by Anne O'Brien
At least I had succeeded in getting them through the door at Baynard’s Castle at one and the same time without coming to blows. If they had been younger I would have had them both beaten for wilful intransigence.
Here was an opportunity to see how strong was the old bond between Ned and Clarence. Had it survived at all? Could it be re-formed, like a once-firm rope re-spliced by a master rope-maker? For the first time in their presence I felt the insecurity of failure set its hand on my shoulder. The gaze they levelled at me was just as hostile, as if I were the instigator of their ills, before they turned on each other.
‘I am surprised that you agreed to come,’ Ned said. ‘I thought Warwick would have a far stronger claim on your loyalty than I.’
‘Was I not under royal command to be here?’ George snarled.
Ned was not smiling. Could I blame him? It would be difficult to forgive being branded a bastard, as I found it wretched being labelled harlot. It would be impossible to forgive being taken prisoner and held in captivity, however soft, by a brother and a subject.
‘Your accusations against my birth are unforgivable.’ There was Ned’s ire, as I had known it would be.
‘I only repeat what is on every tongue.’ George scowled mightily. ‘Is it not true, then?’
When his gaze slid to mine in rank discourtesy, I achieved the well-nigh impossible and feigned amusement.
‘You would smear mud over my reputation, under my own roof, George? You would call into question my chastity in my presence? For shame, my son. Are you then also illegitimate?’
‘You should fall on your knees and ask forgiveness.’ Ned took up the cudgel on my behalf. ‘From both of us.’
‘I will not.’
I changed my role, to that of the commanding King’s Mother.
‘Would you listen to every desperate rumour that is spread around?’ I demanded. ‘Rumours that are concocted to spread disharmony. You are both politically astute. Will you snipe and growl at each other for ever? Will you tear apart the kingdom?’
When that was met with a blistering silence, I turned to heap my censure on George’s treacherous shoulders. ‘Ned is crowned and anointed. You have paid homage to him, you have given your oath of featly to him. Such holy bonds demand that you owe him your unequivocal loyalty.’
Seeing the mulish arrogance still engraving hard lines on George’s face, I directed my next advice to Ned: ‘You must forgive him. You must accept that loyalty and offer your brother a high position at your side, for all to see. If you had spent less time in devising elaborate rituals for taking to your bed and rising from it, more concerned with the quality of the bleached linen sheets and an ermine counterpane, sprinkled with holy water, you would have seen this rift developing between you long ago. You should have stopped it before it became so lethal.’
The King blinked as if surprised by my attack.
‘Must I also accept the loyalty of my devious cousin, Warwick?’ Ned was not persuaded.
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘I will not unless I see that he is willing to do more than make empty gestures.’
George promptly waded into the developing melee to grasp another bone of contention. ‘You have arranged that your daughter will wed Warwick’s nephew. Will he get the throne, then, after your death, if your lady wife fails to produce a son? Anyone rather than your brother. I think you would choose Diccon rather than me.’
Both Ned and George turned to stare at a silent Diccon who sat, elbows planted on the table, chin resting on his clasped hands.
‘At this moment I probably would,’ Ned replied. ‘At least he has not shown such overt hostility. He remained loyal to me when you took me prisoner. He and Hastings rode north to try to raise support for me. But that is by the way. You presume that I will have no son of my own.’
‘There’s no evidence of it.’
‘I swear I will have my heir to step into my shoes.’
‘And will he be legitimate? Or the product of an hour’s pleasure with a kitchen wench?’
Clarence’s sneer was unfortunate. I saw Edward’s spread hands clench into fists.
‘The future is not ours to determine,’ I said, to stop worse things being said. ‘All I can do is advise a rapprochement. The alternative is too terrible to contemplate. Your lives are not your own, to be determined by your own pleasure. You are at the vanguard of the House of York. If you are daggers-drawn, the Lancastrians are waiting to pounce and take over. Marguerite will be offering up prayers of deep gratitude if you cannot seal an agreement between you. Louis will be quick to take advantage of any weakness. Is that what you want? If Marguerite returns with a French army, you could both end up with no power or lands to fight over.’
‘I don’t believe Louis will risk supporting Marguerite,’ George said. ‘He’ll never see victory in her hands. The rumour that she was at Harfleur with an invading force was all falsehood.’
‘Then you are not well informed,’ I stated, making the most of my information. ‘She is at Tours, discussing strategies with Louis and her French relatives. Louis invited her to plan a possible invasion.’
‘I have not heard it.’
‘I have,’ said Diccon, entering for the first time in my support, surprising me, when indeed I should not have been surprised. Here he was, with all the dark authority and level gaze of his father. I realised that with eighteen years of experience of a multitude of loyalties and treacheries on his shoulders, I must not underestimate my youngest son’s grasp of what was required in this dispute. He added, with a courteous bow in my direction: ‘They are indeed planning war against us.’
It pleased me to see the crease grow between Clarence’s brows. Seeds of doubt had been sown in his self-interested mind, but would these tiny seedlings sway his fealty?
‘Marguerite is writing to her supporters here in England, to be ready when the invasion comes,’ I said. ‘Her clarion call is that King Henry will once more be King of England. And you would risk all of that by refusing to stand by your brother? You are a fool if you do.’
‘Is this true?’
‘Yes. Would I lie on so critical a juncture?’
George’s glance slid away again. ‘I will agree. I will not break the oath I have taken. As you say, it would not be in my interests to do so.’
Here was neither grace nor elegance, but it was the best I could hope for. I fixed my gaze on Ned, willing him to step forward and draw his brother in. Which he did. A reluctant conciliation, with a thin smile and a hand clasp.
‘I will accept your renewed fealty, brother. I welcome it.’
His tone was not exactly warm but Ned was nothing if not pragmatic. I began to breathe more easily. Until:
‘You will stay here in London, of course, until we know more of Marguerite’s invasion,’ Ned said. Unwisely perhaps.
Clarence’s brows flattened. ‘That is not my plan.’
‘And your plan is what?’
‘I go north again.’
‘Into Warwick’s territory.’
‘And my own. My wife is there.’
‘Bring her to London,’ Diccon suggested softly.
‘No. She is expecting a child and must not travel.’
‘Is that all our rapprochement means to you?’ Ned’s anger was relit, his voice echoing in fury from the stonework. ‘That you disobey your King at the first request? You will be able to report all to Warwick. Will you laugh over a cup of wine with him when you tell him that you have fooled me into thinking that you will be my man? Can I believe any word you say?’
‘You can believe anything you wish. There is no reconciliation,’ Clarence shouted back, then stormed from the room, leaving me knee-deep in the dregs of my plans. His sisters, waiting in the antechamber, watched him go.
Until I, with a few swift strides in his wake, raised my voice to bring him to a halt.
‘You will hear me, Clarence.’
He turned, with some remnants of childhood obedience.
&
nbsp; Slowly I walked and stood before him, looking up into that ravaged, wilful face.
‘You will not leave this house until I permit it. You are my son; your present ambition has no influence over me and my desires. You will hear me and obey.’
My children faded away into the background. Even Diccon, who offered me his quiet support, departed after a sharp lift of my chin. The ensuing conversation was conducted in privacy, essential for George’s dignity. I reminded him of his duty, his loyalty, his inheritance of honour from his father; the sins of betrayal if he left my house in this mood. It was lengthy and one-sided, my son answering in monosyllables.
The result was an acquiescence; reluctant, sullen, but still given.
When he had gone, when I was alone, I unwrapped the package. From the protection of the leather pouch, the beads of a paternoster fell into my palm. They were heavy, gilded and enamelled, and I could pick out the tiny letters to read ‘Ave’ on each bead. It was a costly thing, quite rare, and to my mind Venetian. I would use it when I prayed for George’s immortal soul. Sadly, for once close to tears, I let the paternoster slide back into its safekeeping.
And then there was my son the King to face. The manner of his birth to discuss.
What I said to him, and he to me, would remain close hidden between us. It was a matter of interest to no one else.
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy
Written from Baynard’s Castle
To my well-beloved daughter,
Did I salvage anything from our reuniting? Some might say it was little indeed. At least Edward and George left London together, ostensibly in amity, rather than glaring at each other and with weapons in their hands.
Will it last? Impossible to foresee the future.
I wished you could have been here with your calm good sense, but nothing would cleanse all the past bitterness. Your sisters Anne and Elizabeth did their best but there was no softening the underlying distrust.
One note of hope emerged out of all this: news that Isabel is pregnant. Seven months so not long for her to reach full term. I would like to wish them both well in their new family. Warwick will be pleased if she carries a son.
It is all too desperate. I am in fear for the future days.
I hear your words, ‘But what is Warwick doing?’
I do not know, and I have asked nothing of the situation in Burgundy. You will consider me selfish. And it is true. All my thoughts are taken up with this impasse.
Your wretched mother,
Cecily
My cook’s efforts with gilded sugar to create a falcon and fetterlock went disastrously awry.
England’s Chronicle, March 1470
Don’t look to see the King in London this month.
We have an outbreak of hostilities again, this time in Lincolnshire. Yet another local dispute between two power-hungry magnates, but our King has had enough. He has ridden out to deal with them.
We do not expect that it will take long. Since the Queen is once more carrying a child, he will wish to be here if he is to celebrate the birth of a son.
Are we not all hoping to celebrate such an event?
All except the Duke of Clarence, who would not be so pleased. He will be praying for another daughter, although we know that he has recently assured the King of his allegiance.
Quite what the Earl of Warwick will do is outside our present comprehension. It all depends on the direction of his ambitions. We hope that he will return to the royal fold. All is quiet on that front, which makes us think that the puissant Earl is up to no good.
Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Cecily, King’s Mother
Written from Epworth, April 1470
Cis,
Some spectacularly depressing news to cloud the start of your day and give your everlasting prayers at Mass an urgency. If, dear sister, you thought that you had brought your sons together in lasting brotherly affection, you were completely misguided. I’d say it was a waste of your valuable breath and your cook’s gilded sugar, although I cannot fault you for trying. I regret that your majestic efforts with a celebratory banquet were wasted on them.
What started out as a local dispute here in Lincolnshire – a bitter but private one between Welles and Burgh over land and cattle – has been blown out of all proportion into a major rebellion against Edward. It will take no wit on your part to guess the stirrer of trouble.
Warwick has raised an army of his northern tenants and joined the rebels led by Welles. Clarence is with him. Edward’s marching north in full royal panoply has forced Warwick, who saw it as a threat to his own northern power-base, to take such a risk and declare openly against the King. We await the outcome with some trepidation. You may know before I do if Edward sends you news.
I do not like it.
Katherine
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from Baynard’s Castle, April 1470
Kat,
Neither do I like it. Will I ever sleep quietly in my bed again?
As you say, I should have known better. I think the damage has been done and is way past mending.
I would never have believed George guilty of such bitterness, of such self-interest. Did I instil no element of trustworthiness in him? No sense of morality? I have failed him, it seems. I will have to answer to God on my deathbed.
Since I am still fully alive, I will do all in my power to keep Edward’s crown safe.
I have heard from him. A courier arrived today. There was a battle which has been quaintly named Lose-cote Field since the rebels ran so fast they discarded their garments as they went. Near Stamford, so you will know the outcome before it reached London. Edward is victorious, thank the Blessed Virgin. What will happen to Warwick and Clarence, I have no notion. Nothing quaint about this battle and its aftermath. Warwick and Clarence may not have been evident in the thick of it, but when the rebels charged the King’s forces, some of them were bellowing, A Clarence! Others, A Warwick! Some were even wearing Clarence’s livery. Even worse, there are tracts calling on the rebels to destroy Ned and make Clarence King. There is no need to express surprise at where they originated.
Which lowers my spirits even further. Pray with me that the Queen carries a son at last. It is our only hope of a secure succession, although it will not heal the breach between Ned and Clarence.
Cecily
England’s Chronicle, April 1470
Citizens of London. Our King, hot from his victory at Lose-cote Field, has summoned the recalcitrant Earl and Duke to appear before him to answer for their sins.
They have refused. They could expect no leniency this time.
We hear that they and their families are in flight. Probably to Calais where they will take refuge from the royal wrath.
We presume it will be a long stay if King Edward is breathing hard on their heels.
Will this solve the question of who owns the crown, once and for all?
Duchess Cecily must be at her wits’ end. The reconciliation she wove together from such broken threads at Baynard’s Castle is in tatters and can never be mended. Even she must find it difficult to believe any word that comes from Clarence’s treacherous mouth.
Cecily, King’s Mother, to George, Duke of Clarence
Written from Baynard’s Castle
Clarence,
They tell me that you are headed to Dartmouth to take ship for Calais.
Do not do this. I command you not to go.
If you choose to disobey me, risking a permanent exile, do not under any circumstances take Isabel with you. She is too near her time. It would be hazardous for her, and you do not yet know that Calais will receive you. I fear that you will be refused by the Captain of the garrison there. If you value the health of your wife and your unborn child, send her to me at Baynard’s Castle where Isabel can carry her child in ease and comfort. I give you my word that Ned will not use them as a pawn in this vicious game you are pl
aying.
It will be no surprise to you that I am appalled at your dishonesty and the length to which you will go to oust your brother from the throne, but I will stand sponsor for the child.
I might understand your reluctance, but Ned will never be vengeful against a woman and baby, a woman who is of his own blood, and my godchild.
In God’s name, George, do not be swayed by petty antagonisms. On this occasion, Warwick’s advice might not be appropriate. At least I have your family’s interests at heart.
Cecily, King’s Mother
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Edward, King of England
Written from Baynard’s Castle, April 1470
Edward,
By now you will know of the consequences of your failure to achieve a lasting alliance with your cousin and brother. They fled to Calais from where they would renew their assault.
I wring my hands with unnumbered forebodings. All my hopes have become atrophied and stale.
It is so perilous a situation. I understand why you would order Lord Wenlock to deny their entry into Calais, but by so doing you have driven them to make landing at Honfleur, thus into the hands of King Louis and Marguerite.
You will tell me that such an alliance is beyond belief, but desperate situations can create desperate bedfellows. I can’t envisage the perilousness of such an outcome if King Louis decides to wade into our troubled waters. Can you repulse an invasion of such calibre if Louis lends his French armies to Warwick? It’s one thing to destroy the rebels at Lose-cote Field, another to stop Marguerite with Warwick and Louis from establishing a base somewhere on England’s south coast. Louis will be delighted at the prospect. I doubt he has ever forgiven the Burgundian alliance.
What will the English magnates do, offered such a choice? How many of them are uncomfortable with your rule and the Woodville hegemony? It has not brought peace and prosperity, rather disharmony.
I do not blame you entirely for this. I know that Warwick and Clarence are as much to blame, if not more. But I despair of the outcome.
Isabel lost her child when she began labour in the sea off Calais, with no one for her solace but her sister and mother. The Calais commander sent her two flagons of wine. Of what use was that? I am not told whether it was male or female but the child was stillborn.
