For a moment Cicely looked rather stunned and then she took both my hands in hers in the legal and traditional way. ‘Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, I accept your vow in good faith both for myself and for my liege-lord, Richard, Duke of York. In return I give you York’s faithful promise before God to protect and defend you and yours against your enemies.’
A solemn silence fell between us and then beside me I felt Hilda drop to her knees and offer her own vow. ‘I bring no sword to your service but I, too, declare my love and loyalty to you, Cicely, Duchess of York and call on God and his Holy Mother to witness my oath.’
It was done. There was no going back to Neville now; no going back to the fealty I had sworn to my father, the old Earl of Westmorland, or the oath I had made to Countess Joan. We had made ourselves vassals of York, sworn to support the actions of the duke, whether or not we considered them wise. I turned to help Hilda to her feet and squeezed her hand as I did so. The looks we exchanged were fleeting and rueful.
‘Thank you, Hilda, thank you, Cuthbert,’ Cicely said graciously, inclining her head in the heart-shaped padded head-dress she had taken to wearing, which I thought made her look unmistakably grand but dauntingly severe. ‘I shall be sure to inform Richard of your fealty and willingness to serve him. He will need all the support we can give him in these very uncertain times.’
I pondered these words later, wondering if the rift I had detected in their marriage when we left Ireland had closed during their time apart. She had found Dublin a frightening place, full of hostile forces and far removed from friends and family. Being back with her older sons had certainly reduced Cicely’s level of anxiety and the security offered by Ludlow’s stout defences, coupled with reassuring visits from the loyal barons, knights and ladies of the surrounding Mortimer lands, had noticeably lightened her mood.
Having Hilda back at her side must also have had a great deal to do with it. During the weeks that followed, my own travels around the numerous honours, recruiting men for Richard’s new force, took me away from Ludlow a good deal but the two women seemed to have slipped easily back into their girlhood friendship and the atmosphere in Cicely’s great chamber whenever I attended one of her salons was noticeably more light-hearted than it had been for years. There was music and laughter and sometimes dancing and Hilda believed that part of it was also down to an improvement in Cicely’s health.
‘I have been counting, Cuthbert,’ she told me as we lay in our chamber one night discussing recent events, a luxury which I greatly appreciated having spent so many years as a knight bachelor. ‘Cicely has carried nine children in ten years and suffered the loss of three of them soon after birth. She thanks the Virgin and St Margaret for her own survival but it must have taken a great toll on her mind and body.’ She sat up and looked quizzically down at me. ‘I hope you are not going to put me through that kind of schedule.’ It took several seconds for me to fully grasp the meaning of her remark but then I reared up on one elbow and the expression on my face made her break into delighted laughter. ‘Oh, Cuddy, you look like a goggle-eyed frog!’
With difficulty I straightened my face. ‘Hilda, are you telling me that you are with child?’
‘Yes my dear husband; God willing, you are going to be a father.’
It was no wonder my eyes had popped. Before I married, fatherhood had not been high on my agenda. Being illegitimate myself, I had not wished to inflict that state upon another and earnestly hoped I had avoided doing so. As there had been no offspring from her marriage to Master Exley, I had assumed that Hilda was not able to have children but had given little thought to it. I had married her for herself and not for any dynastic purpose. Now suddenly, and to my surprise, I found myself absurdly thrilled at the notion of becoming a father.
Hilda must have taken my stunned silence as disapproval for her face fell. ‘It is quite a common result of an active marriage bed you know,’ she said. ‘And I would like to point out that ours has been particularly active.’
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and pulled her into my arms. ‘Oh no, Hilda, you misunderstand. I am completely and utterly delighted. It is just that I had given no thought to the possibility. Please believe me that the prospect of you carrying my child gives me great joy but I admit also to some trepidation. I am forty – a little old for fatherhood perhaps.’
She snuggled into my embrace with a contented sigh. ‘It is rather too late to worry about that I think. Anyway, when it comes to giving birth I am no spring chicken myself but we shall have to leave the outcome in the hands of the Almighty. Let us just enjoy the idea of a new life growing which is all our own work.’
Through the thin fabric of her chemise I cupped her breast in my hand and registered with astonishment its new fullness and weight. With my lips to her ear I murmured, ‘If that is work then I regret having to down tools but I believe the Church considers it a sin in these circumstances.’
My intentions were good but my body betrayed me and I would have rolled over to hide the fact but shamelessly she placed her hand on the offending organ and whispered, ‘Is that not what confession is for, my love? We can sin and receive absolution. I spent ten years failing to inspire such desire in Master Exley; please do not make me reject it now.’
Towards the end of August Cicely received a letter informing her of the duke’s intention to return to England via Wales and containing an order for me to meet him near Chester with my newly recruited army. Perhaps wisely he did not specify his movements and made no mention of coming to Ludlow. The unrest in Kent had subsided, largely due to the capture, mortal injury and death of Jack Cade and a purging of the other ringleaders, which inevitably resulted in another rash of hangings. By now the king’s advisers seemed even more convinced that the Duke of York was in some way responsible, to the extent that troops were ordered out from the royal castle at Chester to intercept and arrest him. However his scouts brought a warning so he managed to avoid them and the following day I and my new army made rendezvous with Richard at Shrewsbury. This brought the size of his force to over seven hundred, large enough to deter any further interceptions as we set off to gather more armed support from his estates in the Midlands and Gloucestershire. It was during this march that I began seriously to question his intentions and wonder even more seriously whether I had done the right thing throwing in my lot with York.
Richard had always maintained that the common people were impressed by conspicuous splendour and he had not abandoned any of his propensity for grandeur. Each member of his army of retainers wore a York livery jacket or jupon in parti-coloured murrey and blue and from every pike and lance fluttered a pennant depicting the duke’s falcon-and-fetterlock. His horse’s trappings were of heavy gold-trimmed azure silk, the bridle studded with gold medallions and the saddle hung with gilded stirrups. When he rode in armour it had to be polished so that the sun glinted off every joint and plate, his spurs were of silver-gilt and his helmet was ringed with a gold ducal coronet; if he did not need to wear it a squire carried it behind him on a velvet cushion. Harbingers preceded each day’s march, arranging camp sites and organizing suitable lodgings for the duke and his knights, if these were available. If they were not, the duke’s tent was erected, a canvas palace painted in bright colours, hung with heraldic pennants and fully equipped: trestles and chairs for meals and meetings, a curtained tester bed and a screened side tent with close stool and wash basin. All this pomp and show did not sit easy with me and every time my squire handed me the York jupon I pulled it over my head with a knot in my stomach. It had been bad enough finding myself cast on one side of a family quarrel at Lady Joan’s funeral ten years before but joining this pageant of York appeared dangerously like becoming part of a spectacular and treasonous bid for the throne of England.
25
Ludlow Castle, September – October 1450
Cicely
I cannot deny that I had left Ireland agitated, fearful and exhausted, desperate to return to England and to check on the heal
th and wellbeing of my two elder sons. Having Hilda back at my side restored my equilibrium and allowed me to admit that the relationship between myself and Richard had been on the verge of disintegrating. We had been in urgent need of a break from each other. Looking back I am guilt-struck by my marital disloyalty but the fact remains that one day at the end of September, while out riding with Hilda and my four oldest children I admired the sun shining on the golden stubble fields along the valley of the River Teme and suddenly realized that I had not felt so alive and energetic for years. When I remarked on this, Hilda made an observation which gave me pause for thought.
‘Little George will be one year old next month and you are not yet expecting again, Cicely,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that is why you feel so well. I do not believe you have had more than three or four months’ break from pregnancy since Edward was born.’
I gazed ahead at the four children. Edward had cantered along the river, followed by Anne, Edmund and Elizabeth, to a place where cattle had trodden a slope down the bank for drinking and there they had waded in, their ponies hock deep so that they could bend down from the saddle and splash each other, shrieking with laughter as they did so. Two grooms stood sentinel in case of accidents but were content to let the youngsters frolic in the warm autumn sunshine while the patient ponies dropped their heads and took the opportunity to drink. I recalled when baby Henry had died and I had come to believe that I would never carry a living son. Now, God be praised, I had my two strapping lads and little George, as well as three healthy girls; enough for any noble dynasty. But I could never forget the sons I had lost and the bitter heartache endured in grieving over their tiny corpses. The recent break from childbearing had been a break as well from the dread of another such tragedy. And there was no escaping the fact that it had only been achieved by putting the Irish Sea between Richard and me.
‘I hope that by starting late I will not be quite so fecund,’ added Hilda with a wry smile.
I halted my horse and stared at her. ‘You are pregnant?’
‘I am,’ declared Hilda gaily, not drawing rein but adding over her shoulder, ‘You are not the only one who can achieve it, my lady!’
I spurred my horse to catch her up. ‘Congratulations!’ I cried. ‘Please feel at liberty to take over the birthing role entirely. When is the baby due?’
‘I assure you we did not anticipate the wedding, so I should think sometime in April. I shall need all your expert advice.’
‘Get a good midwife is my advice. I have not given birth at Ludlow so I do not know of one but Lady Croft will know the best.’
Lady Croft was the wife of Edward and Edmund’s governor and mentor, Sir Richard Croft, whose family were long-term tenants of Mortimer lands and whose castle lay only a few miles away. She was a little younger than me and rather bossy but kind-hearted and often attended my salons. Hilda did not look impressed. ‘I am a knight-retainer’s wife, not a hereditary landholder’s. Lady Croft is rather grand but I imagine there are several perfectly good midwives who tend the burgher’s wives in the town.’
I was tempted to remind Hilda that she was now Lady Middleham and perfectly entitled to seek the services of the most eminent midwife, but I took the hint and did not pursue the subject further at that time. Hilda could be touchy about such things. However, her remarks sowed the seeds of an idea in my mind, which I resolved to raise with Richard whenever he did actually rejoin his family.
Meanwhile I was exchanging letters with Alice de la Pole, a process begun after I sent her my condolences on the terrible death of her husband. I was perturbed and intrigued by her reply, penned at Kenilworth, where she was in attendance on the queen.
To the most gracious and honorable Lady Cicely, Duchess of York, greetings from her friend, Alice, Countess of Suffolk.
I am in receipt of your very kind letter expressing sympathy for the death of my beloved lord and husband and thank you most earnestly for remembering both him and me and marking his dreadful and undeserved demise.
As you may imagine, the news of it came as the most appalling shock, received as it was less than a week after he had set sail in obedience to his sentence of exile. Who is responsible for the crime of William’s capture and murder I do not know, it remains a mystery, but I want you to know Cicely that I totally reject the suggestion that the perpetrators were in the pay of the Duke of York or in any way connected with his affinity, despite persistent rumours to that end. I know that allies of the duke, your husband, spoke out against my lord in the session of Parliament which ultimately led to his arraignment for treason but I am sure you will understand that the crimes with which William was charged only arose as a result of his diligent pursuit of the king’s wishes with regard to his marriage and his fervent desire no longer to cross swords with his uncle in France. It was because the king was so conscious that William was being held responsible for something that he, King Henry, had asked him to do that he used his royal prerogative to commute the death sentence handed out by the Lords and reduce it to one of five years in exile. When he learned of his murder he immediately transferred all the Suffolk estates to me in tenure for my son.
So distressed was Queen Margaret by William’s death and the way in which it occurred that she became prostrate with grief and the irony is that I had to be called to Windsor in order to tend her grace’s prostration! I am happy to say that she is recovered now but I truly do not think that I shall ever recover from losing my dear lord and especially from the manner of his death. I believe the image of his head impaled on a spike beside his butchered corpse will haunt my days and nights forever.
Our son John is a quiet and peace-loving boy who suffers from losing his father at such a tender age. We have lost the dukedom and he will only be Earl of Suffolk when he comes of age. However, his grace King Henry has tried to make recompense by confirming his marriage to the Somerset heiress Margaret Beaufort. We are awaiting the papal dispensation.
Meanwhile I am still attending Queen Margaret and therefore acquainted with the activities of court and council. In the absence of my dear lord she has become very reliant on the Duke of Somerset for advice and it was he who instigated the court’s move here to Kenilworth. It is a very comfortable and well-situated castle set in the middle of a large lake where the queen feels safe. After the murder of my husband and also that of the king’s Confessor, Bishop Aiscough, she fears the violent displeasure of the people and envies York’s apparently growing popularity.
I tell you this out of friendship and because I think you should warn your husband to tread carefully when he returns to England. Envy creates enemies I fear and there are many interpretations of treason.
I keep you in high regard, Cicely, and remain your discreet and faithful friend,
Alice, Countess of Suffolk
As Richard travelled through the York estates in the Midlands and Lincolnshire, gathering a larger and larger force of men, I began to worry about his intentions and almost wish I were with him. It was becoming more and more obvious that he was heading to London for a confrontation with the council in order to express his grievances and to defend himself against the false accusations made about his part in the recent uprisings. His letters to me were silent on the subject however and in the end it was Cuthbert who wrote to tell me that Richard had joined forces with the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Devon and arrived in London at the head of four thousand men, an intimidating army even when faced with opposition from a force of similar size mustered by barons allied to the Duke of Somerset. Cuthbert told of chains being hung across the streets of the city to keep the opposing factions apart.
Correspondence from Richard himself perturbed me further because it appeared that Harry Holland, who had marched to London among the York army of retainers, had immediately been called before the council and invested with livery of his father’s estates and title. This contravened the agreement concluded when Harry had been made Richard’s ward, it being nine months before the young man’s twenty-first b
irthday, the legally recognized age of majority. With some justification, Richard saw this as another slight engineered by the Duke of Somerset to defraud him of due revenue. It did not surprise me that Harry had immediately severed all ties to York and allied with Somerset, officially pledging himself to the Lancastrian cause and demanding that Richard’s household and bodyguard quit Coldharbour Inn.
Reading all this sent cold shivers down my spine and the next time I saw Anne I was obliged to take her to one side and gently tell her of her husband’s desertion of the House of York and adherence to the cause of her father’s arch enemy. ‘Of course it need not affect you at present and by the time you go to Harry he may have had second thoughts,’ I added but she was not deceived.
‘If it were not a mortal sin I would kill myself before setting one foot under Harry’s roof, Mother,’ Anne said with quiet conviction. ‘I pray daily for God to smite him before my life sentence can begin.’ I longed to be able to give her a hug but in the two years since her marriage she had acquired a brittle shell which I found hard to penetrate. Now a gaping chasm existed between me and my eldest daughter. I blamed Richard for this.
When the king finally agreed to grant Richard an audience, it turned out to be far from private or peaceful.
Richard wrote: ‘I went to the king’s Great Chamber at Westminster Palace hoping to be able to re-establish our childhood friendship and found myself confronted by the Earl of Somerset and all his cronies who consistently harangued me, construing every word I uttered as criticism of themselves or the king. Henry just sat there on his crimson and gold throne looking as if he wished he could be anywhere else; every time I tried to address him directly one of his councillors interrupted to answer for him. I could see regret and contrition in his eyes but he seemed unable to exert himself to stop them. It is no wonder the country suffers from such inept government when people like Somerset have for so long been allowed to steer the ship of state as it pleases them and cream off the richest posts and grants for themselves. Tomorrow I intend to draft a Bill, to be placed before the new parliament when it opens in November, urging the arrest of those responsible for the false execution of the king’s justice and prerogatives and presenting myself as his honest and loyal vassal who is willing and able to redress the situation. My agents have ensured that this time the Commons membership will consist of a high percentage of York supporters and that the Speaker will therefore be a candidate chosen by me, so my Bill will be presented early. Until then, for my own safety and contentment, I intend to leave London and hurry to your side at Ludlow.
Red Rose, White Rose Page 24