“I won’t see them, so don’t waste your breath.”
She looked round at him, such an innocent look. “If you’ve made up your mind, I wouldn’t dream of wasting my breath.”
Unlike many of his peers, York didn’t make the mistake of treating his wife as a chattel, a servant, or a brood mare, although she had not lacked in that last respect. As well as their two older boys who kept their own household at Ludlow Castle on the Welsh border, she had produced four other living children, three girls and one boy, all fair-haired and rosy of cheek.
He trusted Cecily as his confidante and his soul mate. She had a good head on her shoulders, free of the sentimental clutter and fixation with trivia that seemed to afflict so many of her sex. He could talk to her as he would to a man – always minding his language, for she abhorred obscenities – and count upon receiving a hearing free of gratuitous interruptions and followed by well-considered counsel, which he wasn’t too proud to take. Furthermore, no matter how hectic or serious the situation, Cecily had an inborn serenity that she seemed able to transmit to those around her. She was that singular woman: perfect wife, perfect mother, lovely enough to turn every male head in the vicinity and too virtuous to notice.
“It is a rare occasion that I see my brother, so I had a brief talk with them,” she said. “In any case, it would have been unmannerly to send them away without offering hospitality. I hope you don’t mind.”
The Duke dug his quill into an inkpot and scrawled his signature on the bottom of a letter from one of his retainers, reporting, among other local news, the theft of some of his sheep and implying that the Sheriff of Shropshire was responsible. Handing that to his clerk for sealing, he pulled another forward. This was an order to the Sheriff of Shropshire to find and punish the sheep thieves.
Meanwhile, Cecily had occupied the chair across from his desk that was used by visitors and was irritatingly tapping her well-manicured nails on the arm.
“All right!” He threw the quill down in exasperation. “Say what you came to say.”
“They were duped, just as you were.”
“I will not see them!” He was becoming angry, but Cecily had no reason to fear his anger, which was usually born of frustration and never violent.
She rose. “Suppose I were to tell you that they want to offer you their allegiance?”
He looked up at her. A struggle took place, but good sense won in the end and stubbornness, for once, retired vanquished from the field. “Are they still here?”
“I’ll go and see, shall I?”
Chapter 4
October 1453 – Windsor Castle
Stark staring mad, Warwick had written in a letter that brought the Duke of York from Fotheringhay to London in two days, fleet as wing-footed Mercury. Callous words perhaps, but perfectly apposite, York thought as he carefully closed the door to the sick man’s chamber. Henry VI, King of England and France and Lord of Ireland was catatonic, an empty husk.
He had never seen anything like it. No, that wasn’t true. The eyes of the dead were like that. But Henry still lived. His thin chest rose and fell beneath the rather shabby velvet robe, inhaling and expelling breath. His eyelids still blinked.
He had always been rather weak-minded, easily led, a meek and simple man for whom the burdens of kingship had proved onerous and its privileges meaningless. It was a sad state of affairs indeed when the King of England could rightly be dubbed ‘a drooling idiot’ in the courts of Europe.
Outside, in the King’s presence chamber, he found some physicians, including Master Hobbes, and asked what they could tell him about the King’s condition and how long it might last. The latter question was of particular importance.
Thus invited, Hobbes at once began a lengthy exposition on the state of the King’s health and what measures had already been implemented: bleeding, head purges, ointments, cordials, suppositories, gargles, laxatives, baths, electuaries and even cautery. The Duke winced at each item. Every remedy known to medical science, some rather painful, had been tried to get that moribund brain working again. The other physicians were not about to pass up an opportunity to show off their learning and a spirited argument ensued when they took issue with some of Hobbes statements and put forth their own theories. York listened with a deepening frown. What struck him most forcibly during the recital was how much time had elapsed since the King had fallen ill. Two months and he had only just been informed!
“And how long might it last? Can you give me an educated guess?”
Shoulders hunched, hands spread. Hobbes said uncertainly: “It could be days, it could be months.”
“Even years?”
“Aye, even so.”
“Humph!” York was not displeased. Yet his face showed nothing but a grave concern suitable to the occasion. “Get me Tunstall,” he said to no one in particular.
After Blackheath, the Duke suffered no more than a few weeks comfortable confinement. After swearing his loyalty to Henry at St. Paul’s Cathedral he was released. Still, the whole affair was disgraceful, and he still seethed. The one good thing to come out of it was that Salisbury and Warwick were now firmly in his camp. Warwick had been his eyes and ears in London while he saw to his affairs in the north.
Warwick detached himself from a group of other men. They held a murmured conversation, their heads bent as close together as lovers.
“What do you think?” Warwick asked.
“I’m astounded.”
“His French grandsire was mad, of course… Queen Catherine carried the strain.”
“Thought he was made of glass and would shatter if anyone touched him.”
“Ate his meals off the floor like a dog.”
“Killed three men on one occasion before he was restrained. The poor fellow was a raving lunatic, whereas Henry is –”
“Quieter,” said Warwick, with a snort of stifled laughter.
York gave him a reproving look but said nothing. He was well aware of his nephew’s contempt for the King. To a man like Warwick, proud of his own aggressively ambitious nature, Henry was a spineless fool and a poor excuse for a king.
Lowering his voice even further, Warwick said, “Uncle, the government cannot function without a head.”
“We’ll speak of that later.”
Sir Richard Tunstall, Henry’s devoted chamberlain, had just entered the chamber. His face was stiff with dislike as he made a curt bow.
York glared at him. “Why was I not notified of the King’s condition?”
“It was the council’s decision to keep the matter as secret as possible. If your Grace is dissatisfied, I suggest you take it up with the councillors.”
“Be sure I will.”
They left the royal apartments and turned in the direction that would lead to the main door.
“How many people know of Henry’s condition?” York asked.
“Very few outside court circles.”
“They can’t hope to keep it secret. The King is a public figure. What will happen when he isn’t available to witness the swearing-in of the new mayor later this month?”
“Oh, they’ll admit he’s ill when they have to and hope to keep the nature of his illness secret a while longer. The council, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that no public proclamation be made. They prefer the people find out through a whispering campaign of rumour and innuendo.”
Outside in the courtyard, an escort was waiting in the rain. The horses’ heads were down, their manes already plastered to streaming necks. It would have been a colourful troop, composed of the scarlet of Warwick livery and the blue and murrey of York, except that every man was swaddled in his most rain-resistant cloak.
Off they rode, through the gatehouse, the guards saluting, hoods up and dripping trickles of rain onto faces.
When York had set out for London, concern for Henry was uppermost in his thoughts. His affection for the King was genuine, albeit tempered with pity and exasperation, emotions Henry inspired in many of his lords. But
he now began to think about ramifications and possibilities. Now was his chance. Henry’s incapacity was an opportunity that might never come again to take power into his own hands, to purge the government of the corrupt ministers who were leading the country to ruin, install his own honest and competent men in their places and initiate a program of reforms that would set England on the road to economic recovery. He wanted that chance with all his heart. And who had a better right than he to lead the government? Who but he was capable? Somerset? Over my dead body. That miscreant could not be allowed to do to England what he had done to France
He felt he had a decent chance at it. The government was in the most terrible disarray, lawlessness was rampant, the war was going badly, and he knew he had talents that could be of use if only he were allowed to use them.
“England must have effective government during the King’s illness,” he said, speaking quietly but above clopping of horses’ hooves in mud, “and I will not stand by and let Somerset take hold of the reins. I intend to make a bid for the regency. It’s not going to be easy.” He added woefully, “For me, nothing ever is.”
“You can count on my support. You know that,” Warwick said promptly.
“I am counting on it and your father’s also. But Somerset will oppose me, and he too has powerful adherents, most notably the Queen. It is necessary to bring some of the neutrals into my camp, especially those who can influence others. Men like Buckingham.”
“And Exeter.”
York grunted. “My future son-in-law, but roistering with Somerset’s whelps, so I hear.”
“What of Norfolk? Can we count on him or not?”
“I’m not sure. He likes to keep his nose on his estates and out of politics. But my principal concern is Buckingham because where he goes others will follow. We must persuade him to back me. I think we can do it. He’s a sensible fellow. He can’t like Somerset for the job any more than you or I do.
“By the way,” York said presently. “Is the Queen in confinement? It must be nearly her time.”
“Aye, she is. I’ve heard she’s had the door to the lying-in chamber sawn in half and the top half covered with a curtain. So she satisfies the prohibition against men in the chamber, and at the same time she can receive Somerset and the latest news.”
“Scandalous!” said the conservative York.
“Of course, she blames you for the King’s condition, but proclaims that he will recover when he sees his son.”
“His son?” York’s mouth plunged at the reminder that he might be supplanted as Henry’s heir within a few days.
Warwick laughed aloud. “Life is full of little ironies, isn’t it, uncle? Though she longs to produce an heir, it must be a great grief to the woman that she cannot direct affairs as she would wish because of impending labour!”
“At least she’s out of the way for a while. Perhaps we can get something accomplished while she’s busy whelping.”
After eight years of barren marriage, Margaret of Anjou had finally conceived, to the amazement of all. How her pregnancy had come about was the subject of much amused speculation, particularly amongst York’s supporters, who generally agreed that it had little to do with the King. Somehow it had not come as a surprise to the Duke that Henry was unwilling (if not unable) to function as a husband. Too much emphasis on the sacred, too little on the secular in his youth. Although he abhorred gossip, York could not help but be secretly delight in the mental images conjured up by rumours that the proud, disdainful Queen had to suffer the humiliation of her husband being led to her bed by his confessor.
“That’s the real reason that Henry’s lost his wits. He couldn’t bear to see his wife swelling with another man’s brat!” Warwick said.
Gossip was a staple of court and tavern, castle and hovel and this was a particularly salacious piece. The marital congress, or lack thereof, of the royal couple, had kept the scandalmongers and wits happy from the very beginning when it was learned just how reluctant a bridegroom Henry was. Margaret coaxed and cajoled; the Duke of Suffolk delivered impassioned lectures about the need to produce an heir of his own body; the Bishop of Hereford led the reluctant husband by the hand, encouraging him with sermons and homilies, to the very door of the Queen’s bedchamber and shoved him inside. But it was all to no avail. Whenever Henry was coaxed inside, witnesses observed him emerging after too short a time and rushing off to his own apartment to sink on his knees in penitential prayer. For all anyone knew of the truth of it, the marriage was still unconsummated.
But certainly, someone’s seed had quickened her. The most likely donor was reckoned to be her good friend and advisor, the Duke of Somerset, as he was still a fine looking man, though well into his forties. He had enough royal blood in his veins, albeit from the wrong side of the blanket, to give any offspring of his a semblance of the colour and features of a Plantagenet.
“If that’s true, such desperation makes her dangerous,” York mused. “Not that the truth matters. A rumour may not carry much weight in a court of law, but in the court of public opinion it is enough to convict a man.”
“Fortunately, the truth is the last thing that matters,” Warwick said with a grin.
“Once she’s whelped we shall have to get her removed to Windsor. A wife should be with her husband when he’s ailing.”
“She won’t want to go.”
“She’ll go if I have anything to say about it – even if she has to be dragged every mile kicking and screaming!”
The rain was as heavy as ever. They plodded on making slow progress on roads whose surface was like soup, where every puddle might conceal a pothole. They parted at Knightrider Street in London. Once home and dry, York dictated a letter to his wife asking her to come to London.
Chapter 5
January-March 1454 – Fotheringhay Castle
There had been a hard frost overnight. The Lady Anne and her sister Elizabeth were in the castle bailey on their way to the schoolroom but lingered to stamp on frozen puddles for the sheer pleasure of watching the ice splinter and crack. Their breath formed a white cloud around cheeks and noses pinched red by the cold. With any luck, the lake would freeze over, and they would be able to strap animal bones to their feet and skate, as they had the winter before their father went to Ireland. Elizabeth, who was only five at that time, had to be held up by adults on each side, but Anne had learned to skate by herself. It was the most amazing sensation, whizzing along as if she were flying, the cold stinging her cheeks. A big bonfire burned on the shore, and afterwards, they ate roasted chestnuts and drank mulled cider. It was the best time.
Halfway along their slow journey to the schoolroom a servant appeared to inform Anne that her mother wanted to see her in the solar.
“Can’t I come too?” Elizabeth whined. She was eleven now, three years younger than Anne and already betrothed to the Duke of Suffolk, son of the man who had been murdered by shipmen.
“Of course not. Not unless Mama specifically asked for you. Now run along. I will be there shortly,” Anne said in her most imperious manner, although she hoped her mother would detain her long enough to miss a lesson. Deportment – ugh!
The solar in which her mother awaited her was a large but cosy room, a retreat for the ladies from the male-dominated great hall, and filled with the paraphernalia of their pursuits: a spinning wheel – gathering dust – weaving and embroidery frames and several sewing baskets. Yards of cloth, pins, scissors and a measuring stick littered the trestle table. The walls were hung with tapestries passed down through the generations, the oldest and most cherished being a century and a half old, its colours still as bright and flawless as when it was new. Cecily and her ladies had made their own contribution: a pastoral scene, depicting a religious house at the end of a long hilly road, and in the foreground a motley party of weary travellers. At each corner was a cluster of white roses, one of the heraldic devices of the house of York.
While the ladies gathered around the fire with their sewing, Anne’s
mother was in a window seat, and two small pages sat on the floor playing jacks. This was an informal room.
Anne dashed in, tossed her cloak heedlessly on the table, and sang out a good morning to the ladies, before curtsying to her mother. “You sent for me, Mama? I came as quickly as I could,” she said somewhat breathlessly.
She was still young enough to forget her dignity on occasion and was often caught running with her skirts hiked up or sprawled inelegantly with her legs at impossible angles. Such lapses of decorum normally earned her a rebuke from the Duchess, a fond but not overly indulgent mother, but now Cecily only said, “Running everywhere is not one of life’s imperatives, Anne. There was no need for haste. You may sit down.”
Those who had known Cecily as a girl swore that Anne was the very image of her. Anne had the same willowy but robust figure, the same abundant golden hair, round blue eyes and fair, flawless complexion. Only her mouth was different, softer and more vulnerable than her mother’s and with tiny indentations at each corner where an incipient smile always lurked.
“I have received news from your father,” the Duchess said when Anne had settled herself in the window seat.
Anne was immediately intrigued. It was her mother’s habit to share news with the children. Although sheltered, they were not ignorant, and even little George was kept abreast of public affairs. Whether he listened or not was another matter. But news was generally disseminated when they were all together, so Anne concluded that this concerned her especially and it was important. Her heart-shaped face was aglow with lively interest.
“What does father say? Is he well? Has the King recovered?”
“Your father is well but, alas, there is no improvement in the King’s condition.”
No one talked about the King’s madness openly. They used euphemisms like malady and infirmity, but Anne had heard the whispers.
“Is that all, Mama?”
“No, dearest, the most important news concerns you. Your father has been talking to the Duke of Exeter. Your betrothed is eager to claim his bride,” Cecily spoke lightly and watched the rosy colour drain from her daughter’s face.
This Sun of York Page 3
