by Anne O'Brien
In effect you are now homeless, penniless, powerless: wife of a traitor.
The Queen has achieved your legal and financial ruin. You are stripped of everything: estates, honours and dignities.
I know that this will hurt you. You once had a close and loving relationship with the young woman who has since become bellicose and vengeful. Sadly the atmosphere in this parliament has erupted into one of vicious family division. Viscount Beaumont, your brother by law and one-time fervent supporter of York, was one of those most outspoken in the destruction of York and the Nevilles. It is no surprise that parliament is named the Parliament of Devils.
I have no notion whether King Henry agreed with this wholesale condemnation of his cousin of York. Whether he did or not, whether it was Marguerite’s guiding hand, or even the malign influence of Somerset, Henry’s royal seal was put to it.
The immediate anxiety for you is whether you will be attainted, too. If you are branded traitor, what will be the future for your three youngest children? Your household, tenants and retainers also deserve your immediate consideration. They will suffer for their loyalty to the House of York unless you grasp your duty to them.
Get yourself here to Coventry. Put on your finery as Duchess of York, jog the King’s memory of the Love Day parade, and remind him of your royal blood. I’ll do what I can for you, but as you know full well, my loyalties remain with Lancaster. I will not desert my fealty to the King.
You can’t stay in Ludlow behind your walls in the face of this disaster.
Your concerned brother by law,
Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham
Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary
Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.
Holy Virgin, guide my steps. Give your blessing to my decisions. Soothe my fears.
Keep safe my beloved Richard and my sons. And my brother and nephew.
You are the only source of help in this time of need.
What do I do?
I know it will entail much bending of the knees and a severe attack on my dignity. It is, I suspect, the price I must pay. I must accept the blame showered by the Queen on my bent head. Better that than an axe to my neck.
In gracious thanks for your mercy,
Amen
To Henry, his most noble grace, my Sovereign Lord the King, from his unworthy subject Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Ludlow Castle
I regret, your grace, the terrible rift that has opened up between our families.
I ask permission to approach you to beg mercy, for myself and all those dear to me who would profess their sworn allegiance.
I call on the Plantagenet blood that binds us together.
Your most loyal subject,
Cecily, Duchess of York
Henry, King of England, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry
To Cecily, my well-loved cousin,
We will be pleased to welcome you here at our Court in Coventry, small as it is.
I have tender memories of the past, when you and your family were the counsellors to whom I turned, before the sad circumstances that afflict us at present.
I will listen to your plea for mercy and respond as you would hope.
You need not fear for your own safety or that of your young children whom you may bring with you. You will be made welcome and given suitable accommodation.
Henry
Marguerite, Princess of Anjou, Queen of England, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Madam,
My lord Henry and I have spoken of this together. He will be guided by me, whatever the tone of his reply to you.
What is it that you require from us? There can be no mercy for Richard, Duke of York. Nor for Salisbury or Warwick. Their flight is true evidence of their guilt. The same applies to your sons.
Did they not raise arms against us? Will the fair realm of England be forever torn apart by York and his minions?
Do not mention the fiasco of the Love Day in my hearing.
Unless you can deliver the guilty menfolk of your family, and particularly your husband, into our hands I see no value for your journey to Coventry.
Where is Duke Richard? I expect that you will say that you do not know. I find it hard to believe that you have not had word of him. Where are your sons? Unless we deal with them now in their early years, they too will grow to be traitors to the realm.
What a troublesome family you have, Duchess Cecily.
Unless you can bring them to royal justice, you will not be welcome. You will put your own freedom in jeopardy if you come to my lord’s Court at Coventry. If he has offered you safety in your travelling, I would advise you that he is not in a position to guarantee it.
I neither expect nor need a reply to these instructions.
Marguerite, Queen of England
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham
Written from Ludlow Castle
Dear Humphrey,
I dare not travel to Coventry.
I confess to you, where I would not speak of it elsewhere, to cowardice. I see no hope from Marguerite who regards me as some species of vermin, warning me against travelling. She has developed a surfeit of Angevin pride of late, although perhaps it was always there, waiting to emerge.
Unless the situation changes, I stay in Ludlow. If I come to Coventry I think I would find myself incarcerated at royal pleasure.
Do you have any news of Richard? Or of my brother and his family? I have none.
I feel that I am ensconced on an island in the middle of a hostile sea.
I have plenty to occupy my time here. The sack of Ludlow has left many in need. The state of my castle is beyond my description.
Your sister by law, in fear,
Cecily
Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry
Cecily,
Here could be the answer to all your prayers, although it will not help Richard or your sons. I enclose a copy with my courier. Please reply by return.
Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham
Hoping to give you some encouragement on your island.
Royal Proclamation
By the hand of the King
Appertaining to those traitors who raised their standards against me at the Battle of Ludford Bridge
Issued by me on the last day of November 1459
In a fervent desire to restore peace to this unsteady country
By my royal will and pleasure
A royal pardon will be granted to all rebels willing to submit before me, in my royal presence in Coventry, within eight days of the issuing of the proclamation
Henry R
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham
Written from Ludlow, by the hand of your exhausted courier
Humphrey,
I am coming to Coventry.
I put myself in your safekeeping if this pardon proves false and it is a trap. I will also consign your Lancastrian soul to the Devil!
Cecily, Duchess of York
Chapter Four
Confrontation between York and Lancaster
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard, Duke of York
Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry, November 1459
I am in Coventry, at Henry’s Court, and the children are with me.
Before you explode in righteous fury that I should leave the safety of Ludlow, I am gambling our safety, the whole of our future, on Henry’s promise of a pardon. Buckingham says it is worth the risk, and I must believe him.
Will I ever see you? Once again I am sending this letter in pure unsubstantiated hope that you and Edmund are safe in Dublin. I have had no word of you, or of Salisbury, Warwick and Ned. For all I know you might be at the bottom of the sea in a chance storm, but I must hold fast to the fact that you are not and are ensconced in some degree of luxury in
the old apartments in Dublin where we enjoyed happier times.
I live in a constant state of alarm, Richard. Every day Henry’s revenge hangs over us, but we knew that, didn’t we, when we stood firm against the royal favourites?
I have done all I can by claiming Henry’s pardon at Coventry before the given day. Did you know that he had done this? I fear it is the Queen’s influence that the time is deliberately too short for you and my brother and nephew to return and claim their grace. I do not know how efficient your couriers might be in bringing news.
If you are employing them, perhaps you might find time to contact me. I would value, more than you might imagine, some communication with you.
When I arrived at Coventry, at Humphrey’s urging, Henry was seated in some degree of state in the bishop’s chair, backed by tapestries most aptly chosen to fill me with dread, stitched with the detail of blood and pain of Christ’s suffering at the crucifixion. The setting might be one of wealth and power, but it has to be said that Henry’s garments left much to be desired for a King: plain and drab, more monkish than regal and with much scuffing around the hem. Open on his lap was a missal, as if he would rather be reading the holy words than dealing with recalcitrant subjects. Unfortunately for me, Marguerite was by his side, clearly in queenly mode, with Somerset smirking behind her shoulder. Henry smiled in greeting. When Marguerite did not, I knew that this would be a difficult meeting. I concentrated on the King for therein lay my redemption.
I sank to my knees, submitting to his mercy, claiming the pardon he had offered, for you, for Ned and Edmund. Henry’s smile widened as if he would truly welcome me. He tilted his head, then opened his mouth to reply. He was still smiling when Marguerite’s hand moved to overlie his where it rested on the carved arm of the chair. The touch immediately silenced whatever he might have said. His eyes slid to her face then back to me, his brow furrowed as he spoke at last, his voice hesitant as he rejected any hope of mercy for you. How could he pardon a man who had raised arms against him? He spoke the words as tritely as a well-trained popinjay. Marguerite nodded her approval, while I began what I knew, deep within me, would be a negotiation that would bear no fruit. I had considered my approach, summoning all my wit and persuasive skills. There had been no bloodshed at Ludford Bridge. There had been no battle. The King must never doubt the Duke of York’s ultimate loyalty.
Henry still frowned at me, yet he raised his free hand, the one not gripped by his wife, to beckon me to rise. Only to be denied by Marguerite who insisted, in tones as cold as the stones on which I knelt, that, if you, Richard, wish to achieve a pardon, you must appear in person to bow the knee.
So there you have it. It is an invitation to return and sue for mercy, but not one I think you will clasp to your bosom. I would trust Henry but Marguerite will not be moved. You would assuredly be cast into a cell.
Fearful of wearing out the royal patience, I could not petition for my brother and nephew. But for myself and my children I must. It seemed that Marguerite would keep me kneeling until the clap of doom, yet still I kept my spine rigid, my chin raised.
I asked what I knew you would need me to ask. Mercy for myself and our young children, who are entirely innocent. I raised my hand to indicate the small figures where they stood behind me, where I had left them just within the door, surrounded by royal guards as if they might leap to attack the royal party. I begged a pardon for the people of our household who are under my orders and have never proven ill-motivated to the King. Thus I threw all of us onto the insecure lap of Henry’s infinite mercy.
I had never begged so much in my life. In that day I subsumed all my pride to need. And even as I asked I knew that all would rest with Marguerite. Still less than thirty years to her name, still slight of build, but she has gained an uncompromising maturity since I last set eyes on her. She holds the life of so many in her pretty hands, sparkling with royal gems. Would she allow them to be covered with blood, our blood?
Throughout the whole, the Queen remained silent and intractable, her dark eyes gleaming with the hardness of frost, but at least Henry was moved so that he stood, tucked the missal under his arm and came to lift me to my feet, promising to consider my plea, offering me hospitality until it has been decided what to do with us.
I can give you no hope, Richard. Marguerite’s influence will reign supreme, and I have stepped on the hornets’ nest, dragging the children with me into peril. Somerset merely basks in an air of satisfaction. There has been no opportunity to speak with Henry alone. If Marguerite is not with him, then Somerset will be.
Meanwhile I am comfortably ensconced in a room in the Bishop’s Palace, hoping for an opportunity to get this letter to you. I think I have found a discreet Yorkist supporter in the Bishop’s household, a priest who can be trusted if my letter is accompanied, extortionately, by a gold noble. There is no lock or bolt on the door but there is a man posted outside it, and he is no priest; he bristles with weapons, as if I might fight my way out.
My final advice: don’t come back. Not yet. To do so would be your death. Marguerite is not to be trusted.
The children are in health. My love for you needs no expression. You behold me driven by a determination to plead our cause in the face of rank hostility.
Cecily
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard, Duke of York
Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry
Following hotfoot after my previous letter. If they both arrive with you at the same time, the vagaries of travel being what they are, read this one first.
This morning I was requested to attend an audience in Henry’s private chamber, utterly relieved to discover he was alone except for a discreet body servant who retreated to some minor task. Henry walked towards me, his hands were warm around mine. I knew that he had decided. Regrettably he was at his most loquacious, intent on discussing the weather, his reading from his missal, and what he had eaten to break his fast.
And I am wasting time in not telling you the whole!
You, my dear love, and our sons, Ned and Edmund, remain disastrously attainted, because you have threatened Henry’s sovereignty too highly. I doubt it will come as much surprise to you. To raise arms against an anointed King is treason for all to see, and thus Henry has been advised that you must be punished. Our Neville relatives, also. Salisbury and Warwick are attainted, too. The pardon offered was an empty one and can never apply to you.
But I, thank God, am blessed. I and our youngest children are deemed innocent of all such treason. Henry was gracious and noble enough to grant me a pardon. And although our estates remain sequestered and in royal hands, I am granted the sum of one thousand marks paid to me yearly from those lands.
So there it is. A pardon and a more than respectable income for me, but a traitor’s reputation for you. I would not leave Coventry empty-handed; the time spent on my knees had won a specious victory. But when the King abjured me, his precious cousin, to remain a loyal subject, when I silently bent my head as if in agreement, I discovered that I could not embroil myself in such a lie. If I must take the path of traitor, too, so that we might be united, I will willingly do it. I will work steadfastly to do all in my power to smooth your return. By the by, it seems that there will be no restrictions on my movement, which loosened the tight knots of fear that I might be put under some restraint at Court and have to live out my days under Marguerite’s hostile eye. It is in my mind, if I can gain royal permission, to travel to Middleham and do what I can for our household. Our people have been granted life and limb, even if their lands and possessions have been confiscated, which is as much as I could hope for.
Oh, Richard! Was this mess truly of our own making? Was it all worth it?
And why would I not decide to settle my household at Fotheringhay? Because Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, God rot his soul, even though I must claim him as a son by law, has been handed our forfeited castle at Fotheringhay for his own use. I hope that he falls from the battlements. You must return soo
n, if only to get it back from him.
I still don’t know where you are! Have pity on me, Richard! Send me word.
Your loving wife,
Cecily
Duchess Cecily faces Queen Marguerite’s retribution in St Mary’s Priory, Coventry, November 1459
‘The King is too trusting; you should not believe all that he says. I am come here to make all plain to you.’
Words to cut through the vestige of relief that had settled over me. No sooner had I dispatched my letter with another substantial bribe than the door of my chamber opened to a rustle of rich cloth, a light footstep and an intense aroma of musk from her habitual perfume. There, dominating the room with her presence, stood the Queen, accompanied by the King. With a bleak twist of her lips that masqueraded as a smile, she drew me aside towards the window, away from Henry, who picked up a well-worn book, leafing through the pages, divorced from any further communication. His shoulders were hunched, his gaze vague, his face devoid of any emotion that might indicate a knowledge of what his wife intended. I doubted that he would have understood anything that was said, even if he had been standing beside me.
Marguerite regarded me with the attention of a hungry raptor. She had grown into a handsome woman, her dark hair now covered by a beaded and embroidered roll, resting flatteringly low over her forehead, although her high-bridged nose spoke volumes of a dominant will. She was not a woman to relish being thwarted. At least she did not have the advantage of height. Neither of us could boast an impressive stature.
‘The King is generous,’ the Queen advised in the softest of cadences as if she would accept the pardon Henry had just granted me, but then the edge hardened and her lips, smiling no longer, were tight with recrimination. ‘Sometimes he is too naive in giving his trust. You are not entirely free to determine your own future, madam. We are concerned that, given your freedom, you will use it unwisely.’
‘How could I, my lady?’ I queried, instantly wary of what she was planning. ‘I have three young children to care for. I have only the grant so kindly given by the King, as you know. I have no lands, no rents. No title, even.’