The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘No.’ He contemplated the enamelled cup, running his finger around the rim so that his rings glinted in the light, a little groove appearing between his brows. ‘Only if it becomes necessary.’

  I felt the colour flood my own cheeks at the callous implication. ‘You have a choice?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I do. It is not my wish to smear your good name. I believe that I can achieve what I most desire by using the existence of Ned’s pre-contract instead.’

  What I most desire. A phrase to answer all my questions about Gloucester’s aspirations.

  ‘Poor Eleanor Butler,’ was all I said. ‘A woman who is conveniently dead, so nothing can be proved. Did Edward lure her into his bed with a promise that he would wed her? We know he used the same empty words with other women, not least Elizabeth Woodville. Do you suppose that he ever intended to marry Elizabeth? Perhaps it was Jacquetta who spurred it on, and trapped him. Perhaps he planned to slide out of that responsibility, as he did with Mistress Butler.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He was still watching me, silent and careful, as a cat overlooking a mouse-hole, waiting for the mouse to emerge.

  ‘How fortunate for you, to discover so strong an argument for Edward’s illegal marriage. Should I be grateful that you will spare me? Of course you have no proof of my infidelities either. There has never been any proof. Nor will there ever be. Only your father and I will ever know the truth and, since he is dead, it is my word and your belief in it.’

  He bowed in acknowledgement.

  ‘For that reason I will not willingly impugn your dignity,’ he replied.

  How cool and calm. How superbly confident he was. Or if not, he was expert at cloaking his thoughts. For a moment he reminded me of his father; the naked ambition that flared like a beacon to warn of invading forces. I was forced to acknowledge that he would undermine Edward’s reputation; he would just as readily destroy mine.

  ‘Do you accept that Edward made that contract with the Butler girl?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But we have no proof of that.’

  ‘It was in his character to woo a woman to his bed with promises, as you have said. Edward’s indulgent immorality was a byword. Can you deny it? And who is to say that I do not hold the proof?’

  At which I stood. I could no longer sit, fear making me restless. ‘I don’t like it, Gloucester. It is a useful ploy but smacks of self-interest.’

  ‘Nor do I like it. I would rather I had your support than your condemnation.’

  ‘Then make a case for me to believe,’ I challenged him.

  ‘You have read the document. If Edward’s marriage was illegal, if there is even a pinch of doubt of it, then his children are illegitimate. Bishop Stillington will stand by his claim that he witnessed the alliance between my brother and Eleanor Butler. If that is so, the two Princes cannot make a claim on the royal inheritance. If it is true, then there is only one claimant to the throne.’

  ‘There is Clarence’s son.’

  ‘Was Clarence illegitimate, too, as well as being a traitor?’

  I had to breathe slowly, to swallow hard. It was as if I swam through a vat of honey, facing one accusation after another, delivered without mercy from my own blood.

  ‘Would you ask me that?’

  ‘Others will. But listen to my reasoning. Clarence’s birth aside, there are dangers to having a child King. If you would fight for the strength of the realm, as you have done all your life, you have to support me in this. I am the only legitimate blood of the House of York. I will rule well and restore the realm to stability. I have earned my reputation in Scotland and the north. I have a son to follow me. My right cannot be questioned.’

  ‘Yet many will.’

  He turned away, for the first time a disquiet in him.

  ‘Do you truly seek a restoration of the Woodvilles, madam?’ he asked, studying the holy icon with its gilded Madonna and child, as if she would give him a response. ‘You know what will happen. Once declared to be of age to assume the power for himself, the young King will recall his mother and brothers and cousins to his side. They will dominate all gifts of land and power, as they did in my brother’s reign. Do you approve of that?’

  I looked away when he swung round, his robes swirling in heavy folds of expensive cloth, releasing a faint aroma of orris root. His arguments had an undeniable strength, more discernible than the perfume of violets.

  ‘Do you support me, my Lady Mother?’ Gloucester continued when I remained taken up with my thoughts. ‘Or will you work against me? I know the power of your connections. And your persuasion.’

  ‘I have grown too old to be persuasive.’ My response was flat and dry, a statement of unacceptable fact.

  ‘Do you need my flattery? You have been involved in the cut and thrust of politics for your whole life. It will not stop now.’

  I felt a ripple of what could only have been panic. ‘It is too much to decide. You must await my reply on this.’

  ‘I will wait. But not for long. Will you denounce me as a liar, or stand beside me? Are you my enemy or my friend?’

  ‘I am your mother, Diccon. Your mother.’

  For a moment, at my use of his childhood name, his features softened into a vestige of a smile.

  ‘And I revere you for it. You were always my rock, the one solid foundation of my life. I recall so little of my father, only brief memories and the tales you told of his bravery in battle, his fight to remove those who sought their own power in England. You told me of his careful strategy to seize power for himself. You told me of his death on the battlefield at Wakefield, a martyr dying for the Yorkist cause. Now I know the truth. I will be wiser, more careful in my planning. I will not make the same mistake that he did, of underestimating those who call themselves my friends.’

  The smile had faded.

  ‘I remember your telling me how much I resembled my father, that I bore his name and his features, but, as the youngest son, I would not inherit his land or his titles. Today I will put my own seal on this kingdom. I am the last of his direct male blood of the House of York. And you, my Lady Mother, should be proud of me.’

  I handed him the anonymous letter, which he barely read. With distaste, striding across the room, he cast it into the fire.

  ‘It is true, isn’t it?’ I suggested. ‘I no longer have the power to influence you, do I?’

  ‘No, my Lady Mother. You do not.’

  ‘Does it matter what I think?’

  ‘Yes.’ His mouth twisted in what was not a smile. ‘Yes, I think that it does.’

  Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary

  Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.

  Never have I been faced with such a conflict of conscience.

  My son demands too much of me. My honour is once more undermined. My lord Richard’s reputation resurrected for common folk to grin over as a cuckold. Edward’s reputation further stained with his promises to Eleanor Butler, if there is truth in it. In any of it.

  Do I acknowledge Gloucester’s claim?

  My sister spoke the truth.

  Only you know the truth of his claim. Only you know your honesty and chastity within your marriage. Only you know where your loyalty in the future might lie.

  Blessed Virgin. Sons are not easy creatures to deal with. I must make my decision and live with the consequences.

  Duchess Cecily makes her decision in Baynard’s Castle, June 1483

  We met before Mass as arranged and walked together into the chapel where we knelt, side by side. I was aware of him, his every movement as he sank to his knees, head bent.

  Concentration on the religious office for once was beyond me. My thoughts, regardless of the priest’s guidance, ran along one difficult stream with its endless possibilities. The turbulence of more warfare, engendered by a child with the reins in his insecure and inexperienced hand. The Woodvilles returning to power in the King’s counsels.

  Or
a series of placid eddies with Gloucester as the new King, already wed with an heir. A new reign with a proven man at the helm. Proven in battle and in government.

  Would I risk an illegitimate claim through my grandson, if Eleanor Butler had indeed given her promise, or would I support the true York blood of my son?

  Who was I, in this fateful decision-making?

  Dowager Duchess, wife of Richard, Duke of York. Cecily Neville with royal blood in her veins. Once King’s Mother and might be so again. Keeper of the flame for the House of York. Holder of bright memories. There were so few left to do so now.

  And whatever I might decide, would it have any bearing at all on the mind of the man at my side as we participated in the High Mass?

  Afterwards, alone in the holy atmosphere of incense and gilded saints, ‘I promised you an answer, Gloucester. You were gracious enough to say that it mattered to you, even if you will reject what I have to say.’

  He waited, chin lifted a little.

  ‘I will support you,’ I said. ‘I will not work against you.’

  I thought he might have sighed softly, but the candle-flame at my shoulder burned steadily, untroubled by any movement of air.

  ‘You will give me your blessing?’ he asked.

  ‘I will. I promise. A sacred oath, if you wish.’

  Upon which he raised my hand and kissed it.

  ‘I will support you in your claim that the Woodville marriage was false and so the young King illegitimate,’ I continued. ‘At the same time I hold you to your promise of filial reverence. That you do not hold up my name for public ignominy.’

  ‘I will be silent.’

  ‘Then I can accept that you will take the throne as King Richard. It is what your father would have wanted.’

  With a sweep of his palm, he doused the candle, but still I saw the crease in his brow.

  ‘Was Edward a bastard? And Clarence?’ he asked.

  It was the last thing that I had expected, that he would question me so directly.

  ‘You will never know.’

  ‘It is between you and God.’

  ‘And I will not make confession to you.’

  He bowed in acknowledgement, making the shadows shimmer. ‘Age has not weakened your mind or your heart.’

  No, it had not. I might have sixty-eight years to my name but I was as clear-thinking as I had ever been.

  ‘Will you have Rivers executed?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I doubt he will be the last.’

  ‘No. There will be those who oppose me, who must be silenced.’

  He turned to lead me to the door, collecting hat and gloves from where he had left them.

  ‘What of the boys?’ I asked. ‘The Princes? And Clarence’s son?’

  His hand closed warmly around my fingers. ‘They will be raised gently, as sons of my brothers. The illegality of their parents’ marriage is not their fault. Is that acceptable to you?’

  ‘And Elizabeth?’

  ‘Woodville powers are at an end, but she will not be harmed. She may remain in sanctuary if she so wishes. Do you not trust me?’

  ‘I must. I’ll hold you to your promises. But don’t break your word to me.’ I gripped his hand hard. There was no smile now, no persuasion, only the implacable will that had been mine all the years of my life. ‘But I warn you, my son. If you do, if you impugn my honour again, I will complain loud and long before anyone who will hear me, of the injury you have done to me.’

  ‘I have no doubt that you will.’ We were outside in the warmth of the day captured within the high walls of my home, the sun on my shoulders a blessing. ‘Meanwhile we will work together to bring my father’s dreams to fulfilment. I will take on the inheritance of the House of York. I will be crowned and Anne will be crowned as my Queen. You should rejoice. At last the union of Plantagenet and Neville, as you and my father should have been King and Queen.’

  It was difficult, but perhaps I should rejoice.

  You might regret clashing with my son, I had warned Elizabeth Woodville. Now the threat of his power was levelled at me. There were so many reasons why I must not oppose him. If I did, what would I achieve other than my own unhappiness?

  ‘Will you, as the new King, take some advice from an experienced woman?’ I asked, exhibiting none of my inner turmoil.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Send north to the centre of your power, to York and to your Neville family at Raby, to bring troops to aid and assist against Elizabeth Woodville, who will assuredly plot to murder you and your cousin Buckingham.’

  ‘The extent of your knowledge never fails to amaze me. Excellent advice.’

  He kissed my cheek. I saluted his.

  The kiss of Judas. The kiss of betrayal. The kiss of hope for the future. The House of York would remain and prosper.

  England’s Chronicle, the twenty-fifth day of June 1483

  We hear that on this day the Duke of Buckingham has been seen to visit his cousin of Gloucester at Baynard’s Castle. He has asked him to take the crown and rule England as King.

  It does not take any intelligence to assume Gloucester’s acceptance. We expect a joint crowning since his wife, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, is also resident in London. The two illegitimate Princes keep no state, but live most comfortably in the Tower of London under the care of their own household, appointed by their concerned uncle of Gloucester.

  Sir Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, is dead. Executed for treason in the company of his nephew, Sir Richard Grey.

  The Woodville rule is over.

  The Plantagenets are returned.

  The House of York is in the ascendant.

  The Duchess, as custom dictates, will not be present at Gloucester’s coronation. Despite her age, she remains in active and fervent support of her only surviving son, travelling frequently in her barge along the Thames between Baynard’s Castle and the Palace of Westminster. Head held high, back straight, she must reminisce on the events that have fashioned the direction of her life.

  It is thought that she will retire to Berkhamsted again, now that Gloucester’s position is secure, but whether she will remain there, we would think not. The lure of government is too heady for a woman raised from the cradle surrounded by power and intrigue. We would miss her imposing figure and dark veils, her imperious nose, the priceless reliquary gleaming with religious power on her breast.

  We wish her well and a long life.

  The Duchess is a woman of much honour, we suggest, in spite of circulating stories to the contrary. To which no one gives any credence whatsoever.

  From Cecily, Dowager Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

  Written from Baynard’s Castle

  My well-beloved sister,

  I have spoken with Gloucester, with all the authority that a mother can command. I fear that it is too little now, but I will hold him to his word, accepting that the stability of the realm desires a man full grown, not a child. I have to trust that Gloucester will rule fairly and justly. This is cruel pragmatism, a necessary gift to all who will dabble in power and politics.

  Gloucester will make use of the Eleanor Butler scandal if he must, but will leave my honour intact. I do not know whether he believes in my supposed infidelity. All I know is that it is a keen political weapon to use against the Woodvilles if all else fails. The vicious scandal, stirred up by my own family in their battle for power, will hang over me until the day of my death.

  Gloucester has shown his gratitude. He has promised that next year my manors and lands of Berkhamsted will be confirmed in my name. He also gave me a basket of strawberries. Is my alliance so easily bought? I could not eat them.

  For the sake of the kingdom I have accepted my own adultery and the bigamous marriage of my son. Can a mother do more? I think not. I will find it difficult to write to Elizabeth, to commiserate with her that her son will never rule. I do not have the fortitude to visit her.

  It is my plan to return to Berk
hamsted, weep my tears, and live a life of righteousness and dedication. My loyalty now, and in the future, will lie with my son Richard, King Richard the Third.

  Your infinitely weary sister, yet still clinging to hope for the House of York. How can I turn my back on all we have striven for?

  Cecily, King’s Mother

  Why Write about Cecily Neville?

  Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, is one of the most appealing women of English medieval history. How could I not choose to write about her, despite the obvious challenge? The Wars of the Roses are both vast in scope and complex in the range of family connections. It was a challenge that enticed me.

  Cecily, mother of two kings, lived to the great age of eighty years, through five reigns, interacting with such a dramatis personae of famous, infamous, and influential characters. Where to start and where to finish?

  Some hard decisions had to be made, based on Cecily’s direct involvement in the events and their consequences. Thus The Queen’s Rival begins in 1459 in Ludlow, with Cecily facing a Lancastrian army, and ends with the coronation of King Richard III. After that her role became more onlooker than participant. It was quite deliberate to omit the Princes in the Tower and the death of Richard III at Bosworth. Cecily’s acceptance of Richard’s claim to the throne provided a natural ending.

  There are some characters who, although essential to the outcome of the Wars of the Roses, had little direct impact on Cecily’s life during these years. My apologies to all who would have liked more than a mention for Margaret Beaufort and Henry Tudor; I was not unaware of them, but these people are for another time and place. In The Queen’s Rival, they are dispatched to the periphery.

  I acknowledge that the name Wars of the Roses was not contemporary with the events, nor were the emblems of white and red roses widely used. They are, however, evocative names and symbols and I make no apology in using them.

  Cecily, Duchess of York, was the doyenne of late medieval history. What a marvellous life she led through the whole span of the fifteenth century, the Queen who was never crowned. Cecily is not one of the ‘forgotten women of medieval history’, but she insisted that I write about her. And rightly so.