by Anne O'Brien
To my dear Cecily,
I can do nothing to assuage your grief. You must survive it as best you can. I tell you from what I know that it will not destroy you. Grief such as this is an emotion to be borne and gloried in, not to be gulped down as if it is poison. Use it to honour Richard Plantagenet’s life.
If you want my advice, then this is it:
Banish your grief.
Attack those who would defile York’s name.
Support your living sons.
You can do this so well.
Destroy the rumours. Demolish the stories that make Richard a coward, and his leaving the safety of Sandal nothing more than a rash impulse to gain fame on the battlefield. Their father will live in the memory of your children, particularly the young ones. Make his name great. Ned will remember him, but the young boys need an image to carry into their manhood. Make for them what men will call a myth, if you will. But you will know in your heart that it is the truth.
This is what you can do for his memorial. York will live in men’s memories as the King who never was. He rode at the head of his troops, away from the staunch walls of Sandal, to right a great wrong.
He is a heroic figure, Cecily. Courage and bravery are his.
My thoughts are with you in your campaign. For so it is a battle for you to engage in. Marguerite will hamper you at every step.
Your sister in adversity,
Katherine
Duchess Cecily experiences an overwhelming grief at Baynard’s Castle, January 1461
A courier arrived and was shown into the room where I sat with my women, Katherine’s words heavy in my mind, the tiniest flicker of a candle-flame on the horizon of my grief. I had a campaign to fight, as vicious as that faced by Richard against the Lancastrians. I would fight it and fight it well.
The courier approached, bowed. He held out a letter, his face raw with effort. I knew him. He was one of Richard’s own men.
The chatter around me died away. The lute stilled when the courier fell to his knees, his head bowed in exhaustion and respect. With the barest gesture I waved my women to depart. This was my time. The letter, still in the courier’s hand, lay between us.
‘Who wrote it?’ I asked.
I took the letter. How astonishingly unmarred it was by time and travel, as if it had been written yesterday. It all but burned my fingertips.
‘My lord the Duke. On the day before the battle, my lady.’
‘So you escaped, when so many brave men perished.’
His face flushed as if I had struck him. ‘It was not my choice, my lady. The Duke wished this to be delivered to you immediately, if it seemed that the battle was lost. I rode south when he gave me the order.’
‘I would not impugn your courage, sir. You have my thanks.’ I raised him with my own hand to his arm. It was as if I watched my actions from a great distance. ‘There is ale. Drink and sit.’
I walked to the window where the light fell on the superscription:
To Cecily, Duchess of York at Baynard’s Castle
Written from Sandal Castle
The packet was bulky with something hard enclosed in the centre. Breaking the seal, unfolding it, I caught the brown petals in the palm of my left hand as I lifted the single sheet to read. I had to catch my breath.
To my well-beloved Cecily,
If this finds its way to your hand, then affairs have gone badly for us in the north. We face a vast force. Who knows what the outcome will be since neither side is prepared to compromise. If I see a chance of success, I will lead my troops out of the fortress here at Sandal and join in battle with the Queen’s forces. I believe in the strength and dedication of our mighty cause.
I swear that I will take no untoward risk.
What of me, when you read this?
Probably the Queen has me imprisoned in one of my own castles, to make an example of me, while she takes Henry back into her authority and rules for her son’s future as King of England. I expect that Edmund is here with me. I think she will demand a high ransom for my freedom, as well as my oath that I will reject the Accord.
If I am a prisoner I will have no choice but to give my consent.
All I can hope is that I will be reunited with you and that we will live to wait for better times for the House of York.
The token of my regard that I have enclosed has certainly seen better days. It was flowering bravely in a sheltered corner of the pleasance here at Sandal. Any frost would have killed it so I thought I would send it on to you, with my everlasting love, as a New Year’s gift.
I arranged the gambeson for Edmund. He looks well in it. Whatever happens on the battlefield, he will be a credit to us. There is nothing wrong with his courage.
I send you my thoughts at this difficult time, and my love, knowing that I can leave all my affairs in your more than capable hands. I know that Warwick is still in London if unrest breaks out, and that Ned is based at Shrewsbury in the west.
I pray for a happy reunion, for all of us. If I should take victory in the coming battle, I will be with you before the end of the month.
If aught should happen to me, our son Edward will pick up my mantle and my sword to carry on the battle. But for you, my dearest Cecily, for you will be the hardest task. You are the keeper of the flame. The rock and foundation of the House of York. So much for your slight shoulders but no more than you can bear.
I do not believe that it will come to this. I will return and we will fight the good fight together.
Keep me for ever in your thoughts, as I keep you in mine.
Richard
Slowly I refolded the single sheet. Strangely I felt no emotion at all. It was as if a hand had tightened around my heart. The words written by my dead love, who had hoped for release from imprisonment even if he lost the battle. There never was such a hope. Marguerite, for the sake of her son’s inheritance, would never have let him live.
I regarded the sad remains of the white rose, withered and dry in the palm of my hand. Once white, the emblem of York. I sent the courier away. There was no one to whom I had any wish to send reply.
You are the keeper of the flame.
I would accept it. I would tend it and carry it aloft until the day of my own death.
Chapter Fifteen
The Wheel of Fortune Spins Madly
Recorded by the private hand of Cecily, Dowager Duchess of York, January 1461
They lie to me, those who tell me that time will bring relief. They lie to me who tell me that time will ease my pain. They lie who say that with every day I will feel a softening of the great loss in my heart. I miss him in the rise of the sun, in the soft rain, in the harsh frosts. I miss him in the scent of burning apple-wood, the music of the shawm and lute and timbrel. I want him, and cannot have him.
I am told that Richard is buried at the Priory of St John the Evangelist at Pontefract with Edmund and my Neville family. Buried by those who killed him. I should rejoice that honest burial was not denied them, although I know nothing of the memorial. Perhaps there is none. Perhaps it was wiser to allow discretion, to prevent their graves being desecrated by the supporters of Lancaster.
I cannot make my pilgrimage there, as my heart wishes. Marguerite hovers, a malicious shadow growing ever closer. One day, I swear it, I will make a memorial to last for all time and tell the history of the brave life of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. Am I not keeper of the flame? At present it is a pale thing that barely flickers into life.
Where will this memorial be?
At our beloved Fotheringhay, of course.
It will not be in Pontefract!
I am awash with restlessness, with indecision. It seems to me that this is no longer my story. The pages on which my life would have been written have been torn from the ledger. It is for my sons now to make their imprint on life and on this country.
I will never be Queen, as was my right.
I find no inner will to be involved. All is in the hands now of my nephew Warwic
k. And Ned, if he returns to me. Perhaps my future is as a widow in a nunnery, a world of prayer and contemplation. Or to live in this world but as a vowess, like a nun in isolation within my own household.
I wish that I could carry another child for Richard. Another son. We lost so many, who were conceived but could not withstand the trials of birth.
I remember when our last child was born. Ursula, who was born, lived and died at Fotheringhay within a twelve-month.
I must not think of such sadness.
Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from the Palace of Westminster
Sister!
Order up your horses and escort and come to London!
Why are you not already here? I can see no good reason. Your argument holds no more water than a leaking bucket. If the Queen’s troops are allowed freedom to attack your estates, what good can you do, sitting on them like an immobile toad in a pond? Give your orders to your Steward and come to London. Besides, if the Queen issues any commands that some properties must be safeguarded from attack, it will assuredly be the castles and lands of Lord John Beaumont. She cannot question his loyalty.
We have far greater need of you here.
Cecily refuses to reply to my letters, or to see me. Her household at Baynard’s Castle is well trained. They tell me that she is unwell and receiving no visitors. She was always so strong-willed and has now shut herself away, except for occasionally gleaning news from Warwick. He is no help, but then his concentration is firmly on the advancing Lancastrian army.
Cecily must drag herself out of this despond. Things are critical and the House of York’s future is not assured. Will she sit in Baynard’s Castle and wait until the Queen’s army is camped on her doorstep?
Do you suppose that she knows about the ultimate fate of Richard and Edmund? And our brother and nephew? I can hardly stand at the gate and shout my question over the walls. Nor can I deliver the terrible news in the same manner. Do come, Kat. You can stay with me at Westminster and we can plan an assault to bring her back to life.
Anne
Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham
Written from Epworth
Sister,
I admire your confidence in my abilities, but I am not coming to London.
Do you suppose the Queen’s rabble can distinguish between a Lancastrian and a Yorkist estate? I doubt they’ll respond to the fact that John Beaumont was on their side. I’ll stay here to supervise the manning of our defences. I may be old, within a breath of my sixty-second year, but I am not dead yet.
Write again to Cecily. Tell her that she is being selfish, that her Neville and Beaufort ancestors will never forgive her if she declines into melancholy. Tell her that Richard will haunt her if she abandons their cause.
If all else fails, summon up her daughters to come to stay at Baynard’s Castle. After she has discussed the treachery of the despicable Exeter with Anne for more than a day, she will be glad to emerge again into the real world.
You did not ask, but I am well.
Being a widow suits me. I have now practised it three times.
I would be grateful if you would organise the following. My garrisons are short of a number of crossbows and pole-axes. Could you arrange for some to be sent north? I am also in need of the following, if the prices are good. I have written a list for you and I trust your Steward to drive a hard bargain with your tight-fisted London merchants.
Your hopeful sister,
Katherine
Household Necessities for Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Pepper
Mace
Cinnamon
Rice
Galingal
Cloves
Ginger
Almonds
Saffron
And two sugar loaves
Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from the Palace of Westminster
I have given the task of supplying armaments to our nephew Warwick, and your kitchen supplies to my cook. Do you not have a Steward who can deal with such trivia? My cook will do as well as he can with the cost, but do not expect it all to come cheap.
I do not have time for such things. We are living with much anxiety here.
Your sister, still in despair,
Anne
Cecily, Dowager Duchess of York, to Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham
Written from Baynard’s Castle
Dear Anne,
Thank you for your kind but quite unnecessary letter. I think that makes six since the news at Wakefield, all of them asking what I am doing in my desolation.
I am doing nothing. I am clad in black. I am mourning. I see the world through a single dark prism of loss and grief. I do not need you hammering on my door.
I presume from your discreet but clumsy query that you are trying to discern if I am aware of the atrocity acted out on Richard’s body.
Of course I am. I have been told all the macabre details by our nephew of Warwick, who thought it would be better that I knew. I suppose he was right, but I cannot bear the images it creates in my dreams.
To put it cruelly, my husband, son and brother were decapitated. Then their heads were exhibited on the spikes of Micklegate Bar in York, so that York could look down on York, so it is recorded. Even worse, a paper crown was set on my lord’s head, a mockery of vast and disgusting proportions. Such humiliation, even of an enemy, is beyond my encompassing.
I have known and loved him for three decades. How can I turn my mind to the politics of the day?
I am as bitter as unripe sloes.
I know that the Queen was not there at York to give the command, but I suspect the orders came from her. I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive Marguerite for this.
I think I will retire from public life and become a vowess, a nun in all but name.
Cecily
England’s Chronicle, February 1461
Battle in the west!
A terrible prophecy!
Do we believe in such miraculous signs and wonders?
Three suns appearing together on the morn of battle, on the Feast of Candlemas, in some distant field named Mortimer’s Cross in the Welsh Marches where the Lancastrian Earl of Pembroke’s forces met with those of the Yorkist Earl of March.
Who has the victory?
Who will claim the three suns as God’s grace? Pembroke or March? Lancaster or York?
Has another scion of the House of York been laid low on the battlefield in blood and gore? Is this to be another reaping of the sons of York?
We advise the citizens of London to change their allegiance from the white rose to the red, without delay.
Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from the Palace of Westminster
My dear Kat,
Your strategy was to no avail.
Cecily can see nothing beyond her loss of Richard and Edmund. How formidable is the army led against Ned by Pembroke and Owen Tudor? We know that the Welsh fight with great ferocity. If we have lost Ned on the battlefield, within six weeks of Richard and Edmund, I don’t have much hope for our sister’s taking up her role in this life. Or for her soundness of mind.
All I can do is leave her alone, and pray for her strength of will.
She must not be allowed to retire.
Your resigned sister,
Anne
Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary
Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.
Blessed Virgin, who knows what it is to lose a son, in your mercy, grant me fortitude.
I cannot rest. I cling to my faith but it is so hard to accept another blow.
Keep my son Edward from death. Preserve him from all harm. Send him home to me to take up his father’s royal mantle.
Stop him from lau
nching a foolish attack against an army of vast numbers. A holy vision of yourself on the battlefield might do it.
Give me the inner spirit, I beg of you, to drag myself out of the trough of despond.
Amen
Edward, Earl of March, to Cecily, Dowager Duchess of York
Written from Croft Castle, Herefordshire
To my Lady Mother,
How terrible a blow is the death of my father and brother at Wakefield? I know that you will be frozen in grief.
I have had my revenge, and in that you must rejoice.
At Mortimer’s Cross, a short distance from this castle, I met the Welsh forces led by the Earl of Pembroke in the name of the Lancastrian Queen. It was a superb victory. Pembroke fled, which I regret for I hoped to bring him to justice, but his father Owen Tudor was taken prisoner and executed in Hereford. I had his head placed on the market cross for all to see.
I have been bloodied on the battlefield and blessed with victory. I am truly my father’s son. Were we not granted a heavenly image of three suns in the sky on the morning of the battle? I made good use of it. The three remaining sons of York will, one day, be united to take control of this realm and end the bloodshed.
I am marching towards London where I will join up with Warwick to thwart Queen Marguerite and secure King Henry’s person.
One day I will fulfil all that my father dreamed of. One day the crown will be mine. I will be King of England and the House of York will come into its own.
I need your support, my Lady Mother. I need your knowledge of men and allegiances, and your ability to reach out to the citizens of London. I will make my base at Baynard’s Castle on my return, where we will plan for the future.
Your loving and obedient son,
Ned
Cecily, Dowager Duchess of York, to Anne, Duchess of Buckingham
Written from Baynard’s Castle
My dear Anne,
Behold me in abject apology.
I have not been amenable to all your attempts to rouse me from my misery. My conscience troubles me, particularly when I returned the book you sent to me. An interesting subject, I see. The Life of Saint Catherine of Siena, a humble woman who worked for her family of weavers, and for God, to become a saint. You were never subtle, Anne. If you would consider sending it again, I will read it and try hard to learn the lessons of humility and service. Although I have no intention of taking up weaving.
