by Anne O'Brien
Kneel for mercy if it had any sense.
Three hours after dawn the noise of a rampaging force began as a distant threatening hum, growing in strength until I could not deny it. Henry had loosed his troops to take revenge on a town that would have stood in defiance. But our walls and towers and gates would hold. To the north the River Teme and steep crags and the Mortimer Tower would protect us. Leaving the children in the sanctuary of the chapel, I climbed to the top of the great keep, to look down between the crenellations. The sight stunned me.
There were soldiers, an unruly mass of them.
They were running across the outer bailey. The gates from the town had been opened. Word had spread, as it assuredly would, that the Duke of York had betrayed the men of our garrison. Demoralised, some of our troops had opened the gates and let in the royal army. Below me I heard the sound of the bars on the inner gates being lifted too, to allow access into the private chambers. Within minutes this mob would be occupying my castle, my home. I could do nothing to stop them.
Face them? I must. But could I protect any one of my household from a howling mob? I knew the limitations of my own authority when authority had been cut off at the knees. I descended, taking little account of the steepness of the stairs, until at the bottom my path was barred by one of our garrison. But where were his loyalties now?
‘Let me pass,’ I commanded, as if I had all the confidence in the world.
‘I have come to find you, my lady. Though where would be best for your protection, I know not.’
He was loyal. I felt my momentary terror subside.
‘Do you know what happened to our army?’
‘The King demanded their obedience, my lady. They knelt before him and asked for mercy, which he gave well enough, his quarrel not with ordinary soldiers. By God, any number of them have joined the royal troops that are laying waste to the town.’
‘And to my castle. Get me through this rabble to the chapel where the children wait.’
There, beneath the arch of the chapel door, we stood at bay. I could not stop them; I did not try. These were the memories that would haunt me for ever, battering at me as I held the hands of Diccon and George, Meg standing with her fingers clasped on George’s shoulders to pre-empt any courageous idiocy. All my senses seemed to be drenched in icy cold, but I would stand firm as I watched the destruction of my home.
Some captain of the King’s army beat a knot of soldiers away.
‘No reprisal against her,’ he ordered.
‘She’s the Duchess. Wife of a traitor. Those are traitor’s brats.’
‘We don’t wage war on the Duchess of York. King’s orders.’
A momentary relief laid its hand on me, but how long such chivalry would last I knew not.
‘I advise you not to draw attention to yourselves,’ the captain growled. ‘Go into the chapel.’
‘I will not. If my home is to be made a ruin around me, I will bear witness to it.’
‘You’re a brave woman, lady.’
I did not feel brave.
As the rape of our castle raged on, I turned my sight inwards so I might not see my property, my clothing, my furniture, my finely stitched tapestries, all the precious items of my personal existence, being carried past me. The vestments and chalices from the chapel followed, clutched in filthy and disrespectful hands. But I did see them, anger building within me. Everything I had loved and cherished and valued was stripped away. All I could think as the morning passed: would they fire the buildings? They were too intent on looting. They were too drunk on their success, but when their rapaciousness was sated, might they not light their torches and burn my home to the ground? Had the London mob not destroyed my grandfather’s Savoy Palace until not one stone was left standing on another?
All that day it went on, a seething mass of hatred and greed, until they trickled out to join their fellows in the town. While I, wearing a heavy cloak cast over all, prayed that it would disguise the fact that I was shivering with a fear I dare not show. My sons must learn to face adversity with a strong heart.
Leaving my despoiled home, I went out into the town where I stood at the market cross to see the fate of Ludlow for myself. The children were still with me. They must see and experience the terror of an army, frenzied and without discipline, tearing itself and its fellow citizens apart.
The sight stopped my breath. The boys drew close. Margaret slid her hand within mine. The horrors of a sack were beyond words, the town robbed to the bare walls, pillaged and befouled. The streets stank with drink and vomit that seemed to lap against my shoes and soak my hem. Houses of merchants had been raided, broken items of furniture and pottery shards littering the streets.
No one touched me or my children. We stood there in that monstrous voicelessness of a town shattered beyond repair. Even the birds were stricken silent. Then the evening was rent by the wailing of a child, followed by voices raised in fear and despair. There had been no inordinate death, unless by chance, no full-scale slaughter, but the anguish could be tasted on the air.
‘Where is the King?’ I asked a man who was rounding up drunken soldiers.
‘Gone to Coventry with the Queen. They will hold a parliament.’
So Henry had given them the freedom to do this, allowing them in their bloodless victory to take revenge. But we had done no better. Not one of our leaders was here to give our people the promise of sustenance and recompense. No one except me.
Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Tonbridge Castle, Kent
Cis,
Rumours are flying in vast flocks, thick and mindless as starlings in winter. I cannot detect what is true or false since I have heard little from Humphrey. All I know is that York lost his courage when the sun set, abandoned his troops and fled. And so did our brother Salisbury. An incomparable betrayal. Leaving you to pick up the pieces of their treachery.
I’ll not mince my words. Do not be arrogant, or a martyr for a cause that is lost for all of you. Did Duke Richard tell you to stay in Ludlow? Do not tell me that you obeyed him without question. His flight might have been ignominious, but surely it would have been better if you had all gone with him.
I trust that I do not hear of your death. All I can do is promise to care for your children if their mother is cut down by an undisciplined mob or executed for treason. If you make a will, be sure to leave me the white-amber rosary-beads spaced with gold and coral which belonged to our mother. I have always coveted them. Or perhaps they were two separate sets of beads, I cannot recall. I will happily have them both, in your memory.
Your judgemental sister,
Anne
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from Ludlow Castle
My dearest sister Katherine,
To whom can I open my heart, if not to you? Not to our sister Anne who has abandoned compassion. Because of the fifteen years that you have lived longer than I, and through three marriages, I know that you have the experience to understand the terrible humiliation that has laid me low. Anxiety I have known, inordinate worry when Richard has been engaged in dangerous affairs in his French campaigns, but nothing like the attack that assailed me in my own home after Ludford Bridge.
What was the worst of it? It has struck at my pride. Nevilles were not born to relinquish their pride, or to surrender, but I have been forced to do so. I have not told Richard; I could not burden him with the full scale of it when he has enough to bear. I will not tell my priest since he will simply preach that pride is a sin. I will tell you. I need to write it down to absorb the enormity of what happened, so you must be the sufferer.
Perhaps you will know of the ravages from your present husband, Viscount Beaumont, parroting the self-congratulatory voices of King Henry’s Court. Somerset’s is the loudest and most unforgivable, full of self-adulation for the victory as if he had driven Richard from the battlefield with his own sword. Was your husband a
t Ludford Bridge? Close as Viscount Beaumont is to the King and Queen, I expect that he was. If so, he made no attempt to rescue his sister by marriage, but then I would expect no less. He has been remarkably two-faced in his loyalties. He might once have been a friend of York, but now he kneels to the Queen.
Despite my courage that day, it failed me at the end. I could not immediately enter the Great Chamber to view the depredations for myself. I knew it would be heartbreaking. When I eventually did step across the threshold it was as bad as I had expected, my private chambers stained, robbed, and defiled. The grim outrage of it, the rank stench of destruction and squalor, will remain forever engraved in my mind like the scrolls on my crucifix.
Do you know what hurt me most?
My books, Kat, my precious books, their leather covers fouled unspeakably by the trample of feet, scattered across my chamber in rude disharmony. My fury at such sacrilege was momentarily more painful than all the rest, yet there they were for me to reclaim. The rabble had no need for them, not even to burn them in revenge. I thank the Blessed Virgin that they are left to me.
There, Kat, as you see, I am indeed guilty of vanity, of selfish acquisitiveness, regretting the state of my books when all around me our people have lost everything. I am ashamed. I should rejoice that we are alive and unharmed, but where do we go from here? I think travel would be dangerous, if I should be recognised. I await a message from the King. And from Richard, of course.
I should tell you that I have made my will. I think I have nothing to leave you. Anne will get her rosaries because I am wearing both of them beneath my shift.
No one laid a finger on me or the children. At least we were spared that, even if the King’s troops consider Richard to be a traitor and a coward. It is a comfort, if a meagre one, that Richard was not here to see the wilful desecration of his Mortimer inheritance. I have not told him of it, nor will I. I do not yet know where he is.
I am suffering from an excess of exhaustion. I have no time to be exhausted. I wish you were here with me to give me the benefit of your clear sight and caustic tongue.
Your sister,
Cecily
England’s Chronicle, October 1459
Blood, rape and rampage. Have we not written these desperate words before?
Troubled times for those living in the Welsh March.
The prosperous town of Ludlow has been sacked by royal forces.
Where was the Duke of York? Fled in fear of his life.
We must have compassion for the townsfolk who suffered bloody violence and mistreatment. Reports say it was nought but a drunken frenzy, houses raided, possessions stolen, even down to the cooking pots from the hearths.
We consider it a disgrace that in this fair land, soldiery should have been allowed to run riot and harm our merchants and townsfolk who had no part in the hostilities. Who can defend the assault and rape suffered by the women of the town? But there appears to have been little morality in this event on either side. How many of the mob were Yorkist soldiers, summarily abandoned by their commanders on the battlefield? We must put some of the blame at the feet of the Duke of York and the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick.
We are told that the Duchess of York herself appeared in the centre of it all as witness to the foul event, refusing to allow her people to suffer alone, with all the diligence of the incomparable lady that she is. We commend her to your sympathies.
But will the Queen feel the same compassion? We doubt it and fear for the Duchess’s future. Will the Queen put her on trial for treason in her husband’s absence? We hear that those townsfolk arrested suffered no further punishment but to their gold coffers when they were allowed to buy their release. No such good fortune for the Duchess, we fear.
But where is the Duke?
A question certain to be asked when parliament meets with the King in Coventry.
Chapter Three
A Bitter Humiliation
Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, to his sister by law Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Coventry, October 1459
My dear Cecily,
I send you a warning.
Since I have no news of your imprisonment or death I must presume that, despite the despoiling of the town and your castle, you are still in Ludlow and at liberty. It is expected that King Henry’s new parliament, which he has summoned to meet with him here in Coventry, will declare all involved with the House of York in the inexcusable stand-off at Ludford Bridge as traitors and deal with them accordingly.
Even though I too find it impossible to condone York’s behaviour in battle or in flight, I write in a spirit of compromise. I urge you to throw yourself on Henry’s mercy.
Come to Coventry and plead your innocence. Bring the children with you. I am certain that you will be given safe conduct. Beg for royal mercy on your younger children, your household and your people. If you do not, things will go ill for them.
I believe that it is what York would want you to do.
This is no time for Neville or Plantagenet self-conceit. The Queen is not leaning towards mercy, but Henry has a kind heart.
Your servant,
Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham
Written from Ludlow Castle, October 1459
Humphrey,
As you see, I am still alive and at liberty.
Do I need you to advise me of the need for compromise? I wake with it every morning, chew it through every meal and take it to my pillow every night. It is a bitter mouthful, giving me no sustenance but despair.
Do you even know that Henry will have mercy? Can you rely on his being in control of his wits from one month’s end to the next? Yet you advise me to put my head into the lion’s mouth.
Do not talk to me about Richard’s dishonourable behaviour in taking flight. I know at first hand the humiliation of having to plead for my life with the ravaging hordes who invaded my own home. Yet if my family had stayed at Ludford Bridge to debate the issue, my husband, brother, nephew and two sons would be dead or on trial for treason.
I will consider your advice. I see the value of my coming to Coventry, but I will not put my young children into the hands of the Coventry parliament. That would be a denial of my duty and care as their mother.
You should know, Humphrey, that I wrote a will before we were invaded, leaving Meg, George and Diccon to your immediate care if I were done to death by a howling mob, since I know you for a man of honour. I have destroyed that will. Perhaps I should have kept it in case Marguerite decides to send me to my death.
With thanks for your thoughtful but ill-timed advice,
Cecily, Duchess of York
Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Epworth, Lincolnshire
Cis,
Your experience at Ludlow is diabolical. I will restrain myself from adding to your heartbreak by addressing some harsh words towards your husband. What was he doing to leave you to face this alone?
I would suggest that you come and stay with me. But that would be comfortable for neither of us. As you say, my husband, John Beaumont, is as closely in bed with the Queen as it is possible to be without committing a sin. He might once have been a close friend to York but now he sees his ambitions in Marguerite’s camp. Being a participant in the Council of the young Prince of Wales suits his pomposity very well.
I fear you would not find a welcome here.
If you could tolerate her, it might be best to cut your losses and go south to Kent and beg sister Anne’s charity. Humphrey might be a King’s man but he is the most equable and honest man I know. And of course we must allow Anne some compassion, losing her son so tragically last year when they must have hoped the wounds suffered at St Albans had healed. I suppose that she will always lay the blame for her son’s death at the door of York.
Do keep me informed of your predicament.
I suggest that you say nothing to your
eldest daughter Anne, to forestall any sensitive information from reaching her despicable husband’s ears. But you know this, of course, and must eternally regret the marriage that united her with Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter. The Hollands never were trustworthy. I suppose his willingness to support the Lancastrians was not then an issue, and his close relationship with the King as his cousin would have seemed highly desirable when we were all at peace. I know that York dipped well into his coffers to buy that marriage.
Poor Anne, saddled with Exeter as a husband.
But back to your problems.
If you are persuaded to go to Coventry I could arrange to meet with you there for some support, particularly against the Queen. I expect John Beaumont will be more than vocal against you and yours in the parliament.
I will happily thwart him and argue your case of innocence and wifely duty. Which are traits that John has never witnessed in me.
Your loving sister,
Katherine
Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Coventry
Cecily,
Events move on apace. Henry, as we expected, summoned a parliament to meet here in St Mary’s Priory. It had more to do with Queen Marguerite’s desire to stamp her will on the situation than Henry’s muddled plans for the future. Sometimes it is impossible to know what he thinks and hopes for.
The outcome is no surprise. Those with a voice to raise against York and the Nevilles did so, loudly and viciously, with the result that the whole of your family – the Duke of York, the Earl of Salisbury, the Earl of Warwick and your two young sons, March and Rutland – are all attainted. Their lives are under threat if they ever fall into the hands of Marguerite and her supporters, their lands are confiscated to the use of the crown. If they return, they will die.
