richard, Edward, and Edmund, however, had all been in various shades of murrey and blue. They had escorted her from Baynard’s to the wharf, a stone’s throw from the castle, to greet the king and queen as they arrived.
“Never say you heard it from me, Cecily, but today’s ceremony is nothing but a foolish spectacle,” Richard told her along the way. “I commend his grace’s attempt at diplomacy, but I cannot believe so many family feuds or so many offenses—nay, I should say injustices—can be wiped from memory with one ceremonial gesture.”
He was right, Cecily admitted grimly now, as she watched the passengers from the barge alight below her. She returned to the scene at St. Paul’s heavy oak west door, and the image of it almost made her want to laugh aloud.
First to enter the church was her brother, Richard of Salisbury, holding hands—aye, imagine that, she thought, shaking her head—holding hands with the young duke of Somerset. They had been made to hold hands, these enemies, she remembered. She had stepped away from her sons at that point to get a better view of the leaders of the procession. Henry’s chamberlain then bowed to her nephew Warwick, who stepped forward, and he was partnered in this laughable dance of amity with his enemy, the duke of Exeter. Who would think that cherubic face framed in innocent golden curls could hide such a cruel nature, Cecily mused. She was happy that Anne was confined by her courses and did not have to face her vicious husband.
Henry himself came next, eschewing his drab clothes and resplendent for once in a flowing purple velvet robe trimmed in ermine, a jeweled crown upon his head, and genuine pleasure at his brilliant idea shining on his face. How could he not have seen it for the mummery it was? Cecily wondered. He had surprised her by the sincerity of his smile when he noticed her and he had lifted a hand in salute. She dropped a low curtsey where she was standing in the line and could do nothing but return his guileless smile. Dear Mother of God, he does not remember I am not supposed to be his friend, she had thought. When she raised her head again, she saw him gazing vacuously at a point over her head just as he had done all those years ago when he was but a child. His chamberlain steered him toward the church door and it seemed to Cecily that the king had forgotten for a moment where he was or what he was doing there. Once he stepped into the dark doorway, Cecily had heard the organ thundering over a choir singing “Hallelujah!” to welcome their king inside the magnificent church.
Then Richard had stepped forward, his arms held stiffly at his sides, his eyes straight ahead and his determined chin leading. However, when his partner stepped next to him, he turned his head slowly and bowed. Had he known before that moment that he was expected to take the she-wolf ’s hand? But as he had not said anything to her before they left Baynard’s, she believed this must have come as a surprise. He had so slowly taken the tips of the queen’s icy fingers in his hand, reluctantly partnering with his greatest enemy in this absurd procession.
And so they all went into St. Paul’s to give thanks for this day of loving kindness. She remembered holding young Lord Clifford’s hand, grimacing as she thought of the irony now. Aye, he was naught but a boy then, but by the time he arrived at Wakefield, he was well and truly a man.
Once again Edmund’s sweet face floated before her, his gentle gaze warm as summer. She shut her eyes tightly to rid herself of any vision of his ghastly end at Clifford’s hand. Instead she forced herself to return to that fateful Lady Day.
Aye, Love-day, they called it—and how long did the loving last? A few weeks of festivities had given way to more violence in the streets by June, while Henry and Margaret spent time together at the royal apartments at the Tower and at Humphrey of Gloucester’s old palace of Greenwich. She and Richard had stayed away from London, living at Fotheringhay and Ludlow. Richard remained convinced he was in danger from the queen and her minions.
In one disturbing incident in November of that year, Cecily’s nephew Warwick had narrowly escaped assassination. He had returned from Calais upon a summons from the council to explain his attack on a Hanseatic salt fleet, and while he was making his report in Westminster’s Star Chamber, his waiting retainers were set upon in the great hall. Hearing his servants cry “A Warwick! A Warwick!” the earl had rushed out of the meeting to see what was amiss. Those of the court party and even servants bearing knives from the kitchen attacked him, and the earl barely escaped to his barge with his life, subsequently fleeing back to Calais. I think ’twas then I realized how important it was for Calais to be in Yorkist hands, Cecily thought now. It became pivotal when Richard finally turned his thoughts from standing beside Henry’s throne to Henry’s throne itself.
A knock on the door startled her. Did she really want to be disturbed y
et? After a second’s hesitation, she called, “Come,” thinking she must make certain Meg was up and feeling better. Oh, and who knows what that pair George and Richard are up to, she mused.
Gresilde and Beatrice bustled in to dress their mistress.
“Did Father Lessey miss me?” Cecily asked as Gresilde rolled one silk stocking up Cecily’s calf and tied it above the knee. “Did I miss sext?”
“And lauds, prime, and terce,” said Gresilde cheerfully, accepting Cecily’s foot for the second stocking. She had been dismayed when she saw her mistress’s swollen face but knew better than to question her. “I hope you rested well, your grace. Perhaps a cool compress for your eyes will help,” she fussed.
Cecily reached for her robe and shook her head. “Nay, Gresilde, I am suffering from too little sleep, ’tis all. But I must attempt to redeem myself by attending nones or Father Lessey will be despairing of my immortal soul.”
An hour later, the duchess of York emerged from her chamber, dressed as elegantly as usual, her high hennin supporting a long veil that floated down her back and shoulders and half hid her face. She was accompanied to the tiny private chapel in the castle, where her dear friend and confessor, Richard Lessey, awaited. After the short service, Cecily begged to be left alone to pray and study her favorite writings of St. Brigid.
She knelt on the tufted hassock decorated with the white rose of York and began to tell her rosary. Father Lessey gave her a benediction and together with her attendants he left the vaulted room. Gresilde would have stayed, concerned for her mistress’s melancholy, but Cecily assured her that she would prefer to converse with God alone.
“Dear Lord, I pray you watch over my son Edward in these dangerous times to come,” she began. “He is so very young, not even nineteen, and yet he leads an army of thousands who believe in his cause, to uphold his father’s birthright. His own birthright, in truth. I cannot ask you to take sides, for it is well known King Henry is as holy as a mortal can be and thus must be in your favor. But Edward is a good boy, and his mother loves him dearly. I beg that you return him to me and his brothers and sisters hale and whole.”