by Anne O'Brien
‘We come here, from the sons of this King Edward. He had five sons. Your father is descended from one of those sons, the Duke of York.’
‘I know that I will not inherit my father’s title, even though I have his name,’ Diccon said.
His acceptance rather than childish wistfulness made me smile. ‘You are named for him, but it is Ned who will be Duke of York. You will have your own title when you have grown a little more.’
My eldest son Edward – still Ned in his adolescence – would make an exemplary Duke of York.
I replaced the scroll, locked the coffer and returned the key to the purse, appropriately embroidered with our emblems of falcons and fetterlocks, at my girdle.
‘So our father is royal. We are royal.’ Diccon’s mind was still absorbed in the multi-layered branches of the tree as we left the chamber, even as he hopped with an excess of energy. George raced ahead down the narrow stairway, his voice echoing in a strident farewell, and I let him go. Meg walked with grace at my side.
‘You have Plantagenet blood in your veins, just as King Henry does. From your father and from me.’ It was never too early to instil some sense of pride in their inheritance, as I had learned it at my mother’s knee. My mother Joan, as one of John of Gaunt’s Beaufort children with Katherine Swynford, once disgracefully illegitimate before being restored to respectability, had more than her fair share of pride when she was wed to Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland.
‘Why are we not on the tree as well, if we are all descended from the great King Edward?’ Diccon was asking.
I dropped my hand lightly on his head, ruffling his already ruffled hair.
‘Because we do not rule.’
‘Even though the fourth Henry was a usurper?’
He had remembered the word well.
‘Even though he was a usurper. We do not have the right to rule, and we never will.’
‘To think otherwise would be treason,’ Meg stated with all the smooth assurance of youth and untried loyalties.
Diccon looked to me for confirmation.
‘That is true. We are loyal subjects to the House of Lancaster. The House of York will always be so.’ I spoke what were to become fateful words. ‘Whatever you hear to the contrary, we are loyal subjects.’
There were storm clouds building on our immediate horizon. It was a simple thing to make this declaration of fealty. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold it as a truth.
At this moment there was an army outside our gates, almost within our sights across the river. It was led by Marguerite, Queen of England, who would be quick to cry me false.
Cecily, Duchess of York, to her grace the Queen Marguerite, late of Anjou
Written from Ludlow Castle, on this tenth day of October 1459 Sent by the Duchess’s personal courier, claiming safe conduct for his return with the Queen’s reply
Your grace,
I regret this need to write to you. My lord the Duke of York forbids it, but I cannot ignore the desperate situation in which we find ourselves. Do our armies not face each other, about to engage in battle, on the fields beside Ludford Bridge?
I fear for the outcome, as I am certain you do also. Was there not enough bloodshed less than a month ago at Blore Heath, when two thousand of your Lancastrian troops were slain, including your commander Lord Audley?
It stains my conscience. It must also weigh heavy on yours, your grace.
You will call us traitors, but you must know in your heart that the Duke of York has never been moved by thoughts of treason. Your most royal husband Henry is our King. Nothing can change that. We do not seek his overthrow, no matter what poison the Duke of Somerset might drop in your ear. He may be my Beaufort cousin, but there is much bad blood between the Beauforts and my husband and I would counsel you to beware his advice. Somerset’s only interest is to wipe out York as a rival to his own position as the most influential of royal counsellors.
Because of this, I need to remind you that I have always proved to be a friend to you in the trials of your early days as Henry’s wife, when you were anxious and alone in Rouen, a new bride laid low with illness. Remember when, in your pregnancy, you asked for and received advice because, with children of my own, I was able to give it four-fold. And I gave it willingly, and with much affection and respect for your dignity as a somewhat neglected young wife.
Now those we love and esteem are brought together, by fate, on a battlefield.
As women we can change that outcome. We are not without influence. We should not waste our days in devising vengeance for past slights.
I beg you, your grace, use sweet words to draw our King back from the brink. As I will use mine with my lord the Duke of York.
Your defeat at Blore Heath at the hands of my brother, the Earl of Salisbury, will sit ill with you, but now is the time to negotiate and heal the wounds. If we cannot extricate ourselves from this tangled mess, the fields beside Ludford Bridge may well be soaked in English blood before nightfall tomorrow.
With all humble reverence,
Your lowly servant
Cecily, Duchess of York
Marguerite, Queen of England, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from the royal pavilion at Ludford Bridge, on this tenth day of October 1459
Madam
Your empty words carry no weight with me. When the Duke of York takes up arms against my lord the King on a battlefield, it is treason. I recall your kindness in the past, but those days are long gone, drowned in Lord Audley’s blood. Further death can only be prevented if York is prepared to bow the knee and sue for mercy.
Somerset remains my most cherished advisor. York will do well to remember that.
I have no pity for your present situation.
Marguerite, Queen of England
England’s Chronicle, October 1459
Blood and death on a battlefield, Englishman facing Englishman.
How have we been dragged into this fine goblet of disaster?
Is there anyone alive in this unfortunate country who does not know?
We have a King whose mind is not to be relied upon.
We have a Queen who sees the lure of power for herself and her young son.
We have a royal cousin, the Duke of York, whose views are ambivalent. Does he wish to be an efficient Protector and Counsellor to our sad King? Or does he desire the crown for himself?
Our noble Duke is haunted by a vast array of enemies who will undermine his reputation for honesty and hard work on behalf of the King. The Beaufort Duke of Somerset is the most dangerous. So much for the Love Day travesty of renewed friendship last year, when all erstwhile antagonists walked hand in hand, arm in arm. An event that we would all happily forget since it achieved nothing but a mockery of our King’s attempts to heal the enmity between his most powerful magnates.
Now it seems that the adherents of York and Lancaster will face each other on a battlefield at Ludford Bridge.
We advise you to pray for a fast resolution. For which side you will pray is a matter for your own conscience. Duchess Cecily will be praying hard for her husband, despite the array of Neville relatives who still cleave to King Henry and the Lancastrians.
Cecily, Duchess of York, to her estranged sister Anne, Duchess of Buckingham
Written from our castle at Ludlow, on this tenth day of October 1459
Sister, written in haste so excuse the scrawl and blots,
Do not give up on my letter and consign it to the flames before reading past the first sentence. I am writing to tell you that by the end of tomorrow your sister and her closest family may well be dead in a ditch or taken prisoner as traitors.
I can hear your thoughts already, loud and clear from distant Kent, accusing Richard of desiring the crown for his own supreme ennoblement. Unfair, Anne! That is and never was Richard’s desire, no matter what Queen Marguerite might announce to the world.
The King’s army is outside our gates. I do not know what information you have, but
it would be remiss of you if you allowed yourself to become cut off from these dangerous developments. I feel it my duty to write in warning for we will not emerge from this unscathed, although who will suffer most – you or I – cannot yet be determined.
When we were children, who would ever have predicted that, through marriage, we would have become enemies, cleaving to opposing sides in battle, you for Lancaster, me for York. It wounds my heart, but what is done, is done.
I am presuming that your misguided husband Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, is at this very moment within shouting distance of us here in Ludlow, with the Lancastrian army at King Henry’s side. I can only hope that Henry is not the man for waging war, that he will withdraw and agree to parley, but as Richard says, the King is not always in command of himself, much less his armies.
Neither one of us, Anne, can deny that Henry has proved dilatory in recent years, even when he appears to be in control of his senses.
Richard is confident there will be no battle. He says that we are as well prepared as we could be with ditches and palisades of stakes, with well-set ambushes and traps. We have cannon set in place. Nor will Richard fight, unless provoked beyond reason.
This was Richard’s final reassurance as he left me to inspect the soldiery that inhabit, like a plague of rats, every corner of the town and castle. Which should comfort me, but it does not. Do you think Buckingham might use his considerable weight to persuade Henry to negotiate? I know he is a man of good sense and moderation, if he can but capture the King’s flea-hopping attention from my cousin Somerset’s constant aggression. You should know that Marguerite has refused any kindly intervention. She stands like a beacon on a hill-top, agleam with regal authority and vicious recrimination. All of our past closeness is buried under acrimony and fear.
I am afraid, Anne. My sons Ned and Edmund are with Richard on the battlefield. I know they are of an age to be there, but I fear for them, particularly Edmund who is not as robust as his brother. Meg, George, and Diccon remain here with me at the castle, although George claims he should fight beside his father. He is already almost as tall as I, but then it has to be admitted that I cannot boast of any degree of stature. At this moment he is polishing his weapons.
Oh, Anne, do we not both know what it is to lose children to death? I cannot imagine your grief at the loss of your only son and Buckingham’s heir, from his wounds from a Yorkist sword after the Battle of St Albans. At least you and Buckingham could be consoled that he had a son of his own, your grandson, to inherit the dukedom.
I cannot even consider the loss of my sons to Lancastrian swords, on my own doorstep here in Ludlow.
I do not expect compassion from you. The political rifts have been dug too deep. All I can ask is that you petition the Blessed Virgin and Holy Mother for a peaceful outcome, and understand that it was never my intention to be at odds with you. It is the way the world works when men have ambitions.
From your sister who, despite all, loves you as much as she ever did.
Cecily
Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary
Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
I raise before you the names of those dear to me, who even now stand at the forefront of their forces on the battlefield. In your blessed mercy, preserve them, keep them safe, nurture them in their decisions and bring them safe home. If they must face death, give them courage and fortitude.
I pray that you do not give credence to anything my cousin, Henry Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, might offer up in his prayers. He has proved, in all his dealings with the House of York, to be nothing less than a serpent in the royal grass. He would perjure his soul before telling the honest truth.
Amen
Richard, Duke of York, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Ludford Bridge
Cecily,
Marguerite encourages the King to break out his banners and don armour, as if he were a true soldier and leader in battle, which we know he is not. The King would rather sit in his pavilion and read his missal, but the Queen has him firmly under her heel. I fear that the mummery of the King in full battle array is having the desired effect, filling our troops with awe. There is much desertion, our soldiers abandoning the battlefield to flee or skulk in the streets of Ludlow.
I will negotiate with the King, but never on Somerset’s terms.
Whatever the outcome, never doubt the esteem in which I hold you, nor my dedication to the future of our children. You are the one shining candle in the present darkness.
Richard
Chapter Two
Disaster Threatens the House of York
Duchess Cecily faces her worst fears in Ludlow Castle, the twelfth day of October 1459
It was midnight, the darkest hour when barn-owls called and bats flitted noiselessly, caught as black shadows in the gleam of the guards’ lanterns. I was sitting on my bed, sleepless, book in hand, but the Life of St Maude with her piety and charitable works did not keep my attention, not even her clever involvement in the tenth-century politics of Bavaria. The children were asleep, exhausted by the excitement and tensions in the coming and going of mounted men and cart-loads of supplies.
All my senses leaped into nervous life when there came the distant clatter of a disturbance at the main gate which provided access into the town. I had already cast aside the book by the time a servant, who had been given instruction to keep me abreast of all events, no matter how trivial they might seem, tapped on my door. I dragged a heavy robe over my shift to follow him down the stairs. If it was an opportunistic attack from the royal army I would trust our watchmen to keep the barbican gate closed. But how had a hostile force managed to circumvent Richard’s careful defences and reach the centre of Ludlow? Forcing myself not to run, I climbed to the vantage point at the top of the old gatehouse keep, pulling up my hood over my braided hair.
My throat was dry with fear.
What I saw made my heart thud in a heavy beat, for the barbican gate was already open, distant figures moving in the outer bailey, our guards offering no resistance to these incomers with their escort. There were no banners, no visible heraldic symbols to indicate who they might be.
The beat of my heart thudded loudly in my ears.
A small group, tight-knit, rode across the expanse towards the inner gateway below me. I leaned forward, my fingers curled hard around the coping stones. But then my heart slowed at what I saw. I remained where I was, as they rode beneath me into the inner bailey. I knew exactly who my late-night visitors were in spite of dark enveloping cloaks.
By the time I had descended they had all dismounted, allowing me to pick out a quintet of strained faces as hoods were pushed back or helms removed. A potent mix of Nevilles and Plantagenets. My brother Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, my nephew, another Richard, Earl of Warwick. My sons Edward and Edmund. And Richard, my Richard, Duke of York. Already in urgent and low-voiced conversation, before I could even ask what was happening, Richard left the group, took my arm and pulled me into the guards’ antechamber, dispatching its only occupant with a tilt of his chin.
‘What’s happened?’
My fingers dug into the cloth of his cloak as they had dug into the stone revetment. I could read nothing in his face in the light of the single torch.
‘Disaster.’ His voice was a croak.
‘Why are you all here? Has there been a battle?’
For if it was a disaster, where was the rest of the army? We had heard no noise of conflict or conflagration. For the first time I noted the groove between Richard’s dark brows as he leaned close, his voice low. This was not meant to be overheard.
‘A pardon came, apparently from the King, if we would lay down our arms, a pardon I thought not to be trusted.
It had the imprint of Somerset all over it. Or perhaps the Queen, to lure us into surrender and so into a trap. But Andrew Trollope, God damn his soul to hell, the man in command of Warwick’s main force from the Calais garrison, accepted it, declaiming to his troops that he had never wanted to fight the King in person.’
‘Could he not be persuaded?’
We were both whispering. Whatever had occurred was worse than I could imagine, nor should it be spread abroad.
‘He gave me no chance. The last we saw of Trollope was a retreating cloud of dust, taking his men with him. I took the only decision I thought left to us. I sent a letter to the King, asking for a parley. The reply came back, almost immediately, that he would not. He would do his negotiating with arms and battle in the field.’
‘Did he write it? It doesn’t sound like Henry. Marguerite perhaps.’
‘Who’s to know?’ For a moment he sounded so weary. ‘It will be a battle and without Trollope’s men we are lost. There will be no mercy. I misjudged it, Cis. How could I misjudge it so badly?’ Richard rubbed his gloved hands over his face as if to clear his vision. ‘Henry looked every inch a warrior, standing proudly tricked out in armour under his royal banner. Even his thinning hair managed to gleam in a kingly fashion beneath his crown. Our troops were weak at the knee at the sight. And there it is. We daren’t risk a battle. They’ll all go over to him as their King within seconds of a Lancastrian call to arms.’
I could see defeat, engraved deep in the lines from nose to mouth. His familiar features had become a bleak map of failure.
‘What will you do?’ I knew without asking, but dreaded the reply.
‘We have no choices left. It must be flight.’
I could not hide the horror in my face. ‘You have abandoned your men?’
This was no time for my censure. Many would say it was not the place of a woman to express disparagement, for what developed on a battlefield was man’s work. But this was a step beyond treason against the King. For the puissant Duke of York to abandon his troops was anathema. These were our men, our tenants, our soldiery, born and bred in loyalty to their Plantagenet lord.