‘He has made himself Captain of Calais, Chamberlain of the Royal Household and Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster. Why does he not simply make himself Archbishop of Canterbury, Treasurer and Lord Chancellor as well and occupy every seat at the council table? He, who abandoned Rouen and slipped out of Normandy with his wife and children, leaving poor Shrewsbury to handle the ignominy of surrender to the French! He should be impeached for that treachery alone.’
Feeble of body and mind though I was, I could not help but remonstrate with him. ‘You say you will march your army of retainers to London only in order to obtain justice and force the king to dismiss Somerset but the world will see it as an attempt to usurp the throne, Richard. You risk being accused of treason. You could end up like your father, a convicted traitor with your head on a spike and your sons attainted and penniless. I beg you not to do this!’
Perhaps I should not have made mention of his father’s fate but I was desperate. Richard had been only three years old when his father, Richard, Earl of Cambridge, had been beheaded for conspiring against the Lancastrian throne, and the present York claim to the succession was based on the very same principles used in that conspiracy. He knew he was on dangerous ground but he proved oblivious to my plea for caution.
‘It is in order to assure our sons’ future that I do as I do,’ he said, his anger visibly growing. ‘Somerset is steering the realm into disintegration and the king must be made to see that, otherwise there will be no future for York or any other family which does not kiss Beaufort’s hand. It is not I who conspire against the throne but Somerset who seeks to enforce his own illegal claim to the succession. He must be curbed or the kingdom is doomed and York with it.’
I sighed wearily. ‘Everything you say is true, Richard. But violent confrontation is not the way to handle it. I beg you to heed my brother Hal if you will not listen to me. He has written to say that you will get no help from him, or from any other peer of the realm, if you persist in following this course. You will stand alone and isolated, while Somerset will have the support of the king and queen and half the nobility. It is madness to place yourself in that position.’
Richard’s face was now contused but he kept control. ‘On the contrary, it is the only honourable course to follow. I do not deny the danger but I believe that I have the support of the people. They will back my stand and the Commons will make the king see that with no heir of his own body, justice demands that I be acknowledged as heir presumptive. He has only to dismiss Somerset and reinstate me in my rightful position beside the throne. The king is a peace-loving man and I am his cousin. There will be no clash of arms, of that I am sure. He will recognize the justice of my demands without recourse to violence but I must show strength, Cicely, in order to convince him I mean business.’
I had known it was hopeless to argue. It only made things worse between us. Richard had swallowed as much pride as he could stomach. His dignity had been systematically undermined and he could no longer bear to stand idly by and suffer it and to a certain extent I understood. I was his wife and must perforce support him but I was also mother to a promising son and heir in Edward, whom I could not bear to see consigned to the scrap-heap of history because of his father’s mistakes.
‘Go then,’ I said with resignation. ‘But always consider this – you have four sons who do not deserve to be tainted as you were with the stain of treachery. You have been blessed by God in the way the wheel of fortune has turned for you but the same may not be true for your sons, or indeed your daughters. If their future is blighted by your actions do not imagine that you will ever have my forgiveness, in life or in death.’
I was jerked out of my reverie by a scratching at the door. I returned to the present feeling a rush of gratitude to God and his Saints that although Richard’s action in marching on London had not achieved the outcome he wished, neither had the king agreed to Somerset’s demands for his arrest and impeachment.
‘Enter,’ I called and Hilda’s familiar face appeared around the door. ‘The baggage is here, your grace,’ she said, making a bobbed curtsey and opening the door wide to permit a succession of chests to be carried in. ‘Now we can prepare you for the first of Lord Cromwell’s feasts. Some of your most glittering finery, I think. Oh, and the Earl of Salisbury has arrived.’ Sensing my melancholy she asked softly so that the servants should not hear, ‘Are you well, Cicely?’
I nodded as briskly as I could to dispel the mood. ‘Yes, thank you, Hilda. I am quite well.’
The wedding took place not in the Tattershall Collegiate Church of the Holy Trinity, Lord Cromwell’s costly investment in the passage of his soul heavenward, but in the modest stained-glass jewel of a chapel situated in the castle’s Inner Ward, and the guest-list was small. My brother Hal had ridden in with an escort two hundred strong and the stables and Outer Wards were crammed with men and horses.
‘I would have brought more men, Cis,’ he confided during a quiet moment at the marriage feast, ‘but I had to send reinforcements to strengthen the garrison at Sheriff Hutton. Believe it or not, Egremont and Westmorland have made a new alliance and have sent out sergeants to muster recruits in York.’
The mention of Lord Westmorland triggered sudden bittersweet memories of my abductor John and our stolen night of love at Aycliffe Tower. As the rift between Richard and me grew wider those memories seemed more frequent and to have become more sweet than bitter.
I forced my attention back to Hal, who was looking at me quizzically. ‘That is alarming news,’ I said hurriedly, banishing nostalgia. Lord Egremont was the Earl of Northumberland’s heir and there had been bad blood between our branch of the Neville family and the Percys since the turn of the century.
‘Westmorland steps further outside the law every year,’ said Hal. ‘Both he and Northumberland bear dangerous grudges.’
‘Like young Harry of Exeter. I suppose you know he has occupied Lord Cromwell’s manor of Ampthill.’
‘Yes and this latest feud concerns Cromwell, too. It is over Wressle Castle in Yorkshire, which was granted to Lord Cromwell after the Percys were attainted years ago. It will form part of Maud’s inheritance and it sticks in Egremont’s craw that a member of our family will become lord of what he still regards as a Percy honour.’
I eyed my brother speculatively, ticking off on my fingers the names of all the substantial lands and castles which he and his sons had acquired through marriage and inheritance. ‘Middleham, Sheriff Hutton, Salisbury, Bisham, Warwick, now Wressle – your family has certainly drawn fortune’s long straws, Hal. If you and your son Dick were to join forces with Richard, the king might truly feel threatened.’
Hal did not often laugh but now he did, although quietly and with a swift glance around for eavesdroppers. ‘Anyone would think your husband had recruited you into his spy network, Cis,’ he muttered, speaking behind his hand. ‘However, Richard and I are brothers-in-law, not in brothers-in-war. We have no secret alliance.’
‘I am not one of Richard’s agents,’ I assured him, ‘but I do pray that, should it ever come to war, you and he would not be fighting on opposite sides.’
The smile disappeared from Hal’s face. ‘A few skirmishes over a castle or two may be one thing but God forbid that these petty feuds should escalate to full-scale war,’ he said, making the sign of the cross. ‘It does not bear thinking on.’
‘Perhaps if the queen has a son and the succession is settled, the crown will have more authority and things will calm down,’ I suggested, although not with any great conviction.
Hal snorted. ‘Ha! There is already so much speculation about the royal child’s paternity that I, for one, rather hope it is a girl.’
It was my turn to show astonishment. ‘I never thought to hear a man say those words!’
‘Well if it is Somerset’s brat at least there is no question of a female succeeding to the throne,’ he retorted, ‘and no heir is better than one with a doubtful bloodline. Anyway, Cis, be honest, do you not harbour a
sneaking desire to be queen?’
I dodged the question. ‘I certainly think Richard has a better claim to the throne than any Beaufort and at least he has plenty of sons to allay your fear of a female succession, Hal.’
My brother raised his cup to me. ‘Yes, there is no denying you have done your duty there, Cis.’
At this point our conversation was interrupted by Lady Cromwell who sat on Hal’s other side at the high-table. She had been occupied with the bride and groom while we held our muttered conversation but now she turned and leaned over, gesturing at Anne, who had been duly demoted from the rank of duchess to sit among the young ladies at a lower trestle and was silently chewing her way through some morsel, her jaw moving ponderously in her plump cheeks. ‘Does your daughter’s marriage not trouble you, your grace?’ the lady enquired. ‘She must be nearing the age of maturity and the Duke of Exeter is such an unstable character. Or do you think she will be able to effect some miraculous change in her husband?’
I resented the sarcasm in her voice but chose to answer in a measured tone. ‘I am sure you agree, Lady Cromwell, that no young girl adjusts easily to married life. Look at the queen for example; only fourteen when she arrived from France as a bride and denounced as barren for the first seven years of her marriage. It must be a great joy to her that she has now confounded the critics and, God willing, will give birth to the heir we all crave.’
Lady Cromwell gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I am surprised to hear that you would welcome a royal heir, duchess. Was it not York’s desire to be acknowledged as the king’s successor that earned him such opprobrium last year?’
‘The duke seeks only the stability of the kingdom, my lady,’ I replied stiffly. ‘The birth of a prince would ensure that.’
‘Well, perhaps the birth of an heir might stabilize Exeter. That is about all your daughter can hope for I think.’
27
The Lincolnshire Fens, mid-August
Cicely
I stayed at Tattershall only as long as good manners dictated and my excuse for leaving the day after the wedding was that I needed to travel ahead to make preparations for Tom and Maud’s honeymoon stay at the York stronghold of Conisburgh on their way to Sheriff Hutton. The going was good on the summer-dry road but the passage of many hooves stirred up clouds of choking dust so I made a point of riding at the front of the procession. Cuthbert patrolled the column of armed men, carts and servants, keeping an eye out for any trouble.
I made a point of riding beside Anne, contriving to edge Alys back to Hilda’s side so that I could speak privately with my daughter.
‘Did you enjoy the wedding, Anne?’ I asked, biting back the urge to tell her not to slouch in the saddle.
I had expected a noncommittal response but she smiled shyly at me, straightening her back as if she read my mind. ‘Yes, I did, my lady mother. It was the first time I had seen a couple look happy to be getting married.’
‘I think there have been feelings between Tom and Maud for some time now, so they are lucky to be able to carry them into their union. That does not happen often but when it does it is pleasant.’
‘Well it will not happen for me,’ Anne declared. ‘Harry will never look at me the way Tom looks at Maud.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because Maud is beautiful and I am not.’
‘God does not always favour the beautiful,’ I protested, wishing I could contradict her.
Her retort was undeniable. ‘But men do, do they not?’ Her face assumed an expression of anguish. ‘What will happen to me, lady mother, when I have to go to Harry?’
I gazed across at her; she had celebrated her fourteenth birthday a week before we left Fotheringhay for Tattershall. Legally she was old enough to be bedded but it was my intention to delay the process until she had at least grown out of her disfiguring pimples, about which I knew Harry would taunt her cruelly, despite being no portrait himself.
‘You will perform your role as you have been taught,’ I said gently, ‘and pray for patience. Perhaps it will not be as bad as you fear. That is often the way.’
I felt guilty that I could find nothing more comforting to say and a flash of Anne’s moist blue eyes confirmed the inadequacy of my reply. ‘Or perhaps he will completely ignore me. That is what I pray for.’
‘You will be lonely if he does,’ I said helplessly.
‘I would rather be lonely than humiliated. That is what I fear most. Being held up to ridicule as the wife he was forced to marry.’
I stretched over and stroked a tear from her cheek. ‘Do not torture yourself, Anne. All noble marriages are forced in that sense. None of us freely chooses our partner. There is no shame in being married for reasons of finance or politic; even Harry knows that.’
‘Do you really believe Harry thinks as others do?’ she asked. ‘I think that if we are to live together with any kind of success I must realize that he is not as other men are.’
In that moment I felt a sudden respect for my daughter. Perhaps I should not have been regarding her as a timorous mouse waiting to become a victim but as a spirited girl who had analysed her future and decided how to approach it. Was it possible that Anne might become a figure of some distinction, with a shrewd head on her shoulders?
I smiled at her approvingly. ‘I have great faith that you will be a match for young Harry, Anne,’ I told her. ‘God does not favour the beautiful, as I said. He favours those who use what they have been given and you have been given good sense. If you believe in yourself He will show you how to use it.’
Anne lifted her chin and turned eyes on me that were shining not with tears but with bashful joy. ‘Oh, my lady mother – God is good I know, but if you have faith in me I can do anything!’
‘Then you can, sweetheart, you can!’ I felt as if a lead weight had lifted from me. Never since Anne had been an infant had I involuntarily addressed her with an endearment and yet that ‘sweetheart’ had leaped off my tongue without bidding. The effect was almost miraculous. Anne began to laugh, a bright, delighted sound which I had only previously heard when she was in the company of girls her own age. It transformed her plump, round face from dullness to radiance, her wariness vanished and she became shyly confiding.
‘I know that I will have to go to Harry soon,’ she said, blushing. ‘And I know what is expected of me as a wife but to tell the truth I do not yet feel ready to become a duchess.’ She gazed at me with wide eyes. ‘You are so … so … dignified, my lady. Nothing ever seems to upset or disturb you. You are always calm and serene and I do not think I could ever be like that. Is it something I could learn? Could you teach me?’
I thought back to the emotional scene between Richard and me before he had embarked on his fruitless campaign against Somerset; I remembered the miserable depression I had suffered before the birth of Edward; there came to me the dreadful, secret guilt I had felt on my return from Aycliffe Tower: the impression Anne had acquired of me was a false one. Yet it was true that the image I tried to present to the world was that of a restrained, gracious noblewoman, in command, in control and never rattled.
Impulsively I edged my horse nearer to hers and lowered my voice to murmur discretely in her ear. ‘Shall I tell you a secret, little daughter? I am not really like that at all. I am really a wild, reckless, giddy girl who would like to tear off her coif and gallop across the stubble with the wind in her hair. I put on a show to convince people that I am responsible and careful, able to run a household, rear my children and behave like a duchess, and if I can learn to do that, so can you. Actually you already have a head start because you are more level-headed at fourteen than I was at twenty.’
Anne’s mouth dropped open, hearing this revelation from her normally reticent mother. Then she cocked her head on one side like a curious robin and smiled. ‘So did you laugh and gossip when you were a girl, just like I do with Alys? It seems so strange to think that you were young once too.’
‘Marie! Am I so old now?�
� I cried with mock dismay. ‘I am thirty-eight. I suppose to you that seems like Methuselah’s mother?’
Anne was immediately contrite. ‘No, you will never be old – not even when you are a hundred. There is no grey in your hair and you are not fat and flabby like Lady Cromwell. I wish I was as trim as you.’
I nodded, knowing Anne did worry about her plumpness. ‘You are like your father. He visits the tiltyard every day to keep his body hard and muscular. It is not a natural thing for him.’
Anne giggled. ‘I can hardly start exercising with the squires, can I? I have never seen a duchess do that!’
‘No. I am afraid fasting and self-control are the only answer for a lady, Anne. I am sure you will learn that, just as you will learn the other disciplines you think are beyond you. It is not so hard.’ As I spoke my attention was suddenly caught by a flash of reflected sunlight and I looked up to see a large cloud of dust on the horizon to our left. ‘St Christopher! What is this?’
A dust-cloud of such dimensions could only be formed by a cavalcade of similar size to our own approaching at a considerable pace. The flat, treeless fens made ambush impossible for there was no cover but nonetheless there was something threatening about the swift advance of this second column of horses. The thunder of their hooves intruded on the oppressive heat like the rumbling of a rock-fall in a quiet valley.
Cuthbert cantered up beside me. ‘I do not like the look of this,’ he warned.
‘Who are they? Can you identify them?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. I have sent out scouts.’ Two horsemen could be seen galloping away across the stubble of a recently harvested beanfield.
Red Rose, White Rose Page 26