The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Yes, I will condemn him. He will be hanged, drawn and quartered, the punishment for any traitor to the King.’

  There it was. The cruel consequence. I found difficulty in drawing in a breath.

  ‘Are you so intransigent?’ I asked, knowing what Edward’s reply would be. And how could I blame him for it?

  ‘I have given him chance after chance, to work with me, to prove the loyalty inherent in the oath he took at my coronation. I rewarded him, ennobled him, enhanced his status. There is no gratitude in him. No sense of what he owes to me. He is the one who is beyond reason. He has proved himself to be a traitor, again and again. How often do you wish me to forgive him?’

  Edward, his face marked by lines of dissipation, his body thickening with decadent living, was immovable now that he had made his judgement.

  ‘Again and again, if it is necessary. Tell me why you cannot.’

  ‘Have you time for all the reasons? It will take a lifetime to list them.’

  ‘If you have the energy to kill your brother, then I have the energy to listen.’

  ‘Listen as you travel home and you will hear them dissected and discussed at every street corner. Or ask your servants. They will tell you. But this one will persuade you, if nothing else will.’

  I knew what he would say. The old rumours, of course.

  ‘The unsavoury details of Archer Blaybourne and my bastardy. Whether he believes it I know not, but it is a useful whip to use against me and my family. If I am a bastard, then he, my vicious brother, has every right to be King. If he is a true son of you and your husband.’

  How his cold words struck home.

  ‘Are you questioning my fidelity again?’ I forced myself to ask.

  ‘Would you tell me the truth?’

  I kept my eyes resting lightly on his. ‘I am not known for dishonesty.’

  Would he force me to declare my honour? But he did not, because he wished to spare me. Or because he could not accept my veracity. It was a harsh wounding, twisting the knife in my heart.

  ‘But you are known for your pride,’ he said, ‘which might colour your response. Wherever the truth lies, it is an unpardonable attack on me and mine. Do I forgive Clarence for that?’

  ‘I still think you would not want your brother dead.’

  ‘Yet I will do it.’

  He was, it seemed, beyond moving, but I could not merely step back and allow Clarence’s death. I would not be so weak. ‘Does the Queen persuade you?’

  For the first time, the slightest hesitation. ‘I am of the same mind as the Queen.’

  I watched him, wondering how far he would go to allow Woodville ambitions.

  ‘I think the Queen would rejoice to see the end of a royal brother who was once heir to the kingdom.’

  The hesitation was gone. ‘The royal brother who was involved in predicting the date of my death. Do you think he has no personal interest in it? What does Elizabeth think? you ask. She thinks he is too unpredictable, too driven with selfish desires. So do you, madam, if you will be honest, but after so long, I doubt if you will allow yourself to be in agreement with my wife. You have never liked her.’

  ‘Liked. So trivial a response. She is not important in this matter. Clarence is.’

  Edward was turning away, his mind closed.

  ‘You can do no more. I have listened, but even you, his mother, know that he is beyond my control.’

  He was gentler now, the decision made.

  ‘Send him into exile,’ I urged.

  ‘To return with a French army against me? No.’

  I could see the exasperation building at my persistence, but I could not let it go until every stone, every pebble of our family relationships had been turned and re-turned.

  ‘Would you not fight for the life of your own son?’ I asked.

  He walked away to where the dread document still lay. He would not answer.

  ‘I acknowledge that there is nothing I can do.’ I pursued him. Had I not known this even before I sought him out?

  ‘As I acknowledge your pride and your care for all of us,’ he said. ‘But you care for this realm too. You know what the end must be.’

  ‘Yes. Except I would petition you, Edward. To show mercy.’

  ‘There is no mercy.’

  I remembered falling to my knees before Warwick, in desperation that the battle at Barnet would never happen. Should I do the same now, before my son? I saw the hard-etched lines that bracketed his mouth. Kneeling would have as little impact here as it had on Warwick. Sometimes a woman’s powers were not enough.

  ‘And yet I would petition you,’ I said, with one thought.

  Irritation gave an edge to his voice. ‘Enough! Have I not already said—’

  ‘Not in granting him life. I see his death written in your face. Not that, but in the manner of his death. I would beg you, Edward. Would you condemn your brother to the punishment deemed suitable for a traitor? The public humiliation of hanging, drawing and quartering. Of beheading, his severed head exposed on London Bridge. It is not worthy of you.’

  ‘He would have rejoiced at my death.’

  ‘You are a more worthy man. I plead with you. Let him die in a more equable fashion. For the sake of the woman who bore you both, if not for his.’

  Silence filled the room as I waited. A shiver of a cold draught that flirted with the furred edge of my sleeves. The faint sound of some small bird singing lustily beyond the window. It would be so easy for Edward to comply, but I knew that he had every right to refuse.

  ‘You astonish me,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Even though he cast doubt on the sanctity of your marriage. Yet you would still beg for mercy.’

  ‘Even then. You are my dear son. I would not want this on your conscience. Nor on mine if I failed to at least entreat.’

  He picked up the document, reading it as if he did not already know its content.

  ‘You do not kneel.’ He threw down the sheet of attainder. ‘I heard that you knelt before Warwick to plead for my life.’

  ‘I did.’ And who had told him that? I wondered. ‘I hoped to impress him. I can no longer impress you. But I think that you are not without honour. History will not think well of you if you send your brother to the executioner’s blade.’

  His features relaxed infinitesimally. ‘I think history would not care greatly. But I see that you do. As King’s Mother, what is your advice to me, after so many pieces of advice?’

  ‘Use some other means.’

  He tilted his chin, thinking. ‘Very well. I will allow him to choose his own death, if that pleases you.’

  ‘It is as much as I can ask.’

  I curtsied low and deep. I had achieved all I could and must be grateful. I left the King putting his signature to the document that would bring his brother, my son, to his death.

  England’s Chronicle, January 1478

  As we predicted.

  A Bill of Attainder is passed, signed by King Edward’s own hand.

  The total destruction of the Duke of Clarence is complete.

  He is convicted of treason, and so is condemned to death.

  Many will say that the unfortunate Duke has paved his own path to this terrible outcome. Treachery had become a way of life for him.

  It is a moment of great sadness, and we will all mourn with Duchess Cecily, that the House of York has come to this terrible pass.

  Duchess Cecily visits the Duke of Clarence in the Tower of London, February 1478

  I was allowed to see him once more, in his confinement in the Tower. Around him was spread all the comfort that might be expected of a royal Prince: the tapestries, the cushioned chairs, the enamelled hanap and cups. He was well groomed, with servants to attend to his needs, his hair neatly trimmed around his ears. The velvet and satin doublet, patterned in black and green, glorious with its extravagant sleeves that draped to the floor as he sat, proclaimed his wealth and importance. Only his face told me of his unquiet m
ind. Still so young and defiant, but he was worn, weary.

  The door was locked behind me. Slowly he rose to his feet. He had been sitting immobile, looking out at freedom beyond the walls. The books he had been given were unopened. I could not even guess the measure of his thoughts. Was he repentant? Or merely intransigent?

  He bowed, through years of long practice. He might be full of hatred but still he showed me respect, while I struggled to quench the anger that rose like bile in my throat. I had done all I could, as had his sisters. Nothing had destroyed that worm of malice and deceit and raw ambition that thrived and grew within him.

  It was the defiance that spoke out.

  ‘I know what you have come to say, my Lady Mother. It makes no difference now. My brother will have my life. You should be grateful to him, for removing a burr that has long irritated your own flesh. Soon you will be able to forget the son who questioned the very foundations of your marriage.’

  His voice croaked through lack of use in recent hours. I spoke, moved by grief and imminent loss. There was no pity for him. Pity had expired long ago.

  ‘I did all I could to bring about your restitution. You were given every chance by the King. You repay me by resurrecting the dishonour of my infidelity. You attacked the justice dispensed by your brother. There is nothing I can say to commend you, except that you should make your peace with God. Any pity I felt for you has been destroyed by your wilfulness.’

  Clarence blinked. I had never spoken to him in such a manner, not even when I had brought him to heel at Baynard’s Castle.

  ‘All true,’ he said. ‘Why are you here at all?’

  He would have moved away, except that I stepped before him so that he must look at me, take note of my words.

  ‘I am here because I cannot let you go to your death without a final meeting. I gave you life. I will be here in the moments before your death.’

  ‘I do not want your sanctimonious maternal offerings. I do not want your prayers.’

  ‘You cannot prevent me from offering them. It is my duty. You are my son. You will always be my son, however much you wound me.’

  His mouth curved in a smile that was not pleasant.

  ‘And am I legitimate? Perhaps I am the only one of us all?’

  I felt like striking him. Even now, with death at his side, he would hold to the old well-used political lies.

  ‘You will believe as you wish.’

  He stepped away, picking up a book, immediately flinging it onto his bed. ‘He will not execute me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He has given me a choice in the manner of my death.’ His smile was a death’s grimace. ‘Is he not generous in his victory over me?’

  I would not ask what my son had chosen. Instead: ‘Why? Why could you not accept the power and status that he gave you?’

  ‘Because I think I have the right to be King.’

  ‘Edward is the legitimate King.’

  ‘How would you say other, without branding yourself as unchaste within your marriage to my glorified father? You will never brand him cuckold. You could think no wrong of him.’

  ‘Oh, but I did. Your father could be impetuous and misguided. He could make the wrong choices, and did so. I loved him no less.’

  ‘But you were unfaithful to him. What was it? A momentary whorish itch when he was away on campaign? Was there more than one archer? A servant? An ostler? Who’s to know the status of my father…’

  Rising within me like a spring tide, I felt the uncontrollable urge to strike him, flat-handed against his cheek. And yet I could not.

  ‘Be silent!’

  My voice, in my hurt, was as harsh as a magpie’s cry.

  ‘Your father would be ashamed to hear you speak in this manner. You will believe what you wish, but you will not so accuse me. Since there is no hope of the King’s leniency, all I ask is that you make confession and go to your end with a quiet heart.’

  ‘I cannot,’ Clarence hissed. ‘I will curse my brother with my final breath.’

  The terrible anger in his face defeated me.

  ‘Farewell, my son.’

  Suddenly he fell to his knees before me, lifting my hands to his brow, pressing them there against his disordered hair. I could feel him tremble, in spite of all his bold defiance. I recognised the fear that he had been determined to hide. I stooped and pressed my lips to his hair. Memories of him as the child I had loved softened my heart.

  Yet as I left him I realised that not once had I called him by his given name. I should have given him that final recognition.

  Recorded by the private hand of Cecily, King’s Mother

  On this eighteenth day of February of the year 1478, in the Tower of London, was done to death George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence.

  My son.

  For treason.

  He will be interred with his wife, Isabel Neville, in Tewkesbury Abbey. The funeral, the monument, and the chantry foundation at Tewkesbury Abbey, all in the generous hands of King Edward. I hope that it is a sign of his repentance. Or perhaps it is guilt. It is said that the King bewailed his brother’s death. I do not know the truth of it.

  May this be the end of the treason and turbulence that has so bedevilled my son’s reign.

  I must make my own amends in the manner in which I conduct my life, for my sins of omission and commission.

  There is no further role for me in this reign.

  My emotions are frozen, my grief a hard knot beneath my heart.

  I dedicate my life to God.

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

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  With many tears and lamentations.

  I failed. A final plea to the King was brushed aside and my son was put to death in the Tower of London. My only achievement? That Clarence could determine his own manner of death.

  It is a matter for drunken gossip, so I am told, in the inns and gutters of London. He was neither hanged nor beheaded. He was not drawn and quartered. His head was not placed on London Bridge. It is said that he was drowned in a butt of malmsey wine, through his own choice.

  Do I know the truth? I do not. Nor do I wish to discover.

  They say that Edward was reluctant, that he regretted signing the document. In the end it was the Speaker of the Commons who pushed for the death penalty to be applied, and he was a Woodville supporter. Edward did not resist. As ever, pragmatism overcame reluctance.

  Is there any compassion for my son Clarence at Court? I detect none. The Woodvilles were determined to see the end of him. My own son’s death is nought but a judicial murder organised by the family of the Queen, who pushed Edward to participate against his better judgement.

  Now it is done and I have an inconsolable loss. It is a pain beneath my heart, even though, for the sake of the realm, I acknowledge that there was really no choice. This does not take away the anguish for a mother to lose a son in such circumstances.

  I will retire to Berkhamsted, clad in black and heavy veils, and make my peace with God.

  Life weighs heavily on me at this time. My thoughts are full of those close to me who have died. I feel the presence of my own death. First I have some travelling to do and business to attend.

  Cecily

  Cecily, Dowager Duchess of York, for the attention of my Steward, Master Richard Lessy

  Written from Berkhamsted

  As a consequence of my recent journeying around my estates in East Anglia, I desire your attention to these issues.

  One of my tenants, a widowed lady near my castle at Clare, is receiving unwelcome marital advances and threats to her property from a man called Benet. He must be stopped.

  I am granted by my son the King six hundred acres of pasture, woodland, and meadows, including a watermill, all of which were once held by my lord the Duke of York. My authority must be imposed here. Appoint suitable Stewards.

  The shipping of my wool into Europe I have placed in the hands of Pietro de Fu
rno, a merchant from Genoa. An able man, but he should be watched. Make sure that he does not make his own fortune.

  There is a dispute over the land of my servant John Prince in Essex. He is harassed by men belonging to the household of my son the Duke of Gloucester. Send a man of merit to Gloucester’s London residence to discuss this matter. Keep me informed of the outcome.

  I look forward to your prompt and appropriate action.

  I know that you will uphold my authority in all things.

  Cecily, King’s Mother

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A Time of Terrible Loss

  Elizabeth, Queen of England, to Cecily, King’s Mother

  Written from the Palace of Westminster, April 1483

  Madam,

  I am concerned for the health of the King, your son. After a day spent fishing on the River Thames last week, he has fallen ill. He denies the severity of it, but I am uncertain. He cannot shake off the symptoms of nausea and aching limbs, despite the good offices of our household.

  Perhaps you would consider a visit to Westminster. Your presence would give him comfort. You were always close in spite of your disagreements.

  My invitation to you, unusual, I agree, will indicate the depth of my concerns,

  Elizabeth

  Cecily, King’s Mother, to Elizabeth, Queen of England

  Written from Berkhamsted

  Madam,

  This is probably little more than an ague, and not worthy of such anxiety. Can your household not bring him ease? He was always as strong as a draught-ox. Dose him on a decoction of powdered agrimony in warm wine. It guards against all manner of ailments, as well as the biting and stinging of serpents.

  I am not well enough to travel. My spirits are still low from the death of my sister Anne, Lady Mountjoy, such that I cannot contemplate Court extravagances and levity.

  Age afflicts us all.

  Furthermore I continue to be engaged in the foundation of the guild at St Mary’s Church in Luton, at the King’s behest. It demands much of my time.

  I hope to hear better news.

  I expect that my son will be hunting in Eltham Forest when this reaches you.