The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

I am not blind. I surveyed those under my roof at Baynard’s Castle.

  What emotions could I read there? A whirlpool of ambition that might well drag us all down to drown in its depth. With the House of York ascending to the throne, there would be power for our widespread family, pleasing to all. But was there envy, too? I detected a belief that we had stepped too far. A fear that Richard might not permit the same freedom of power as Henry had allowed. An even stronger fear that the days of royal patronage flowing into the magnate coffers was at an end. That was the immediate fear of Salisbury and Warwick. I think them to be misguided. Richard would be fair and honourable. As would my son Ned after him.

  There is danger, though; I cannot pretend otherwise. When the Accord was signed, there were some difficult absences. Somerset and Wiltshire and Lord Clifford, of course, as well as my nephews, the Percy Earl of Northumberland and the Earl of Westmorland, but also our brother Baron Latimer. They might be Nevilles but they remain bound to Lancaster. And my predictable son by law the Duke of Exeter. I expect their troops will be mustering with those of the Queen.

  How long do you think Henry will live?

  On that day in St Paul’s when Henry gave his assent to what had been done in his name, I swear it was in everyone’s mind.

  Richard assures me that Henry will live out the years allotted to him by God and we will prove to be loyal subjects. If that means that Richard will never see the crown, then so be it. Henry will live as long as his breath and his heart allow.

  Has Richard not sworn the oath that he will do nothing to threaten the life of Henry or hurt his reign or his royal dignity, an oath designed to win support from those who thought he might have an interest in Henry’s premature death? My two sons, Ned and Edmund, young as they are, have sworn a similar oath. The House of York will not be seen as a threat to the stability of the realm, although there are those supporters of Lancaster who will never accept what has been done. Already there are signs of discontent and destruction of property of Yorkist friends and allies in the north.

  Marguerite will never obey the command to return to London, bringing her son with her into certain imprisonment. Her son will always be Prince of Wales in her eyes. She remains in the north, under the safeguarding of our Scottish enemies.

  I have pity for her. If I were in her gilded shoes I would do the same.

  I will continue to put on a brave face, but sometimes, in the dark hours of morning when thoughts always dive into dread, I foresee hostility and blood.

  I pray that we can keep our family safe.

  Do visit with us, Katherine. You’ll hear more truth from me than from our sister Anne. I expect that you will say that you must remain to protect your lands from the northern hordes. Perhaps you are right.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Cecily

  Richard, youngest son of the Duke of York, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  To my Lady Mother,

  Does this mean that one day I will be King of England? George says not, that he will be King before me.

  I think I would make a better King than George. He does not know how to behave to people with courtesy. He struck out at his groom because he said it was the groom’s fault that George’s horse fell lame. It was George’s fault for riding him too hard. George will never admit that he is in the wrong.

  I do not think that it is a good trait in a King.

  Will I be King?

  Your obedient son,

  Diccon

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to her youngest son Richard

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  To my most well-beloved son,

  I found your note tucked into my missal. You should have asked me after Mass. Perhaps I know why you did not. Some things are best kept silent in your own heart.

  You are the youngest of all my sons and much loved. But no, you will not be King, and neither will George.

  Your father will be followed by your eldest brother Ned. When he marries and has his own sons, they will become King after him. That does not mean that you are not valuable in our family. Your brother, when he is King of England, will look to you for loyalty and support in the coming years. You will be well rewarded for that loyalty.

  Enjoy your childhood before such onerous duties fall on your shoulders.

  Your tutor tells me that you can read and write almost as well as he.

  Your affectionate mother,

  Cecily, Duchess of York

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to her son George

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  To make all plain, you will never be King of England, my son. You will be a loyal support and counsellor to your brother Ned. It is important that you realise that the crown will never come to you. If Ned should die, God forbid, then Edmund will step into his shoes as the heir after your father.

  I forbid you to tease Diccon.

  You will treat your horses with respect. You will never see your father ride his horse until it is lame. Also your groom deserves your civility. Our servants are part of our household and we have a duty to them in courtesy.

  You will kneel beside me at Mass tomorrow and ask the Blessed Virgin Mary’s forgiveness for your selfishness.

  I believe the best in you as a son of the House of York.

  Your affectionate mother,

  Cecily

  Duchess Cecily experiences fears and hopes for the future at Baynard’s Castle, November 1460

  The wall-walk at Baynard’s Castle was a chilly place to be on a November morning, but it was where I discovered Richard who was leaning on the coping and looking along the river towards the Palace of Westminster. The light was slow to brighten, a sharp warning of the coming winter. All was quiet, but I could imagine the teeming life beginning to stir along the Thames. The boatmen who ferried travellers from one side of the river to the other were already plying their trade. As always the rank aroma of mud and refuse assailed us; we were too used to it to flinch or even comment.

  ‘Well?’ I asked. I leaned beside him. It reminded me of our days in Rouen, that precious moment of intimacy before he rode off to a campaign which would keep him from home for months at a time.

  ‘I could not sleep.’

  ‘I know. It was like sharing a bed with a hurricane. Most of the bed covers slid to the floor. I am here because I was cold.’ I stood on my toes to run the fingers of one hand through his tousled hair. My other hand clutched my fur-lined cloak to my throat.

  ‘Look at it,’ he said with a lift of his chin.

  ‘London. This is not new to us.’ I smiled. ‘What is it that disturbs you?’

  ‘The enormity of what we have done. What can be ours. What will be Ned’s inheritance. Sometimes it takes my breath.’

  ‘When you are not using it to harry royal counsellors!’

  ‘Sometimes it is hard to be conciliatory.’

  He was in contemplative mood, something uncommon in Richard who was a man of action rather than deep thought. Today there was a groove between his brows.

  ‘I think you will need to save your breath for the battles ahead,’ I suggested.

  ‘But not today.’ The groove smoothed out a little. ‘Henry is content, Marguerite is in Scotland, and the Lancastrians lie low.’

  I would not think of the Wheel of Fortune as I tucked my hand within his arm, and yet I must, for in the midst of all our rejoicing there was a malignant worm inserting its way into my heart.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, turning to look at me, as if he could read the direction of my mind.

  ‘That it is cold, and you should be wearing a hood.’

  ‘Tell me true, fair Cecily!’

  And so I did. ‘The Wheel of Fortune,’ I said. ‘I came across it again yesterday, inscribed into one of my books, rescued and brought here from Ludlow. I know it well, but now it seems horribly pertinent.’

  Smiling, he tucked my hair within my hood with calloused fingers.
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  ‘The Wheel of Fortune always tells the same tale, Cis. The King sits in glory, but as the Wheel turns, he slides, losing crown and sceptre and royal robes until his ermine is quite vanished and he crawls in the earth at the base of the Wheel. It is assuredly a lesson in the fragility of earthly power. It is true that with the turn of the Wheel, the King can climb back to his allotted place. Is that what worries you?’

  ‘One up, one down,’ I tried to explain, the raw inevitability of the Wheel’s movement holding me in thrall. ‘One moment in heaven, the next in hell. Fate is all chance. What will lie in store for us, Richard?’

  ‘It is in God’s hands. At this moment it is all good.’

  I looked away towards Westminster where Henry continued his earthly existence behind a locked door. One day I might be Queen of England.

  ‘Anne says I am proud,’ I said.

  ‘You are. You have much to be proud about.’

  ‘But am I the ambitious harpy of the English Chronicle’s writing?’ I glanced up at him. ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’ll not say!’

  ‘How fortunate! And your plans for today?’

  His mood had softened. He planted a kiss on my temple.

  ‘Come, Queen Cecily, with all your pride. The day is ours. We will hear Mass and then we will break our fast. Then we will talk, of hopes and fears and family, like any married couple of advancing years.’

  Keeping my arm pinioned, he laced his fingers through mine and we walked down to where our household was astir, the scent of wood-smoke promising warmth and welcome. Richard knew as well as I that until Marguerite could be brought to terms and forced to lay down her arms, nothing for us was certain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Wheel of Fortune Spins Awry

  England’s Chronicle, December 1460

  Here’s a development to chill our souls.

  Did we not anticipate it?

  Whilst our newly appointed Lord Protector, together with his Duchess and his august family engage in revels at Baynard’s Castle, and King Henry lives quietly with the Bishop of London, what is Queen Marguerite doing?

  She is planning an invasion.

  It has come to our notice that a letter has been written in Prince Edward’s name (now simply Duke of Lancaster, of course). Did he write it himself? He is seven years old. We would wager a gold hanap that this is his mother’s hand.

  The letter warns of foul deeds to come.

  Will we be called upon to face bloodshed, mayhem and destruction in the streets of our fair City of London? Can our Lord Protector actually protect us?

  Where will be our loyalty then? York or Lancaster?

  Nothing like blood and destruction to concentrate one’s allegiance.

  Edward, Prince of Wales, addressing the Mayor and Aldermen and people of the fair City of London

  You have been tricked.

  The Duke of York is a false traitor who is spreading rumours that I and my Lady Mother intend to bring in strangers who will despoil, rob, and utterly destroy your City in an attempt to rescue my father, the true King of the line of Lancaster.

  The rumour is false.

  I would never destroy London. It is of great value to me, as the rightful heir to the throne. I know that I can call on the loyalty of all our subjects to rise up and free my lord King Henry from York’s vile grasp.

  Richard, Duke of York, is a forsworn traitor and mortal enemy to my lord the King, to my Lady Mother the Queen, and to us, the rightful heir. York is promoting an untrue pretended claim to the crown of England.

  Rise up and restore your rightful King! Reject the Act of Accord!

  Edward, Prince of Wales

  Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from Tonbridge Castle

  I smell war in the air, even though this is assuredly not campaigning weather.

  Can we not stop this? There has been too much blood spilt. I feel Humphrey hovering at my shoulder, advising compromise. Can you not draw on all your past friendship with Marguerite to negotiate for the good of the realm?

  But even as I write this, I know that it is impossible. How can there be compromise now, unless Richard is willing to abandon all he has achieved? How can there be compromise unless Marguerite is willing to accept Richard as Lord Protector during the King’s infirmity?

  I am afraid. I expect that you are, too.

  Anne

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  Sister,

  No. Of course I cannot urge Marguerite to negotiation. How can I dislodge the Queen from her crusade to restore her son? We have gone far beyond that. Marguerite refused my overtures at Ludford Bridge, when there had been no battle and Henry was still King. Now there is so much more to fight for. Marguerite will never come to any terms but her own. And, I have to say, neither will we.

  Richard’s dedication to the cause is as strong as Marguerite’s. We have held what can only be described as a Council of War at Baynard’s Castle. How different the mood and tone from the last time we called a gathering here. Then we rejoiced, with good food and wine and at least a fragile layer of unity. Now it was sour with the unpleasant tang of incipient violence.

  A storm cloud hung low over all of us.

  Marguerite may be in Scotland but we know that she has been in touch with the Lords Somerset and Devon, whilst her ally Northumberland and the northern magnates are raising an army, whether it is the campaigning season or not. All those you would expect. Northumberland and Dacre. Clifford and Neville, Latimer and Roos. Marguerite has ordered her troops to muster at Hull.

  We are not without strategy, although I had no part in it, merely as an interested observer with much to gain and much to lose. Nor do I need to say anything in such gatherings. Richard knows my mind. Here is the plan of his campaign.

  Our nephew Warwick will stay in London to guard the King. Ned will go to Wales and rouse support in his own lands in the Marches, and hold the Lancastrian Earl of Pembroke at bay. Richard will head north with Salisbury and Edmund. He plans to make Sandal Castle his base. Once there he will await the Queen and see what transpires.

  I remain here at Baynard’s Castle. With good fortune we will emerge with some sort of settlement. Although I would not speak this openly, I have little hope for it. All I can hope for is that Marguerite will retire when she sees the opposition ranged against her.

  What point in offering prayers? The Blessed Virgin will be forced to choose between the rights of two beleaguered women.

  Your sister,

  Cecily

  Duchess Cecily experiences a parting at Baynard’s Castle, December 1460

  I had done this before. I could do this again. It would tear my heart asunder but I would not allow Richard to sense the terror that chilled my blood and closed a tight hand around my throat. He would know, because after so many years I could hide nothing from him, but he too would play the game.

  I smoothed the velvet of his gambeson, letting my palms rest there, flat to the thick pile so that I could sense his every breath, and the metal strips below that would ward off any casual sword blow.

  ‘Do not go into battle without breaking your fast first. Do not neglect to wear every piece of armour laid out for you by your squire. Do not, under any circumstances, remove your helm on the battlefield. Try not to take any unnecessary risks. Keep an eye on Edmund. Pray to the Blessed Virgin before battle. When there is even a whiff of a battle, tell me so that I do not have to find out by rumour.’

  After years of campaigning, I knew my instructions and warnings by heart.

  Richard was a master at farewells, reining in all emotion. He placed his gauntleted hands over mine.

  ‘I promise all of those things. Do not wear yourself away with worry. Do not look for a courier with the sunrise of every day. I will be too busy. Make Christmas a joyful time for Meg and the boys. Have faith in me. Edward will be safe i
n the west and Warwick will keep you informed.’

  There. It was done. As much as it was necessary to say. Except…

  ‘How many times do we have to part?’ I studied his face, the soft tolerance in his expression. He knew well what it was like for a woman at home.

  ‘We’ve done it before. We can withstand this.’

  ‘Every day at dusk I swear I will stand on the wall-walk here and think of you,’ I said.

  And I would do it.

  ‘And I of you, on the battlements at Sandal.’

  I knew that he would forget.

  ‘My heart is sore, Richard, and you have not yet left.’

  ‘There is no need. I will return to heal your heart.’

  ‘It gets no easier with the years.’

  ‘But we have experience and knowledge to weather any storm. What we have once done can be repeated. I will go on campaign and return to the abundance of your welcome.’ The twist of his lips was wry. ‘You mean more to me than all the jewels in King Henry’s crown.’

  His words were flattering, and yet I knew that he coveted that crown more than anything else in life.

  ‘May God smile on you,’ was all I could say.

  ‘As He keeps you safe in His arms.’

  Don’t go, was what my heart wished to say. Don’t leave me. But I could not. I must not.

  Richard kissed my hands, and then my lips in a final acknowledgement.

  I watched them ride out, York and Rutland, faces turned to the north. Ned had already marched west. There would be little rejoicing over the Birth of the Christ Child or the coming of the New Year with our families so distant.

  Blessed Virgin, Holy Mother, preserve them from harm.

  Richard, Duke of York, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from Sandal Castle, Yorkshire, on the ninth day of December 1460

  My most well-beloved Cecily,

  We are settled in Sandal Castle, and expect a lengthy stay.

  Despite all my assurances before I left you, I think we will not come out of this clash of wills without a battle. I wish our path was smooth and easy to follow. It is not. Your one consolation must be that Sandal is a superbly defensive site which is to my advantage. Marguerite has challenged me to settle the matter by force of arms. She is marching south with an army to take London and rescue the King from his enemies. If I stand in her way, she will fight. She has also finally persuaded the Scottish Queen Regent to aid her.