Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  Maybe it was the two pairs of eyes boring into him, or perhaps that he sensed his sister was disappointed in him, but Richard Neville finally spoke his mind. He was now as angry as York and knew they could not afford to waste any more time. “Why not muster a force here and march south?” he said slowly but with conviction. “We will not seek battle but inform the king we must protect ourselves from our enemies at court and let him know they are his enemies too, and that this is in the realm’s best interest. Let us gather our northern retainers, summon Warwick with his, and you send to Ludlow for March to come with a body also.”

  Ned lead an army? Cecily gasped, swallowing her disbelief. But when she saw Richard nod, she burst out, “He is but twelve, my lord!”

  Richard waved her objection aside. “Almost thirteen, my dear. I shall see to it he is well protected. I shall send Piers Taggett to alert him. We are not going south to do battle, my dear, simply to parley. Ned will only be the figurehead for our Welshmen to follow.” He turned to Salisbury. “I am pleased we see eye to eye, Brother, for your plan accords with my own thoughts.”

  Cecily had had enough talk of armies. “I pray you, my lords, leave me in peace with my companions while you go and talk mustering matters. But hear me well,” Cecily counseled, “if I were the king and I saw a group of thousands led by three disgruntled noblemen advancing upon my capital, I would not think they had merely come to parley.”

  Salisbury rose and joined Richard at the door. “Cecily has a point, as she usually does,” he said, giving his sister a weak smile.

  “Perhaps,” Richard acknowledged, exiting with grim purpose, “but I have no mind to beat about the bush this time, Neville. The king must know we are serious.”

  “Sorry, Sister. Your husband seems to have made up his mind,” Salisbury said, shrugging when Richard was out of earshot. Then his eyes twinkled. “And to think Alice believes you lead him by the nose.”

  He scooted out, and the cushion Cecily angrily launched at him hit the closed door. It did not help dispel the apprehension that was knotting her stomach.

  IGNORING THE SUMMONS to appear before the council at Leicester, Richard, Salisbury, and Warwick set out for London to petition the king, riding at the head of an impressive army. Cecily had clung to Richard in the privacy of her bedchamber before he went to his own to be attired in his blue and murrey robes.

  “Have a care, Richard,” she begged him. “Do not do anything rash, I beg of you. Remember Dartford. You must see the king alone, for I believe he wants to trust you.”

  “It is our intent to speak to Henry, Cecily—if we can get past the queen and Somerset. There are those, like Norfolk and Buckingham, who are ready to be moderate, but we need to know once and for all what support we have on the council.” He took her in his arms and smoothed back her tangled hair. “Now hurry with your dressing, Cis. I cannot leave Sandal knowing you are not upon the rampart to wave me farewell.”

  Before she could caution him further, he kissed her and left the room.

  CECILY STOOD WITH Margaret and George on either side of her and Dickon in Meg’s arms as the three great lords with their personal retinues rode over the drawbridge and down the hill. Fear crawled up her back and she shivered. Looking down on rank upon rank of mounted gentlemen, bowmen in their Lincoln green, billmen, farmers, townsfolk, and field hands filling entire fields as they waited their turn to follow their lords, she guessed there were more than three thousand men on the march.

  Dickon, tired of being held for so long, was squirming in Meg’s tight embrace, and so his sister set him on the ground, where he set up a wail.

  Her nerves already on edge, Cecily snapped at him, “Hush, Dickon!” startling her son into silence. “What is the matter with you? Do you want your father to hear you crying?”

  As though he had indeed heard his youngest’s protests, Richard turned in his saddle, shaded his eyes from the sun, and gazed up at the keep. Cecily pulled out a scarf and let it flutter in the wind above her head, and Richard held up a hand in salute. Meg and George waved both arms and jumped up and down, their eyes shining with pride for their magnificent father. His horse was caparisoned in rich damask of York colors and decorated all over with white roses and his royal arms. Behind his immediate escort, his herald carried the banner of the falcon and fetterlock alongside Salisbury’s green eagle and Warwick’s bear with the ragged staff.

  Feeling guilty, Cecily heaved Dickon up onto her hip, enduring a couple of unintentional kicks to her huge belly, and told her son to blow kisses to his father. His tears forgotten, Dickon stared in wonder at the scene below him. “Papa,” he gurgled, pointing. “Papa go ’way.”

  “Aye, sweeting, your father is going a long way away,” Cecily whispered, nuzzling the boy’s dark head. “But he will be back soon, I promise.”

  If God is merciful he will, she thought. Blessed Virgin, please keep my husband safe. She felt bereft, as she always did when Richard left, and it seemed her family was dwindling by the day. She missed unsentimental Bess, and she guessed Meg missed her sister even more. How well she remembered that day at Raby when Nan had left for good. Look at her now. She’s wife to Buckingham and at the queen’s elbow. “The queen!” she murmured, scowling. Richard should have stayed here, out of her way, out of danger, Cecily thought miserably, staring at the never-ending column of soldiers.

  The little group on the keep watched for half an hour until Richard disappeared over the crest of a hill, his army crawling like ants behind him. Cecily turned to go and was startled by two magpies that flew across her path. A slow smile curved her mouth and she sent up an Ave Maria.

  “Two for joy, Mother!” Meggie cried with excitement, pointing at the birds. “’Tis good luck. Father will have good luck.”

  THREE WEEKS LATER, Cecily was playing hide and go seek with Meg and George when Steward Heydon sent a page to fetch her down in haste to Sandal’s great hall. She flew along the passage from the nursery wing to the spiral stair in the duke’s tower and down the few steps into the hall. Richard must have sent a messenger, she surmised, her pulse racing from exertion and nervous anticipation. Sweet Mary, let it be good news!

  She held her breath as York Herald knelt before her and began to speak.

  “There has been a battle,” the burly man announced. Gasps and mutterings from the duchess’s household accompanied the announcement. “Duke Richard is alive, your grace, have no fear,” he reassured her quickly.

  “And my son, the earl of March?” she whispered, horrified to imagine Ned in the thick of battle. “Is he well?”

  The herald nodded. “My lords of Salisbury and Warwick also, your grace.”

  Cecily felt her whole body melt into the high-backed chair. “God be praised,” she replied, crossing herself, but then she frowned. “A battle?” Richard had not gone south to fight, he had assured her. How had it come to that? To calm her trembling hands, she gripped the arms of the chair. “Now, sir herald, tell us what has happened.”

  Given leave, he stood up and took a deep breath. “After he left this castle, my lord of York marched with all speed toward London, hoping to surprise the king and council into listening to his petition. Fearful of the size of our force, the king amassed his own army, not as large as ours, ’tis said, and demanded we repair to Leicester as the lords of York, Salisbury, and Warwick had been ordered to do. The king sent out three mediators to parley with the duke, but instead my lord of York detained them and, saying he would speak to none other but the king, marched them with our force to meet him.”

  He paused and licked his parched lips. Cecily called out to her steward for ale and the herald drank gratefully. “And did the king meet his grace of York?” she asked.

  The man shook his head. “The king would not agree but marched as far as St. Albans and had commandeered the town by the time Duke Richard arrived there. Our forces camped outside the town, which had been hastily fortified with a ditch and some sandbags. St. Albans has no wall, you understand.”
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  Cecily nodded. She had passed by the city on several occasions. “Go on.”

  “Did I mention my lord of March arrived the day before the battle? His coming enlarged our force by a few hundred Welshmen.” He paused, seeing Cecily sit forward, her eyes shining with pride. “Aye, the young Lord Edward was every inch a commander, your grace. You would have rejoiced had you heard the shout of welcome he received,” the diplomat cried, warming to his task.

  Her pride almost made the news of Edward’s arrival—and into harm’s way—palatable for Cecily, but she quickly waved the man on.

  “The duke sent a written petition with me to read to our sovereign. It begged the king to know him, Salisbury, and Warwick for loyal liegemen and to acknowledge my lord of York as his chief minister. My lord also called for the trial of the duke of Somerset, which had not taken place as the Commons had decreed it should.”

  Cecily arched a brow. “I expect that did not strike the king favorably.” And to herself she added, or the queen.

  “You have the measure of it, your grace. The duke of Buckingham had by then been made constable, and the king was counseled that the fair-minded lord might be the only one able to sway his grace of York into retreating. But when my lord of Somerset was not given up to us, I was one of the heralds sent to petition the king again to have the duke removed from the king’s council and relinquished to us.”

  “Was Somerset there when you went?” Cecily asked eagerly. “I would have liked to have been there to see his face. For a moment, he might have been afraid.”

  The herald, however, by now thoroughly enjoying his mission, refused to be rushed. So he carried on as if Cecily had not spoken.

  “The message I took back told that on pain of forfeiture of lands, Duke Richard and his followers must disperse peacefully. Thus rebuffed, my lords of York, Salisbury, Norfolk, and Warwick had no choice but to attempt to see the king through force in order to effect the duke of Somerset’s dismissal. ’Twas Warwick’s northern retainers who broke down the barrier commanded by Lord Clifford and entered the streets at the back of St. Albans, where all the king’s men were taken by surprise.”

  “Taken by surprise?” Cecily scoffed. “Could they really have thought Duke Richard would have turned tail and run?”

  Mutterings of assent and indignation from the onlookers affirmed Cecily’s remark.

  The herald related the outcome of the fray with relish. “We were fighting hand to hand in and out of houses, down alleys, and even in the taverns. We were prepared to fight, but the king’s men had not even donned their armor and many were killed in a short time. Then it was learned the duke of Somerset himself was hiding in a house, and I was one of the soldiers sent by Duke Richard to seek him out. We did better, my lady,” he cried, panting with excitement at this point as though he were reenacting the skirmish, and he ran a hand over his perspiring forehead. “We found the traitor and several of us wounded him before one giant finished him off with an axe!” He swung around triumphantly to face the fascinated spectators.

  Cecily felt the room spin as she registered the news. Somerset dead? Edmund Beaufort, her ambitious, unscrupulous cousin and Richard’s enemy, was dead. It was almost impossible to believe. She grieved that it had come to bloodshed and that one cousin would kill another. That Richard and Somerset despised each other was clear, but she had not imagined it would come to this. Her hands froze on the chair and she must have gone pale, for Constance was at her side in a flash, asking if she were all right. Steward Heydon’s face floated in front of her too. She took a deep breath and patted Constance’s hand. Focusing on the herald, who was now looking worried, she said sharply, “Why do you stop now, sir? Tell the company who else fell on that day.”

  “In all, a mere sixty men, duchess. My lord Clifford was among the lords on the king’s side, but more important, Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland. My lord of Somerset’s heir, young Henry Beaufort, was gravely wounded, as were the sons of Northumberland and my lord of Buckingham.”

  Cecily sighed heavily. Those last two were her sister’s children. Eleanor had lost a husband and almost a son that day, she thought, and Nan had almost lost her son. I pray no one ever brings me such dreadful tidings. But even more horrible was that these Neville grandchildren had been slain by their own kin. God help us, she thought. She looked back at the herald. “And the king, sir. What of the king?”

  “Our bowmen did their worst from outside the barricades, your grace, and it seems our sovereign lord was struck in the neck by an arrow.” A gasp of horror made the herald pause. “But he lives, God be praised, and was not badly hurt.” He frowned, remembering the sorry scene. “The king’s grace was standing alone, talking to himself, his neck bleeding. Those supporters who had not died in the flights of arrows shamefully abandoned him and his banner, which was then crumpled upon the ground and covered in blood. My lord of Warwick, who had led the successful assault on the town, came then and, seeing the king bewildered as he was, fell to his knees and pledged allegiance on the spot. He was joined by his father, Duke Richard, and the duke of Norfolk. It seems the battle was over almost before it had begun, and the duke had captured the king, who was taken to the abbey for his safety.”

  “You are saying it was a victory for my husband?” Cecily heard herself ask in a perfectly calm voice, although she wanted to shout the words. The wire frame holding up her gauze veil was beginning to dig into her skull, and her head was pounding.

  “Aye, your grace,” the herald said solemnly. “In three hours, St. Albans was taken and in the abbey all the lords with Duke Richard submitted themselves humbly to the king. On the morrow, the king was escorted to London flanked by my lords of York and Salisbury, with all deference to his majesty, and with the earl of Warwick leading them bearing the sword of state.” The herald’s face was glowing with pride for his lord when he announced, “In a token ceremony at St. Paul’s the very next day, the king received his crown from none other than the duke of York himself.”

  Cecily looked around the hall. The Yorks’ loyal servants were whispering among themselves, nodding and smiling at the news of their victorious lord and fellow retainers. She, too, should be glad, she knew, but deep down in that dark side of her she sensed it boded ill for them all. But she knew she had to suppress her own misgivings, appear as pleased as her servants, and play her part as their triumphant duchess.

  She rose, and the company fell silent. “My loyal friends, let us all go to the chapel and give thanks for Duke Richard’s victory and the safe delivery of his grace the king. Father Lessey? I pray you ready yourself for a mass and we will follow in a little while.” She beckoned the steward. “Sir Henry, reward this noble herald well for his service. I thank you for your honest words, sir,” she told the kneeling messenger. “Duke Richard is fortunate in his herald.” She was about to make an exit to the chapel when she asked him another question.

  “In my relief at your news, sir, I forgot to ask how many of our men were lost.”

  “Only a handful, God be thanked,” he replied. “Duke Richard said that if you asked, one man in particular might be known to you: the archer, John Blaybourne.”

  And then memories came flooding back of the gentle giant who had so ably escorted her to Rouen and later to her romantic tryst with Richard at Les Andelys. “God have mercy on his soul,” she murmured, glancing at Constance, who crossed herself sadly. “He was a good man and served Duke Richard—and me—well.”

  CECILY WAS DETERMINED her child would be born at Fotheringhay, and despite Constance’s remonstrances against supervising a move from Sandal so close to the birth, the duchess got her wish.

  “You are forty years old, your grace, not twenty-five,” Constance complained, as they suffered through downpours in early June on their way to Northamptonshire. The roof of the carriage leaked. Cecily, Meg, and George huddled in one corner while Constance sought a dry spot at the other end. Twice the heavy vehicle became stuck in the mud and blocked the road for hours. On
ly those on horseback or on foot could pass the duchess and her entourage.

  The high keep of Fotheringhay on the horizon was a welcome sight on the third day of an arduous journey. All had been made ready for the duchess’s arrival. Cecily went at once into her confinement.

  She prayed hourly for the safe delivery of her babe, and when the tiny infant girl was born on the twentieth day of July, three months after Cecily’s fortieth birthday, she rejoiced in the child’s perfection. So grateful to the Virgin was she that on the day of the child’s christening at St. Mary’s, Cecily vowed to dedicate her to the church. She named the baby Ursula for the second-century virgin martyr.

  “THE KING AND Parliament have graciously pardoned all those who fought with me at St. Albans,” Richard wrote to his wife at Fotheringhay in early August after telling her of his joy at Ursula’s birth.

  The king can no longer doubt my allegiance and must accept me at his side. My loyalty, thus—as well as your brother’s and nephew’s—has finally and formally been recognized, God be praised. In the new council, I am Constable of England with our brother-in-law Bourchier as treasurer and his brother, the bishop, as Chancellor. With Somerset dead—again God be praised—I persuaded the king to give the captaincy of Calais to young Warwick.

  Cecily let out long sigh of relief, shaking her head in wonder. How suddenly our fortunes have turned around again, she thought. But would it last?

  My dearest wife, I am proud to stand at Henry’s side. ’Tis my right, and I thank God daily for the small victory at St. Albans. With my new position of influence, I have persuaded Parliament to rescind its former condemnation of that most loyal of dukes, the late Humphrey of Gloucester. I could not rest easy without restoring his reputation. Besides, dearest Cis, the poor man must have endured much at the hands of two most trying wives.