“A ship, Georgie!” Richard enthused, his tears forgotten. “We are going to sea, like the game we played yesterday!”
“Aye, Dickon, and I will protect you, never fear,” George told him.
“I am not afraid, George!” Richard exclaimed. “I am a York. And we Yorks are never afraid!”
“There’s a brave boy, Richard,” Cecily said, much relieved. “I want both of you to remember how brave you were at Ludlow. You can do it again, I know you can. Now, say good-bye to Meg and come with me.”
They made their way to the castle quay, where Steward Heydon had commandeered a boat without markings. She saw the boys safely stowed in the stern and then stepped in herself, Heydon taking the bow seat. George’s gentleman attendant, holding the boy’s luggage, eased himself next to Heydon. Cecily had entrusted the strapping young man with a missive and instructions to take the boys to Philip.
The boatman dipped his heavy oars into the water and pulled away from the pier toward the scores of ships moored in the Pool on the other side of London Bridge. Cecily sat with her black fur-trimmed cloak wrapped around her shivering children as they huddled together for warmth against the damp February evening.
“I will be back with the tide, Meg,” Cecily called to the desolate girl on the wharf waving her brothers farewell. “You must take care of everything until I return. You know what to do. You have learned well!”
The boatman rowed from ship to ship, and Cecily and Steward Heydon haggled with their captains to no avail until a sturdy carrack bearing the Flemish name of Zoete hove into view. The steward hailed a crew member dumping dirty water over the side. “Your captain, mariner? Where is your captain?” he shouted, and the man nodded and ran off. A few moments later, as the boatman maneuvered the boat alongside and grabbed the rope netting hanging from the gunwale, a burly man with a globe of a face appeared above them.
“Ja? I am der captain, Captain Bouwen. Vat you vant?”
Sir Henry stated his business and held up a pouch of coins that Cecily had given him. When the man knew he was in the presence of a noblewoman and that he might be rewarded even more for taking the two boys to Flanders, he nodded and grinned, calling over his shoulder to two of his sailors, who swarmed down the makeshift ladder like monkeys.
There was hardly time to kiss the boys and whisper her love before they were manhandled up the swinging netting and safely onto the deck, their attendant scrambling behind them. Just then a wake from a passing boat caused the boatman to let go of the rope and tend to his oars, and Cecily’s hand reached out into the widening space between the vessels, blinking back her tears, as the boys, ashen-faced and crying her name, receded farther and farther from her. Raw panic engulfed her as her eyes focused on the small figures. Would she ever see them again? Was the captain trustworthy? Would they be shipwrecked before they even reached Duke Philip and his duchess? Would Duke Philip take them in? Would Dickon catch cold? Sweet Jesu, what had she done? Had she, too, like Queen Margaret, gone mad?
SHE DID NOT have time to worry about her sons, as London began to shut down in anticipation of the queen’s arrival with her horde. But, strangely, Margaret did not come, and a few days after the battle, instead of taking advantage of her victory, she chose to stay where she was at St. Albans and negotiate with the mayor and aldermen of London for the surrender of the city. Back and forth the emissaries rode between the mayor and the queen, Margaret wanting a triumphal entry for herself and Henry and the city’s complete surrender. The city fathers even sent three noblewomen to mediate for them with Margaret, knowing that she would treat them well for their past service to her. Cecily was not surprised when she heard that her sister Anne was one, along with Jacquetta of Bedford. They fared a little better. The king and queen agreed to remove the army to Dunstable and that only they and the other leaders would enter the city as victors.
But the mayor and his aldermen hadn’t reckoned on the Londoners’ hatred of the queen. They bolted their doors, rolled down their shutters, shut up their shops, and even upset carts of food destined for the queen. When Margaret promised that no one would be punished and that London would not be pillaged, the mayor was pleased and petitioned the people to surrender. But instead a riot ensued, the citizens took the keys to the city, and it was clear that London would not submit to the king and queen.
So when the sound of marching feet and fanfares of clarions and trumpets did resound on the eve of the month of March, Cecily knew with pride it was Edward and not Margaret who was being cheered and feted from Chepeside to Bishopsgate and from Newgate to the Tower. Dressed in her dove-gray mourning gown and her black steepled hennin, with only her precious sapphire around her neck and her ruby betrothal ring for jewelled adornment, she waited on the throne in the great hall for the arrival of her magnificent son.
That day the February rain had finally stopped and the sun was shining on Edward’s red-blond hair as he came riding into the courtyard on his white horse, its trappings torn and bloodied, his cuirass dented, and his hand bandaged. To the cheers and shouts of welcome, the grinning young duke dismounted and, standing proudly on the steps of his father’s palace, he raised an arm in salute.
Then he strode through the doorway on his long, strong legs, and Sir Henry announced, as Edward’s squire had hurriedly instructed him: “His grace the duke of York, earl of March and Ulster, and true heir to the throne of England, France, and Ireland.” Edward nodded, pleased with the steward’s new styling, and went straight to his mother, where he bent his knee and bowed his head.
“Your grace,” he said, his baritone strong and warm. “I humbly ask your blessing.”
“You have it, my son,” Cecily said, surprised at the hoarseness of her voice. “We give you God’s good greeting.” Rising, she held out her hands. “Come give your mother a kiss.”
“ ‘LET US WALK in a new vineyard, and let us make us a gay garden in the month of March with this fair white rose and herb, the earl of March.’” Meg quoted the words from a parchment one of her attendants had given her. “’Tis what they are saying in the city about you, Ned, although ‘fair white rose’ is hardly how I would describe you.”
“Ha!” Edward replied from his chair, stretching out his long legs lazily. “I suppose you think that fits you, Mistress Nose-in-a-Book.”
Irked, Meg shook her head. “I do not, in truth. I am too tall and too plain by far,” she retorted and flung the paper on the floor.
Cecily looked up from her needlework and sighed. “Little birds in their nests should agree, my dear children. Meg, allow Ned to finish telling us how the king and queen have run back to York. I do not get tired of hearing you say it, I confess.”
Edward frowned. “Aye, it is good news, Mother, but I hear that she continues to plunder her way north. ’Tis no wonder the people hate her.” He plucked a flea he saw idling on his left leg and crushed it between his fingers, the wound on his hand still livid. Then he asked Meg to leave so that he could have private consultation with Cecily. He blew his sister a kiss as she left the room. “Even though they make fun of your long neck, Meg, I think you are not unpleasant to look at,” for which she rewarded him with a glare and a slammed door.
“You are unkind, Ned,” Cecily told him. “Do not let success go to your head. Your father would not wish that.” The mention of Richard caused them both to pause for a moment with their own memories. Edward longed to talk to his mother of their loss and his own devastation on learning that his beloved brother had been killed. Although he could not help but notice the ravages of grief on her lovely face, he was not accustomed to speaking with her of such things, and so said nothing until Cecily reminded him of his wish for this private conversation.
“It appears we have two options open to us now that Margaret has gone north,” Edward began. “Warwick believes that we must either capitulate and leave England of our own volition or”—he watched his mother’s face carefully—“do what Henry Bolingbroke did after he came back from exile: depose the
king and take the crown.”
Cecily did not bat an eyelash. “Then you must take the crown now, Edward. It is why your father returned from Ireland, it is why he died at Wakefield. Henry is too weak and his queen too strong. Together they are disastrous for England. With Warwick by your side, you will make England whole again. You must depose Henry. It is what your father would have wanted.”
She had risen during these pronouncements, causing Edward to get to his feet in filial respect. Then he sank on one knee. “I had hoped for perhaps your reluctant support, Mother. I did not expect to have your royal command.” He searched her face for any hesitation. “And what of my conscience? My immortal soul? I swore in front of God and the Parliament not to seek to hurt or diminish Henry’s reign nor consent to do anything that would end his natural life. Are you telling me to break that oath?”
Cecily gave him an enigmatic smile. “I also remember the king pledging to treat any action against the duke of York as high treason. I did not see him put those men who attacked and killed your father—during a Christmas truce, no less—on trial for treason. Nay, he honors them, even knighting that traitor Andrew Trollope. An eye for an eye, Edward,” Cecily said, astonished by how her heart had hardened. “Besides, you are not seeking to end Henry’s life, you are seeking to end his ruinous reign. And if I may point out, my son, you never took an oath to defend the queen, and if the truth be told, ’tis she whose reign it has become, more’s the pity for England.”
Edward, now imbued with his mother’s confidence and approbation, scrambled to his feet. “I have heard Father praise your ability to see things clearly, my lady, but I never noticed until now.” He kissed her hand and walked to the door, where he paused to tell her, “It occurs to me that our loss at Wakefield was far worse than I imagined. England lost the chance to have a truly great queen.”
“Oh, pish!” Cecily said and put her hand to her face to hide an unexpected blush.
WARWICK LOST NO time in taking advantage of Edward’s popularity with the Londoners. He staged a huge rally in St. John’s Field outside the city, where Chancellor George Neville, Warwick’s younger brother, addressed a crowd that included the lords left in London, the aldermen, and members of Parliament. After a lengthy explanation of Edward’s hereditary right to the throne, he read out the points that illustrated King Henry’s failure to rule justly and his broken agreement with the duke of York sworn before Parliament a few months before.
Then he shouted, “Is the king fit to rule over us?” And the answer from thousands of throats was “Nay! Nay!”
Two days later, Cecily found herself standing in the great hall at Baynard’s listening while a hurriedly called great council ratified the vote of the Londoners. She noted that the lords, bishops, and gentry present were most certainly partisan, but in this time of conflict, she believed what was happening so rapidly would restore good government and peace to the realm.
Edward stood tallest among them, his leadership evident as he greeted one here with a slap on the back or attentive ear and another there with a shared jest or quick word, his smile engaging, his blue eyes sharp but merry. It was then that she knew that even though her husband had commanded the respect of those nobles in his inner circle, he had not Edward’s ability to inspire enthusiasm in his followers or his astonishing common touch. How had her son grown so quickly into a man, Cecily wondered, awed. Where was I when this transformation took place? Was I so wrapped up in Edmund that I never looked closely at Ned? How the years had flown by, she mused, and how proud Richard would have been of his beloved eldest son at this moment. She felt her throat constrict as she imagined him watching from heaven and, perhaps like her, close to tears.
The next day, a proclamation was made summoning the citizens of London to the square outside St. Paul’s to witness the formal announcement of Edward’s accession. Processing from Baynard’s, Edward received the cheering crowds with a serious face and stately wave. He was preceded by Warwick, the orchestrator of this extraordinary event, and the Londoners greeted their favorite earl just as loudly.
In St. Paul’s yard, from the steps of the high stone cross, which had been witness to many a historic event down the centuries, George Neville gave a lengthy sermon and then again demanded to know if the people accepted Edward as their king.
A rousing answer of “Yea! Yea!” left no one in doubt that there were now two kings of England.
“EDWARD CANNOT SIT on the throne knowing the queen and her army are still in the north,” Warwick explained to Cecily one night at the Erber, when Alice had asked that her sister-in-law be entertained. “Until Henry is beaten—or exiled—the crown will lie uneasy on Edward’s head. Margaret has refused to accept the succession. She means to fight us for the crown. We must march north and confront her.”
Cecily sighed but agreed. She looked across at Alice and was again sad to see how thin her dear sister-in-law was. It seemed to her that both of them had aged a decade since Wakefield. Indeed, after her reminiscences at Baynard’s on that cold night in February, she had been shocked to see that the color had gone from her hair in the space, it seemed to Cecily, of a few hours.
“How long has my hair been like this, Grizzy?” she had asked Gresilde one night, as her faithful attendant gently stroked the comb through the long tresses. Gresilde had smiled and reassured the duchess that it had gradually been turning white for many months now, but Cecily was certain the older woman was just being kind.
Warwick was telling the small group in the Erber solar that Edward had put out a call to arms and they would all soon be marching north. Alice shook her head. “Then I pray Margaret will take to her heels over the border before an arrow is loosed,” she said. “I do not think I can bear to lose any more dear ones.”
Warwick leaned over and patted her hand. “Aye, let us hope they will take fright and flee when they hear we are bearing down on them. And now, I promised my daughter a game of merels, did I not, Isabel?” he asked a pretty, pale girl whom Cecily had hardly noticed sitting quietly on a stool near her equally unobtrusive mother, Anne Beauchamp.
“And I must return to Baynard’s before dark,” Cecily said, rising and going to bestow a kiss on Alice and Anne, “but before I do, Nephew, tell me when can Meg and I expect to be left alone again.”
Warwick reverenced his aunt and chuckled. “I think you may enjoy Edward’s company for a few more days, your grace.”
AND THAT WAS all she did have, for on March the thirteenth the courtyard was once again noisy with horses, armorers, soldiers, cannons, carts full of weapons, and victuals as Edward prepared to leave. He had hoped the proclamation that had been read up and down the country earlier in the month, calling men to his banner and forbidding anyone to help Henry and his adherents, on pain of death, would shore up more support and deter treachery. He also forbade those men who rallied to his flag to rob any church or churchman, deflower any woman, or do violence to any innocent citizen.
With heavy hearts, Cecily and Meg watched him leave, and indeed Edward himself seemed preoccupied as he made last-minute adjustments to his mail and gambeson and checked his destrier’s shoes and harness. He had issued his retinue with a new personal cognizance of a golden sunburst in honor of the three suns of Mortimer’s Cross, and the caparison on Edward’s horse was sewn all over with them.
Cecily watched as Edward lifted Meg in a brotherly hug. “Take care of our mother, little Meggie,” he whispered. “Even though she must be easier now that we know of George and Dickon’s safe arrival at Bruges, she does not look well.”
“Then hurry home, Ned,” Meg whispered back, her luminous gray eyes imploring him. “’Tis what will make her happiest. That and when she can see the boys again.”
Edward set his sister down and nodded. “As soon as I put Margaret of Anjou to rout,” he promised.
BUT THANKS TO her powerful followers, such as Somerset, Northumberland, and Exeter, Margaret had gathered a larger army than Warwick and Edward had anticipated. The t
wo forces met on Palm Sunday on a snow-driven field near Towton in Yorkshire. It was the bloodiest battle ever to be fought on English soil.
Cecily collapsed in her chair when the messenger came with the news of Edward’s stunning victory there. Meg sat at her feet as Cecily opened the letter he brought. It was not detailed, but she exclaimed when she saw the numbers. “Near twenty thousand slain? ’Tis pitiable! God rest their poor souls.”
The snowy field and a small stream nearby had run with blood, and Edward said he had wept to see the terrible loss of English lives on both sides. “My lord of Northumberland lost his life for Margaret on that day, as did that traitor Trollope. Later, at York, we executed Devon and Wiltshire, and for that my father is avenged. As for the rest of the Lancastrian army, it is put to flight along with Henry, Margaret, and her puling son, taking those fiends Somerset and Exeter with them. They went north to Scotland,” he wrote, “and may they all stay in that barbaric place until hell freezes over.”
Cecily glanced down at Meg listening intently to the messenger, who was now eyeing the girl with more than passing interest. “Edward will be coming home ere long, Daughter,” she rejoiced. “God be praised.”
WHERE HAD APRIL and May gone? Cecily wondered. She was sitting on satin cushions in one of the royal barges as it glided along the Thames back to Westminster one warm late June day. She now wished she had not chosen velvet for her coronation gown. This June was turning out to be very different from last, and although she hoped the fine weather would hold for Edward’s crowning and for the farmers’ crops, she was perspiring uncomfortably.
After the victory of Palm Sunday, her son had remained in the north for a time and then toured other Lancastrian counties, showing himself as king. Peace had come to London, and the streets and shops were bustling again. When spring burst forth, another letter from Edward gave his mother permission to make the royal palace of Shene her own as soon as the London heat became oppressive. Cecily had hoped to return to Fotheringhay, her favorite of the York residences, but Edward was reluctant to allow her there. He had heard of the destruction Margaret of Anjou’s army had wreaked in that region, and he wanted to spare his mother any more pain.