Red Rose, White Rose

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘I become the champion if I beat the champion I think, Cuthbert. Let us see if your grey hair will stand a second trial in a week.’

  ‘I will let you know when I find one, your grace,’ I said. I was all of a year older than Richard and he liked to draw attention to the discrepancy.

  It was not hard to guess why he was challenging me. Since daybreak the whole castle knew that the duchess had gone into labour in the early hours; the duke was seeking distraction from the matter that was uppermost in his mind.

  ‘What shall we wager on the outcome?’ I asked.

  ‘Which outcome?’ he asked. ‘Whether I win or whether you find a grey hair?’

  ‘As you will not win and I will not find a grey hair, that would be betting against a certainty in either case. Instead I will wager my champion’s purse that before one of us yields your wife will be delivered of a lusty boy.’

  ‘I will certainly not bet against that!’ he protested. ‘And do not imagine that you have the advantage because my mind is elsewhere.’ He strode out into the middle of the arena and his squire hastily ran after him with his helmet, earning a cuff round the ear for his pains. ‘I had not forgotten the helmet, Yves! You were too slow in bringing it.’

  That told me all I needed to know about Richard’s state of mind. I had no fear for my champion’s crown. If this fight ever came to a result, as far as I was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion. We were of similar height and physique, we both had stamina, but a knight who fought with half his attention focused on the outcome of a dynastic birth-struggle playing out in a closed room high above him in the castle keep could not hope to prevail. In less than the time it took for a priest to say high mass, I had Richard backed up against the perimeter fence with the blunt tip of his sword buried in the sand.

  ‘I yield,’ he panted, spreading his hands wide. ‘Sir Cuthbert of Middleham remains the champion knight.’

  I raised my sword high and bowed and as I did so I noticed Richard’s Chamberlain, Sir Andrew Ogard, hurrying across the bailey, a wide smile on his face. He fell to his knees heedless of the dusty ground and announced jubilantly ‘The duchess has safely delivered a son, your grace, not ten minutes ago.’

  Richard made the sign of the cross. ‘God be thanked,’ he breathed. ‘A son you say – and all is well? Does he wail lustily and how fares her grace?’ Sir Andrew gave his assurances on both counts but Richard did not really listen. He threw his arms around me and clasped me in a fierce bear-hug. ‘Heaven be praised, it is a boy, Cuthbert! May God bless my son and make him strong and fearless. Come, brother, let us storm the keep and get a glimpse of him!’

  With his arm around my shoulder, he hauled me along with him whether I would or no. All around us news of the birth spread like flames in a breeze, causing sudden bursts of noise in celebration. On the practice ground sweating foot-soldiers dropped their weapons and raised their fists and voices in triumph for their lord, on the topmost tower of the castle the white rose emblem rattled up the flagpole and in the forge the smiths and armourers hammered out a crescendo on their anvils to salute the newborn son of York.

  ‘Tell them to ring the chapel bell!’ Richard yelled over his shoulder at his Chamberlain. ‘And send word to all the churches. I want to hear every bell in Rouen chime. The House of York has an heir!’

  We took the successive keep stairways two steps at a time and arrived breathless at the lying-in chamber but Lady Anne would not grant us entry. ‘This is not a place for men,’ she declared firmly and gestured at our armour and sheathed swords, ‘especially not for men who clank and reek of combat. Cicely is being tended by the midwives and presently will be ready to receive you. But if you wish to celebrate with your lady wife, my lord, I suggest a clean doublet and soft shoes.’

  I glanced sideways to gauge Richard’s reaction; he looked angry and crestfallen but I could see that he acknowledged the justice of her advice.

  ‘Very well, but I demand that you bring the baby out to me now, Lady Anne,’ he insisted. ‘I must see my son and heir.’

  Several officials of the York household were gathered in the ante-room. I knew Richard would not wish to lose face in front of his servants but when I caught Lady Anne’s eye I saw there an unmistakable twinkle. She dropped a curtsy and opened the door wide. ‘Indeed you must, your grace, and acknowledge him as your son for all to see.’

  A nurse stood behind her with a bundle of warmly wrapped baby in her arms. The small newborn features of his face were framed by the folds of white shawl. I am no expert but he looked peaceful, pink and healthy. Richard bent to peer closely at the crumpled face and as he did so the child’s eyes opened. One of the few scraps of information I had about tiny infants up to that time was that their focus is blurry, but this one seemed to gaze steadily and deeply into his father’s eyes as if he saw into his soul.

  Richard was captivated. ‘Tell Cicely we shall call him Edward,’ he announced without looking up.

  Lady Anne gave a satisfied nod. ‘After your uncle, the last Duke of York. It is a good Plantagenet name.’

  ‘Yes, my lady, after my Uncle Edward, Duke of York, but also after his grandfather King Edward the Third and his father King Edward the Second and his father King Edward the First. This child is a prince. I would have everyone recognize that the blood of England’s kings runs in my son’s veins.’

  Richard’s gaze was still riveted on his boy’s face and so he did not see Lady Anne and I raise our eyebrows at each other. Neither of us spoke but it was clear that we were both somewhat taken aback by the messianic tone in the duke’s voice.

  Lady Anne shrugged. ‘I will tell Cicely what you have said my lord. As you can imagine she is tired but utterly delighted to have given birth to a boy. She immediately gave praise and thanks to God and made fervent prayers for the child’s future health, as did we all. We will have her washed and radiant for your return. Oh, and she said to tell you that the baby is very long. He is going to be tall.’

  Any further words were drowned out by the sudden clamour of bells. The peal started in the nearby cathedral belfry and was gradually echoed from every church tower in every corner of the town – a glorious, dissonant, joyous sound – as Rouen rang out a deafening welcome to young Edward of York.

  Later, after Richard had donned a gown of truly triumphant crimson figured damask with long, trailing sleeves, dagged and lined with blue satin, he visited Cicely alone and then came to the great hall of the castle to lead the toasts to the baby’s health and receive the congratulations of his household and vassals. In the castle cellars a tun of wine from the Garonne was broached and orders were given to the cooks to prepare a great feast for the following day. I was among those who approached the duke to offer a personal toast.

  ‘I cannot find the words to say how pleased I am for you and my sister, your grace,’ I said formally, raising my cup. ‘I drink to the future of England and France and your son’s undoubted role in it.’

  Euphoria still suffused his countenance, or else it was the wine that coloured his cheeks. Suffice it to say that Richard received my toast with visible glee – and an audible slur. ‘Oh you are right there, Cuthbert. He will be a prince among princes! I saw it the moment I laid eyes on him.’

  For the second time that day he put his arm around my shoulders, this time his whispered words borne on wine-charged breath.

  ‘I will let you into a secret, brother-in-law. This evening I made a decision. I intended to set off this new gown of mine with the gold Lancastrian collar King Henry presented to me before I departed for France, but when I put it on it made me feel like a dog. Dogs wear collars and work for scraps, do they not? I will not be the king’s dog. So, to celebrate my son’s birth I am going to have my own collar made, one that shouts to the world “This is the House of York!”.’ He drew back and briefly laid his finger to his lips. ‘Don’t tell Cicely, will you?’

  I kept my voice low to match his. ‘You have my word on it, Richard. Where will you have it mad
e though? The best goldsmiths are in Paris but I do not think even you can wrest that city back from the French without the support of parliament and the king. As things are, that does not seem very likely.’

  He gave an airy wave of his hand. ‘We have contacts, Cuthbert. Believe me, it will not be made in London where spies would spread word of it around Westminster before the gold is cold. I am only sorry it will not be made in time for Edward’s baptism.’

  ‘And when is that to be, my lord?’

  The duke’s brow furrowed. ‘Ah, now there Cicely and I differ. I want my son to be baptised in Rouen Cathedral with full pomp and ceremony but Cicely cannot forget the death of little Henry. She thinks Edward’s health will be at risk among a great crowd of people in the cathedral and wants him baptised in the castle chapel. I have decided to bow to her maternal fears. The baptism will take place in the chapel tomorrow.’

  ‘Cicely is right, Richard,’ I said making the sign of the cross. ‘The devil must be driven out as soon as possible and there is no point in taking risks. There will be plenty of occasions for pomp and ceremony when the boy is a little older.’

  Richard stepped back and took another gulp of wine, beckoning a passing servant to refill his cup. He nodded solemnly. ‘There will indeed, brother. I assure you he will be brought up to understand the importance of such things in the exercise of power.’

  16

  Rouen Castle, 1443

  Cicely

  Anne had been right. My belief in the unforgiving wrath of God was unfounded and, a little over a year after Edward’s birth, Richard and I were blessed with another healthy baby boy. This time I was confident enough to allow him to be carried to the cathedral for a full ceremonial baptism. We called him Edmund after the first Duke of York, Richard’s grandfather and also after his mother’s brother, Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, whose untimely death had almost doubled Richard’s inheritance.

  I did not attend the baptism, but afterwards Richard proudly related that he had carried Edward into the cathedral and revelled in the gasps of surprise from the guests when he set his son down and they watched him walk unaided to his nurse.

  ‘You should have seen their faces, Cicely – only three weeks after his first birthday! There he was in his red velvet gown and little jewelled slippers, his head held high as he toddled across the floor. He grinned at them all, so proud and pleased. He already knows how to charm his public.’

  I smiled indulgently, enjoying Richard’s immense pride in his elder son. Nevertheless I could not resist reminding him whose baptism it had been. ‘And Edmund – how did he behave?’ I asked.

  The Duke of York had the grace to look a little guilty. ‘Edmund? Well, how do newborn babies behave when they are dunked in water, even if it be warmed and holy? He yelled his head off – and the devil was successfully dealt with, thanks be to God.’

  ‘Good. I hope he will learn to accept being second to Edward in everything, as you clearly intend him to be.’

  ‘I do not!’ Richard was indignant. ‘I am already acquiring as much territory in Normandy as possible so that Edmund will have his own revenues and a good motive for keeping the French at bay. It will not do for him and Edward to fight over my York estates.’

  I frowned. ‘Cuthbert tells me our household servants are already calling Edward “The Rose of Rouen”. That could prove an awkward name if you intend to set Edmund up over here.’

  Richard appeared pleased by this piece of news, ignoring my warning. ‘The Rose of Rouen? Do they really? People love an alliterative epithet, do they not? You were called “The Rose of Raby”, as I remember.’

  ‘I still am in the northland I believe. You see no harm in it then?’

  ‘Harm? What harm could there be? York is the house of the White Rose and now there are two heirs to ensure its future. That can be nothing but good.’

  Of course the fortunes of the house of York did not rely entirely on the flourishing of our children. A good deal depended on what went on in the halls and chambers of Westminster Palace, where the young king seemed incapable of resisting the overtures of those with the smoothest tongues. To Richard’s exasperation, slick operators like Cardinal Beaufort and his nephews, the Earls of Somerset and Mortain, pushed their preferences through the council while the king’s personal attention seemed focused not on the parlous situation in France but on the endowment of new schools and colleges in England.

  ‘Education is all very worthy,’ Richard fumed when he learned of the astronomical sums parliament had voted for King Henry’s pet projects at Eton and Cambridge, ‘but it does not pay the soldiers who defend the borders of his French kingdom. Does he not realize that ranks of scholars will not win back the towns and castles which the French seize because our garrisons lack reinforcements and supplies?’

  I knew he was thinking of Pontoise, the important eastern gateway to Paris, overrun by the French the previous year, since when several less important but no less strategic towns had fallen as a result. Despite the thousands of crowns Richard had spent from his own coffers, Normandy was becoming more and more vulnerable. Then instead of the expected attack on Normandy, the French made a surprise assault on Gascony; England had held it for centuries; most of the wine that flowed down English throats came from there.

  To add insult to injury, the Earl of Somerset had been appointed Captain General of Aquitaine over Richard’s head and given a force of twenty thousand men to chase the French out.

  His wrath at this news had exploded through the door into my solar, sending my young ladies scurrying for the door. ‘By St George and St Michael, Cicely, this time I have had enough! I have petitioned the king time and again to send money and reinforcements and he never does. Now he writes that he has been obliged to divert all funds and forces to Somerset for his expedition to Gascony. A king is never obliged! Henry is not obliged, he is cozened!’

  I could think of nothing to say that might calm his anger. But Richard’s tone had moderated slightly when he continued, ‘We can only pray that Somerset keeps the French so busy in Gascony that they will leave Normandy alone. Meanwhile I shall begin my own negotiations to secure a truce with Burgundy so that at least the merchants of Rouen can begin to trade with the Low Countries again.’

  For myself, I felt thoroughly let down because I had always considered the Beauforts to be allies. Now I thought back, however, since my mother’s death it had become more than obvious that they no longer felt any loyalty to her family. It seemed that Neville links to the Lancastrian throne were disintegrating.

  On the twenty-first day of September there was a tournament to celebrate Richard’s birthday. His sister Isabel came from Picardy with her husband Henry Bourchier, Count of Eu, and my sister Anne and her husband Humphrey made the risky ride from Calais. Scores of lesser knights and nobles rode in to compete in a variety of jousts, which offered tempting purses to the victors, but none succeeded in unseating my brother Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, who added another pot of gold to his winnings from the St George’s Day tourney.

  At the banquet which followed, Richard chose to reveal another deal he had done while negotiating his new trade treaty with the Low Countries. A recent merchants’ train had delivered a fabulous new collar made to his design by goldsmiths in Antwerp and as we made our grand entry down the centre of the Hall of Estates a wave of astonishment accompanied our progress. Displayed prominently around his throat, a dazzling river of gems and gold brought gasps of awe from the guests. It consisted of a chain of twenty white-enamelled gold roses, each set with an enormous yellow diamond at its centre, similar to the rare and beautiful stone that had so struck me on the brooch he gave me before our wedding. Other smaller gemstones – sapphires, emeralds and rubies – gleamed along the filigree gold links, while from the front hung a single magnificent colourless diamond, intricately cut across its surface so that the light from the candles and flambeaux was fractured into brilliant multiple rays that appeared to dance around the hall, reflected off walls
and ceiling, clothes and faces. This unique jewel, called the White Rose, flashed a glittering message of possession, wealth and exalted rank. There was no mistaking its purpose was to declare York’s pre-eminence in the peerage and proclaim Richard’s royal lineage.

  As we took our places at the high table, I marked the startling contrast between Richard’s sparkling York White Rose and the plain gold gleam of the Lancastrian SS link collar set on the shoulders of the newly created Duke of Buckingham, my sister Anne’s husband, Humphrey. Nor was I the only one to do so.

  ‘The goldsmiths must have scoured the gem markets of Europe for that white diamond.’ Humphrey kept his voice low so it would not carry past me to Richard. ‘Even Croesus cannot have spent so much on one bauble.’

  Happy though I was to have my sister join the ducal ranks, I raised my chin and challenged her lord’s sardonic gaze. ‘Great princes should not pretend to be paupers,’ I said. ‘The House of York is a royal house; it should have its regalia.’

  ‘There can only be one royal house in England,’ said Humphrey, fingering the links of his own chain. ‘The throne belongs to Lancaster, as do the crown and sceptre. Regalia are for kings, not princes.’

  ‘You wear a Lancaster collar, my lord, yet you are not a son of Lancaster. That is your choice. The Duke of York chooses to wear the symbol of his own house.’