I put the wine jug down on the trestle beside us and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Be calm, my lord. This is not defiance. Ursula is too sick to move. The other children cannot go without their mother and I will not leave her.’
The room had gone quiet as it became obvious to everyone that there was a crisis. Richard’s chest heaved as he fought to control his anger and his stress and I waited for him to succeed, as I knew he would, for the sake of appearances.
His cup slopped wine onto the floor as he put it down and considered the full implications of my announcement. ‘Then I cannot go either,’ he said flatly. ‘In all honour I cannot leave my wife and family to the mercies of that rabble out there.’ He made a vague, flapping gesture towards the window and we all knew he meant the twenty-thousand-strong Lancastrian army encamped only a mile from the castle on the other side of Ludford Bridge.
Edward had moved nearer to us and cleared his throat to speak but his father rounded on him, venting his anger and cutting him off. ‘If you think to make one of your fatuous light-hearted quips Edward, kindly desist. Now is not the time for humour.’
Edward took a step backwards in surprise but rallied swiftly. ‘On the contrary, my lord, I was humbly going to suggest that honour need not demand that you sacrifice yourself for poor little Ursula.’ He gestured towards Hal who was frowning at him over the rim of his cup. ‘Do not forget that my aunt of Salisbury will also be left behind in England. Surely honour demands that you and my father flee the injustices of the council but at the same time you also demonstrate your faith in King Henry’s justice by committing your wives and families to his grace’s personal care, as hostages if you like, to guarantee the loyalty of your intentions.’
Edward paused to let his words sink in and Richard and Hal both studied him briefly before turning their questing gaze upon each other. Neither spoke but it was clear they were giving serious consideration to Edward’s submission.
‘A letter of explanation could be given to Vert Eagle to deliver to the king’s hand,’ Edward went on. ‘According to the chivalric code, in the hands of a herald it will not be intercepted.’
I held my breath, inwardly blessing Edward. This was the very argument I had been going to make to persuade Richard that he must go, although, shamefully, I had not thought of including Hal’s wife Alice in the plea. With all her children grown and flown, she remained alone at her home at Bisham in Bedfordshire but would doubtless suffer as much as I as a result of her husband’s declared treason. The idea was more palatable to Richard because it came from his son rather than his wife but still Richard sat balefully silent for some while before raising an eyebrow at Hal to signify that he should speak first.
‘That was well said, Nephew,’ Hal began. ‘You have summed up my thoughts and prayers precisely and I hope your father will agree that what appears at first as dishonourable, is in fact the only honourable course of action.’
Receiving a nod from Richard, Hal concluded, ‘Now I think it is time to hear mass, place ourselves in the hands of God and take to the road.’ He consumed his last morsel of pie and gazed lovingly at the remains left on the table. ‘That was an excellent pie, Cis,’ he remarked, standing up and smiling at me. ‘I hope someone will pack up the rest and put it in my saddlebag.’
While the men heard mass in the castle’s exquisite round chapel, I gathered all the younger children except Ursula from their beds, ensured they put on warm clothes and had them ready in the inner court to make their farewells as the service ended. Young Dickon looked dazed and bewildered, bleary-eyed at being roused from a deep sleep. I doubt if he truly understood the significance of this midnight departure but he dutifully bent his knee to receive Richard’s blessing then stood for the embrace of his two big brothers and waited with tears welling in his dark eyes as they followed each other down the family line. George was more demonstrative, flinging his arms around Edward in particular, as if he feared he would never see him again, while Margaret looked up at her father with a clear-eyed gaze as he placed a paternal hand on her head and asked God to be with her.
‘And may He also be with you, my lord father,’ she said earnestly. ‘For I think you will have much need of His loving care.’
As she said this, in the dancing light of the torches I thought I saw a tear glisten in Richard’s eye. Then I watched Edward make a particularly grave bow to his sister, kiss her hand respectfully and receive a whispered comment in his ear which, to my surprise, made his eyes widen in surprise. When I asked Margaret later what she had said to make him start she replied serenely, ‘It was in Greek, lady mother. That is why he was surprised.’ But she did not tell me what it was in Greek that she had said.
Last to bid farewell to his siblings was Edmund, who spent several minutes reassuring Dickon that he was only going to Ireland with their father for a short while and would be back in no time with a tame leprechaun for his little brother. ‘What is a leprechaun?’ Dickon asked, beguiled.
‘I do not really know,’ admitted Edmund. ‘A little man in a big hat I believe but I am going to learn all about Ireland and I will make sure to find out and bring you one as a pet.’
Dickon screwed up his small face in doubt. ‘I do not think I would like a little man as a pet, Edmund. I would rather have a horse.’
I stifled a smile. Although only just seven, Dickon was excessively fond of horses and had earned praise for his riding from no less a task-master than my brother Cuthbert. He yearned to graduate from a pony to what he called ‘a proper horse’ but his physical slightness and my reluctance to put too much strain on his underdeveloped body proscribed it.
There was a back exit through Ludlow’s outer curtain wall known as Mortimer’s gate, after one of Richard’s more infamous ancestors who had made many hasty exits to avoid trouble and eventually died on the block. It had occurred to me lately that too many of his relatives had done so. This tower-gate provided access to a bridge over the River Corve and the routes west to Wales and south to Wigmore and the Black Mountains. More importantly the Lancastrians had not blockaded it, being fully occupied on the other side of the town on the far bank of the River Teme, into which the Corve flowed. I walked beside Richard’s horse as he rode across the outer bailey towards this back gate, followed by the rest of the escapees and their followers. Every horse in the cavalcade was equipped with bulging saddlebags for they took no sumpters due to the need for speed. It was my last chance to speak to my husband out of earshot of others.
‘I do not know where I shall be, Richard. It depends what the king decides to do with us but I shall endeavour to get word to you somehow,’ I told him.
‘My spies report regularly to their contacts. I am certain they will keep me informed of your whereabouts,’ he replied gruffly. ‘I cannot bear to think of you facing Henry’s smug toadies when they enter Ludlow tomorrow, Cicely. If they harm a hair of any of your heads …’ He did not finish because he did not know how, or even if, he would be able to revenge himself against them. Lancaster was in the ascendant, York was on its knees; there was no denying it.
‘They will not dare,’ I declared with a confidence I did not feel. ‘We still have plenty of supporters Richard. Lancaster cannot afford to stir the York hive too much lest the bees go berserk.’ I reached up and drew his hand down from its grip on the reins. ‘York and Neville will rise again, you will see. Let the winter do its worst then spring will turn all in our favour.’
I saw the gleam of his teeth in the moonlight. ‘You northerners have so much drive,’ he remarked. ‘Sometimes I think Warwick has too much.’
‘You can never have too much energy, my love, and Dick will be good for Edward. Together I believe they will prove far too much for poor King Henry.’
‘Well, we shall see.’ We had reached the gate-tower and he swung his leg over the saddle and jumped down, sweeping me into his arms. ‘We cannot part on bad terms, Cicely. I pray that we meet again in brighter and better circumstances.’ He bent and kissed my lips, hard.
‘God go with you and protect you, as I cannot.’
‘And may His Holy Might further your cause, my dear lord,’ I said fervently. ‘We will meet again.’
‘Do not doubt it.’ He put his foot in the stirrup and remounted. ‘I will look after Edmund,’ he said.
I smiled up at him, hoping the moon lit my face. ‘And let him look after you,’ I said. ‘He can, you know.’
He rode forward and ducked under the low arch of the gate. Hal and Dick came next and I signalled a solemn farewell to them with a bow and a hand-gesture but blew kisses to Edward and Edmund as they trotted past me. Edmund waved forlornly back, riding alongside his brother for the last time before their paths divided on the other side of the bridge but Edward’s blown kisses were jubilant; even in these desperate circumstances he gave the impression of an eager young man setting off on a great new adventure without any doubts or fears. The arched vault of the gatehouse echoed with the clatter of iron-shod hooves and then they were all through. Suddenly there was silence save for the creak of saddle-leather and a series of soft, equine grunts as a dozen horses negotiated the steep earthen path which led down the wooded escarpment to the river and the bridge – and escape.
I waited a few minutes, listening anxiously for any sounds of conflict which might indicate that they had met opposition but none came. Looking up at the dark sky, studded with diamond stars, I had mixed feelings about the bright gibbous moon that stood like a gleaming misshapen lantern, high in the heavens. It would light them on their way but might also reveal them to unwelcome observers. I sent up a prayer to St Christopher to grant them safe conduct and shivered in the chill October air. As I turned to hurry back across the drawbridge to the inner court a familiar figure stepped out to meet me. It was Cuthbert; dear, faithful, worried-looking Cuthbert.
Before he could speak I greeted him warmly, taking his hand and planting a kiss on his stubbled cheek. ‘I should have known you would not be far away, Cuddy. At least they went off safely – no sounds of ambush at the bridge. Now I want you to leave too. You must go back to Hilda and the children and pray that when the Lancastrians come to Middleham, which they certainly will, they do not interfere with the tenant farmers. Put on a smock, Cuddy, and revert to your mother’s roots. They will stand you in much better stead than your Neville connections in these coming months.’
The moonlight shone in his eyes, reflecting their genuine anguish. ‘I never thought to hear you denigrate your family name, Cis,’ he said sorrowfully.
‘Sadly in England’s present state the Nevilles do not scintillate, on either side of the struggle. The best of them have just set off for Calais though it is far from certain whether they will get there or if they will return, it could be months, years before they do. I will pray constantly for my husband and sons of course but God knows that in my heart it is Edward on whom I pin my hopes.’
Cuthbert shook his head and the badge on his draped hat caught the moon’s rays. ‘He is over-young to carry such a burden,’ he observed. ‘But what will you do, Cis, when the Lancastrians enter the town tomorrow? I should be standing at your side through good and bad times, as your father made me promise.’
I smiled and pointed to the gleaming badge. ‘No, Cuddy, you should be protecting your wife and children. I insist that you ride away from Ludlow tonight but before you do, take off that badge I beseech you! You should not even be found with it about your person. Give it to me and I will keep it safe for you. If I send it back, you will know that I have need of you. I know you will come.’
He dipped his head and I unpinned the enamelled white rose from his hat and slipped it into the purse on my belt. Later I would transfer it to the hem of my chemise into which Margaret and I had already sewn a number of gold and silver coins. I foresaw a time when a small bribe to the right person might prove extremely useful.
‘Now, find your squire and your horse, Cuddy, and go back to Coverdale. And may God and all his angels guard you and your family.’
After speaking to Cuthbert, I had obeyed Richard’s instructions to tell the Ludlow constable of his lord’s departure and advised him to muster his men at dawn, leave the castle open and march them down to spread the word at Ludford Bridge. I had then placed all my personal jewellery and keepsakes in the strong-room and put the key in the purse I would later wear on a belt hidden under my outer clothing. I did not know whether the iron-clad door would withstand a Lancastrian onslaught but it was the best I could do.
To my surprise, when I lay down in the magnificent ducal chamber that night for what might be the last time, I actually slept, waking only as the first light of dawn broke through the unshuttered windows. Most of my ladies had wisely decided to return to their homes or if that was not possible to friends nearby, but two of them had elected to stay with me. They had slept on mattresses in the ante-room and soon arrived to help me dress in the plain brown kirtle and warm riding heuque I had decided would be unpretentious and practical garb for wherever the events of the day took me. Afterwards I went to the children’s quarters and selected similarly modest attire for them, neat and plain, without fuss or ornament. I had chosen clothes suitable for riding because I could not imagine that I or the children would be allowed to remain long at Ludlow. In fact I half expected us to be taken to some royal castle as prisoner-hostages and dreaded that it might be in the custody of the queen, who I feared would be a pitiless gaoler. Revenge being best served cold, I did not expect to spend a comfortable winter. I had one single hope: that being a mother herself she would not inflict any suffering on my children.
I sent my two ladies to see if there was any hope of breakfast and they reappeared with jugs of ale, some hard cheese and day old bread, reporting the kitchen empty and the ovens cold. Clearly the Ludlow lords were not the only ones to have made a surreptitious exit from the castle overnight. We dipped the hard bread in the ale and tried to nibble a little of the cheese but Ursula would eat nothing and although Margaret tried to persuade Dickon, he simply shook his head, his huge round eyes and vivid pallor betraying his state of high anxiety. George seemed to have adopted his father’s habit of pacing the floor when he was worried and barely stopped to drink a cup of ale and swallow a crust or two of bread. He only spoke to complain that he should have been allowed to go with Richard and Edmund and insisted on wearing his precious short sword, even though I told him that it would probably be taken from him, never to be seen again.
Eventually I suggested that we all go the castle chapel and pray for the safety of the absent men. Anicia picked up Ursula, wrapped in her blankets, carrying her like a baby, and followed us as we emerged through the great hall arch and down the grand stone stairway into the inner court. Alarmingly we could hear the first sinister rumbles of action coming from the direction of the town; muffled shots of small-arms fire and massed male voices raised in shouts of rage and aggression. I did not hesitate but ushered the children quickly towards the castle chapel, the one place which I hoped would remain inviolate, even if the rest of the stronghold was ransacked.
The delicately carved stone archway at the entrance to the chapel of St Mary Magdalene drew us into its reassuringly calm interior. Its unique circular nave had recently been extended into a rectangular chancel so that the building now echoed the shape of the fetterlock depicted with a falcon on the distinctive York insignia. Its interior walls were freshly decorated with colourful bible stories and hagiography, surrounding us in a circle of benediction as we passed through the nave and into the chancel where, to my surprise, candles blazed and the castle chaplain knelt at the altar in prayer.
‘I knew you would come here to find sanctuary, your grace,’ the priest said when he turned to greet us. ‘God will sustain and protect you within the circle of His holy house.’
Then he said mass and we all prayed and waited. Ursula’s fever had dropped a little overnight but she was torpid and appeared to fall asleep when Anicia sat with her on her knee in the sedilia while the rest of us knelt, huddled close t
ogether at the altar rail.
In the end neither the king nor the queen came to Ludlow Castle that day. Instead it was my brother-in-law Humphrey Duke of Buckingham who entered the chapel in full armour accompanied by his son, my nephew Sir Henry Stafford. The chaplain hurried forward to meet them at the chancel arch, begging them humbly not to enter the sanctuary bearing arms. I, too, rose and urged the children to come with me so that we met the two knights together as a group. It was then that I remembered George’s small sword, which still hung in its scabbard from his belt.
‘You have my assurance, Sister, that we come in peace,’ said Humphrey, bowing punctiliously along with his son. He had immediately noticed the sword hanging at George’s side. ‘But I do not think we can lay down our arms while we confront an armed son of York.’
With his right hand on the hilt of his own sword, he held out his left hand for George’s, an implacable expression on his face. I nodded in response to my son’s anguished and enquiring look and George sullenly unbuckled his sword and handed it over.
‘Thank you. Now I think we can agree that York has officially surrendered to Lancaster.’ Humphrey stood back, indicating that I should pass in front of him. ‘To avoid offence to the Almighty, let us conduct the rest of our business in the nave. I think you will find any other room in the castle uncomfortably lively. My men are justifiably angry at being cheated of a chance to avenge the death and injury inflicted by York on Lancaster at St Albans and so, although I have tried to restrict looting in the town of Ludlow, I have felt powerless to deny them enjoying some of the spoils of war in a castle so cravenly abandoned by its suzerain.’
In other words, I thought bleakly, it was a free-for-all at Ludlow Castle. Through the open door of the chapel the sound of troops rampaging was unmistakable. Smoke hung over the inner court and drifted towards us, making our eyes smart, and men wearing helmets and gambesons bearing red-rose badges could be seen running across the inner court yelling Lancastrian war cries and waving looted articles. Seeing George’s red-faced fury and Margaret’s attempts to comfort Dickon, who was trembling with shock, I found my voice for the first time.
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