Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  With a sinking heart, Cecily saw that the gates to the inner bailey from the town had been flung wide and men were pouring in, intent on plunder. Horses were running wildly to and fro as stable doors were wrenched open by the looting soldiers and firebrands thrown in. The few grooms left were pulled out of their hiding places or those who ran from the flames were caught, and all were stabbed to death in cold blood. Bile rose in her throat, and Cecily wanted to turn and run, but she kept on walking, telling her sons to stare at their feet and never look up. She could hear a couple of the women behind her whimpering and another babbling prayers.

  Suddenly a terrible cry reached them from the inner bailey behind the portcullis. Cecily flinched. It was a woman’s scream. Who was left? she thought, knowing that she had ordered all the women to follow her. And then she remembered.

  “Constance!” She uttered the name as though she had been stabbed. “Oh, no, sweet Virgin, not Constance.” The urge to turn back and run to her attendant’s aid was overwhelming, but she had to think of her charges—her sons, her daughter, and the other women counting on her. Perhaps it is not she. Perhaps Piers found her in time. But a cold sweat ran down her back as another scream rent the air followed by ribald laughter. Nay, this time she knew she was right. The damnable cowards were violating Constance, her dearest friend, her companion who had asked for nothing but to serve her mistress and her God faithfully, and there was nothing Cecily could do about it. Please, God, let her die quickly was her only prayer, but another shriek of terror rose from the victim, making Meg put her hands over her ears. Then Cecily froze when she heard the last desperate plea, before Constance’s voice was finally silenced: “Mon Dieu, mon dieu, aidez moi. Jésu, Jé—” In her mind Cecily was suddenly back at the marketplace in Rouen, hearing another such cry to her Savior.

  A soldier spat on George. “York’s whelp,” he sneered. But he did not lay a hand on him. George stared straight ahead and slowly wiped the spittle from his cheek, earning a “Good boy” from his mother. “You are York’s son. Be proud of it.”

  She was aware now that Dickon was crying hard, and she squeezed his hand. “Walk on, my sons,” she said hoarsely, forcing tears back. Her thoughts were all of Constance. Dear Constance, she grieved. She died giving succor to the wounded. May you wing swiftly to Heaven, ma fidèle amie, for you were a saint upon this earth. She called on her heavenly mentor then. Have you forsaken me, Holy Mother? Could you not have protected poor Constance? And Richard, where are you when we need you most?

  They were halfway across the wide castle green when Cecily became aware that her daring plan was working, for the soldiers were stopping their pillage to stare at her. She could smell smoke and see flames from at least one house down the hill, and she murmured a prayer for the victims. At once all around her went quiet, and the soldiers fell back to let her pass as she approached the broken main gate. She had hoped to meet one of the king’s commanders before now and surrender herself and her women to the king, but the foot soldiers appeared to have no leaders. Yet, now that she had begun this march, she could not turn back.

  The men were shoving each other to gawp at the regal woman processing through their midst as if on her way to a coronation and seemingly oblivious of the carnage or the danger around her while clasping the hands of two little boys, one bravely staring at the ground and the other sobbing.

  “It be York’s duchess,” one filthy soldier told a fellow billman. “It be proud Cis, I’ll be bound. By all that is holy, she’s got pluck.” Pluck? Cecily thought, amazed. How can they not see my fear, my faltering steps, the cold sweat running down my back. But the word gave her strength and she walked on.

  Others roughly elbowed their way to the front of the mob to get a view of the imposing woman robed in blue velvet, her hennin towering above her. Mostly there was silence, but Cecily did hear one low whistle of admiration and another disgusting sucking sound that chilled her. It was then that she had a curious sensation that she was not alone, that someone else was walking a step ahead of her and parting the menacing soldiers. She blinked twice as her gaze fell on a glowing figure carrying a cross. The brilliant white light upon the vision flooded Cecily, too, making her gasp.

  “Jeanne?” she whispered, putting her hand out to touch the light. “Jeanne d’Arc?”

  George glanced up at his mother anxiously. “What did you say, Mother?”

  As soon as Cecily looked down at her boy’s handsome face, the vision vanished, but her courage had returned. With certainty she believed that the Virgin had sent Jeanne to guide her steps. Her head high, she put one foot in front of the other and kept walking out into the marketplace praying someone in authority would arrive. There was such an unearthly aura about the duchess now that none dared touch her. She felt invincible, as though she had heavenly protection, and the trembling left her legs.

  She bent to whisper to Dickon, “You are a brave boy.” He looked up at her with Richard’s eyes and managed a wobbly smile.

  With her thoughts still focused on Jeanne d’Arc, Cecily could now understand the Maid’s terror on her walk to death. How long could she fend off these bloodthirsty men? she thought, her fear mounting. She had no idea where she was going. And then she saw the market cross and believed Jeanne had led her footsteps there. She prayed that being in its shadow would protect her.

  Now that their initial awe had dissipated, the crowd of armed and bloodied soldiers began taunting the women and closing in on Cecily, who was mounting the steps to the base of the cross. Her ladies and Meg filled the area behind her, facing the crowd. Emulating Cecily’s proud carriage, they defied anyone to come near them. It seems they have complete faith in my ability to protect them, Cecily realized with trepidation. But what do I do now? she asked herself, her knees finally beginning to give out. If these ruffians decide to charge us, they will show no mercy. She stared haughtily at the band of filthy men encircling her and noted they were all wearing the swan badge of Prince Edouard. So ’tis the queen who has allowed her men to plunder Ludlow so savagely, she thought angrily. How cruel an enemy she is, but even worse, she has no compassion for her subjects.

  The crowd began to shift to allow approaching horsemen to ride into the marketplace, and it was then Cecily saw King Henry. He sat astride a caparisoned destrier far more warlike than its rider, who was not even in armor but was wearing his crown. Perhaps he has been told that his queen had allowed her soldiers to pillage the town, Cecily surmised quickly, and perhaps the peace-loving king had come to try and stop it. He did not approve of punishing his own subjects in this way, Richard had told Cecily, and it was partly because of this knowledge that Richard and his council had thought it might be safer that she stay and submit to the king rather than attempt to flee across the country to Fotheringhay alone with three young children. She hoped he had been right for the sake of those with her and the innocent townsfolk, condemned for living on Yorkist lands.

  Reining in his mount, Henry gazed in horror at the scene of devastation in the marketplace. And then he saw Cecily. Holding up his hand for the crowd to stop their whistles and catcalls, he approached the stone cross and looked down at the duchess of York, beautiful still and richly garbed, standing like some ancient goddess courageously facing a hundred armed men as she clutched the hands of her two youngest sons. He bowed in his saddle and put his hand over his heart.

  “Duchess Cecily, we greet you well. This meeting is indeed unexpected and most distressing to me. Why are you alone? Have you been hurt?” he asked with concern.

  Cecily descended the few steps to the cobblestones and fell to her knees before him. Dickon, not wishing to be parted from his mother for a second, followed her, and George knelt where he stood.

  “Your grace, your most noble majesty, I am at your mercy. I am indeed alone, as you can see. My lord of York is gone,” Cecily told Henry, her voice faltering, “and thus there is no need for fighting.” She felt disloyal in implying that her husband had deserted her, but to protect her fami
ly and her women she had no choice. “There are naught but my children and my attendants left here. And one has been cruelly abused and I fear slain by your soldiers. I beg you to spare the rest of us and spare the good people of Ludlow.” She raised her luminous eyes to his and found herself shivering. She had no idea how long her walk from the great hall to this place had taken, but it had seemed to her that it might have taken her whole life. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and the wetness on her upturned face, whether rain or tears, moved Henry greatly.

  “Rise, duchess. You have nothing to fear from me. I give you my word. I will have you escorted to my pavilion together with your children and your attendants.”

  He signaled to Humphrey Stafford, duke of Buckingham, to come forward and make the arrangements for Cecily’s transport to the royal tent. And then, as if he thought he had done enough, he turned and with his bodyguard trotted back down Broad Street and over Ludford Bridge.

  Buckingham dismounted, put Cecily on his own horse, and prepared to lead the party out over Ludford Bridge. No one had given the order to stop the pillaging, and those soldiers left behind in the town took advantage of the inattention to enjoy themselves further at the expense of the people of Ludlow. Houses were looted and then burned and townsfolk raped, killed, or maimed simply for being York’s vassals.

  As they reached the fine stone bridge over the Teme amid fearful screams, a frantic shout halted Buckingham’s group, and Cecily turned back abruptly when she recognized Piers Taggett’s voice.

  “I tried to stop them, your grace!” he cried, rounding the corner of a lane and attempting to reach his mistress. Frowning, Cecily noticed something was badly wrong with him, and then with a groan of horror she saw that his arm was missing and blood was pouring from his shoulder onto the wet, uneven street. “I swear I tried to stop them,” he shouted, clutching the ghastly wound, “but the doctor was the only woman left in the castle when the soldiers broke in. God help me!” He lurched forward then as a well-aimed arrow found its mark in his back behind his heart.

  “Piers!” Cecily cried, George’s screams ringing in her ears. She leaned down to Buckingham. “My lord! Humphrey! Brother-in-law! I beg of you let me go to the man. He is my loyal servant.”

  Without hesitation Buckingham swung her off the horse and carried her to the dying Piers. She cradled his head in her lap, wrapping her cloak around his shivering body and hiding the hideous stub of flesh and bone that had been his right arm. He would never again ride to the hunt, never hold his beloved falcons, never more be by her side to protect her.

  “Dear Piers, do not leave me now,” she sobbed, allowing the grief of the past night and morning to engulf her. “I need you. My children need your protection. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on this brave man. He has served me so well.” Her tears wet his face as he gazed up at his mistress for the last time. Darkness was closing in on him, but he managed a few final words, wrenching Cecily’s heart. “Do not forget your Piers, duchess . . . he loved you well . . . by Jesus, but I am tired.” He closed his eyes gratefully, his head rolled to one side, and dark blood trickled from his mouth on his last sighing breath, staining her azure gown.

  Buckingham knelt down, gently moved the big falconer, and motioned to his captain to have his men put the body over one of the horses. Cecily sat slumped on the ground, staring at her empty lap. Her eye fell on her ruby ring and a sob caught in her throat; it was the ring that had brought Piers into her life.

  “Come, Cecily,” Humphrey of Buckingham murmured kindly to his wife’s youngest sister. “There is naught you can do for him now. We shall bury him later and I will send my confessor to say a prayer with you at his grave.” He led her back to his horse and again lifted her onto the saddle. She was as one dead, he thought sadly. So brave and strong in the marketplace, but now it seemed the life had drained from her. He wondered, as he moved the little procession forward, what would become of her now. “No woman of her noble blood,” he muttered to his captain, “should have to suffer such an ordeal. Let us hope this is the end of it.” And he silently railed against Richard, duke of York, for abandoning his wife to such cruel scenes of war.

  BUCKINGHAM WAS WRONG. Cecily’s ordeal that day was not over.

  Making their way slowly through the ranks of soldiers now lounging around campfires awaiting orders to disperse or march back to Coventry, Buckingham’s charges eyed the king’s army with a mixture of suspicion and relief. Cecily’s three children, mounted pillion, followed behind the leaders with glum faces, while the stunned attendants stumbled behind the horses with an escort of six guards on either side of them. At the back of the army and set on a knoll was the king’s blue and white striped pavilion, royal lions flying. Several men were ranged around the opening, and Cecily recognized two of her husband’s friends, Lord Powis and Sir Walter Devereaux, who were both fettered. She presumed they were taking advantage of the king’s offer of a pardon on this eve of St. Edward’s Day, and she gave them a curt nod.

  “The king would see you immediately, your grace,” Viscount Beaumont, Henry’s chamberlain, told Cecily after Buckingham had helped her to the ground. He bowed low. “If you will follow me.”

  “And my children?” Cecily asked, watching her offspring slide down into the waiting arms of their riders and making sure they were all safe. “May they accompany me, sir?” She held out her arms and Dickon and George ran to her, followed by tall, solemn Meg, who was doing her best to be stoic.

  “I think not at this time, duchess,” the chamberlain responded. “The king would give you a private audience. I shall see to it that your children are given some refreshment, and a tent has been assigned to you. They and your attendants may await you there.”

  Cecily embraced her children and reassured them that she would be with them soon, admonishing the boys to listen to Meg. She watched them move off, then followed her escort into the spacious tent, the back of which was rolled up to let in air and light. It seemed to Cecily that the king had all the accoutrements of a comfortable residence here on the battlefield, including a canopied bed and a small throne. Cecily got down on her knees when Henry entered and took his seat on the throne, and she fixed her gaze firmly on the grassy floor.

  “I trust you were treated with dignity, duchess,” Henry greeted her.

  “Aye, your most gracious highness, and I must thank you for your mercy to me and my children.”

  “You are fortunate, are you not, madame, to have so magnanimous a sovereign?” Margaret of Anjou’s voice shocked Cecily into looking up. Had she been there all along? she wondered, her heart pounding. She had not expected to see Margaret here, on the battlefield. Certes! ’Tis why those men with the swan livery were rampaging through Ludlow. They were Prince Edouard’s troops, albeit under his mother’s command. The queen continued to threaten: “A lesser lord might have been delighted to execute you like the traitor you are!” she spat. “Or thrown you into a dungeon with your brood.”

  Henry raised his hand. “Soft, my dear lady. We have no quarrel with Duchess Cecily. She is our loyal friend, are you not?”

  Cecily was gathering her wits and could only bow her head in a sign of assent. But then she lifted it to gaze directly at Margaret. Cecily’s look spoke plainly: I may be your captive, madam, but you have no hold on my spirit despite your threats. And for the first time in their acquaintance, even after all the years of conflict between the queen and Richard, Cecily felt real hatred. She saw it in Margaret’s eyes, and she made certain she reflected it back tenfold from her own.

  Then the duchess turned to the king. “I submit myself to you, your grace, and to you alone. I beg your indulgence for my attendants, who have served me well. I have nowhere to go save at your highness’s pleasure.”

  Henry cleared his throat as his eyes shifted from Margaret to Cecily. Cecily pitied him for a second, but then found herself impatient with his weakness, boasting to herself that Richard would have known immediately how to act. Her expression, thankfully, did
not reflect her scorn.

  The few councillors grouped in one corner of the tent watched the scene intently. Henry now looked to them for help, but before Viscount Beaumont could step forward, the queen bent and whispered to her husband. Cecily, still kneeling, could not hear, but she did not like the sneer on Margaret’s face. Cecily could feel the dampness in the ground seeping into her knees through her azure gown.

  The king’s face was now wreathed in smiles. “An excellent idea, my lady,” he said to his wife, who smiled sweetly down at Cecily. “Her grace believes you will be well looked after in the bosom of your family, if his grace of Buckingham would find a place in his household for you and your children. Your sister Anne is one of the queen’s favored ladies-in-waiting and our dear son’s godmother, as you must know.” He called to his chamberlain. “Sir Richard, I beg of you, send my lord Buckingham to us.”

  Cecily knew with a sinking heart that the duke of Buckingham would not refuse his king this order, and she understood perfectly well how Margaret of Anjou had triumphed, even if Henry remained oblivious. To be in Anne’s custody would be uncomfortable for Cecily, as the queen would know, being well acquainted with the sisters’ mutual animosity, and Anne, in her turn, would be delighted to assert her authority over her youngest sister. But Cecily did not dare demur.

  “And now, your grace, is there anything else I may do for you?” Henry was asking her, wanting to end this uncomfortable audience. Cecily blinked at him, but his words then suddenly conjured up a memory of a scene in Bouvreuil when the boy king had spoken to her, and she wondered if he would recall it now.