‘I am loyal to the king and wish to display my loyalty.’
‘My lord is also loyal but the king should not be surprised if one of his loyal subjects sometimes wishes to wear his own “bauble” as you call it.’
‘No,’ said Humphrey, his voice thin and flat. ‘The king will not be surprised.’
Troubled by this conversation, I reported its content to Richard as we lay beneath the covers that night, thinking that he would share my concern, but he gave a crow of delight.
‘Humphrey is jealous. He wishes he had thought of it himself but now he is bound to wear the SS collar forever, like a fawning hound. There will be no renown for the House of Buckingham. It is a house of followers, not leaders.’
The wearing of the Rose had also caused my sister Anne to whisper a warning to me during the evening’s entertainment. ‘You must be careful, Cicely. You and Richard have been away from England for a long time and the king is impressionable. He will be told of this new collar and there is an affinity at court which will lead him to conclude from it that York is a threat to his throne.’
I had thought to repeat her words to Richard too but now decided against it. It was his birthday. He was entitled to celebrate his achievements and revel in the stir he had created with his precious collar. So I leaned over and ran my hand down his chest, threading my fingers through the familiar growth of dark hair and feeling his stomach clench as I reached his navel. ‘It is a beautiful White Rose, my lordly love, fit for a magnificent prince.’
Richard smiled and rolled over to take me in his arms. ‘You cannot deceive me, Cicely,’ he said running his own hand over my slightly rounded belly. ‘I suspect you are already carrying our child again but let us pretend you are not. It is these children we make that will blaze the honour of the White Rose into history.’
Elizabeth of York was born the following April but during my pregnancy Richard had watched with deep concern as major moves were made from London towards a truce with France, to be fortified by a marriage between King Henry and the Duke of Anjou’s daughter Margaret. The Earl of Suffolk and his wife led an English mission to the proposed bride’s home in Nancy but it was noticeable that they made no courtesy visit to Rouen on the way. Negotiations were protracted and even after Suffolk had stood in for Henry at a proxy marriage, King Charles of France insisted that the young bride come to Paris for a series of celebrations and processions to demonstrate the strength of French support for her. He also took the opportunity to instigate further negotiations before the truce was finally concluded.
‘No one in England has had sight of this treaty yet,’ Richard fretted as he waited for a summons to Paris to collect the new queen and bring her to Rouen. ‘Only Suffolk knows what it contains, just as only he and his entourage have laid eyes on young Margaret of Anjou. She may be hare-lipped or lame-brained for all we know.’
‘Gossip among the ladies of my salon would indicate the opposite,’ I countered, taking advantage of his private visit to my chamber to kick off my shoes and raise my swollen ankles onto a cushioned stool. I was only weeks away from my lying-in. ‘They say she is uncommonly beautiful and descended from a line of strong-minded women.’
‘Strong-minded?’ Richard echoed. ‘The opposite of Henry then; how will he cope?’
I laughed. ‘As most men do I imagine – by getting her with child and then ignoring her.’
He glared at me from under knitted brows. ‘It is not something to jest about, Cicely. This Frenchwoman is now our queen. You will have to dance attendance on her.’
I returned his glare with a submissive smile. ‘I know, my lord. I pride myself on being able to do that with grace and patience. I get plenty of practice.’
From the change in his expression Richard was uncertain how to take the last remark but, predictably, he chose to ignore it. He brooded instead on the treaty, wondering out loud, ‘What exactly has Suffolk promised in order to obtain this marriage?’
We were not to get a full answer to this question for several years. In mid-March Richard set off for Paris, no doubt much changed since his last visit which had been for King Henry’s French coronation, at a time when it was still under our control. Expecting to participate in one of the impressive processions that had been arranged for Queen Margaret’s farewell, he took an escort of six hundred archers in English royal livery, only to disover on arrival that these were over. King Charles had left Paris for his favourite residence at Chinon, a departure which Richard construed as a snub to his office as King Henry’s Lieutenant in France. Instead he was joined by the Duke of Orleans to escort the young queen to Poissy, an abbey town to the west of Paris where a flotilla of barges, freshly painted, was assembled to convey her and her entourage down the Seine to Rouen.
Margaret of Anjou was, as rumour had suggested, very beautiful. Not blonde and pearly complexioned, which the English considered the essence of feminine loveliness, but dark-haired and olive-skinned like her redoubtable Spanish grandmother, Yolande of Aragon. She was also well-mannered and mature beyond the sum of her years. I was charmed on first acquaintance when she caught my hand as I began to sink into my courtesy.
‘Non, non, Madame la Duchesse,’ she began solicitously, then attempting her rudimentary English. ‘Do not incline yourself. You are enceinte. You must sit.’
In deference to my advanced pregnancy, we had met in the middle of the Hall of the Estates and not at the foot of the exterior stairway, as was customary, and she broke away from her entourage to take my arm as if I was a delicate pottery figurine and escort me up the steps of the dais, chattering away in French as she did so.
‘Vous devez rester, Madame de York. Vraiment je crois que c’est présque le jour de vôtre accouchement. C’est aimable de tous, vous me bien acquéillir à Rouen.’
I nodded and smiled at her, thinking that I must ensure my own children were taught such kindness and consideration. Within moments we were seated together at the high table and involved in a conversation about her journey, how well she had been looked after by the Earl and Countess of Suffolk and how much she was looking forward to reaching England, but not to crossing the Channel.
‘J’ai peur du mal de mer,’ she confided, making a little French mou with her lips, which I found quite endearing, ‘mais il faut passer sur La Manche n’est-ce pas, si je veux me rencontrer mon marié?’
I was about to reply that it was indeed necessary for her to cross the Channel if she wished to meet her bridegroom when a good-looking, bearded man of middle age stepped between us, bowing punctiliously to the queen. ‘Forgive me, your grace; I am happy to see that you are making the acquaintance of her grace of York. Have I your permission to let the trumpets sound for the start of the banquet?’ He tugged a little nervously at his beard and lowered his voice to murmur, daringly close to the queen’s ear I thought, ‘And the stewards have arranged the order of seating with your grace in the centre of the table, rather than here at the end. May we assume your graces will move into the assigned places, where your canopies have been erected?’
I frowned, piqued that the Lord Suffolk appeared to have usurped the function of our own steward but unprepared for Queen Margaret’s unyielding reaction to his intervention. She apparently had no difficulty understanding his English and frowned fiercely. ‘But no, my lord of Suffolk, the duchesse does not wish to move now that she is er – confortable. Les baldaquins doivent être ajustés.’
My lips twitched as I watched Suffolk’s obsequious submission to this order but I also made a mental note that not far beneath the surface charm of my young companion there lurked a very strong will. Later, when the dancing started, I also noticed that Richard, who had been prejudiced against Queen Margaret before he met her, was now more than willing to lead her out in a quadrille.
His attitude to the Lord Suffolk had not changed, however, and their body language was unmistakably hostile whenever they met. Since we kept separate bedchambers while I was so big with child, I was surprised to receive a v
isit from him soon after I had retired.
‘Suffolk is up to his tricks,’ he said, seating himself on a stool beside my bed. ‘The sly fox thought to cause us embarrassment by not telling us that it is Queen Margaret’s birthday the day after tomorrow. That is when she turns fourteen.’
I shifted on my mattress, trying to find a comfortable position. ‘She is remarkably mature for that age,’ I remarked. ‘More like sixteen than fourteen.’
‘She is still quite small, though. I think it may be a year or two before she conceives, always supposing Henry is capable of procreation.’
I was shocked at the casual way he said this. ‘Why should he not be? He is twenty-two.’
Richard shrugged. ‘Never reveal that I said this but I have always wondered if he is attracted to women. Oh, I do not mean he is inclined to sodomy. His steadfast faith would not allow him to commit such a carnal sin but he is simply …’ he paused, seeking the right word. ‘… disinterested. I think he finds the whole notion of coupling distasteful and his confessor, Bishop Aiscough, does not discourage that attitude. In fact, he positively encourages it.’
‘Perhaps Henry will change when he sees Margaret, she is a pretty and spirited little thing. Considering her age a tentative approach might be wise after the marriage, but as I judge it, in the long term she will not be averse to her conjugal duties. Are not men stirred by a little coquetry?’
It was his turn to look a little shocked. ‘I do not like the idea of you knowing that, my lady.’
I met his accusing gaze with an innocent one of my own. ‘It is what I have been told,’ I said with a pretence at primness. ‘But what about this birthday? How did you find out?’
‘Suffolk’s wife let it slip. I wager he will chastise her for that tonight.’
‘What do you have in mind to do about it?’
‘Some sort of surprise present. She likes hunting apparently.’
‘A horse or a hound? You have plenty of each.’
Richard shook his head. ‘No. The king sent her a very fine palfrey as a wedding present. I would not want to appear to be competing.’
‘Perhaps a hawk then?’
‘That is a good idea. Something fit for a queen. A Gyrfalcon.’
‘It would need to be a Tercel, would it not? Surely Henry hunts a male Gyr.’
‘Of course. I will have the falconer seek out a female Gyrfalcon though it will need to be trained and it may be impossible to find one at such short notice. Do you have any other ideas?’
‘Margaret seems very well read – perhaps a book to be going on with. Many young ladies like the poems of Boccaccio. I have a French translation of his Decameron. I would want it replaced, of course.’
He bent over to plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘You are my savior, Cicely. Have it wrapped in a beautiful length of cloth. Lady Suffolk tells me our new queen is sadly short of sumptuous apparel. Worst of all, she has no dowry! Henry was so desperate to make a peace with France he accepted a penniless queen. Let us hope she is not a spendthrift for it is certain that the coffers of the Royal Exchequer are sadly depleted.’
I shifted about, trying to arrange my swollen belly so that I might get some sleep. ‘I like her though, Richard. That is something.’
He gave a sigh of uncertainty. ‘I hope it is enough,’ he said.
PART THREE
Fotheringhay Castle Northamptonshire, Coldharbour Inn & Westminster Palace, London
1448
17
Fotheringhay, Early June
Cuthbert
‘Come on, Edmund! Jump!’
The imperious treble voice of young Edward of York reached me through the barred windows of the armoury at Fotheringhay castle where my squire was assisting me to remove my hauberk.
‘No. It is too far. I cannot. Help me, Edward!’ That was unmistakably the voice of a somewhat distressed Edmund.
I took little notice. More often than not in their games around the castle bailey Edward would challenge his brother to a feat that Edmund, a year younger and good deal shorter, found beyond his abilities.
‘I cannot reach you. You will have to jump. Oh, Edmund, you are such a gowk!’
Cicely ensured that a squire or a tutor was always on duty to watch out for the boys when they were playing so I did not respond, but Tom Neville, the squire who was hauling the heavy chainmail hauberk off over my head, reacted to the note of panic in Edmund’s voice.
‘Shall I go and see what is up, sir?’ he asked. He threaded the sleeves of the fine-meshed steel tunic onto a pole and slung it between two wall brackets to join the rows of similar war-vests hanging there.
I shrugged and nodded, thinking that Tom was probably over-reacting but aware that he was particularly fond of his two young York cousins. He was the second son of my half-brother Hal, Earl of Salisbury, and approaching the age of knighthood, a time when squires tended to take the chivalric code very seriously. I called after him, ‘Make sure you check the horses though, Tom, and clean yourself up before you serve at dinner.’
In Tom’s case these orders were probably unnecessary and I caught his irritated scowl as he hurried off. We had trotted into Fotheringhay soon after noon at the end of our journey from the north, whence I had led a contingent of York retainers to boost Hal’s forces in his ongoing campaign against the Earl of Westmorland’s affinity, which still regularly raided the scattered manors attached to the honours of Middleham and Sheriff Hutton. Despite his own troubles the Duke of York felt bound to give occasional help of this kind to his wife’s family. As York’s Master of Henchmen, I considered the intermittent clashes with bands of ruffians operating under the bull banner of the Brancepeth Nevilles to be good field training for the young squires of the household, of whom Tom was one. They learned tactics and gained invaluable experience of real combat before they might be launched into a pitched battle. The way things were going in the kingdom of England at present, I believed it to be only a matter of time before these lawless skirmishes between affinities turned into something more serious.
The screams of fright from the bailey ceased soon after Tom departed. However, when I left the armoury a minute later I was vexed to see that Tom was up to his knees in the horse pond, coaxing five-year-old Edmund down from the branches of an overhanging alder.
‘If you get help I have won, Edmund!’ shouted Edward from his perch on the shingled roof of the building beside the pond. ‘From the stable to the kennel without touching the ground, that is what we said.’
‘That is probably what you said, Edward,’ Tom shouted back, easing Edmund’s chubby thighs around his neck and settling him on his shoulders. ‘I do not suppose you gave Edmund much choice in the matter. You should make allowances. He is younger and shorter than you.’
‘Ha!’ Edward shinned down the wooden drainpipe which fed a water butt at the end of the kennel to sit on the lid of the butt curling his lip. ‘Edmund is a little weed. He screeched before he even tried to jump.’
Tom waded out of the pond, knelt and deposited the smaller boy on dry ground. Edmund sniffed loudly and turned to confront his brother. ‘You nearly fell in the pond yourself, Edward,’ he shouted, hands on hips. ‘I saw.’
Edward grinned broadly and bit his thumb at Edmund. ‘But I did not fall, did I? I dared and I succeeded. That is the difference between you and me.’
‘Enough!’ I strode across the ten yards of hard earth between us. ‘Tom is right, Edward. You have a duty to protect those younger and weaker than yourself. That is the mark of a chivalrous gentleman. In future you will invent games that give you both an even chance. Remember that. Now you should apologize to Edmund for calling him names and for putting him in danger.’
For a moment I thought Edward would refuse; his grey eyes narrowed, his grin disappeared, his lips formed a thin, stubborn line, but then he shrugged and made his brother an exaggerated bow. ‘I am sorry for calling you a gowk, Edmund,’ he said. With a mischievous glance in my direction, he added, ‘But I still thi
nk you are a weed!’ and scampered off. ‘Race you to the stables!’ he yelled over his shoulder.
Edmund made as if to run after him, then checked and looked up at Tom who shook his head. ‘Let him go,’ said the squire. ‘Come with me to the kennel instead. I’m told my deerhound Mab gave birth to seven puppies while I was away. Would you like to see them?’
‘Do not be long, Tom,’ I warned with a mitigating smile. ‘Lady Maud will not be too impressed if you serve her at dinner with the perfume of horse pond and kennel on your clothes.’
I had learned from his companions’ taunts during our sortie to Yorkshire that Tom Neville had developed a crush on one of Cicely’s companions. Unfortunately, Lady Maud Willoughby was married to a feoffee of York, albeit a man old enough to be her grandfather. Marriages arranged among the high-ranking nobility were often incongruous in this way, but it did not make the vows any less sacred and, as far as I knew, Tom’s adoration remained of the courtly variety. A faint flush stained the squire’s cheeks, confirming that his infatuation with the beautiful Maud Willoughby remained acute.
As they walked towards the kennel entrance I called after them, ‘Where is your minder, Edmund?’
The boy gestured back towards the far end of the long timber stable range which leaned against the high wall of the bailey. ‘Somewhere over there, I think.’
I decided to investigate and, peering around the corner of the building, spied a small group of house-carls concealed from general view and gathered around an upturned barrel. A man I did not recognize was busy separating his audience from their meagre earnings by means of a clandestine game of Chase the Knave. On the Duke of York’s instructions, all gambling was strictly forbidden within the confines of Fotheringhay castle but from the look of the bulging pack placed prudently beneath his backside, this stranger was a peddler who had developed a lucrative sideline as a card sharp. I had a shrewd idea which of the young men attracted by the activities of this villain was the one who should have been watching Edward and Edmund.
Red Rose, White Rose Page 15