The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  I was not listening. All my senses were trained on that one surge of utter relief. They were safe. They were alive. Better days would surely come when they returned to England. I even felt more kindly towards my sister who had given me this hope, however small a seed it might be, however reluctantly on her part.

  ‘I advise you not to pray for their return, Cis. The best they can do is to make a life for themselves overseas. If they set foot in England again they will face execution. And you might not come off so lightly if you continue in your loyalty to them.’

  ‘You were not used to be so critical.’

  ‘You were not used to be a traitor.’

  ‘I swear I am not—’

  ‘I do not wish to speak of it. The conspiracy of my brother, my nephew and your husband is not fit conversation for my home. I forbid you to talk of it. I will never be persuaded that what you did was right.’

  Which depressed any sentiment I might have had towards reconciliation.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Anne continued, ‘you will resign yourself to having no communication with the outside world. You are not to be trusted, thus you will receive neither visitors nor correspondence.’

  I inclined my head and awarded my sister the victory of a brief curtsey. ‘I will live here on your terms, because I must. I apologise for the necessity.’

  As I walked before her from the room, I thought for a brief moment that I felt the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder. Turning quickly, I realised I had been mistaken; she was gesturing for Meg to follow.

  ‘Do we speak with no one?’ Meg asked in weary horror, when the door to our interconnecting chambers was locked.

  ‘Wait and see,’ was all I could say, but I held her close within the circle of my arm, noting that she had grown almost as tall as I.

  I had no intention of being separated from the world of Richard and my sons. My sister would not find me a willing captive, however compliant my outward demeanour.

  It was dark now beyond the windows so that I could not see the defences that hemmed us in. It was dark within my soul also.

  Cecily, one-time Duchess of York, to her grace the Queen, Marguerite of Anjou

  Written from Tonbridge Castle

  Your grace,

  I have a boon to beg of your endless compassion.

  You have seen fit to put me into the custody of my sister who is keen to keep me enclosed and unable to send either help or moneys to my treasonous husband. You will be gratified to know that she is pursuing your orders to the letter. And indeed beyond. My correspondence and my visitors have been strictly curtailed.

  The Duchess of Buckingham sees it as her duty to lecture me on my sins, also as you would wish, but is not willing to hear my confession of them. Yet, in my acknowledgement of my lord’s mistake in raising a force against the King, I am in need of a confidante to point my wayward thoughts in the right direction. That is forbidden me in this household.

  I write to ask permission to correspond with my sister in Epworth.

  I can think of no better recipient of my burden of regret and failure than Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. I ask, gracious lady, your permission to do so, since my sister Anne refuses to allow it. Katherine is no traitor. You will agree that her husband John, Viscount Beaumont, is the most loyal of your subjects. He has already proved that he will do nothing to further the House of York, and I know that my sister Katherine is a most obedient wife.

  If you, in your mercy, would allow my sister the Duchess of Buckingham to grant her permission for me to correspond, I would be grateful.

  Cecily Neville

  Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

  Written from Tonbridge Castle

  Dear Kat,

  I am out of all patience.

  She has not been here more than a se’enight and she is already engaged in mischief. Our misguided sister Cecily, balking at the restriction put on her, has requested the Queen’s permission to write to you, against my better judgement. She wrote to the Queen behind my back, bribing one of my ostlers, which is certainly in character.

  Cecily claims a need to make a confession and receive counsel. Why not confess to my priest? She says that she finds him an intolerant ear. Why would he be tolerant of a woman who came close to being attainted?

  I even understand that she signed the letter Cecily Neville, as if she would distance herself from York. I don’t believe it for one moment.

  However, with the Queen’s permission, I now cannot prevent her writing to you. I trust you will reply with admirable stiff-necked advice to lower her pretensions. Don’t encourage her in any acts of rebellion. Your husband would certainly not wish it, and neither would I. She sits in her chamber spinning a web like some small malevolent spider, smiling all the while.

  It has to be said that she has not changed, despite her recent experiences. No one would think that she had to fend off a violent and carousing mob in Ludlow. I don’t know how much she suffered because not one word of it has crossed her lips, but her will is so strong. If she mourns the loss of York, I see no trace of it. Cecily may be clad as if in mourning in black damask, but her veils are miraculously embroidered, transparent as the finest gauze, supported by fine wires into airy confections. And I covet them. Which is of course a sin.

  Cecily continues to pluck her brows with marvellous precision.

  I will not suggest to her that to care so much for appearance is the sin of pride.

  It might be better if you refuse all correspondence; however, since I cannot prevent it, it must be your decision. I threatened to read every letter myself before allowing it beyond my walls. Cis said she could not believe I would be so petty. Would it not be beneath my dignity to treat a sister with such disdain and lack of trust?

  I admit to a wave of guilt. I cannot do it, even when I suspect that same sister of arch dissembling. Marks of sleeplessness and anxiety mar her handsome features, blemishes that I have never seen before.

  What I can prevent is any communication between Cecily and our neighbours. The less local gossip the better.

  I am in need of a recipe for a dish of eels I think you might recall, one that our mother enjoyed. My cook is unable to produce anything edible. I would be grateful if you would send any recipe you have.

  Your sister,

  Anne

  Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Cecily, once Duchess of York

  Written from Epworth

  My dear Cis,

  How should I address you? Dame Cecily?

  Reading between Anne’s caustic lines, it seems that I am chosen by you to be a conduit for treasonable communication. Have I read it correctly? I doubt you would need my counsel. Even if I gave it, you would probably ignore it.

  Should I agree to be part of your conspiracy? Anne has warned me off any attempt to help you reach out to York or our family in Calais. Did you know they are all safe? Our brother and nephew and of course Ned slipped happily into Calais through an unguarded postern gate, where, as Captain of Calais, Warwick was made very welcome. Richard and Edmund are now safe in Dublin.

  Beaumont is furious that the Queen’s party cannot get their hands on them. I have commiserated with him, of course. He makes no concession that it is my brother he is condemning. Beaumont is a man without sensitivity.

  I await your letters with eager anticipation, even if I have still not decided what I will do about them. My husband would deny me the freedom to comply with any of your wishes. How exciting! How tempting! I rarely refuse an opportunity to put a spoke in Beaumont’s wheel. His stand against the House of York at Coventry was deplorably self-interested. But then, are we not all so motivated?

  Not least you, Cis.

  Please pass the enclosed to Anne. She was desirous of receiving it. I do not recall eating it with any pleasure, but then I am not fond of eels. Nor can I recall our mother the Countess of Westmorland ever being ecstatic when they appeared on the table during Lent.

 
Anne says that your face is acquiring the prints of old age and worry. I don’t believe her, but try a daily decoction of ground lily-root mixed with egg and vinegar to hold the ravages at bay. Let me know if it is efficacious. I may make use of it.

  Your loving sister,

  Katherine

  A Recipe of Joan, Countess of Westmorland, for Eels in Gauncelye (Garlic Sauce)

  Take eels and skin them and simmer them in water with a little salt.

  Take scalded bread, grind it and add it to the broth with a measure of ale.

  Take pepper and ginger and saffron and grind together.

  Boil onions and parsley together.

  Mix altogether and serve it forth.

  Do not expect much enjoyment from this. I eat it as infrequently as I can.

  Chapter Six

  A Soft Imprisonment

  Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary

  Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.

  Blessed Virgin, I kneel in utmost gratitude. They are safe. All of them. Alive and far from retribution. I bend my head in thanks. I weep at your feet.

  Holy Mother, sustain them.

  Do I fear or rejoice? I know they will not be content to remain in exile.

  Grant me the patience to live with my sister without recourse to temper when she lectures me on my refusal to see the good qualities in our Beaufort cousin, the Duke of Somerset.

  Grant me tolerance of my sister’s priest who is a dyed-in-thewool Lancastrian.

  Grant me the imagination to be crafty-clever in my gleaning of information.

  Grant me the fortitude to eat my sister Kat’s recipe for eels in gauncelye.

  Grant me acceptance of the marks of time and anxiety, in spite of my liberal use of Kat’s ill-smelling remedy. Forgive the vanity of a woman who dares no longer glance in her looking-glass.

  Amen

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to her daughter Anne, Duchess of Exeter

  Written from Tonbridge Castle

  To my dear Anne,

  I am allowed to write to you, through the kind permission of your aunt Buckingham (although I begrudge her the right to give me such permission), since Exeter is well known to be hand in glove with the House of Lancaster. There is no hope of aid for York in your household.

  What should I write to you, my daughter? Be brave. There is no blame on you for Exeter’s deeds. Nor can his commission of array have any effect on those we love. They are all safe, beyond the sea.

  Pray for your father and brothers. There is no need for Exeter to know what is said between you and the Blessed Virgin. As your mother I absolve you from total obedience to him. He is a fool and a treacherous one at that. If you should find a need for consolation outside marriage, I cannot blame you. All I would say is, be discreet.

  You may consider this to be strange and sinful advice from a mother to her daughter, but life can be very long and lonely without affection in it.

  Your loving mother,

  Cecily, Duchess of York

  You will notice that I retain my title. In my own mind, with my own pen, I refute the right of Queen Marguerite’s law to remove it from me.

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

  Written from Tonbridge Castle, January 1460

  My dearest sister,

  You may continue to address me as Duchess of York, if you were under any misunderstanding of the situation.

  I enclose a letter. Can you see your way to delivering it to Dublin? And to sending his reply to me, when he writes one, with a covering letter? I know that it may tip you into a confrontation with your husband, but I think you will not greatly care. I doubt that Beaumont reads the letters that you receive. Tell him that it is a dispute over rents and he’ll gladly assign it to you.

  You might even enjoy playing him as a cat plays with a mouse. Although he is a most important mouse, as he will never allow us to forget.

  Here’s the situation at Tonbridge, enough to drive any woman of intelligence and ambition to tearing her veils. All those great towers connected by a formidable structure of high curtain walls. I feel as enclosed as a hen being fattened in a coop before the Christmas festivities.

  Life here is as dull as your taste in antique houppelandes. I am superfluous; the events of the castle flow smoothly around me, like a fast-flowing river around a small stone in its path. I am not necessary. Even where I see possibilities for improvement and itch to apply my fingers to the issue, it is not my problem to alleviate. All I can do is keep my own counsel and wonder that Anne should not take better care of her household. I suspect that her Steward has his busy fingers in the ducal coffers. Anne spends far too much time with a book in her hands. This week it is Legenda Sanctorum, Jacobus de Varagine’s lives of the saints. I have not noticed any increased saintliness in her approach to my predicament.

  Diccon and George are given into the keeping of the priest and the sergeant at arms to practise with pen and sword. I think young Henry, Anne’s grandson, enjoys their company. Meg spends time with Anne’s books and the experienced mistress of the still room. Anne is intent on destroying my influence over them in case I turn them into traitors.

  For me, my life is bound around and narrowed to the female pursuits of reading, stitching altar cloths and lute playing. The chains, although invisible, are securely in place. My only freedom is in my prayers. Anne will never know the fervency of my pleas for my husband and sons. Will they ever be able to return?

  Even my freedom to walk is restricted to the wall-walk and Anne’s small garden within the castle, a pleasant plot that has no need of my care. Anne employs servants to prune and plant and gather. All I can do is look out over the crenellations to the south, to the west, hoping for good news. Yet I know that to hear of their return could be the worst possible happening. To return could well mean death.

  We celebrated the Feast of the Birth of the Christ Child, swiftly followed by the New Year, but there was no celebration in my heart. So much hostility simmering beneath the false mirth of the mummers and minstrels. It was not a happy time. What would we be without our marriages, Kat? Would we still be the same sisters who enjoyed each other’s company, who played and sang and rejoiced together at New Year as children, although you were so much older than I? Not one of us Nevilles chose the husband we would wed. We must live with the life we were assigned by our ambitious parents.

  I am desolate, Kat.

  Do write to me, even if you have nothing to send me from Richard. I need your encouragement in this house of rancour. You would be astonished at how polite and amenable I am become.

  Your loving sister,

  Cis

  Do send a different recipe for the preparation of eels. Anything to give Anne’s cook an idea beyond the use of Lenten fare. What about something to enliven carp? Anne’s fishponds have a surfeit of them.

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard, Duke of York, by the hand of Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

  Written from Tonbridge Castle

  My most well-beloved Richard,

  How difficult it is to begin this letter.

  So much to say – the words clamour in my mind and in my heart – but so little to say of value. I am a prisoner at Tonbridge Castle under my sister Anne’s aegis. I expect that you can imagine the strained atmosphere. Humphrey is away from home so not available to keep the peace between us with his good sense.

  You are safe in Dublin, I know. You are alive. There had always been that fear that your ship had foundered in the waters off Ireland. Better days will surely come when you return to England. I anticipate it with a fervour that you cannot imagine.

  As you see, I have already circumvented the curtailment imposed by Anne with the aid of Katherine. I have arranged that through my letters to her – with royal permission due to Beaumont’s excellence in licking the royal boots – I will write to you, and you can return them using the same route. A convoluted arrangement but the best I ca
n do. Katherine has decided that she will enjoy thwarting her husband.

  Here is what you should know, my dear Richard, if it has not reached you by other means. Following hard on the attainder, our lands have been split and apportioned to friends of the King. We are truly landless. Exeter has got Fotheringhay in his tight fist. All those who have danced attendance on Henry have been rewarded with gifts of great value.

  Thus by a stroke of a pen you have been stripped of land, title, power, and made a penniless outlaw. It is too vast to contemplate. Every title, every castle, every piece of land that you owned, all part of your proud inheritance, all gone.

  You would not believe the accusations made against you at Coventry. All Marguerite’s doing. She sees you as her most bitter enemy, believing that your whole life has been spent in wretched manoeuvrings to take the throne from Henry. She will blacken your name beyond salvation.

  I cannot bear to contemplate the destruction of your heritage and the inheritance of our sons. You, I trust, will be more stalwart. Meanwhile, I am learning to guard my tongue for the first time in my life.

  Living at Tonbridge, despite all the comfort, drives home for me just what it is that I have lost. Not to any casual observer, of course. If such an unbiased creature existed in this turbulent time, they would say that I am leniently served in the light of my family’s clear-cut treason. I might be dispossessed of lands and title, but I am still Duchess of York to my sister’s household, treated with every respect. I am not penniless and my sister, with the air of a martyr, is unstinting in her physical care of me and my children.

  But that is merely the pretty pattern of shadows on the surface of the pool. Below it is a maelstrom of great loss. Anne’s household might be respectful but only within what I might ask or require.

  Beyond that I am closely guarded, with a subtlety that sets my teeth on edge. It is rare that there is no guard to accompany me whenever I step beyond my chamber or the solar. What if I order a horse and an escort to ride into freedom beyond the gates? Will they be so accommodating? They would refuse me. I am forbidden to receive private visitors. Marguerite fears that if I am allowed freedom I will work to bring your return. Of course she knows me well. I will do it, if and when I can. You know that your reinstatement at the King’s side occupies my thoughts every day.