The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  How big a force does she have?

  Ten thousand men, so they say. Most of them a rabble more intent on plunder and destruction than settling the right to the throne, but it is still a dangerous army. I cannot match them in number, but I trust I can in discipline and loyalty, and hopefully guile.

  I am hopeful that Warwick can make use of his persuasive tongue, offering a vile image of the savage northern hordes descending on London. The City won’t like it, and if persuaded they will refuse the loan Marguerite has demanded from them. If Warwick can offer a blood-soaked picture of the ungovernable Scots running amok through the streets, the City will offer the loan to us fast enough. Warwick can also make the most of our control of the royal arsenal in the Tower. Marguerite’s troops might decide to be less brave when staring down the mouths of a dozen primed guns.

  You will be in no danger in Baynard’s Castle, my dear love.

  But first Marguerite must face me in the north.

  Some bad news, but not entirely unexpected. Her forces have laid waste the lands of our tenants hereabouts, and those of your brother Salisbury. She has told her forces that as they march south they can plunder all the English towns in their path in lieu of wages.

  Before you ask, I will keep a fatherly eye on Edmund, whereas Ned is quite capable of controlling his own campaign in the west, supported by some experienced captains. I told George and Diccon that their task while I am at Sandal is to keep you and their sister safe. I think they were not convinced but you will find ways to occupy them.

  My love for you remains as strong as it was when we were first man and wife, when we were both little more than children. I value you even more now as a helpmeet and counsellor.

  I fear that you may be spending Christmas alone without me. When you celebrate, think of me in Sandal, watching over the crenellations for Marguerite’s armies to loom out of a winter mist with frost on the ground. I know that we will be in your prayers.

  One day we will be reunited, and we can put all this behind us.

  It will be a glorious unity.

  Richard

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Wheel of Fortune Becomes Fickle Indeed

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

  Written from Baynard’s Castle, Christmas 1460

  To my beloved Richard,

  By the time this reaches you, depending on the state of the roads and my courier’s enthusiasm despite my generosity with gold coin, it may well be into the New Year. We have celebrated with everything you love best, even though our gathering is small. Even though it has not been the happiest of times; I cannot put out of my mind that Marguerite is breathing fire in the north.

  God be with you and keep you in His abundant care. May He bring you safe home to me. If you were ever in any doubt, know that I believe in your cause. In our cause, for it is as much mine as it is yours. I pray constantly for your return, fancifully with the wreath of victory on your brow, like one of the champions of ancient Rome.

  I feel my isolation, but this is a fine place of refuge for me. I will always love Fotheringhay best of all, but Baynard’s Castle shelters me with its strength, wraps me around with its beauty. The gardens and terraces – too cold to enjoy at present – are protected by high walls. It has been a home, but also a fortress. I will think of you in spartan Sandal and wish you were here for the festivities and the feasting. Eating rich dishes of roast venison and fricassee of game birds – which you enjoy to excess – all but choked me as I imagined your presence at the meal. The scents of herbs and spices, and of the evergreen boughs that decorated the chambers, still pervade the place.

  At my invitation, Warwick has made his base here, which keeps me in touch with the mood in London. I show myself frequently in the streets around Westminster, and by barge along the Thames, to reassure those who ask that you have their safety at heart. They fear the Queen’s northern hordes. I do not dissuade them in their fear. Warwick merely stokes the flames.

  Don’t forget to dispense our traditional Christmas coin amongst our household at Sandal. Arrange a gift for Edmund, from both of us. I expect that he needs a new gambeson. He has grown much in the past year.

  There is a great loss within me, until we can be reunited, but I have smiled with fierce tenacity throughout the enforced merriment. My cheeks ache with the effort. Margaret suspects my anxieties, and has tried to direct my mind with a gift of the Lais of Marie de France, touchingly romantic poems with their themes of love and courtliness amongst knights and aristocratic ladies. They are pretty but do not anchor my mind. The boys, however, are easily distracted. Warwick took them to Westminster for a few days. I do not wish to know what they got up to but they are now back under my discipline.

  Meanwhile King Henry keeps the festivities quietly. I visited him. He spends his time in prayer and conversation with his priest. He knew me, and called me by name, but he had little concern for events to the north. I took him a basket of sugared plums but he handed them to his body servant. He is quite gaunt and has no interest in any matter other than that to be found within the covers of his books.

  I hold fast to the memories of our days in Rouen, when you were absent on campaign for weeks and months, but still returned unharmed. How young we were, how full of optimism for the future.

  I live for news of you.

  I fear the Wheel of Fortune’s malicious spinning.

  Your devoted wife,

  Cecily

  England’s Chronicle, the second day of January 1461

  Hush! Listen!

  We hear the first news, soft as a breath, that there has been a battle in the north on the thirtieth day of December. Queen Marguerite’s forces led by the Duke of Somerset have met with those of the Duke of York, our Lord Protector, at Wakefield.

  News is slow to trickle through.

  We will report when we know more. It seems that it was no minor skirmish.

  Who has won? York or Lancaster?

  For those of you who have a concern, not having seen him for a number of days, King Henry is still safe and well in London under the care of the Earl of Warwick. He was seen at Mass this morning in St Stephen’s Chapel and spoke cheerfully to the courtiers present.

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick

  Written from Baynard’s Castle to the Palace of Westminster

  I have heard there has been a battle but have no reliable facts. It seems that Richard rode out, leaving the security of Sandal Castle.

  Do you know more? It may come to you before it reaches me.

  Please reply by return.

  Is Ned safe in the west? I have heard nothing from that quarter.

  I am wrung with anxiety.

  Your aunt,

  Cecily

  Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from the Palace of Westminster, by return of courier

  I know no more than you, Aunt. A battle, certainly, but the outcome is still in doubt. I will return to Baynard’s Castle from Westminster tonight. We can worry together, although I have no sense of bad news. We must trust in York’s skills on the battlefield.

  I have heard nothing but good out of the west. Your son March has all in hand to stop the Lancastrians from pushing east towards London.

  Keep the faith, as do we all.

  Warwick

  Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary

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

  Keep my husband Richard, Duke of York, safe in your blessed arms.

  And Edmund, my son, I lift him before you.

  My tears fall at your feet.

  I cannot imagine the true horror of a battlefield.

  May they return to me without harm.

  Have pity on my fears.

  Amen

  England’s Chronicle, first week of January 1461

  Blood and death!

  As we predicted, there has been a major conflict at
Wakefield.

  On the thirtieth day of December the Duke of York, together with his son the Earl of Rutland, and his brother by law the Earl of Salisbury, led the Yorkist army from the shelter of Sandal Castle to engage with the Queen’s army, which proved to be vastly superior in numbers. The result was a foregone conclusion. We are told that York, Rutland and Salisbury are all dead, as well as Salisbury’s son, Sir Thomas Neville.

  The flower of the Yorkist cause is dead.

  Thus the Queen has had her revenge in devastating fashion.

  She is marching south, with her son, to take possession of King and capital. The tales of her northern troops, raping and pillaging as they go, are ones of horror. Will we soon suffer the rape of London?

  Where is our Lord Protector now, in this hour of our need?

  Dead in the north.

  We are told that it was his own mistake, his own lack of judgement, that brought him to death on the battlefield. Should we be surprised? Have we not seen it for ourselves, that when the claws of ambition gripped, the Duke of York was lured into extreme actions.

  We expect that the Duchess of York will be not so proud this morning. Will she weep real tears? Some say that she is incapable of it.

  Our advice! Lock your doors and hide your valuables. Take your weapons from your closets. The Queen is coming and her troops are out of control.

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

  Written from Tonbridge Castle

  To my dear sister,

  I know you will be inconsolable if what I hear is true. Shall I come to you?

  You allowed me to weep on your shoulder when Humphrey died. I can offer the same. And then we can both grieve for our brother and our nephew.

  Humphrey and I did not share the deep love that was abiding between you and Richard, but I know what it is to lose a son to the ravages of war.

  How can our family have been so devastated?

  Your wretched sister,

  Anne

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

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  No. Don’t come.

  I cannot bear to be around people. Every conversation clamours in my mind like a cracked bell.

  I told Richard to have a new gambeson made for Edmund. Now he will never wear it. My last letter to Richard was full of such inconsequential chatter. His favourite dishes and King Henry’s foolishness. Such a terrible waste.

  When he stood on that desperate battlefield, did he know that I loved him?

  I still don’t know what happened, to bring him to his death. And Edmund. Our brother Salisbury. I cannot write of it. Every sense is overwhelmed by inconsolable grief.

  Leave me alone, I beg of you.

  But I love you no less.

  Cecily

  Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from the Palace of Westminster

  My most revered aunt,

  Better to come from my pen than from callous rumour or the trouble-stirring England’s Chronicle. I’ll not spare you but tell you the truth you desire.

  It was carnage, both on the field at Wakefield and in the aftermath. All our fears are realised. York and Rutland are both dead. My father Salisbury is dead. My brother Thomas is dead too.

  How easy it is to write the names. How difficult it is to believe it. I mourn with you.

  The Yorkist cause at Wakefield has been obliterated and Marguerite marches south to make her revenge complete by taking control of London.

  I cannot tell you why York should have left the secure walls of Sandal to face so vast an enemy. One day we will know.

  What will you do?

  You might consider flight, but my advice is to stay at Baynard’s Castle and keep your defences strong. I will use my retainers and my allies to keep Marguerite at bay. I think the citizens of London will not be willing to open the gates to her when they see – and hear – the quality of her army baying outside their walls.

  I can say nothing to give you ease in your distress. All I can say is that York will not have died in vain, nor my father. March and I will pursue your husband’s desire to have a Yorkist claimant on the throne of England.

  I swear it on my honour.

  Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Edward, Earl of March, now Duke of York

  Written from Baynard’s Castle to Shrewsbury

  To my well-beloved son,

  I cannot yet talk or write of it. What you must now realise is that you are my hope, and England’s hope, for the future. As your father’s heir, England needs you to restore firm and impartial government. To restore peace. We have torn each other apart for too long. The Queen has no thought of healing, merely of victory and the restoration of her son as Prince of Wales and heir to his father.

  That must not be. You, my dear son, are the heir to the power that your father won in the Act of Accord.

  I trust this letter finds you on your way back to London. We need you here to restore faith in the citizens. All is panic. The Queen is expected to arrive and allow her troops to overrun the City. Warwick is still here but we need you too to stand as figurehead of the House of York.

  I am told that the Lancastrian Earl of Pembroke and his Welsh forces may be a threat to your freedom of movement.

  Travel with care. I cannot lose you as well as Edmund.

  Your devoted mother,

  Cecily

  Recorded by the private hand of Cecily, Duchess of York

  I have held my emotions together to do what must be done.

  Now I make a record, a simple note-making of what occurred at Wakefield and in the aftermath, for those in the future who need to know. For me it is a place that will for ever drip with blood and merciless cruelty. I will never go to Sandal Castle again.

  Why do I not give this heavy task to my clerk?

  Because to write it myself will make it real to me in cold hard words. My family. The heart of my existence. Destroyed on one field of battle.

  Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, my husband, cut down in the melee of the battlefield, his dead body mutilated, executed.

  Edmund, Earl of Rutland, my son, seventeen years, caught in flight after the battle, cut down and executed on Wakefield Bridge by Lord Clifford to avenge his own father’s death at St Albans.

  Sir Thomas Neville, son of the Earl of Salisbury and my nephew, killed on the battlefield.

  Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, my brother, captured after the battle and executed at Pontefract Castle.

  Such loss for me cannot be quantified. And the vicious revenge for past deeds. I have lost husband, son, brother, nephew. All on one day.

  Will I weep? Of course I will weep. It cannot be a simple record, after all. I weep over it, however much I promised I would not. Tears blur my writing. How can I tolerate such pain and grief? Richard said that we would weather any storm. Here is a vicious tempest that I will never weather. He will not return to me. He will not come back to the abundance of my welcome. My heart is broken. It will never be healed.

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

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  To my sister,

  My mind is full of one question. I cannot get past it. It meets me when waking, it slides into my restless sleep and keeps me ill company during the dark hours. A question to which there will never be an answer, for who would know but Richard and those of our family who died with him? What persuaded him to march out from his safe vantage point in Sandal Castle when he knew the Queen’s forces were far greater than his? I know what is being said of him, and none of it honourable.

  The English Chronicle accuses him of being taunted for his cowardice in refusing to fight. It is said that he thought it dishonour to remain behind the walls in Sandal Castle for dread of a scolding woman, whose only weapons were her tongue and her nails. They say a Lancastrian h
erald provoked him into taking dangerous offensive, fearful of being tamely defeated by a woman.

  Blessed Virgin! I cannot believe it. That is not the Richard I know.

  The Richard that I knew.

  The only reason to which I can give any credence is that he was incautious, engaging with the Queen’s forces before he had rallied his own strength, but I will deny to my final hour that he was a coward.

  Outrageous ambition could lead him to unexpected aggression, an accusation that I must in all honesty accept, but surely never on a battlefield when the lives of his men were in his hand. Had he indeed ventured from the safety of Sandal’s walls to rescue Edmund who was out with a foraging party? Another empty suggestion that has crossed my path. All I would say – would they have sent out a foraging party if the arrival of the Queen’s army was imminent?

  I can find no answers, and now Richard will never give them to me.

  They say that two thousand of our soldiers died with Richard on that dread field.

  Marguerite was not even there. She did not leave Scotland until the battle was over. She wore a robe of black and silver lent to her by the Scottish Queen and rode a silver jennet. How is it that I can relate such unimportant facts, yet be ignorant of what it was that took Richard to his death?

  How the Wheel of Fortune turns, and with such cruelty.

  You will regret our brother Salisbury’s death. He was closer to you since as children you were of an age and raised together. There were fifteen years between us. He was adult and far from home when I was a child in the north. And yet still I remember his kindness.

  My thoughts return again and again to Richard. How can I live without him? How can I live, never hearing his voice?

  Cecily

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

  Written from Epworth