Red Rose, White Rose

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘Anne is besieged in the Tower?’ My mind, stale from incarceration, was unable to take it all in. I had to resist a terrible urge physically to shake more information out of my sister. ‘Where is Edward?’

  ‘Marching north with Warwick.’ Suddenly, and without warning, Anne’s stern expression crumpled and tears began to flow down her cheeks. ‘It is dreadful, Cicely! Your brother has your daughter under siege in London and your nephew and son are marching to confront my husband somewhere outside Northampton. How has our family come to this?’

  She was distraught and for the life of me I could not stop myself taking her in my arms. I held her as she broke down in gasping sobs of distress on my shoulder. It was as if a dam had burst and all the emotion of months and years was pouring from her. Across the room I saw Margaret put down her book and rise from her chair in surprise.

  ‘What is wrong with her?’ she asked.

  ‘Life, war and the futility of both,’ I answered, still hugging Anne’s shaking shoulders. ‘Have you a kerchief, Meg?’

  ‘It should be you who is crying, my lady mother,’ she said, pulling a square of white linen from her sleeve. Even in prison Margaret could be relied on to have a clean kerchief.

  I took it from her and pressed it into Anne’s hand. ‘Your aunt is crying for the news she fears to get from a battle she cannot prevent. Perhaps we should all be doing the same.’

  When Anne had soaked the kerchief with her tears, she blew her nose and tucked it up her sleeve. ‘I will have it washed and returned,’ she said to Margaret, her expression rather sheepish. No reference was made to her storm of weeping but, on leaving, she gave me the faintest of rueful smiles and said, ‘I hope neither of us will need to wear black again, Cicely.’

  Anne had not worn black since the year of mourning for her son had ended and the fine blue silk gown and jewelled headdress she wore now made me painfully conscious that I still wore the same dull brown kirtle I had donned on my last day at Ludlow. All our clothes would have been threadbare, had it not been for Margaret’s skill with a needle.

  ‘Please keep me informed, Sister,’ I begged, hoping that at last we had struck a chord of empathy. ‘Pray do not let me suffer in ignorance.’

  All through the following day I heard nothing and I fretted, wondering if there had been a battle and if so, what had been the outcome. It had rained almost without ceasing and at noon the next day we heard the drawbridge winding down and Dickon spotted a mud-caked courier waiting to cross over the moat. Still we heard nothing but in the afternoon when the rain had dwindled to a damp drizzle we went out onto the wall-walk for some fresh air. George was the first one to notice something amiss.

  ‘Look, lady mother. The flag is halfway down the pole. Does that mean someone has died?’

  From the battlemented roof of one of the gatehouse towers sprouted a flagpole and George was right, the standard was flying at half-mast; a gold shield slashed with a blood-red bend, topped with a ducal cap and surrounded by the blue garter sash. It could only mean that Humphrey of Buckingham was dead and my sister was back in black. I made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer for Humphrey’s soul. I had never considered him an enemy and now I mourned for my sister who, although plunged into a dynastic marriage at fourteen, had somehow made it a love-match.

  It was days before I discovered how Humphrey had died outside the king’s tent as the Lancastrian camp was overrun by Warwick’s crack Kentish fighters. King Henry had been captured alone in his tent and later taken to London in formal procession by Dick and Edward. It was the first word I had received that York’s cause was in the ascendant and my beloved son was safe and uninjured.

  All the same, I could not celebrate because those were dark days for all of us at Maxstoke. Ursula, who had weathered the winter without a recurrence of the ague, had been taken ill again and this time her condition deteriorated so fast that there was no time for anything to be done about it. Although the young constable acquired what Anicia needed for her herbal cures and sent for a physician, by the time he reached us it was too late. Weakened during our imprisonment, the fever had seemed to burn her up overnight and she died in Anicia’s arms as dawn broke.

  40

  Coverdale, Yorkshire, Summer 1460

  Cuthbert

  Huge snowdrifts kept Coverdale cut off from the rest of the world until spring. I spent my time digging fodder out of haystacks to feed the over-wintering stock crowded into the ground floor of the old bastle and fuel out of the woodpile to keep us from freezing in the tower. But at least deep snow lessened the likelihood of Lancastrian incursion into Salisbury-held lands.

  In April, however, the expected summons came for all tenants to present themselves at Middleham Castle. Since the Duke of York had purchased my manor off the Earl of Salisbury, I had not expected to be included in this summons but the messenger came anyway, with a letter specifically addressed to me.

  To Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, lord of Red Gill Manor, greetings,

  Although you are not a tenant of the attainted Earl of Salisbury’s estate, as a tenant of York and a known member of the treasonous Yorkist affinity you are nevertheless summoned by order of his grace King Henry to report to Middleham Castle. Present yourself at noon on the feast of St Mark and I will endeavour to see you privately.

  Your friend and debtor,

  John, Baron Neville, Lord of Middleham

  Written this twentieth day of April, 1460

  Lord of Middleham! So John Neville had succeeded at last in acquiring Middleham Castle from the attainted Salisbury estates! I decided that the fact that he called himself my debtor showed that he had not forgotten his sojourn at Red Gill Bastle with Cicely, or who had made it possible.

  I went to Middleham Castle on the day specified, hoping to gain news of Cicely and the rest of the York family but I did not expect it to be good. It was a vast ant-heap of a fortification, its many towers and buildings crammed tightly within its soaring curtain. The smoke-darkened walls dominated the town, dwarfing the surrounding houses like a threatening thundercloud.

  Lord Neville met me in the constable’s room above the gatehouse and I could see his surprise at my appearance when I walked in. I had taken Cicely’s advice and embraced the style of a yeoman farmer and so I wore a leather jack over a coarse but clean brown tunic and hose tucked into sturdy leather boots. I had also grown a full beard and jammed a wide-brimmed felt hat down over my long, grey-streaked hair. On an occasion such as this, when I was uncertain of my security, I wore a gambeson beneath my tunic and a dagger hidden in my boot. I had not announced myself as a knight and I had not been searched by the guards therefore neither had been found.

  John had aged considerably in the eight years since our last meeting. He was bare-headed, his pale hair faded to white and his complexion weathered and crisscrossed with fine lines; deeper furrows ran between his nose and mouth. I had passed a clerk leaving the chamber as I went in so he was alone with a pile of ledgers and scrolls on the table in front of him but he rose and moved around it to greet me.

  ‘Good day, Sir Cuthbert,’ he said solemnly. ‘You have come, so I can legitimately enter your presence in my list of attendances, therefore you should not be further inconvenienced by the Middleham receivers. I feel I owe you that at least, even though we may fight under different banners.’

  I pulled off my hat and made him a brief bow of acknowledgement. ‘God give you good day, my lord. For a time we thought you might come over to York but it did not happen; it was disappointing,’ I said bluntly.

  He spread his hands ruefully. ‘York did not stand a chance, even with the two thousand men I brought to Ludlow. It did not seem worth turning my coat to fight with a side that could not win.’

  I had not had John Neville down as a good-time man but now I knew that was what he was. I shrugged, quashing the temptation to ask why in that case he had signalled his possible support at all. ‘Next time, perhaps?’ I suggested.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He mo
ved across to a chest on which stood cups and a jug. ‘May I offer you wine?’ He held the spout of the jug over a cup, awaiting my reply before tipping it.

  ‘Yes, if you please.’

  ‘Where is Cicely now?’ He handed me the filled cup.

  ‘I believe she is living with her sister, the Duchess of Buckingham, but I do not know under what circumstances.’

  His eyebrow flicked upwards. ‘Awkward, I imagine. The Buckingham heir died recently of the wounds he received at St Albans and her husband is the king’s commander in chief, as you know. Why did Cicely not go to Ireland with the Duke of York?’

  I explained about the health of the youngest children. ‘But she was not happy in Dublin when they were there before,’ I added. I made no mention of the very obvious signs of a rift in the York marriage, thinking it might feed what I saw as his unnecessary and continuing obsession with Cicely.

  ‘Do you think York will try to return to England?’

  I stared at the red rose badge on his shoulder. ‘If I knew the answer to that I would hardly tell you,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Will you join him if he does?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He half-smiled at the tit-for-tat reply. ‘It seems these wars between the roses are fought on perhapses.’

  ‘It is a pity they are fought at all. Too many good men die unnecessarily as a result.’ I took a gulp of wine.

  John studied me seriously over the rim of his cup. When he lowered it he said, ‘One of my retained knights is Sir Gerald Copley. He asks for you everywhere he goes; says you abducted his sister and boasts that he will kill you in revenge.’

  ‘Is he here in Middleham?’ I asked, hoping the alarm I felt did not show.

  John made a face. ‘No. I do not find him pleasant company. I sent him to Sheriff Hutton. I take it you would rather he did not discover your whereabouts.’

  ‘Correct. I fear for my wife’s safety if he finds out.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, the queen has recently issued another order of array, in her son’s name of course, so I imagine most fighting men will be heading south quite soon. Personally I do not like conscription.’

  ‘I do not like the way conscripts fight,’ I said. ‘Why has she done that?’

  ‘I imagine it is a precaution, in case York and Warwick attempt an invasion.’

  ‘Can a man invade his own country?’

  ‘A traitor is considered an alien.’

  ‘The Duke of York is a cousin of the king. Do you consider King Henry an alien?’

  He did not answer that but walked back around his desk and sat down. When he spoke again the subject had changed.

  ‘When you next see Cicely, will you give her a message for me?’

  ‘I will, of course, but it may not be for months, or even years,’ I replied. ‘I hope it is not urgent.’

  His lips twitched. ‘No, it is not urgent. Just tell her that I have a son now and he is called Ralph. He is five years old. I hope she will be pleased.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I think she will be.’ I placed my empty cup back on the chest. ‘With your permission I will take my leave now, my lord. Thank you for the wine.’

  Lord Neville inclined his head. ‘Goodbye, Sir Cuthbert. I am glad to have met with you. I am sorry we cannot be friends. In different circumstances I think we might have been.’

  I reserved judgement but I thought about his last words as I rode home. He was a Neville and a northerner, as was I. Yet I had chosen to pledge my allegiance to the Duke of York, who was a southerner, a Plantagenet nobleman of the old school. Richard dealt fairly with his feoffees and followers but at the same time assumed an inherent superiority. He prided himself on being a lawgiver, an administrator, as well as a soldier. He could be noble and magnanimous. He was admirable but not attractive. I realized that the half of me that was a northern commoner, my maternal inheritance, liked a touch of flamboyant charm in those he was asked to serve. I had pledged my loyalty to York because of Cicely, not because of Richard; the Neville half of me was glad to be one.

  It was August before the news from the south began to stir my sense of knightly obligation. I would go frequently to Middleham to gather news and come back more unsettled every time. In June the townsfolk secretly celebrated the landing of Dick of Warwick and Edward of York in Kent and then in July they openly cheered on hearing news of their victory over the Lancastrian army at Northampton.

  Following Northampton the king had become effectively a prisoner in the Tower of London and the queen and prince had fled into Scotland. England held its breath, wondering what would happen next, waiting for Richard to come from Ireland.

  Walking around the barmkin in the evening to shut the chickens and ducks in their coops for safety against marauding foxes, Hilda asked, ‘Has there been good news or bad?’

  I had spent an hour in the Spread Eagle Inn that day. ‘The latest news is momentous,’ I told her, ‘more momentous even than the achievement of Dick and Edward at Northampton. Richard is coming back to claim the throne. A Parliament has been summoned for October. Cicely has been in London for a month now and I believe that any day I could receive a summons from her. If I do, Hilda, I shall not be able to stop myself from going; unless of course you stop me.’

  Hilda said nothing immediately but took my hand and led me to a mounting block set against the side wall of the bastle. We sat down on its steps side by side, gazing out across the barmkin at the view of the dale. Our backs were against the still-warm stone and the sun was setting below the ridge of the high moor, spraying the sky with wisps of pink cloud. The hillsides were patched with russet-coloured bracken and dotted with boulders that had long ago lost their hold on the steep crags higher up. As always, the beck behind us sang its gurgling tune as it tumbled over the rocks in the Red Gill.

  I thought she was going to ask me how I could leave this place, which was so beautiful, whether in snowfall, sunshine or sunset, but she did not. Instead she posed different questions altogether. ‘Do we want our children to be yeoman farmers or gentlefolk, Cuddy? Should they learn how to shear sheep and make cheese or wield a sword and run a household? At the moment they are going to be neither cheese-maker nor sword-wielder.’

  I turned to her with knitted brows. ‘I thought you wanted them to put down roots in the north-country,’ I said.

  ‘We can do both,’ she answered. ‘Cicely would take me back into her service and Aiden could become a page. You have more years to give in her service too and Marie could make a good marriage. It is very likely that Cicely is going to be queen, Cuthbert! We would be mad to turn our backs on such an opportunity for our children.’

  ‘Are you saying that we should all go to London?’

  ‘I am saying that we should all follow Cicely, wherever that takes us. We can come back to Red Gill from time to time and your nephew will run it perfectly meanwhile, with a little more help.’ She made an expansive gesture. ‘This dale will not go away. It will always be here.’

  I thought of myself at Aiden’s age, being taken from Coverdale into the princely household at Raby. There had been so much to learn and so many wonders to see and hear. I should not deprive my son of the same opportunity that my father had given me. And Marie was the daughter and granddaughter of knights. She should marry into her own class. Hilda was right. If Cicely called me we should all go.

  I planted a kiss on her lips and tweaked the peak of her housewife’s coif. ‘You will have to look out your finery, my lady,’ I said. ‘And I will have to get a shave and a hair cut.’

  Two weeks later, a courier wearing the York crest brought a package. Cicely must have gathered her London household again at Baynard’s Castle I thought as I tore at the falcon and fetterlock seal. Something heavy fell into the palm of my hand. It was the white rose brooch she had unpinned from my hat on our last night at Ludlow. Her message read:

  From Cicely, Duchess of York to Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, greetings.

  The Wheel of Fortune has turned, my fai
thful brother. Edward is with me in London and Richard is on the way from Ireland. He has asked me to meet him at Hereford in the middle of September. We will travel together in procession to Westminster, where a Parliament has been summoned and where he says he will claim the throne. I need you with me, Cuddy, and Hilda too, if she will come. Send me your answer by return and pin this brooch again to your hat. Wear it with pride. By God’s good grace, when we meet again the House of York will be in its rightful place at last.

  Take care on the journey. Many still wear the red rose.

  Your loving sister,

  Cicely

  PS You may not have heard that sadly our little Ursula died during our imprisonment at Maxstoke Castle. We took her for burial beside Henry, William and John at Fotheringhay. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  Written at Baynard’s Castle, London, this day August 24th 1460.

  41

  Westminster Palace, London, October to December 1460

  Cicely

  It was very strange to be living in the royal apartments at Westminster, almost like playing in a masque. At any moment I expected someone to come and take away my costume and jewellery and tell me that the entertainment was over; and that was still perfectly possible.

  We had ridden in a glorious procession to London surrounded by hundreds of liveried men-at-arms and a phalanx of York knights with the white rose prominent on their banners. Richard had provided a splendid litter for me, like a great gilded tester bed slung between four pairs of white horses and hung with blue velvet curtains. He rode ahead of it in full armour on a dapple-grey charger with red and gold trappings, the great sword of state borne before him as if he had already been crowned. I told him how I much preferred to ride on a horse and that it was unlucky to assume the crown before the coronation but, as so often in those days, he was in no mood to listen. His belief in the power of pomp and show drove him on remorselessly. He had festered in the Dublin Pale and on his Ulster estates for nearly a year, receiving a constant flow of information from his spy network in England and straining at the invisible fetters that kept him in Ireland. Being attainted and put under sentence of death for treachery had been the last straw. He no longer wanted simply to reorganize the government of England and reclaim his lands and revenues. He no longer saw it as his duty to rule but as his right. He wanted to rid the country of its useless king and poisonous queen.