Cecily saw Richard conversing with a group of men at the bottom of the stairs. She observed he was wearing his ducal coronet, which told her that this was an important occasion. When she and the earl of Warwick had been announced, many in the hall turned to gaze at the elegant duchess of York, including twelve-year-old Edward, earl of March.
“Mother,” he exclaimed happily from the middle of the group of councillors, who stepped aside to let him greet Cecily. It was as he went down on one knee beside his father at the foot of the staircase that Cecily first saw him, and it was all she could do not to drop Warwick’s arm and run down to embrace her son.
First she let Richard kiss her hand, and after telling him his surprise had pleased her, she gave her attention to Ned. Several people were heard admiring mother and son, for tall as Cecily was, Edward now stood eye to eye with her. His training at Ludlow had prematurely filled out his chest and put muscle on his once spindly legs. He bowed gracefully, aware that all eyes were on them. “God’s blessings on you, your grace,” he said, his voice teetering on the edge of a baritone. He grinned at her admiring gaze and in his delight dropped the formality. “Aye, my lady Mother, I have become a man since you saw me last.”
“A man indeed!” she retorted, knowing she had given herself away. “I wager you and Edmund still wrestle over the last sweetmeat and swing from trees.” She turned to Richard, her eyes shining, as the company returned to their conversations. “When did you send for our son, my lord? You know how to hold a secret, to be sure.”
Richard drew her arm through his. “Only last week, my lady.” He looked over his shoulder at young Richard Neville. “You did well, Warwick, to get her here on time,” he said and winked at him. “She is wont to linger over her wardrobe.”
Warwick bowed and smiled at Cecily. “It was my pleasure, your grace,” he said, and Cecily noted that he was addressing her rather than answering her husband. Then he moved toward a group of nobles, who greeted him with deference. A little arrogant, perhaps, Cecily thought to herself, but a good boy nonetheless and a Neville. She drew Edward’s hand through her arm and squeezed it, alarmed at how big it now was. Why, if he grows into it, he will be a giant, she thought.
Richard drew her back to the group he had left. “You are come in good time before the queen is expected. Let me reacquaint you with some of the council,” he said, and she thought his tone seemed a little too bright.
“What is this all about? Will you not tell me now, my lord?” she whispered. “You are anxious, I know you are. You cannot fool your wife.”
“Bear with me, Cis,” he whispered back. “Having you here strengthens my cause.” And that was all he would say before they joined the group of councillors.
Cecily recognized her sister Kat’s son, John Mowbray, duke of Norfolk, who had been born in the same year as herself. She acknowledged him with a small reverence and he bowed over her hand. “How is your mother, my lord duke? It has been an age since I have seen my sister.” Katherine had tragically lost her second husband—her true love—to the wasting sickness and had since married Viscount Beaumont.
“Indeed, she is well, your grace. As you must know, she prefers to spend most of her time in Leicestershire.”
Cecily nodded but then, following Richard’s lead, she turned her attention to a short, dumpy man with a set of fierce eyebrows and a permanently runny nose. “My lord of Worcester, my dear, the king’s treasurer,” Richard said, as the formidable John Tiptoft bowed almost double over Cecily’s hand. “Our sovereign is fortunate to have such a treasure, is he not?” The others chuckled at his wit, including the subject of the joke, and Cecily was pleased to see they clearly liked Richard. “And you know these two lords, do you not?”
“Lord Bourchier, I am glad to see you again,” Cecily said, accepting the viscount’s friendly buss across her fingers. “I trust our sister Isabel is here with you. Nay? Then I am truly disappointed.”
The handsome, florid man next to Henry Bourchier was ogling her shamelessly, but Cecily extended her hand and smiled. “Your grace, I am glad to see you. Please tell me that my sister Anne is with you. I am beginning to feel like an oddity.”
Humphrey Stafford, duke of Buckingham, nodded, and Cecily was glad to see him look a little guilty at the mention of his wife after ogling Cecily so overtly. “She attends the queen, your grace, and will be here shortly. She will be delighted to see you.”
Cecily was not so sure, but she acquiesced and asked about both the Bourchier and Stafford children until a fanfare interrupted the proceedings. The courtiers moved away from the staircase as the queen and her considerable retinue processed into the hall.
Magnificent in scarlet cloth of gold, the train of her shimmering gown billowing behind her and the large diamond in her crown catching the sunlight that was streaming through the upper windows, Margaret of Anjou stood regally at the top of the flight of stairs, willing every eye to focus upon her. She waited until her way to the throne in the middle of the great hall was clear before slowly descending the staircase, under a canopy depicting lions and lilies, held aloft by four ushers. Behind her, carrying the infant prince, was Jacquetta Woodville, followed by Cecily’s sister and a bevy of other ladies, including the lovely young Elizabeth Woodville, now Dame Grey. Then she saw her own daughter Anne among the ladies, pale but holding her head up high, and the young woman’s face brightened when she saw her mother, father, and brother at the foot of the stairs. Good girl, Cecily thought, happy that the few days spent away from Coldharbour receiving her mother’s counsel had steeled her resolve to stand up to Henry Holland for the sake of the child she was carrying. Cecily glanced about for Exeter, but she did not see him. ’Tis as well, she decided, or you might embarrass yourself, Cis. The most notable absence of all, Cecily realized thankfully, was Edmund Beaufort, duke of Somerset, who was still where he belonged—in the Tower.
Music followed the queen to her throne. The shawms, trumpets, and sack-buts did not allow for any murmuring between Cecily and Richard. A veritable tableau was created around the dais, with the throne and royal occupant at its center. The queen’s household was ranged about her as if to protect her and her prince from outsiders, and Cecily began to feel this was done on purpose. “Them and us,” she thought to herself as she watched Jacquetta place the four-month-old Prince Edward on a cushion upon his mother’s lap. Margaret held her richly clad son upright for all to see, and the baby squirmed happily in unaccustomed freedom from the swathing bands. All eyes were now riveted on the heir to the throne.
Cecily was puzzled. What is the point of this playacting? she thought, but within a few seconds she knew. It seemed that Richard had requested Margaret’s presence, because he now left his wife’s side and, stepping to the dais, removed his coronet and went down on both knees. A sudden hush came over the spectators, and Cecily sensed that she was not the only person who did not know why he or she had been summoned. The queen’s face was as impassive as a plaster mask. Her gaze held Richard’s in cold hauteur, making Cecily shiver.
“Most high and mighty queen of England, Wales, Ireland,” Richard began and had to check himself from adding “and France.”
“We greet you well, and give you God’s welcome in this hallowed hall, home of the king’s Parliament. Likewise the lords and I, praising God for blessing you with a safe delivery, welcome our sovereign King Henry’s son and heir, Edward of Lancaster”—he paused for effect before stating in a strong, clear voice so that all could hear—“and prince of Wales.” The silence in the hall was palpable as Richard continued, “I have sworn allegiance to his father, our sovereign lord King Henry, and now I acknowledge his son and heir as prince of Wales.”
Cecily stood next to Henry Bourchier, who had let out a faint sigh of relief, and she glanced up at him, frowning a question. Any remark Bourchier might have made was lost in a rousing shout from every throat in the room. She fell to her knees with the rest as “God bless the prince of Wales” reverberated through the lofty carv
ed rafters. Cecily looked up at the queen then and saw a smile of triumph curl her sensual mouth.
When the echoes died, everyone stood, and Bourchier whispered, “It was imperative that York recognize the prince in public, Cecily. Now we can proceed with the protectorate.”
“You mean, Richard will be chosen finally?” Cecily’s heart was beating wildly.
Henry Bourchier gave her a curt nod.
“But what about Kemp? I thought he had the final say.”
“He does, but too many of us on the council and in the Commons know England must have a regent, and York is the most obvious choice. The chancellor will come around.”
“And what about the queen?” Cecily whispered.
“This was a pretty ceremony, my lady, but in the end she is only a woman.” And he bowed and moved on before Cecily could frame an apt retort. Turning to Edward, who had most assuredly overheard the tête-à-tête, she gave him a piece of advice instead. “Never underestimate a woman, my son,” she said sternly. “You will rue the day that you do, mark my words.”
She had been so intent on dispensing her wise counsel that she had failed to notice they were no longer alone and was startled to be face to face with Jacquetta and her beautiful daughter. Jacquetta had grown plump of late but was still pretty, Cecily thought. She turned her gaze on Elizabeth. She was on the arm of a striking young man with chestnut hair and blue eyes, stirring a memory of someone from long ago. Certes, she thought, he must be Jacquetta’s oldest boy with her husband Richard Woodville, now Lord Rivers.
Jacquetta and Cecily reverenced each other and Lord Rivers’s two offspring were presented. Cecily in her turn presented her son and was disconcerted to see Ned staring boldly at the young beauty in front of him. Cecily pulled furtively on his dangling sleeve, and he immediately turned to Jacquetta and murmured a customary greeting over her outstretched hand. Without any prompting from her mother, Elizabeth put out her hand for the young man, and Cecily was amused to see Ned’s own tremble as he took it to his lips. She knows her power already, Cecily thought with a flicker of respect. But then, look who has instructed her!
“Her sovereign highness the queen wishes to talk with you, your grace,” Jacquetta purred. “She begs you to attend her in her apartments in the palace as soon as this audience is over. May I convey your acceptance?”
Cecily bowed her head in acquiescence, hopeful that the meeting would dispel her earlier worry that a schism had opened between the Lancastrian queen and the duke of York. She noticed Jacquetta was now giving Ned a furtive appraisal while he responded to a remark of Anthony’s, and as the duchess curtsied again to leave, Cecily was astonished to hear her pointed aside to Elizabeth, surely meant for Cecily’s ears as well, “Such a big boy for twelve years. And nothing like his father.”
Richard returned to her side, visibly relieved that the little ceremony was over. “I am sorry I was secretive, my dear, but I thought it best not to raise your expectations. I very nearly could not bring myself to do it. Seeing you there gave me courage, and having all see that Ned also acknowledged the new heir to the throne might placate a suspicious council.”
“Suspicious? But those we spoke with seemed friendly enough, Richard.”
“Aye, but will they all support me when I am Protector? I am not so sure.”
Cecily leaned forward. “We can talk later at Baynard’s. The queen has asked me to attend her in her chambers, so I must go.”
Richard’s puzzled frown followed her from the room.
CECILY WAS TAKEN aback to see the queen in tears not five minutes after making her reverence in the luxury of the royal solar. She thought of Joan’s admonishment, which only recently she had passed along to Meggie when the girl had burst into tears and run off.
“Never cry in front of anyone but your family, my dear. You never want to appear weak.”
But it was not her place to remind Queen Margaret. It appeared the queen’s ladies, Lady Ismania Scales, Anne of Buckingham, and Jacquetta of Bedford, must be accustomed to such a scene, for they continued to ply their needles and speak among themselves. She knelt quietly and waited for the weeping to subside.
“Forgive me, duchess, but I have suffered much these past few months,” Margaret said finally, after blowing her nose into a silk kerchief and motioning to Cecily to rise. “You have not seen my husband since . . . since his illness, I believe?”
“I have not, your grace, but I have heard—”
Margaret cut her off. She lowered her voice, fidgeted with her kerchief, and said bitterly, “He is naught but a vegetable, as weak and wilted as a boiled leek, as pale as a turnip.” She leaned over to Cecily and confided in a whisper, “He cannot speak, he cannot walk, he must be carried from place to place, he must be fed like a baby, and he soils himself many times a day. It is unspeakable. And his eyes—those eyes that once looked at me with love—they are dead. Staring and dead. It is terrifying.”
Cecily was at once stunned to be taken into the queen’s confidence and dismayed to see her display of emotion. Breaking with etiquette, she took the nervous hands into her own. “It is but temporary, your grace,” she murmured. “He will recover with the help of his physicians and all our prayers. His subjects pray for him every day. May I lend you my book of the writings of St. Brigid? They have comforted me in my times of distress.”
Her kindness seemed to make the younger woman cry more. “He did not even know our son,” she whispered, her shoulders heaving. “I thought it would cure him to see his heir, but he did not even know him.”
Cecily glanced at the attendants, but only her sister was watching her, the others being engaged in quiet conversation. She sent an imploring look at Anne, who ignored her and only worked her needle more diligently.
Bewildered, Cecily quickly sought to pacify the queen again. “Soft, your grace. You must stay strong for Edouard.” She used the French pronunciation that she knew Margaret preferred. “Your son needs you.”
Margaret looked up then, wiped her eyes, and shocked Cecily with a sudden change in demeanor. Cecily wondered whether the tears had been a sham.
“If you understand that, my lady, then why does your husband oppose my regency?” the queen asked in a measured voice, slowly but deliberately disengaging her hands from Cecily’s. “Now that I know you understand my dilemma, I am counting on your support. Perhaps you can influence him in my favor.”
Cecily gulped and stood back. Dear Virgin Mother, help me find the right answer, she pleaded. She realized then how like a fox Queen Margaret was. She had entrapped Cecily and now sat there cold and silent awaiting a response. Cecily hoped Anne might have come to her aid, but it was Jacquetta who came forward to stand next to Margaret’s chair, the pair reminding Cecily of a beautiful witch and her familiar.
“I am your grace’s loyal subject,” Cecily said, her voice faltering in the face of these two intimidating females, “and I assure you I will always work for the good of the realm.” She took a breath and, looking Margaret straight in the eye, resorted to the truth. “Your infant son needs his mother, your grace. Surely as Regent, the affairs of state would keep you from his side. I swear I meant no disrespect to your grace in my efforts to console you, and I beg your pardon most humbly.” She watched for any softening of the queen’s expression, and seeing an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, she was encouraged to finish with a lie. “I cannot speak for my lord, your grace, for I do not know what is on his mind.”
After a long silence, in which Cecily was furious to find her knees trembling, Margaret inclined her head graciously. “I believe you are a good woman, duchess, and you speak as a good mother. I pray you are also the king’s loyal subject.” She turned to where Anne was watching the little scene anxiously. “As loyal as I know your sister is, madame.”
Anne fell to her knees. “As God is my witness, your grace,” she vowed, crossing herself and avoiding Cecily’s gaze.
Then Margaret turned back to Cecily with an enigmatic smile. “I
t is curious, is it not, how my request of you now is the same one you made of me at Walsingham. How is it you say in England? Favor for favor, madame?” Her smile faded and she rose, holding out her hand. “You may leave me, now, duchess Cecily, and I thank you for your . . . your understanding.”
Once outside the door, where Gresilde was patiently waiting, Cecily took hold of her attendant’s hand and, with her heart still pounding, she propelled Gresilde along the passageway as fast as she could away from the stultifying atmosphere of the queen’s apartments. She resolved not to tell Richard the topic of this uncomfortable meeting; he had enough to deal with.
NOT A WEEK later, in his seventy-fifth year, Cardinal Kemp, archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor of England, died suddenly. The council resolved to send several members to Windsor to inform the king and see for themselves if Henry were recovered enough to take back the reins, choose another chancellor, and appoint a new archbishop of Canterbury.
“Bourchier and Warwick were among them, as was your brother William,” Richard told Cecily after the lords had returned. “Henry did not recognize any of them or understand what they were saying. He merely stared. It was pitiful, our nephew told me.”
“So what means this, Richard? Someone must appoint a chancellor. Margaret?”
Richard went to the window and polished one of the panes with his sleeve. “It would seem the council is looking to me to begin a protectorate, my love,” he said so quietly that Cecily had to approach him to hear. “I shall be Protector and defender of England until Henry recovers his senses or young Edouard is old enough to assume the crown.” He sighed. “If I ever had an ambition to be king, I could not have imagined it happening thus. But I shall do my duty by King Henry and my countrymen, as God is my witness, and I shall insist that the responsibility for this decision rests with the lords who appointed me. And for agreeing, I shall expect them to give me their support. It will not be easy, Cis. Many do not like me, but it seems they have no other choice.”
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