The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  I am aware that you need a replacement. It will please me if you remove to Berkhamsted. At your convenience, of course. Before the end of the year would suit me very well.

  I regret it if you are reluctant to hand over Fotheringhay, but I know that you will soon make Berkhamsted comfortable for your needs. Do contact me if you need any help in the removal of your belongings and household.

  Your dutiful son,

  Edward

  Cecily, King’s Mother, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  Dear Kat,

  Berkhamsted!

  He has ordered me to remove myself and my whole household from Fotheringhay to Berkhamsted! For the convenience of the Queen.

  It takes my breath away.

  I have made the journey to look it over. If it was intended as a humiliation, it was appallingly successful. Have you seen the state of it? It reeks of neglect and hopelessness, although I admit it was once a fine fortress, with much money spent on it by Edward of Woodstock. His wife Countess Joan of Kent spent her final years there. But that was a hundred years ago and since then it has fallen into sad desolation. I know my son Edward would tell me that our previous King Henry enjoyed a sojourn there, but Henry is no judge of the comfort of accommodations.

  I detest it, Katherine. It will empty my coffers to make it habitable and fit for my household. My jaw aches because of my gritted teeth.

  It does not win me over to any degree that he has called his third daughter Cecily. That I stood sponsor for the child, and without doubt a fair and healthy one, does not heal the deep wound that he has inflicted on me.

  You know how attached I have always been to Fotheringhay, and so does my son. I lived there with Richard. A goodly number of my children were born there. Anne and Margaret and Richard. And William, who did not live. It was my final earthly desire that Richard and Edmund should be restored there with fine funerary memorials, and that I would ultimately be laid to rest at Richard’s side. I have already had new glazings to enhance the church against the day when Richard is returned here. Instead, Richard remains in Pontefract, and I am banished to Berkhamsted. All because I will not kiss the feet of this power-hungry Queen.

  I am eaten up with fury. I can do nothing about it.

  What do I do? Do I merely comply, a weakling subject to her daughter by law’s scheming? I suspect it is the public humiliation that hurts most.

  Cis

  England’s Chronicle, March 1469

  When not in residence at Baynard’s Castle, we hear that the Duchess of York is removing herself from Fotheringhay to Berkhamsted.

  Was this her choice?

  We doubt it. We are reliably informed that the new home of the King’s Mother is little more than a crumbling and dilapidated ruin. The curtain wall is in a state of collapse and the gatehouse would keep no enemy at bay. The entrance towers lean at a dangerous angle. The keep is mostly unfit for human habitation. Better to keep pigs there.

  What will Duchess Cecily do now?

  We wager she will stay ensconced at Baynard’s Castle, at the centre of affairs.

  Cecily, King’s Mother, to Edward, King of England

  Written from Berkhamsted

  My son,

  Have you had recent conversation with your brother Clarence?

  If not, it is unfortunate. I suggest that you to do so immediately.

  Are you aware that your brother is acquiring dangerous ambitions? You say that you have no fears for his loyalty, but you must have your suspicions. You see far more of him than I do.

  It has concerned me, not least that he visited me. He has more important affairs to occupy him than visiting his mother in this isolated retreat. On this occasion he wished to gauge my opinion.

  He has all the charm and wit and elegance, as well as the stature and handsome features, that you yourself have used so well to win the loyalty of the people. He has also acquired, through your generosity, a vast swathe of estates in the Midlands around the fortress of Tutbury. He is your heir apparent, and is like to remain so if the woman you chose to wed can produce nothing but females.

  Clarence has acquired the idea of a marriage with Isabel Neville, Warwick’s elder daughter. Warwick is in full agreement. How could he not be? I suspect the idea came from him. I did warn you. By sweeping up all the marriageable heirs for the Woodville girls, you have left Warwick with so little choice for his own daughters.

  Can you not see the danger? Think of the consolidation of power in the Midlands. How powerful this will make Warwick, if connected so strongly to the heir to the throne. His daughter could be Queen of England in the fullness of time.

  I suspect Warwick of making Clarence a weapon to use against you, and Clarence has come to believe that the crown could readily be his.

  I have heard that Warwick has been calling his tenants to muster. Dangerous times, Edward. You might look into his interest in the northern rebellion.

  What are you going to do about it?

  Your father would already be closely involved to prevent any insurrection.

  Cecily, King’s Mother

  Edward, King of England, to Cecily, King’s Mother

  Written from the Palace of Westminster, March 1469

  To my Lady Mother,

  The matter is dealt with. I have refused my permission for the marriage. Clarence must look elsewhere. I will personally take it in hand to discover for him a foreign bride. I do not deny that he has an eye to the throne.

  There will be no marriage between Clarence and Warwick’s daughter Isabel.

  As for Warwick, who has indeed been summoning his tenants to arm themselves, under the pretext of marching against Robin of Redesdale and the northern uprising, I have issued the order that no man is allowed to assemble his retainers without my direct permission. I do not fear Warwick. I expect to see him take up his position of Captain of Calais before the month is out. I value his authority there, and think that he will not dare to defy me.

  I myself am engaged in putting down the insurrection in the north. I will deal with Clarence’s marriage when I return.

  I hope that Berkhamsted becomes more agreeable during the summer months. Perhaps you could use some of your energies on improving the grounds. Could you grow flowers or fruit trees? It might be more satisfying than dabbling in my affairs.

  Your dutiful son,

  Edward.

  England’s Chronicle, June 1469

  There is trouble brewing in the realm.

  Rebellion in the north, breaking the peace that we had come to enjoy.

  Our King has left London to put the rebellion down, in the company of his brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and a fair number of his Woodville relatives. There seems to be no urgency in the royal progress. He and the Queen are spending some days at Fotheringhay. There is even the idea of a pilgrimage to Walsingham and Bury St Edmunds. Why is our King not marching north with furious intent to restore our peace?

  For those of our readers who enjoy the gossip, what are the rest of our pre-eminent families doing?

  We imagine that the Duchess is still aggrieved. We might expect to see her returned to London and settle in at Baynard’s Castle when she can stomach the tribulations and ruin of Berkhamsted no longer.

  The Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence have been summoned to come to the aid of the King in putting down the insurrections. We hear that Warwick is rousing his tenants to arm themselves, but the question is, how will he use them?

  Do you recall our prediction? That the Duke of Clarence is looking for a wife. Would this not be the ideal match, to wed Warwick’s elder daughter? We understand that the matter of a betrothal has already been broached between Clarence and the Earl of Warwick, but King Edward is unwilling. He has rejected it outright.

  Will Warwick and Clarence obey the King’s refusal? Will they go to the aid of the King with their soldiers?

  God grant that the Queen bears a son. The daughter born in
March is healthy and handsome enough but not a male heir, which gives much ammunition to Clarence’s ambitions. And Warwick’s, of course. It is not unforeseeable that we might have a Neville Queen of England. Except that our King has explicitly forbidden the marriage.

  Marriages and family squabbles aside, we have the rebellion to put down.

  Will family dispute take precedence over the rebellion?

  You might ask, if there is an advantage to be gained from these circumstances in the north, how far is the mighty Earl of Warwick involved in Robin of Redesdale’s uprising? We suggest that he is not entirely innocent in the plotting.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An Ill-Advised Marriage

  Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, to Cecily, King’s Mother

  Written from Canterbury, June 1469

  My esteemed aunt,

  I trust that you are in good health.

  I have reason to believe that you will be amenable to the plan that I have devised to further the future of your son the Duke of Clarence. I think it would be good for the country, for your family, and as you will doubtless say, it would be in my own interests too.

  I hope that you will consider joining me in Canterbury. My courier will organise your travel arrangements and escort you in comfort and safety. I presume that your habitual inquisitiveness will be sufficiently awakened that you will not refuse my invitation.

  I look forward to welcoming and entertaining you. I am most desirous of hearing your thoughts in a most sensitive matter appertaining to the present monarchy.

  Your son Clarence will be here with us too.

  We have much to discuss.

  Warwick

  Duchess Cecily confronts Warwick and Clarence in the lodgings of the Prior of Christ Church, Canterbury, June 1469

  Did I not know exactly what it was that my powerful nephew was devising? I saw his stark aspirations; I saw the clever plotting. I determined that I might allow my nephew of Warwick to take the lead, but I would not be persuaded against my will to sign my name to his strategy.

  Canterbury was ostentatiously welcoming, the journey made comfortable in every aspect by the people of Warwick’s household, dispatched to escort me. After Edward’s contentious treatment over the loss of Fotheringhay it was a sop to my dignity. Luxury and comfort were the order of the day, from a welter of damask cushions to restorative cups of ale, my small travelling household settled into the accommodations of the Prior of Christ Church. Warwick had a gift for charm and putting a much-desired visitor at ease. It would have been enough to rouse my suspicions, if they needed any rousing.

  ‘Welcome, my most highly valued aunt. Enter and take your ease. I am gratified that you came at my request. I trust you journeyed well.’

  He offered me a full Court obeisance, hand on heart, elegant and controlled. Yet his smile and the salutation on my cheek were quite genuine of his affection.

  ‘I could not refuse,’ I said. ‘Such a subtle appeal to my curiosity. How could I not be here?’

  Clarence was noticeably less effusive, wary even, but his bow was all I could ask from a dutiful son.

  ‘We were not sure that you would come.’

  While wine was dispensed, we sat at ease in one of the spacious chambers, discussing innocuous family affairs. The Countess and their daughters were in Calais, awaiting Warwick’s arrival. Since there were still a good few hours of daylight remaining, I suggested a visit to the shrine of the Blessed St Thomas. Clarence accompanied me. We knelt and offered up prayers for the King, for the realm, for ourselves. For the repose of York and Rutland. While, within the grandeur of gold and jewels of the shrine, I prayed silently for some resolution to what, in the coming hours, could be a difficult exchange of views.

  In the conflict of light and shadow as we walked from the shrine, when Clarence strode ahead of me, in brief conversation with one of the priests, his figure became blurred, the edges touched by an iridescence from the deeply hued glass. The years passing, how tall and strong he had become. And his resemblance to his brother Edward struck me. If he had worn a coronet on his fair hair the priests would be falling to their knees around him.

  My thoughts slid into an uneasy channel, like the turbulence of oily water after a storm. Would Clarence make a King? A good King?

  Blessed Virgin vouchsafe me the words to bring my son back into the royal fold.

  I decided that Clarence was on Warwick’s tight leash, like a young hunting dog, preventing him from speaking out the moment I had stepped over the Prior’s highly polished threshold.

  Returned to our lodging, I was the perfect guest, making no comment on the reason for my presence. Let Warwick broach this dangerous subject, waiting until we had eaten, I sparingly, the dishes removed, the servants dispatched. Then, as Warwick filled the cups once more, I braced myself for a disturbing exchange.

  ‘Now, we talk.’

  I allowed myself a benign smile. ‘Why am I here? Is this the point when you tell me?’

  Warwick raised his cup in acknowledgement of my previous silence.

  ‘We would like your support.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  I knew. Oh I knew. Every gossipmonger in the country knew.

  ‘The marriage of your son Clarence to my daughter Isabel.’

  I turned to my son, ingenuously innocent, desirous of making him squirm a little. ‘You gave me no indication that you looked to Isabel as a wife.’

  ‘I think it will be an excellent match.’ Once he would have flushed under my regard. No longer. His face remained calm with a stern self-confidence, product of Warwick’s tuition.

  ‘Do you love her?’ I asked.

  ‘We enjoy each other’s company.’

  ‘Which is not at all the same thing. I presume that you have not been swept off your feet with earthly passions. But then I presume that love is not the purpose of this match.’ I turned to Warwick, letting my son escape for a little while. ‘I admit, I had heard talk of this plan. I am also under the strong impression that the King has forbidden it, citing the bounds of consanguinity since my son and Isabel are second cousins. Is that not so?’

  ‘It is.’ He bowed his head, again in acknowledgement. ‘Yet I will pursue it.’

  ‘How can you, if your King forbids it?’

  My nephew produced a document that had been tucked within the breast of his belted houppelande and laid it on the table between us. I did not touch it. I raised my brows in inquiry, even though the heavy seals told their own story. Let him explain the treachery of his recent actions. I could recognise the prints of Warwick’s ambition all over that papal document.

  ‘A papal dispensation, to allow the marriage,’ he said as blandly as if it were a mere bill of lading for one of his commercial enterprises.

  ‘You lost no time. How much did it cost?’

  ‘Enough. It gives us every legal right to ignore the King’s displeasure. The marriage between Clarence and my daughter will take place.’

  I allowed the silence to hang a little. Then:

  ‘If you have papal permission, why do you need my blessing?’

  Did he think my humiliation over the Fotheringhay affair would provoke my plotting with Warwick and Clarence against my son the King?

  And then, another thought. How far did Warwick’s ambitions spread? Did he truly believe that I would prefer to see my son of Clarence steal the crown from Edward? To have Warwick as father to the Queen of England? Perhaps he did.

  I said, lightly: ‘Isabel is a fine girl and my own goddaughter, but how can I sanction this marriage, against Edward’s express command?’

  I knew, as clearly as if it were written in the papal script, that Warwick believed my agreement to join them in Canterbury would be enough to put pressure on Edward to retreat and give his consent. But my influence over Edward, since his marriage, was not as extensive as Warwick presumed.

  Yet I smiled and answered with a light touch.

  ‘I cannot in all honesty join with y
ou in defying the King in this manner,’ I said, crushing any further Neville ambitions.

  ‘I will not be without much support in this,’ Warwick said, unperturbed. ‘I had hoped that you would join your voice to mine.’

  Much support? Where was he looking?

  ‘What of Diccon?’ I asked, a sudden bolt of concern. ‘Will he support you, or remain loyal to Edward?’

  ‘Diccon will do as I say,’ Warwick responded. ‘Raising him in my household has built a strong relationship between us.’

  Such assurance. And yet:

  ‘Diccon is at this moment in the company of the King and will march north with him.’

  ‘Diccon will come to heel when I call him.’

  With that brutal assertion, I acknowledged the inevitability of this conspiracy, whether I supported it or not.

  My final words were to Clarence: ‘Do you not have enough power, as the King’s brother and heir? Why would you set yourself up against him? You are his friend, his brother, his counsellor.’ It seemed that the crown of England hovered between us.

  Clarence’s eyes flashed with visions of a bright future.

  ‘My ambition is greater than being brother and counsellor to the King.’

  ‘I forbid your marriage. Your brother the King forbids it.’

  Useless words, as I realised. It seemed that all was descending into a spiral of danger, of implacable animosity between my sons.

  And his reply: ‘You cannot forbid it, madam.’

  ‘If you value the peace of this realm, all that we have achieved, don’t do this thing. Seek out a foreign bride who will bring wealth and a strong alliance with a European state.’

  My son shook his head. ‘But I must. I desire no foreign bride. I see my future unfolding here before me, and it is a splendid one.’

  I saw the glance he cast towards Warwick.