Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  “You worry too much, your grace,” Constance soothed her, and changed the subject. “Have you received news of your sons at Ludlow? I wonder how tall the earl of March is now. Il sera très beau,” she said quietly. She did not tell the duchess that she had heard tell Edward was already causing a stir among the girls of Ludlow town.

  “Aye, he will be a handsome man,” Cecily replied proudly. “I fear he may break many hearts. But not as many as George, perhaps. Just look at those curls and blue eyes.”

  She was about to speak of her beloved Edmund when a knock on the door interrupted them, and Cecily called, “Come!”

  The usher announced: “Her grace, Anne, duchess of Exeter.”

  The children stared with curiosity at the veiled figure who stepped into the room. The girls had not seen their sister for four years, and George and Richard did not even know her. Anne first curtsied before going to kneel at Cecily’s feet for her mother’s blessing.

  “Dear child,” Cecily cried delightedly and raised her eldest to her feet. “We did not expect you.” She put out her hand to lift Anne’s veil, but Anne neatly stepped away. “Why the mystery, Nan? I pray you, let me look at you.” She motioned for the others to gather round. “And see how your brothers and sisters would greet you too.”

  A tiny sob came from under the heavy gauze. “Mam, I dare not!”

  Fear stabbed Cecily’s heart as she drew Anne into her reassuring embrace. As soon as she felt the girl’s body against her own, she knew Anne was with child, and her first reaction was one of amazement that she was to be a grandmother. Dear God, I am too young, she thought, but then she banished her selfish thought because she could sense Anne’s unhappiness.

  “What is wrong? I see you are with child, sweeting, so why are you not joyful?” Cecily asked.

  Anne stepped away as if ashamed, and Cecily frowned. What was her daughter hiding?

  She herded the children together and nodded to Constance. “Children, go with Constance back to the nursery, I pray you. Nan will be there anon, I promise. She has something of a private nature to tell me. Now, run along.” Her eyes beseeched Constance to hurry, which the doctor accomplished in a second. “I thank you, Constance. Take them back to Nurse Anne—and,” she added with a premonition, “return later, I beg of you.”

  George took charge and marshaled the others into a line and led them out of the room like soldiers while Constance held the door and then followed.

  “Come, my dear,” Cecily murmured, ready to hear the worst. Wary as she was, she could not forbear to gentle the trembling young woman onto the settle, plump up the cushion, and ease it behind her back. “When you are ready, tell me what is wrong,” she said, attempting now to lift Nan’s veil. “You are with child, are you not?”

  Anne stayed her mother’s hand and, cradling her belly, gave a timid nod.

  “Why! That is good news, Nan. I am to be a grandmother, God be praised.” Cecily tried to sound cheerful, knowing that she had not heard the whole story. “Exeter must be a happy man.” She got no further, for the distraught young woman flung herself down into her mother’s lap, sobbing.

  “What is it, Nan? Is the child not his?” Cecily hated herself for voicing her suspicion, but she had to know the worst if she was to help her daughter.

  Anne sat up abruptly and gasped. “Nay, Mother, certes ’tis his! How can you think otherwise?” Her horror filled Cecily with remorse. Slowly and with trembling fingers Anne drew off her veil, and then it was Cecily’s turn to gasp. A welt the size of her palm covered Nan’s cheek. Her mouth was swollen and her lip split.

  Cecily jumped to her feet. “Dear God in heaven!” she cried. “Who did this to you?” Her eyes widened in horror as Anne hung her head and stared down at her clenched hands. “Oh, do not tell me it was your lord! Your husband? Oh, no, sweet Nan, not him?” Full of rage, she sat down again and cradled her poor, wounded child to her bosom, removing the rest of the headdress and letting Anne’s dark curls loose over her bruised face.

  “He said ’twas his right to beat me, Mam,” Anne whimpered, and Cecily’s heart sank. In the eyes of the law, he was correct, she knew, and there was nothing a wife could do to change that male prerogative. Anne told Cecily that this was not the first time. “He is a violent man, in truth. He treats his pages the same way and . . .” She began to weep again. “And he is cruel to his horses and kicks the dogs. I . . . I did n . . . nothing wrong, I promise, except sp . . . spill his wine as I poured.”

  Cecily stroked Anne’s soft hair, murmuring soothing phrases and letting her daughter cry. How cruel fate is, she thought. How could we have known we were sending our sweet child to a monster? John Holland was only fourteen at the time and seemed perfectly respectful. But the deed was done, and they had unwittingly sealed Anne’s fate.

  She thought quickly and knew Richard must not see his sweet Nan like this. Even though it was clear that clever Meggie was his favorite, he had always had a soft spot in his heart for this eldest daughter, and his fatherly rage could easily endanger his son-in-law’s life. Cecily could not let that happen; the consequences would be disastrous.

  “There, there, child,” she said finally, hearing the sobs lessen. “You are safe here, and here you shall stay. You will sleep with Constance in my apartments. I will send word to Coldharbour that you were taken ill.”

  “Nay!” Anne was aghast. “He will only punish me when I do go back. Let me return quickly before he knows I was here, I beg of you. I only came . . . I only . . . oh, I do not know why I came.” She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I was so unhappy, I wanted my family. I told no one where I was going and came with only an attendant and my clerk.”

  Cecily wanted to cry, but her furious tears would have served no purpose. She remembered the times when she had needed Joan’s support and it was her mother’s strength that had comforted her. She fetched Anne some wine. “Drink this, my dear, and tell me how your health has been through these first weeks. Have you felt the babe move yet?”

  The practical questions brought Anne out of her misery and Cecily was pleased to see a spark of pleasure in her daughter at being with child. When the girl had recovered her composure, Cecily proposed a visit to the nursery to meet her new brothers.

  She was determined to keep her daughter close and would find a way to explain Anne’s stay to Richard later. Keeping her confined to my chambers can easily be put down to concern over pregnancy pains that require Anne to keep to her bed, she decided, and a letter to Exeter would explain all.

  SHE NEED NOT have worried. Richard was far too preoccupied with what had transpired that day in Parliament to ask his wife about family matters. He paced impatiently in his privy chamber after requesting that Cecily come to him there.

  “Now that she is churched and by Henry’s side once more, Queen Margaret has presented Parliament and the council with five provisions, the first of which is that she be given the title of regent,” Richard seethed, his jaw clenching. “Whoever heard of such a thing? Praise be to whichever saint is responsible for common sense, for Parliament rejected her proposal out of hand. Having a Frenchwoman as regent—and one with Margaret’s ambition—would be disastrous for England.”

  Cecily stared unseeing at her embroidery. “And for your cause, Richard,” she said, with no particular inflection in her voice. But her remark incensed Richard.

  “What do you mean by ‘my cause,’ Cis? Are you of the same mind as those men who favor Lancaster and claim that I am only acting out of self-interest?”

  Cecily brought her eyes sharply into focus, set aside her needlework carefully, and rose with purpose. “You have not denied that Henry is a weak leader, Richard, and that Somerset has led him by the nose. And the support you have gained from the lords and Parliament of late must have told you that your cause—nay, your claim—is better than any other. Nay, do not interrupt me,” Cecily put up her hand. “Aye, Nan’s Exeter may be Henry’s closest cousin, but he can have no support because he lacks intelligenc
e, cannot curb his violent temper, and more than Margaret, he would be a disaster for England. And Somerset fancies himself next in line, but he was born of the bastard Lancastrian blood. You, my dear Richard, are the true heir to our great-grandsire Edward’s crown and should be Regent.”

  Richard thumped his fist on the mantel and kicked a wayward log back into the flames, causing it to crackle and spit sparks. “But Henry is my anointed king, Cecily. To even think of asserting my claim is treason. Oh, we have gone over and over this again and again, my lady, and I always return to the bitter legacy of my father.”

  “This is not about claiming the throne, Richard,” Cecily said, impatient now. “Henry has an heir, remember? This is about the legitimate Regent, and you are that man.”

  Richard nodded, finally taking strength from her argument. “You are right, Cecily, but I must wait until I am asked to take the reins, so that history cannot accuse me of acting unlawfully.”

  “Aye, you must wait,” she agreed, and began to massage Richard’s tense shoulder muscles.

  Cecily’s gentle hands began to calm him, and he gave a long, bitter sigh. “But hear this, Cecily. I will fight for my children’s rightful place in this kingdom if I am ignored again. ’Tis all I can offer you.”

  “That is enough, my love,” said Cecily, hearing her own words in his vow. “I shall ask no more of you than that. But I will hold you to your promise, if the time ever comes—God willing it does not.” She turned him to her and held him close. “There was a time when I thought of little else but asserting your royal claim, in truth. Remember when all I wanted was to be a queen? Foolish girl that I was, although I am a Neville and we are proud stock! Aye, you do remember, and you wanted to be a great commander. But I am a woman now, a wife and a mother, and I can no longer think only of myself but of you and my children’s future. As a woman, I am powerless, but your future matters more than ever. I am torn between wanting more for my children and wanting the happiness I would have if you were with me always. I remember my father telling me that those born of noble blood court an early death. ’Tis what I fear the most, Richard, but my duty is to stand by you in building a strong future together. ’Tis a terrible burden on both of us, but we cannot shirk our duty to your family’s honor or to our children. But promise me you will keep your family safe.”

  Richard took her in his arms. “I promise, my proud Cis,” he whispered. “I do believe that if I die on the morrow, my children will think well of me and mourn for a spell, but if you were taken from them, they would grieve for ever and a day. With your loving guidance and fierce loyalty, they will make their mark upon the world, I know they will. And with God’s help, my way will be made clear.”

  Cecily smiled into his velvet jacket. “You flatter me, my lord.” She looked up and, turning serious again, asked, “What else transpired at Parliament?”

  “I voted against the queen today,” he muttered, stroking her long yellow hair. “If I did not have her as an enemy before, I surely will now.”

  “In your own words, she is but a woman, Richard, and a Frenchwoman at that,” Cecily reassured him, and Richard found himself chuckling.

  “Touché,” he whispered, beginning to caress her hips.

  “Do be serious, Richard,” she scolded him, removing his hands from her. “Do you not suppose that Queen Margaret’s motherhood has made her every whit the lioness you have just praised me for being? The king is lost to her, it would seem, and she must protect the babe by herself. Perhaps she believes ’tis better for England to be ruled by a regent queen than watch her husband’s and son’s kingdom fought over by dukes.”

  Cecily thought Richard had not been listening, because he continued to stare at the floor. Then slowly he nodded and raised his eyes to the hunting scene woven into a hanging over the mantel.

  “You put me to shame, my dear,” he murmured. “I have no doubt you would act in a like manner if put in that position. I cannot blame her, I suppose, but her articles of regency will not be acceptable to Parliament or the people, mark my words.”

  23

  England, 1454 to 1455

  Richard’s words proved prophetic.

  A month later he was asked to exercise his right as the newly named king’s lieutenant to open Parliament. He rode into London from Hunsdon on a dreary day in late February with Cecily by his side and made for the comforting bulwark of Baynard’s. Cecily noticed the wary and worried looks of the citizens as they hurried about their business in streets that she thought filthier than usual. Crime was rampant, Richard told her, and small bands of armed men stood idling about, ready to take sides if their lords demanded it. Cecily pulled her fur cloak more closely around her and was glad to be riding pillion for once. She felt safe behind Richard’s broad back and sword arm and now understood his insistence that she leave the children behind at Hunsdon.

  Not long after they arrived, the council issued orders intended to keep the peace in a city where law and order had broken down. The waits were commissioned to entertain on the streets. Torches and beacons lit the wide thoroughfares, crooked lanes, and blind alleys at night. And in an attempt to prevent factions forming for or against one or another political group, no one was permitted to attend upon any lord, alderman, or the mayor until the matter of who was to govern the country had been decided.

  “I may be the king’s lieutenant now, Cis, but the Commons propose me as protector. However, the Chancellor is a Lancaster man and will not set his seal on it, and so nothing is accomplished,” Richard complained. “Chancellor Kemp is an old fool with one foot in the grave, but he is the king’s voice for now and holds the Great Seal. So no one will gainsay him.”

  Richard had joined his wife in her solar after another fruitless day at Parliament in early March. Cecily was attended by Constance and Gresilde and she had been reading some of the writings of St. Brigid to them. Not long after Countess Joan had bequeathed her daughter that precious book, Cecily had begun to see the wisdom in the saint’s words, especially while grieving for her dead infants, and she found the words comforting now as turmoil reigned in London.

  “If you are able, I would have you accompany me to Westminster on the morrow,” Richard said, swirling the contents of his hanap. “I pray you, dress for an audience with the queen and council. Dame Boyvile may attend you.”

  When Cecily asked what the occasion was, Richard was close-mouthed. He decided not to trouble her with some of the recent events, including his own controversial act of imprisoning the Speaker of the Commons on dubious trespass charges. The lords had upheld his decision and had invited the lower house to elect a new speaker against their will. All this had not been popular with the Commons. Nay, Cecily did not need to know everything.

  Cecily spent two hours the next day readying herself for the unanticipated mile-long journey to Westminster Palace and never probed Richard further. If it was important for him to have her there, she was content to go. She smiled to herself, suddenly recalling Anne of Bedford’s reading years ago of the Goodman of Paris’s admonishments to his young wife to be dutiful.

  Also, she admitted, she was looking forward to breaking her daily routine and showing off her exquisite new gown. She had been away from court for too long, mostly because of her ill health. However, now that her prayers at Walsingham had been answered in Constance’s diagnosis and successful treatment of a stone in her kidney, she was back to her old self again and ready to take her place by Richard’s side.

  Gresilde and Constance slipped the deep blue velvet gown with deep V-neck and lined with white satin over Cecily’s pale blue silk underdress. Eschewing some of her newer necklaces, Cecily instructed Constance to clasp her mother’s sapphire gift about her throat. She was delighted to have an occasion to wear one of the new high headdresses, a fashion imported from Burgundy in the last year or so. “’Tis called a hennin,” she had told Richard the first time she had worn it. More than two feet high, the steeple was crowned with golden gauze that hung down her bare back
almost like unbound hair might. Her fingers sparkled with jeweled rings, and drops of pearls fell from her earlobes.

  “Splendide! Comme une reine,” Constance murmured.

  “Ah, but I am not a queen, my dear Constance,” Cecily reminded her, turning her reflection this way and that in the mirror, “but I need to show Margaret that I could be. Besides, she is so beautiful, I have no wish to be put to shame.”

  “There is none more beautiful than you, aunt,” a young man’s voice said from the doorway. “May I come in and flatter you some more?”

  “My lord of Warwick!” Cecily cried, smiling and holding out her hands. “My dear godson, come and give your old aunt a kiss.”

  Richard, earl of Warwick, strode forward and bowed over his aunt’s hand. His eyes were full of admiration as he gazed at her; then he stepped back and bowed again.

  “Your grace, I am sent to escort you to Westminster. My lord of York has been there since early this morning and eagerly awaits your arrival. He told me to tell you he has a surprise for you.”

  Cecily appraised her nephew in turn. He was not as tall as his father—perhaps influenced by Alice’s small stature—but he had Salisbury’s high brow and the Neville aquiline nose and thatch of yellow hair. While his brilliant blue eyes were his father’s, they did not glow with the same warmth; instead, a steely cynicism made them glitter rather than sparkle.

  She took his arm. “A surprise? Then lead on, my lord. I am loath to keep my husband waiting.”

  Standing on the landing at the top of the wide staircase that led down to Westminster’s great hall, Cecily was once again struck by its splendor. The white hart of Richard the Second was carved in a frieze that ran under the many window embrasures, honoring the king who had built the grand meeting place, and colorful ancient banners hung from the magnificent soaring arches of the hammer beam roof.