She forced herself to think of his face as it used to be, smiling at her with love, those gray eyes crinkling, or loosing his braying laugh with his children, or concentrating on his devotions, or serious in discussion with his councillors. She could not think of the bloodied, grisly mess of flesh his dear face must have been on that dreadful day. And she refused to accept that Queen Margaret would have so ignominiously treated the head of a royal duke as they said she had, adorning it with a paper crown and making jests about the irony before setting it upon the Micklegate of York. If ’tis true, Cecily muttered to herself, then surely the queen has gone as mad as her husband.
She turned her thoughts from blood-soaked Micklegate to her brother, her sometimes infuriatingly indecisive brother, who, despite their difference in age, in the end had become her husband’s closest friend, who had stood with him at Ludlow and fled for his life, and who had fought beside him at St. Albans and Wakefield. The herald said Salisbury had pleaded with Somerset to spare him, even offering the duke money, but in the end he had been dragged from his cell in Pontefract by his own northern vassals and beheaded without trial by Exeter’s bastard brother. Cecily felt guilty that she had not seen Alice yet. Alice too had lost her husband. She vowed to visit her without delay.
But now she must grit her teeth and try to reconcile herself to the most difficult of the three deaths that had devastated her family in the space of those twenty-four hours: the cold-blooded murder of Edmund, her beloved second son, the boy who had so endeared himself to his mother with his gentle ways and who had stolen her heart at an early age.
She heard again the herald’s harrowing pronouncement. “My lord of Rutland escaped the field with Master Apsall,” he had said, reluctant to add to the duchess’s woes, and Cecily had been surprised to hear that her sons’ tutor had joined Richard. “It was told to me that they took shelter under a bridge, but Lord Clifford had pursued them and his soldiers dragged the earl from his hiding place. Lord Edmund fell to his knees and begged for mercy, for the fighting was over and the battle already won.”
Cecily felt her bile rise again now as it had then at such horrifying treatment of her son. Lord Clifford, the man she had held hands with on Love-day, had cut her son’s throat himself, may he rot in hell. It was for revenge, the messenger had said, for the death of Clifford’s father at St. Albans.
Here, lying on the chapel floor, Cecily’s body heaved with dry sobs; her tears were spent, she knew. At least Somerset had buried all three bodies together at Pontefract after sending their heads to York. One day I shall take Richard and Edmund back to bury at Fotheringhay, she promised herself.
A candle guttered and went out. She knew she must have been in the chapel a long time. Gradually raising herself to a kneeling position, she looked again at the Virgin’s anguished face. Ah, Virgin Mother, could you not have spared my son? She crossed herself as she gazed up at the crucified Christ and told him, “I know now your mother’s agony, Lord. Did she not suffer your death for all mothers? Or must we all lose a son to understand your sacrifice?” She bent her head and whispered a paternoster. A calm had come over her, and when she looked back at Christ, she was filled with compassion and reverence. Over the years Cecily had discovered how much comfort she gained from prayer, and today it had once again brought her strength to go on with her life.
As she got up, brushed the creases from her gown, and straightened her head-covering, she realized for the first time in weeks that she was hungry. She reverenced the altar and slowly left the chapel. Reliving her life with Richard had given her more solace than she could have dreamed of. Her spirit felt assuaged, and a glimmer of hope for the future without him had crept into her heart. It was as though Richard had released her, though it was possible that her heart might never truly mend. Her other children must fill the void now, she thought, determined to go to the youngest and help them through their loss.
Her legs still did not feel strong, but she walked with new purpose from the chapel. She could not help but ponder what Meg had alluded to the night before after her nightmare. Do my children look upon me as hard of heart? But, oh, how wrong they are, she ruefully smiled to herself, thinking back on thirty years of a passion-filled marriage. Perhaps I should not have hidden my feelings from them. Maybe I should show them how cherished they are and how much I cherished their father, and so she quickened her steps, longing to hold two of her remaining sons in her arms. Soon, she prayed, she could hold Edward as well.
Edward. She imagined his horror upon hearing the news from Wakefield. He had been at Shrewsbury, she was told, doing what his father had commanded him to do. But where was he now?
She had arrived at the small solar that the boys shared with Meg during the day and that served as their bedchamber at night. She put her hand on the door and entered just in time to hear Dickon tell his sister, “You aren’t even my nursemaid! Leave me be, you . . . you whey-faced wench!”
Cecily gasped, instantly changing from grieving widow to strict mother. “Richard! Where have you learned such talk? Apologize to your sister at once, and then you may go to bed without your supper. I am ashamed of you. To think your father has only been dead these five weeks! You children have lost all discipline.” This was not exactly how she had envisaged showing her children her love, but even in grief, she had to maintain order for their sake.
Becoming aware of horsemen in the courtyard, she frowned. George explained that seeing them was the reason for their quarrel and that Meg had rebuked him and Dickon unfairly.
“Come and see, Mother,” Meg said quickly, moving back to the window.
Cecily peered down and recognized her son’s livery. Her heart began to beat faster. “George, stay here. Margaret, come with me.”
“But, Mother, I am a man now. I am the head of the family in Ned’s absence. I should be by your side,” George sulked.
“When you look at me like that, George, all you show me is that you are still naught but a babe. Now do as you are told!”
When Cecily and Meg entered the great hall with their attendants, the herald fell to one knee.
“What news, master herald? Come you from my son?” Cecily went straight to the point.
“Aye, my lady. And I have to report a victory for Lord Edward seven days since!” A cheer rose from the assembled company. “At a place near Ludlow called Mortimer’s Cross.”
“I know the place,” Cecily said eagerly, gripping Margaret’s arm. Her heart filled with pride as she imagined her warrior son astride his white destrier, sword raised to the heavens. Mortimer’s Cross was a stone’s throw from Wig-more Castle, she remembered, and a pang momentarily suffused her as she remembered that afternoon of passion she and Richard had enjoyed there. Aye, ’twas a fitting place for a York to know victory, she thought.
The herald told his tale with flair, thrilling the company, which had grown in number once the news had been circulated that Lord Edward had won his first battle.
“My lord Edward was marching to meet with the earl of Warwick to stop the royal army from reaching London when he heard that a large force was moving from Wales to join the king. Lord Edward turned his army and chose to face this force of Welsh, Bretons, and Irish.” It was on the feast of Candlemas, the herald said, adding that some were loath to fight upon such a holy day. “But just before the battle began, a strange happening took place that convinced our troops Edward would be victorious.”
Cecily waved him on.
“’Twas close to ten of the clock, and we were chafing at the bit, waiting for the enemy to approach, when we noticed three suns in the sky.”
“Three? Do not babble nonsense, man,” Cecily snapped. “How can there be three suns?”
“I know not how, my lady. But I saw them with my own eyes. The strange apparition hushed the army, but then my lord Edward turned his horse to us and cried, ‘’Tis the symbol of the Trinity. God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost! It means God is on our side! ’Tis a sign.’ And we believed
him then. He was so sure and so brave, and the light from the three suns shone bright on his gold-brown head, making him look like . . . like a young god,” he cried, his voice filling the hall.
After giving her more details, the herald ended with the news that Edward was now on his way to meet Warwick.
“Let us hope they have now met, herald, for the queen’s army is not far from here, I fear. We thank you for your service.”
Exultant with the news, Cecily called for wine for the entire company, and her arms prickled when the echoing shout “À York!” reached the rafters.
Even so, Cecily recognized the cold grip of fear. Would Edward be in time to unite with Warwick and prevent the queen from marching on London? Despite Edward’s victory, and unable to trust fortune to favor York for long, Cecily had good cause to be afraid.
LONDON WAS A city whose nerves had teetered on a knife edge since the news of Wakefield had spread through the lanes, taverns, and wharves in January. For all his popularity, Warwick had not taken charge as the people had anticipated he would after Richard’s death. Alice told Cecily she feared he had lost his courage—otherwise why had he not sent out commissions of array to the surrounding counties to protect London from the queen’s army. Riders from the north had daily cantered through the city gates to report the atrocities taking place on Margaret’s march south. Cecily’s heart had wept to hear that Grantham, Peterborough, and Stamford—all formerly under Richard’s jurisdiction—had been ravaged by the bloodthirsty mob that traveled with the queen. It was said that nothing was safe in a thirty-mile-wide swath of the oncoming rabble, that the rape and torture of nuns and priests was rampant, the defiling and sacking of churches and abbeys common, and the burning and pillaging of towns and villages unrelenting.
Emerging from her brief period of initial grief, Cecily could only now sense the tension in the streets as people hurried to and from their homes and shops with an eye to the north. Any day they expected to hear the trumpets and church bells sound the alarm. She considered it too dangerous to let the boys go out to play or practice at the butts on those days when it was not pouring with rain or sleeting. Meg, she knew, took comfort in books. Cecily threw herself into the running of the castle, spending hours with Steward Heydon poring over the accounts, settling disputes, and hearing petitions.
She was informed that Warwick had finally gathered a force from the southern counties and together with other Yorkist lords had marched out on the twelfth day of February to prevent Margaret from reaching London. And they took with them as their figurehead that most hapless of monarchs, King Henry the Sixth.
But that was a week ago, Cecily mused now, putting down her book of Christine de Pisan’s ballads and removing her spectacles. She shivered and went to throw a log on the fire, the spitting embers disturbing Ambergris. Surely Edward had caught up to Warwick by now. She hoped that their lengthy absence boded well for London’s safety.
She watched the boats ply the gray water of the Thames, a wintry sun trying to pierce the leaden cloud that had loosed a few snowflakes onto the cottages and hovels along the south bank of the river. To the east of them she could see the tower of St. Mary Overie.
Being on the water side of the castle, she did not hear the portcullis grind open to let the horsemen enter the courtyard, but shouting did pierce her reverie, as did Ambergris’s first growl. The dog rose from his warm spot by the fire and began to bark.
Beatrice came hurrying in, her long face even longer. “The herald has returned with others, your grace, and their mood is grim.”
“Where is Lady Margaret, Beatrice? Find her and come down to the hall. Gresilde and I will go there immediately.” Cecily gathered up her train and hurried down the spiral staircase through the great hall and onto the steps to the courtyard, where Steward Heydon was conversing with the herald. The man knelt before her, muddied and wet through, and doffed his cap. This time the news was not of victory but of a stunning defeat of the seemingly unassailable earl of Warwick by the queen’s army.
“At St. Albans you say?” she asked, annoyed with herself for not controlling the tremor in her voice. “And what of my lord of Warwick? God forbid he is not slain.”
“Nay, your grace. The earl and the rest of our force who escaped the slaughter have fled west to find your son, Lord Edward.”
“Praise be to the Virgin for that!” Cecily exclaimed, although concerned to hear that Edward had not arrived in time to join the fray and beat back the queen.
“The king was with the earl at the battlefield,” the herald continued. “He is with the queen now. Some said they saw him at the edge of the battlefield sitting under a tree, laughing at his enemies.”
“Sweet Jesu, the poor man is indeed mad,” whispered Cecily, crossing herself. Then she addressed the somber company, looking around the high walls of the inner ward at the servants and attendants hanging over balconies or crowded on stairs and at the soldiers, some wounded, who were thronging the courtyard itself.
“Hear this, loyal friends of York. We are in grave danger.” She ordered those who were armed and hale to follow Warwick’s trail and join Edward. The wounded must be cared for at Baynard’s, and she assured them she would not desert them or the household. “God help us! And may God bless the earl of March!” she ended on a rallying note.
“God bless Lord Edward!” the household echoed, less enthusiastic, and murmured misgivings on their way back to work.
Cecily welcomed the soldiers into the hall, where she took charge, making provision for the wounded, commanding the cook to make food for those leaving to join Edward, and passing through the ranks with a smile of encouragement here and a word of thanks for their duty there. Meg trailed along behind, emulating her mother with nods and quiet words of commiseration or gratitude.
Throughout the procedure Cecily was also desperately trying to think. What if Margaret does enter London? Any loyalty for her royal person or any respect she might have won if she had simply marched south to claim the capital and her husband after her victory at Wakefield had disappeared up in the smoke of every house and field she had burned. Nay, we cannot expect any mercy from Margaret of Anjou. After all—and Cecily saw the irony clearly now—who inherits England now rests between her son and mine.
And it suddenly occurred to Cecily that her younger sons were in danger as well, for they were also heirs to the throne. She must send them away immediately, she decided. But where? To Nan in Devon? You foolish woman, Cis, Exeter would find them there. To Bess in Suffolk? Nay, Bess was too young to take on such responsibility and besides, she was lately with child. They would not be safe anywhere in England, she realized with a jolt. They must go abroad. She racked her brain. Who were Richard’s allies in Europe? Oh, if only dear Anne of Bedford were still alive! But that gave her an idea: Anne’s brother, Philip of Burgundy. He was an ally, was he not? Aye, after Northampton he had made overtures of friendship to the Yorkist lords. In a split second her mind was made up. There was no time to waste, no time to write letters. The boys must leave at once. Her eye fell on Meg, and she beckoned to her.
“Margaret my dear, I want you to go up to your apartments and tell Nurse Anne to ready George and Richard for a journey. Tell her to pack their warmest clothes and one fine doublet and bonnet each. I will be there anon.”
“Where will they go, Mother?” Meg asked boldly.
Cecily was astonished. “’Tis not your place to question me, Daughter. Pray do as I tell you at once!”
Meg flushed, glancing anxiously around at those standing close, and Cecily felt ashamed for embarrassing her child. “You will know in a little while, my dear,” she said more kindly. “I simply do not have time to explain now.” With a heavy heart, she watched Meg turn away.
Dickon was on the verge of tears when Cecily found the boys half an hour later.
She clucked her tongue. “Where is your York backbone, Richard!” she admonished him. “You are near ten years old and here you are behaving like a baby. ’Tis
not the first time you have been without me.”
“But . . . but . . . Meg has always been with us. Why can’t she come, too?” Dickon tried to stop his lip quivering, but he did not succeed.
It was his sister who gathered him into her arms and cajoled him out of his fear. “’Twill be an adventure, Dickon!”
This caused Dickon to wail even more loudly. “I did not like the last adventure. I was frightened at Ludlow.”
“That’s enough, Richard,” Cecily admonished him, and then felt another pang of guilt for her sharp words. She should not take out her anxiety on these innocents, she remonstrated with herself. She took pity on her youngest, who looked so pathetic, his thin legs encased in hose far too big for him and his chin trembling, and she held out her arms, taking him gently from Meg. “Hush, child. It will not be for long, I promise, for Ned will come and take London and all will be well.”
At Edward’s name, Dickon brightened. “You think he will really come, Mother? I would dearly love to see Ned again!” He blinked back his tears and attempted a smile.
Cecily stood up and drew George to her as well. “Now, would you like to know where you are going?”
“Aye, Mother,” chorused the boys. “And why?” added George.
“’Tis for your own safety, George. If something should happen to Edward, pray God it does not, then you and Richard are York’s heirs and thus are heirs to the crown.”
Cecily reminded them to mind their manners, study hard, and write to her often, for they would be guests at the court of the mighty duke of Burgundy. “Aye,” she laughed, as their eyes grew round, “and you will have your first voyage on a ship!” She held her thumb between her fingers for luck, as she was taking it on faith that Duke Philip would receive them kindly.
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