“Aye, it means I will not be with you for Christmas, my love, but Edmund, Salisbury, and I shall keep the season cheerfully enough at Sandal, I don’t doubt,” he said, stroking her belly as they lay together after making love. “As you requested, Baynard’s is being readied for you, though why you would want to leave this luxury for that drafty place, I cannot understand,” he teased and, reaching up, snuffed out the candle in its sconce. “God keep you this night, my love. I wish I could ravish you once more, but I cannot stay awake much longer.”
It seemed to Cecily that their passion had never been stronger than it was now. Richard’s urge to bed her had increased since the difficult October days, and Cecily had become as uninhibited as she had been in those first few years of their marriage. She wanted to believe that the troubles of the past two decades were fading into memory and that she could look forward to middle age and time alone with her husband. She refused to think about Richard and Edmund riding north to quell unrest or about Edward setting out for the Welsh marches to recruit men to aid Richard on his northern mission. After all, Queen Margaret was still in Wales. Warwick, Cecily’s nephew, was the most powerful noble in the realm after Richard, Henry was powerless and out of the way at the bishop’s palace, and her brother Salisbury was Chancellor of England. As well, the French had changed their minds about invading, and life in London had resumed its normal hustle and bustle, the people seeming contented with the arrangement Parliament had made and with the new Yorkist government.
She turned on her side, closed her eyes, and snuggled against her husband. Aye, she had naught to worry about except how to keep Christmas without Richard yet with as much gaiety as she could conjure for her children. Perhaps Nan would come from Devonshire with her child and Bess from Suffolk, she thought happily, as she drifted off to sleep.
She dreamed she was a child again astride her favorite jennet in the forest at Raby, with her hair loose and her feet bare, following Richard, who was always a few lengths ahead. Hearing a sound to her left, she reined in her horse and with a cry of surprise came face to face with the white hind. She called out to Richard, but he did not hear her and disappeared from view. She was fascinated by the animal as it stood fearlessly upon the soft green moss and found herself speaking to it as though it might speak back, but it slowly began to move off deeper into the forest, turning back every now and again to make sure she was following. When she got too close and tried to put out her hand to touch the snowy coat, it nimbly leaped away and continued on its path. Unafraid that she was lost deep in the woods, she had faith that the hind would protect her and take her to Richard. She urged her horse on until she could see a clearing and bright light ahead. As the hind stepped forward, it seemed to be absorbed into the light, causing Cecily to rein in and stay in the shadows of the trees. Shading her eyes and searching for her guide, she gradually became aware of other figures floating in the light.
“Richard!” she called, afraid now. “Where are you?” But there was no answering shout, just the eerie, silent, floating figures seemingly searching for something. And then she recognized the serene face of her beloved Constance smiling at her.
“Constance,” Cecily whispered, stretching out her hand to the vision, but the doctor faded into the light and the hind took her place. “Mother of God, is this heaven?” Cecily asked the ethereal creature that she was now convinced embodied the Virgin. “Am I in heaven?” But she knew she was not; she was still in the shadow of the earthly trees. And then she panicked, understanding that Richard, too, must have disappeared into that light. “Richard!” she cried. “Where are you, Richard? Blessed Mother, tell me where Richard is.”
“I am right here beside you, Cis. Wake up, my love, you are having a bad dream.” Richard shook her gently, stroking her thigh. “Tell it to me—and then it cannot come true.”
Relief flooded Cecily as she turned into him and pulled his arms around her. “It was nothing, my love,” she lied, too frightened to tell him. “I was lost in a forest, ’twas all.”
CECILY HAD TO endure another farewell with Richard. This time she was also giving the traditional wave to her sons from the gatehouse tower of Baynard’s Castle.
Richard glanced up at the lithe figure wrapped in a sable-trimmed mantle, the hood sheltering her head from the biting December wind. Cecily took out her miniature version of the white rose banner and waved it in farewell, blowing her husband a kiss. This parting was far less wrenching than their goodbye on that fateful night at Ludlow, and most of their last conversation had been about practical matters for the running of Baynard’s in Richard’s absence. They had, however, made tender love the night before and talked well into the night about their hopes for the children. Richard promised to make finding a suitable bride for Edward a priority upon his return.
“And when will that be?” Cecily had asked sleepily.
“We shall hold at Sandal, which will afford us ample protection as we muster more men to set the north to rights again. I have given Edward until mid-January to meet with us at Sandal before we launch into any combat. Once we have a large enough force, we shall send Northumberland, Exeter, and their cronies back to their estates once and for all. I cannot say for sure, Cis, but by spring you should see us returned.”
“And the queen, my dear? What of her?”
“It appears Margaret has left Wales and is rumored to be over the border in Scotland with her tail between her legs. Our presence in the north will deter any trouble with King James and his wild clansmen. And without him, the queen can do nothing. So do not worry on her account, sweetheart.” He had kissed her once more and they settled into sleep.
Cecily was jolted from her reverie now by George and Dickon, who were leaning precariously over the parapet and shouting, “Good-bye Father! Farewell Ned and Edmund!” She watched as Meg hauled them back with a sisterly admonition.
“Spoilsport,” George said mulishly, “Go and stick your nose in a book and leave us alone.”
Dickon put his hands on his hips and tried to look fierce. “Aye, Meggie, indeed you are a spoilsport.”
Cecily sighed, but she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to chide the children now. She was remembering her last words to Edmund and wishing she could take them back.
“You do not have to ride with your father if you would prefer not to, my son. I will speak to him, if you are reluctant,” she had told him after Mass had been said for the success of Richard’s mission. She knew that being a soldier was not his calling, and she was willing to speak up for him to Richard if Edmund was averse to joining the northern campaign.
She had not been prepared for his vehement reaction. “I beg of you, my lady, stop treating me like a baby,” he sharply complained. “I am every bit as good a knight as Ned, and Father thinks ’tis high time I learned what it is to be on the battlefield. Now leave me be!”
Cecily had paled, and in her anguish at the change that had come over her darling boy, she had stiffened and snapped back, “How dare you speak to me so rudely, Edmund. I am your mother and deserve your respect. Very well, then, go and fight, kill and maim, but do not come crying to me when you have nightmares.”
Edmund had kissed her hand quickly then and left in a huff, not even asking for her blessing.
And I was too proud to call him back, Cecily now thought regretfully. She looked down on his light brown head, his murrey and blue cloak draped over the back of his caparisoned horse, and silently begged him to look up at her. Ned had heard the boys’ cries and waved cheerily from his huge courser. He then blew a kiss to Cecily before signaling to his retainers to follow him out of the courtyard and through the gate into Thames Street. Then Richard shouted some commands to his meinie, and the horsemen began to make an orderly file behind Richard, Edmund, and Salisbury to trot off and join the bulk of their force waiting outside the city wall at Smithfield.
It was Meg’s turn to wedge herself in one of the crenels and wave her kerchief at her father and brother. Richard looked up t
hen and grinned. “Be a good girl, Meggie, and help your mother. God bless you, my child,” he called over the noise of skittering hooves on the cobbles and jingling harnesses. Seeing Cecily behind her daughter, Richard blew her another kiss and, unsheathing his sword, touched the hilt to his lips and saluted her.
It was then that Edmund looked up and his face brightened when he saw his mother, brothers, and sister all waving and shouting farewell. His eyes met Cecily’s and he put his hand over his heart. “Farewell, Mother,” he mouthed, and when he saw her place her hand over her own heart and smile, he bowed his head, knowing he was forgiven.
Farewells had been said and blessings received, and so, with drums beating a steady rhythm, Richard rode out with Edmund by his side ahead of the group of retainers, while Cecily watched them thread their way through the streets, out of the city, and onto the north road. A sudden gust of bitter wind off the river made her shiver, and, tucking her white rose pennon into her sleeve, she marshalled her remaining children indoors with a heavy heart.
CECILY WAS TRUE to her promise to make the Yuletide season a merry one for her children. An early snowfall in the west country kept Anne from traveling to London, but Bess arrived from Suffolk after her young husband, John de la Pole, had ridden off with his men to join Richard. Cecily had forgotten how delightfully prosaic her second daughter could be, and Bess enjoyed her walks and talks with Meg, telling Cecily that her sister had an impressive knowledge of literature already. “I have no time for reading anything but the household accounts, in truth,” Bess confided jovially. “I confess I prefer raising good dogs and horses.”
After one of the feasts, Cecily paid for mummers to enact the story of St. George and the Dragon especially for Dickon, who hid under the table when the fearsome dragon appeared, belching smoke from its mouth. But peeking from his hideout, he clapped his hands when St. George dealt the fatal blow and released Meg, who played a reluctant damsel in distress.
Cecily doubted that George and Dickon noticed the paucity of fare that year, but Meg and Bess remarked on it. Coming from the country, Bess was only too aware that the farmers had been unable to harvest much after the wettest summer anyone could remember. How Richard would feed his men on the road north worried Cecily.
Too soon for the children, the first days of January meant Epiphany was close and thus the end of the celebrations. Alice had joined in the festivities on Christmas Eve, and on the next day all had attended a solemn Mass at St. Paul’s in the presence of King Henry.
Alice brought troubling news from her son, Warwick, that Queen Margaret had crossed the border accompanied by an army of Scots and other mercenaries and was moving south to join the northern lords. Cecily’s heart turned over, as it did whenever she heard the She-wolf’s name, but this was especially unhappy news.
“My son’s informants describe Margaret as a termagant,” Alice confided, as they sipped mulled wine and watched more snow fall outside the solar window. “They say her ire at the new order of succession, at Henry, and most of all at your husband knows no bounds. They have seen her at James’s court ranting loudly and without shame, railing against England, which of course her Scottish hosts must enjoy. God help us if she is not stopped. ’Tis said she even wears a suit of armor now, though I cannot quite believe it.”
Cecily had snorted then. “Well, I can. Even Londoners are calling her She-wolf.”
She prayed that Richard had been able to gather enough men to his banner and that Edward would soon join him with more. Despite the ill tidings, she refused to spoil the children’s fun, but for surety’s sake spent extra time on her knees, asking the Virgin to protect her husband and two elder sons.
It was while she was at prayer on a snowy day in early January that she heard a bell tolling and then another and another. When she heard the castle gate grating open and horsemen enter, she called to Gresilde for her cloak and hurried along the cold stone passage with her attendant to the nearest open area to look down on the courtyard. She instantly recognized the cognizance of the bear and ragged staff.
“A messenger from Warwick,” she said. Asking Gresilde to accompany her, she ran down the spiral staircase and arrived in the great hall in time to see her nephew stride in, shaking the snow off his voluminous felt hat.
Her heart constricted and she felt sick as she contemplated why Warwick was come in person. “What news, my lord? Tell me!” she exclaimed, going to him and receiving his reverence. She could read nothing on his face, but her legs did not feel part of her, and she would have fallen if her nephew had not been quick to support her.
“Is it the duke? My husband? Has he been wounded?” she whispered, her mouth dry. She was vaguely aware that too many pairs of eyes were on her as she tried to swallow.
Warwick somehow propelled her to the nearest seat. Then, pointing to the door, his haughty gaze brooking no lagging, he dismissed the curious bystanders without a word.
Cecily was gripping Gresilde’s arm as Warwick dropped on one knee to address her. “Your grace, Aunt, I bring you the worst news,” he said in a grim but gentle voice. “You have guessed it, I have no doubt. There was a battle at Wakefield, and it pains me to tell you that the duke, your husband, is dead.” He waited as first Cecily stared at him dumbstruck and then uttered a moan that would have moved even the most stalwart of men.
“Richard! It cannot be! Oh no, please not Richard!” she whispered, searching Warwick’s face for a denial while she desperately tried to hold back her tears in front of him. Seeing his nod, her words tumbled forth. “When? How? Where? Oh, sweet Jesu, not Richard! Not my love, my dearest love, my life, my all, my sweet—” She could not continue.
Warwick steeled himself. “Dear Aunt Cecily, you must be brave, for I have more to tell you.” He struggled on, much moved by his aunt’s grief. “My father—your brother—is also dead, God rest his soul.” He knew bringing her the news in person would be difficult, but he had not imagined he too would feel such depth of sorrow upon hearing of his father’s death.
Holding her close gave him the strength to finish. “Courage, Aunt,” he murmured, “for there is more. It pains me to tell you that your son Edmund was murdered fleeing the scene.”
For the second time in Cecily’s life, the world went black, and she slid from her nephew’s arms to the floor.
EPILOGUE
What can I do? It’s not surprising that I
Weep and sigh, with my dear lover dead.
For when I look deeply into my heart and
see how sweetly and without hardship I
lived from my childhood and first youth
with him, I am assailed by such great
pain that I will always weep for his death.
CHRISTINE DE PISAN,
ONE HUNDRED BALLADS
Baynard’s Castle, London
FEBRUARY 9 TO SUMMER 1461
Cecily awoke with a jolt to find that she had slipped off the kneeler in the little chapel and onto the flagstone floor. She lay there, the cold stone against her cheek, wondering how she had come to be in the chapel. And then she remembered that she had come with Gresilde to attend nones after her sleepless night. How long had she been lying here? Quite some time, she decided, remembering she had sent Gresilde away. With a deep sigh and instead of rising, she chose to prostrate herself, her arms outstretched toward the altar and her face pressed against the rough granite, forcing herself to remember Warwick’s dreadful mission. She wished now that she had never woken from her swoon that day.
But she had, and so she made herself think about what had happened after she had been revived that day five weeks ago.
In truth, she had gone through the following few days in a trance, for she could barely remember telling her children that their father and brother had been slain, sending word for the household to assemble in the great hall to give them the tidings of their master’s death, ordering her mourning robes to be sewn, sending money to the churches in Baynard’s parish for masses to be said for the d
uke and earl, and indeed how she struggled through forkfuls of food the cook had sent up to tempt her day after day.
She did clearly remember the agonizing sounds of her children’s grief as Nurse Anne and Beatrice tried to comfort them in their rooms a passageway from her. After that first day, when she had gathered them to her knee in the solar and explained that Father and Edmund would not be coming back but that they were safe with the angels, she could not bear to be with them for long.
She also remembered the herald arriving soon after Warwick and having to sit through a description of the horror of that fateful day at Sandal and keep control of her emotions.
Richard was taken unawares when the royal army camped but a few miles away at Pontefract just before Christmas. Heralds went back and forth between the leaders, and a Christmas truce was negotiated. As Cecily had feared, food was scarce, and a large group of Richard’s men sallied forth one bitterly cold day to forage in the farms and fields around nearby Wakefield. Taking advantage of the diminished numbers at the castle, young Somerset, who was commanding the queen’s forces, advanced his army to the plain before the castle, having caught and slain many of the foraging soldiers. And then Richard, incensed by the breaking of the truce, ordered his soldiers to march out of the safety of the castle and face the enemy in the field. He had no idea, so the herald had reported, how large a force the queen had mustered. The Yorkists had been cut to pieces in short order.
Cecily remembered the herald had looked up at her with compassion when he gave her the facts of Richard’s death. He was slain among his faithful servants—Roger Ree, Davy Hall—and Warwick’s brother, Thomas, and his head struck from his body. When Salisbury had been captured, Somerset declared victory for the Lancastrians. More than two thousand of York’s followers had been killed. Cecily groaned now. And what for? she asked herself. Ah, Richard, my love, what was worth losing your life for? Richard . . .
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