by Anne O'Brien
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The High Price of Victory
Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary
Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.
For whom do I pray?
For the King and his brothers. Yet my own brother’s son will face them on the battlefield. Give me courage and strength to withstand what is to come. The years weigh heavily on me this day. Watch over my sons, as I keep vigil on my knees.
Whoever dies, it will be my blood. We are all so culpable.
Did we start all of this? When Richard stood against the powerful magnates and Queen Marguerite, when we rode in triumph from Hereford and he made his claim to the throne?
Watch over the Queen. Watch over her children, Blessed Virgin, all so innocent.
I prostrate myself before you, Holy Mother, in abject and anguished penitence. Have mercy on us sinners. We do not always see the consequences of our actions.
Amen
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Anne, Duchess of Exeter
Written from Baynard’s Castle
My daughter,
I need you to meet with me outside St Paul’s Cathedral tomorrow at dawn before the crowds. Control your grief, dress for mourning but inconspicuously.
Your mother,
Cecily, King’s Mother
Duchess Cecily stands witness to the death of traitors in St Paul’s Cathedral, April 1471
The deed had already been done by the time Anne and I reached the environs of St Paul’s Cathedral. The common farm cart was pulling away, lumbering through the streets, the two horses making good time with their lighter load.
‘Deliberate!’ Anne observed. ‘All done before the crowds could gather.’
‘Except that Edward would wish the crowds to see what he had accomplished,’ I reminded her sharply. ‘There is to be no secrecy here.’
We would not be recognised, clad in dark wool, hair hidden in simple coifs, nothing to draw attention to our rank. Not that I thought we would come to any harm from those who crowded with us to witness the tragic outcome of the Battle of Barnet. I felt Anne take my arm, but whether for her comfort or mine I was unsure.
We followed the push and jostle of curious Londoners to the space before the altar, aware of the reek of ale and unwashed bodies, soon overlaid by the pungent clouds of incense. I pushed my way through, and we were allowed, two harmless women, until we could stand at the front.
A heavy canvas covering had been stripped off to lie in a heap beside a single coffin, its lid removed to reveal what had been brought here into this holy place with so little formality.
Two bodies. Two brothers. United in death.
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.
John Neville, Marquess of Montagu.
Naked, exposed without dignity, there they lay revealed for the crowd, now increasing in number, to gawp and point. Bruised, bloody, carrying the sword-cuts and grazes of battle, yet still they were recognisable with their Neville features and dark hair. There had been no maltreatment before or after death, except for the blade of a dagger that had been driven into Warwick’s head, through the open helm. His brother bore a sword wound to belly and neck.
‘This should not be done in this manner,’ Anne whispered.
‘It is for a purpose. There will never be any rumour that they survived to fight again,’ I replied.
‘Is this Edward’s doing?’
‘Yes. And before you damn him for it, your brother could have justifiably had them quartered and beheaded, to be displayed on every bridge and gateway from here to York.’
And I meant it. Warwick had done much damage to my son’s kingship. It was beyond forgiveness, but Ned had in the end shown some respect for my brother’s son. Regret blocked my throat. All that promise and authority, lying naked in the cathedral. Forty-three years old with still so much to offer.
A brief memory lodged itself in my mind, of Warwick when I had last seen him at Westminster: vital, imposing, when he had asked for my prayers. Yes, I would pray for him.
A slight lifting of his hair in a draught caught my attention, as if it were alive.
Oh, I wished that he could be resurrected, that the fateful hours could be returned to the day when Warwick brought my son to London to be crowned King.
I was aware of moisture on my cheek. I had had no thought of weeping but this was a sight to attack the strongest of emotions. I wiped them away with my sleeve.
‘Exeter survived the battle,’ Anne observed with commendable calm.
‘I know.’
‘He was thought to be dead. Stripped of his armour and left all day on the field. But he was not. He was rescued although badly injured.’
I slid her a glance. ‘And you, as a good wife should, will nurse him back to health.’
‘Yes. Am I not his wife?’ Then she smiled, dry as dust. ‘Of course I will not. I doubt he would trust himself to me. He is in sanctuary in Westminster where the Yorkists cannot get their hands on him. Nor can I.’
I linked my fingers with hers, reading her pain as well as her disgust. Neither of us was prepared to speak the words in our hearts.
‘Do you think that Edward will support me in achieving a divorce from him?’ Anne asked.
‘Ask him,’ I said, feeling her fingers grip mine more tightly. ‘If there is a way to achieve it, then he will.
‘Shall we go?’ I asked when my daughter made no reply. ‘We have borne witness to a terrible deed. We can do no more.’ How quickly the citizens of London could change allegiance when it suited them. I spoke to the cleric who wafted incense over the growing crowd. ‘When will they be removed?’
‘What’s it to you, mistress? In three days.’ He did not recognise me.
‘Can it not be done today?’
‘No. The death must be seen.’
But the humiliation was a terrible thing. ‘Could I pay for it to be done now?’
‘You don’t have enough money to deny the wishes of the King.’
‘What will happen after three days?’
‘We have orders to take them to Bisham Abbey, in Berkshire.’
‘Of course.’
Anne and I turned away. They would be buried beside their parents, Salisbury and Lady Alice. There was some humanity in Edward even towards his enemies.
‘It is fitting,’ I said.
‘So the great Warwick is dead,’ a well-to-do citizen at my side growled. ‘If he’d died sooner, we’d have saved ourselves a lot of blood and heartache. The Nevilles have always aspired to more power than was their right.’
I turned on him. ‘He is dead. He deserves your respect.’
‘What do you know about it? Keep to your hearth, mistress.’
Anne was already leading me away.
‘It is not over, is it?’ she said.
‘No. It is not over.’
Marguerite and her son were still out there with their army.
‘What now?’ Anne asked in utter desolation.
I did not know. Her desolation was a mere echo of mine.
Recorded by the private hand of Cecily, Duchess of York
In memoriam of those who fell in battle or met death by other means in this apocalyptic year of 1471
On this day, Easter Day, the fourteenth day of April in the year 1471, when my heart was broken and remade again.
Dead on the battlefield at Barnet on this day with many others known to me:
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick
John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, his brother
Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, husband of my daughter, Anne. Wounded and left for dead but alive.
On this day, the fourth day of May in the year 1471.
Dead on the battlefield at Tewkesbury on this day with many others known to me:
Edward, Prince of Wales
Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset
John Beaufort, Marquess of Dorset
Taken prisoner: Marguerite of Anjou, once
Queen of England
On this day, the twenty-first day of May in this fateful year of 1471.
Dead in the Tower of London between the eleventh hour and midnight:
Henry of Lancaster, once King Henry the Sixth of England
By some foul means
Friend or Enemy. Rest In Peace.
Survived the battlefields and other malign opportunities for death, to my heartfelt gratitude:
Edward, King of England
George, Duke of Clarence
Richard, Duke of Gloucester
So many noble families riven by death.
May this be the end of the carnage.
May this be the beginning of the glorious reign of King Edward the Fourth.
The Wheel of Fortune smiles on the House of York, and on me, Cecily, King’s Mother.
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Marguerite of Anjou, one-time Queen of England
Written from Baynard’s Castle, May 1471
Madam,
I am persuaded that it is my duty to write to you in your loss and grief, emotions of which I have considerable experience. I trust that the Blessed Virgin will bring you comfort and I offer prayers, as any pious woman must, that you will sustain the courage that has been one of your greatest assets throughout the vicissitudes of your life with Henry of Lancaster.
I know that my son the King will treat you with respect. I will petition him to allow you more comfortable accommodation than your present sojourn in the Tower. It will have raw memories for you, as the place where Henry of Lancaster died. The King is considering an easier confinement with Alice Chaucer, Dowager Duchess of Suffolk, at Wallingford Castle.
I will not visit you, either at the Tower or at Wallingford.
You were the cause of much heartache for me. My husband’s death at Wakefield, your callous treatment of him, the degrading of his body and that of my son Edmund. That is not how a Queen should act. How could I sit with you and bemoan your own losses? If you had given better advice to Henry, neither you nor I would have been burdened with such terrible sorrow. If you had been willing to accept the Duke of York’s advice rather than that of the Beaufort Duke of Somerset, we should not be here now surrounded by such misery.
I pray that God will forgive you. Although my conscience might trouble me, I find it impossible to do so.
Cecily, King’s Mother
Marguerite of Anjou, Queen of England, to Cecily Neville, Dowager Duchess of York
Written from the Tower of London, May 1471
Madam,
Your prayers and commiserations are nought but a stone rattling in an empty vessel. They mean nothing to me. I have lost everything: my husband, my son, my crown, through the treachery of you and your family. The death of my son at Tewkesbury is a sin beyond my encompassing. I denounce the sons of York for so foul a deed.
Keep your prayers for yourself and your own family. I suspect that you may need them. I think that you are not destined to live a quiet life.
If you visit me, I will deny you.
Marguerite, Queen of England
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Trouble Stirs Once More in the House of York
England’s Chronicle, summer 1471
What do we have in England in these balmy days of 1471?
A King who is without question the undisputed ruling lord of his kingdom.
Ruthless Edward! Clever Edward! Busy Edward!
Only eleven weeks since our King, when he could barely lay claim to that title, returned to England with his brother of Gloucester against desperate odds. Since then we have seen him raise an army, rescue his son and heir from sanctuary, and the Queen, of course. Nor was this the only reuniting within his family. Under the auspices of Duchess Cecily, King Edward has made amends with his brother Clarence. Since then he has fought two major battles and put down any number of northern rebellions, removing his most vicious enemy of Warwick from the scene. Edward of Lancaster is dead, and so is our previous King Henry. What King Edward’s involvement might be in the death of Henry in captivity, we can only conjecture, but without doubt he has, through diplomacy and force of arms, won back his crown.
Has he not wiped the board of all the chess players that would threaten his position? It may astonish you, although nothing astonishes us in these difficult days.
So what of the rest of the Lancastrian remnant, I hear you asking, where are they? Margaret of Anjou is his prisoner in the Tower of London. Henry Tudor, the final male link with the Beauforts, has fled into Europe for refuge with his uncle Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke.
Through death and imprisonment and flight, our King Edward faces no threats. With only twenty-nine years to his name, with much of his life before him and a thriving family, can we now expect to live our lives in peace?
We are happy to make the prediction that we can.
Duchess Cecily must be relieved that her sons are once more hand in glove. Family disputes can be exhausting and she is no longer a young woman. We wish her well. Maybe she will retire into a quiet life, leaving her sons to handle the reins between them. The Queen will be thankful if she does. Berkhamsted is far enough from Westminster that the sound of Duchess Cecily’s voice will be much muted.
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Edward, King of England
Written from Berkhamsted
My well-beloved son,
It may be that we have a problem, once again, with your brother of Clarence.
You have treated Clarence with astonishing generosity after his disloyal conduct in the past, yet it would be unwise to adopt complacency. I advise you to keep an eye on any conflict of interest that develops between your brothers. You have made Diccon a lord of power with land from the Duchy of Lancaster, as well as estates in Wales and East Anglia. He is Constable and Admiral of England. Have you made a rod for your own back here? At the moment he and Clarence are enjoying the heady gloss of reuniting. It may not always be so. Clarence can be combative and has a jealous streak as wide as the Thames at Gravesend.
Regretfully, I find that I have to take you to task, which you will not like. I hear too much of your reprehensible behaviour. It is unseemly and immoral in a King. Gone are the days when you could give yourself over to dancing, hunting, hawking and banqueting. You have a wife whom you claimed to wed in a surfeit of love. You have a family. Your own loyalty to them should not be a source of gossip, innuendo and coarse comment from tavern to Council chamber.
I would like not to hear the name Elizabeth Shore in connection with yours ever again. A mercer’s daughter forsooth. Could you do no better, if you must take a mistress?
One further suggestion which I hope you will not ignore. Diccon lacks a wife. Anne Neville, now widowed after her unfortunate alliance with Edward of Lancaster, would be a most useful bride. The vast estates of Warwick and Montagu, which must be disposed of sensitively, can then be divided between your two brothers. It would be unwise to allow Anne to fall into other less friendly hands. Clarence won’t like it, but he must learn to tolerate what he does not like.
Cecily, King’s Mother
You might also consider your attire, my son. The close fitting of your short doublet and hose is becoming a source of scandal amongst the monastic chroniclers. It may not be best policy to flaunt your undoubted masculinity too obviously. You might also consider discussing with your wife that so much bare flesh exhibited around the throat and shoulders is not fitting for a Queen of England.
Edward, King of England, to Cecily, King’s Mother
Written from the Palace of Westminster
Grateful thanks to my Lady Mother for the maternal lecture.
I will try not to let the rumours reach your tender ears. If I fail, you must practise political deafness, which should not be difficult if you remain in Berkhamsted.
Gloucester is an able administrator, thus I will continue to promote him. As for Clarence, I will do what I can to treat him fairly. All I can do is hope that my leniency will keep him loyal.
Sometimes I could wish to deliver a punch to his jaw to lay him out at my feet. But I won’t, having a more thorough grasp of statesmanship than he does. Or not unless he commits more crimes against me and the realm.
Do not let it be an anxiety for you. I will not let him disturb the peace of the realm.
Now, rejoice with us, madam. Elizabeth carries a child. We hope for another son at the turn of the year.
My sister Anne has petitioned me for a divorce from Exeter. I am of a mind to consent. Do you have any opinions on this? I can only think that you will be in agreement to release her from a man who has been a permanent Lancastrian blot on our Yorkist landscape. It was inconsiderate of him not to die at Barnet or Tewkesbury. I will relieve my sister of his presence in her life and guarantee her financial security.
Your dutiful son,
Edward
Anne Neville would be an exceptional bride if Gloucester wants her.
England’s Chronicle, 1472
Signs and Wonders.
Blazing comets, red with blood.
Are these ill omens? All our readers must be aware of the comet that has blazed its way across our heavens for the last two months. All must have stood and gazed in wonder, or fallen to their knees in fear. Is it a portent of grave evil?
We hear that there has been an outbreak of fever and the bloody flux.
There have been deaths too. The royal daughter, Margaret, so recently born, has swiftly gone to her grave. The Queen’s mother Jacquetta, dowager Countess Rivers, too has gone from this earthly torment.
Fortunately, the heir to the throne, Prince Edward, now approaching the second anniversary of his birth, is in rude health. If you have wondered why you have not seen him in London, riding through the streets in the arms of his Governor. If you have wondered why he should not be present with the royal household, quite simply it is because he has been sent to the great Yorkist base at Ludlow to his own household with Earl Rivers as Governor. Our King spent some of his childhood years in that castle and will have fond memories of the good hunting. The Prince will be raised there as a future King.
Many of you will enjoy this final piece of news.
