by Anne O'Brien
My dearest long-suffering Cecily,
God’s Blood! Your sister has a sharp tongue, even through the medium of her pen.
Once again, I have been remiss. I acknowledge it. It would be dishonest of me to claim my preoccupation with matters of power. Katherine rightly says that my silence is alarming. Surely my fear of any future plans falling into the hands of the Lancastrians does not preclude a letter to my wife. She suggests that the gossip is more damaging than the truth. Edmund, I understand, has been surprisingly informative.
I have no master strategy as yet, but this I can say. It is not my plan to remain in Ireland. It might be safer here for the health of my neck, but my future is in England.
My future is with you.
I will return.
Look for news before the end of August. I know this will be less than satisfying but I am in good heart and I understand that you are, too. I have given Edmund a brief but effective lesson in discretion when addressing his mother. I have also enclosed with this a gift to reassure you that you remain with me, in my heart and mind, at my rising and at my final prayers at the end of the day. I know that you will make use of it.
Your loving but repentant husband,
Richard
Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from Tonbridge Castle
To my dear Katherine,
If you were under the impression that York was neglecting our sister, then it is necessary to revise such an opinion. She has received a letter and a package. She has shown me neither. She keeps one in the bosom of her gown, so its content must be of value to her. The other, the package, she has safe-stowed in her jewel coffer.
I have investigated that package. I have no shame. It is a finely wrought gold crucifix, heavily bejewelled and set over-all with diamonds. If affection can be judged from the weight of bullion and precious stones, then Cecily is well loved. I could wish that Humphrey remembered me in similar glittering terms when he is long absent. As he is at present.
As for our sister, there is also a brightness about her, a liveliness that had become lacking. It is as if an inner candle has been lit, the lines on her brow smoothed out. She was always the most handsome of us all, and now it is evident, despite the passage of years.
I could wish that if York was not going to return, he would have left her alone. Disappointment will only restore her to desolation. I do care for her, regardless of her political malfeasance. She is my sister, after all.
I trust that you remain in good health despite your slippery husband. He might be a staunch Lancastrian, but I cannot like him.
Do I like any of my brothers by law?
Your sister,
Anne
Duchess Cecily experiences a renewal of joy at Tonbridge Castle, June 1460
It was the last day of June, the country somnolent around me with sultry heat, when I sat alone in Anne’s garden, destroying a spire of lavender which I should have been harvesting under my sister’s direction.
‘Idle hands find malicious tasks,’ she informed me as she handed me the basket and shears.
Now bees were busy around me, but I was not. I could hear Anne, distantly engaged in conversation with a delegation of merchants demanding her support over some local squabble. Meg was stitching a new gown in the solar with Anne’s women. Our clothing much depleted, she was delighted with a bolt of velvet from Anne’s store even though her opportunities to wear it were limited.
Running footsteps and loud voices shattered my retreat. George and Diccon. They stood before me and bowed.
‘Mother. Sim says that you must come to the stables.’
‘Sim says?’ It was hard not to be imperious. ‘The mythical Sim again.’
There was a cunning slant to George’s eye. ‘He says it is imperative.’
‘What do you say, Diccon?’ He usually proved to be a solemn fount of knowledge, if not always impartial; Diccon had a youngest child’s eye to his own survival.
‘I say to come. There is a new horse, a huge bay, like Father’s. It needs a name.’ His smile was ingenuous yet still I suspected some youthful plotting, particularly when George nudged his brother with an elbow.
When did I ever obey the dictates of a groom? With no urgent demand on my time, and a curiosity, I stood, brushed the lavender heads from my skirts and followed as they raced ahead. It was too hot for running but I admired their enthusiasm. They were laughing.
Into the warm shadows of the stable, pungent of horse and new-laid straw.
‘So where is Sim? And where is this magnificent animal that I must immediately admire?’
A soft laugh to my left. ‘Here he is, my Lady Mother.’
How would a mother not recognise the voice of her eldest son? I froze. Waiting. All my senses warned me that this was not possible.
‘I hoped you would welcome me,’ he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.
I turned slowly, unable to smile in return, unable to even touch him. I realised that in my hands I still clasped the lavender-basket and shears. My first words were unforgivably as sharp as the blades.
‘What are you doing? No supporter of York is safe here. Buckingham has a commission to assemble every man of Kent capable of fighting, as soon as even one rebel sets foot in England.’
‘Which is why I’m dressed as plain as the merest groom, rather than a son of York.’ All of his father’s confidence.
The basket and shears now fell unnoticed from my hands, the lavender scattering.
‘Oh, Ned.’ At last I embraced him, then put him from me to take stock, my hands gripping his arms. I was forced to look up to survey his face. Had he grown in the months since Ludford Bridge? In that moment he filled my whole world.
‘Are you well? You look well.’ The words tumbled from my tongue. He was vivid with good health. And then, as I absorbed the implication of his presence in Tonbridge Castle’s stable, I felt a surge of joy bubble up inside me: ‘Is this an invasion?’
‘Yes.’
Immediately all my anxiety was back, three-fold. ‘Then even more dangerous.’
I drew him further into the stable, into an empty stall. ‘Did you truly bring a horse?’
‘Of course. I needed an excuse to get me through the gates. One of your neighbours who is quietly Yorkist wrote me a note to guarantee my authenticity. I am bringing the animal for Humphrey’s consideration.’
How young he was. It was naught but an adventure for him, delivering a warhorse into an enemy camp. I did not know where to start with my questions.
‘Tell me. Tell me what has befallen you since Ludford Bridge.’
I pulled him to sit on a heap of straw, regardless of the damage to the high nap of my velvet.
‘We escaped to the Dorset coast, but found it impossible to get to Ireland, so we took ship to Calais where we knew we would have a friendly welcome. From there we’ve been attacking the English coast—’
‘So I’ve heard—’
‘We landed in Sandwich a week ago.’
‘Have you much support?’ I could not wait for Ned to lay his plans out for me to see, my emotions torn between maternal delight, fear for the future, and anticipation for the political manoeuvring which I had so critically missed. ‘What do you intend?’ Suddenly, in my mind, a battle loomed, with all its dangers. ‘Have you come back with an army?’
‘Will you wait, and just listen, madam? I’ll tell you all.’ There was tolerance of my love for him. Waving away his brothers, he spoke fast, low-voiced, with a marked maturity in his choice of words, his clipped delivery reminiscent of Warwick. I felt his dominance, his control of the meeting, with surprise, and not a little alarm.
‘I have scant time.’ Already he was watching the movement of the sun, the creep of the bars of shadow across the floor as the minutes rushed by. ‘This is what you need to know.’
George and Diccon had retreated no distance at all, until I turned my eye on them and they vanished int
o another stall. I expected that they were still listening.
‘From Sandwich we marched to Canterbury. Warwick was right. He said the men of Kent would be pleased to welcome us, despite royal orders to repulse us.’ His eyes were alight. ‘Ha! They opened the gates of Canterbury as soon as they saw us on the horizon. Warwick is popular hereabouts.’ I smiled, detecting a note of hero worship in my son for his thirty-one-year-old much-experienced cousin. ‘Welcoming verses had been pinned to the city gates. Some local wordsmith had put pen to parchment.’ He laughed, struck an attitude with chin raised and fists on hips. ‘Edward, Earl of March, whose fame the earth shall spread. I liked the sound of it. We came with two thousand men and we are collecting more along the way. Warwick says it will top ten thousand by the time we are in London.’
I wondered how often I would hear the phrase ‘Warwick says’.
‘The thing is,’ I said when Ned drew breath, ‘what will you do when you get to London? Is this more treason that you are plotting? Will you challenge the King?’
His voice, supremely confident, fell again.
‘No. We have talked of this. We’ll not take up arms against the King.’
So easy to say, so difficult to accomplish if Marguerite pushed for a confrontation, which she undoubtedly would. My brother and nephew must know this. But Ned was explaining.
‘We have published a list of what we hope to achieve, to win men to our cause. We do not attack the King but rather his disreputable counsellors who tell him that good is evil and evil is good. Henry is being persuaded to hate and destroy his friends.’ I could hear my brother Salisbury’s words here. ‘We’ll be in London by the first week in July – next week, in fact. It is all happening so quickly. We offered prayers at the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket and received the blessing of Archbishop Bourchier who agreed to ride with us. It helps to have family in high office. My Neville uncle and cousin are already marching on to Rochester and Dartmouth. I came here first.’
He took my hands in his. How large they were, like small hams, dwarfing mine. In a moment of softness I lifted our joined hands to my cheek, before releasing him and returning to hard planning.
‘What will you do when you get there? What are Salisbury and Warwick planning?’
I did not know how far they would be prepared to go. A shadow of uncertainty momentarily crossed Ned’s face but his reply was assured.
‘We will negotiate with Henry. Loosen the ties to his so-called friends. We will become the most loyal subjects that he has, and so we will be restored to the King’s right hand.’
It sounded like my brother. But what about Warwick? Would he be ambitious for more? There was an undeniable strength in him. I suspected that leading a flotilla of piratical ships against Somerset was not the height of his ambition.
‘Do you give us your blessing, my Lady Mother?’
‘Of course. But take care. Be sure to winnow your friends from your enemies,’ was all I could say. ‘And thank you. That you found time to think of me. Should I ask why you must make a twenty-mile detour, when Warwick is by now in Rochester?’
‘To see if you needed rescuing, of course. My aunt can be a severe taskmaster.’
It made me laugh, imagining my son insisting to my sister that I should escape with him and join what she would see as a rebel army, riding with them to London, intending to bring down the King’s vicious friends. Who would win the battle of wills? I thought that it might just be Ned.
In that moment in the stable, gilded with dust motes, his hair transformed into a golden cap, his once-broad cheekbones sharpened with maturity, I had the image of riding into London beside my son. Plantagenets and Nevilles returned in glory to put right the attack on their inheritance. It was a breathtaking vision of all I could hope for, a vision I would wish to be part of as Duchess of York. But I shook my head. I would be no help to him at this stage in his journey to adulthood, and perhaps a hindrance.
‘I am safe enough here. Your aunt has no designs on my life and we have come to terms over the extent of my freedom. You must expend all your energies on coming to some agreement with Henry. When you have done that, then send for me.’ My heart lurched at what had not been said through all of our exchange of words. I held even tighter to his hands. ‘What of your father? Are you in communication? Will he join you?’
‘We hear nothing.’ Ned was untroubled. ‘But of course he will come back. All our success hangs with him. He must protest his innocence and loyalty so that our lands and our titles are restored to us. He will return. Do you not believe it?’
He thought me a weak woman prey to fears and rumour.
‘He will return,’ I repeated. I stood, my moments of maternal weakness past. ‘It is time you left, before your aunt has finished with her merchants. Will you be safe? Are you alone?’
‘No, I have a small escort waiting for me beyond the village. I wager I’ll be back soon enough, to open the gates for you. What a dour place this is. How do you stand it? I might just lay claim to the horse, too. It’s one of Warwick’s. No one will know if I take it with me. If challenged I’ll argue that it is unexpectedly lame and no use in battle.’
We were standing. I wished that Ned had not resurrected the thought of battle. Reaching up, I drew his head down and kissed his brow.
‘God keep you safe, my son. May the Blessed Holy Mother walk beside you and give you good counsel.’
He surprised me by sinking to his knees and kissing my hands. His fervent dedication, almost a vow, moved me unbearably.
‘And may She walk with you, too. God grant the day when all will be put right in this turbulent nation and we are reunited. I will fight for the restoration of the House of York, as my father would wish me to do. We will become once more King Henry’s most trusted cousins.’
I watched him go. He bent a little, shuffled a little, transforming himself into a faceless, nameless ostler. No, he was no son of York in that disguise.
‘Will he come and see us again?’ Diccon asked, watching him go.
‘Will there be a battle?’ George added.
All they had received was their brother’s heavy hand clapped to their shoulder in farewell.
‘Perhaps and perhaps.’ I collected the forgotten shears and basket, abandoning the lavender spires on the floor. ‘Now show me this animal that has earned your brother’s admiration.’
Ned had not taken it with him, after all.
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from Tonbridge Castle
My dear long-suffering sister,
I have seen Ned. I have spoken with him. I have held him in my arms.
Such a change in him. He has become as impressive as one of the old Plantagenets, burnished with a gloss of knightly glamour.
Perhaps now Richard will come home.
Suddenly all is falling back into place, but we may not come out of this unharmed. It is so easy to forget that the evil counsellors are our own cousins. The lines of family through Neville blood and marriage are very tight, yet we would sever them without compunction. Sometimes it worries me that we can be so unthinkingly zealous. Blood will assuredly be shed.
And then I recall that we are fighting for our own survival and our rightful place in this realm, which they would deny us.
Your sister, renewed by hope,
Cecily
Chapter Eight
Beleaguered by Blood and Death
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk
Written from Tonbridge Castle, July 1460
After St Albans I hoped never to say this again in my lifetime, but here it is.
There is to be, or perhaps by this time there has been, a battle, to the north of London. News filters through by the usual means of merchants, pedlars and groups of minstrels. Anne has had a letter from Humphrey, which was written to her before any conflict. She is still anxious. She graciously allowed me to read the letter, because Humphrey instructed he
r to do so.
What a kind man he is. I wish Richard were as considerate. Does Beaumont keep you informed?
You should know. Salisbury and Warwick have identified your husband as one of their three mortal and extreme enemies. Their words, not mine. Once he was so closely aligned to Yorkist interests, but then was enticed by royal office, I suppose. He was the obvious ally for Marguerite with her dower lands, centred in Leicester and Kenilworth and Tutbury, close to Beaumont’s acres. It is to be hoped that Beaumont never falls into Yorkist hands.
It is fortunate that you have no deep affection for him.
Here’s what I know.
When Salisbury and Warwick landed at Sandwich, they were quick to proclaim their absolute loyalty to Henry. All their anger is directed at Wiltshire, Shrewsbury and, of course, Beaumont. They are the ones seen to be bolstering the Queen’s power. I expect Somerset’s name will be added to the list before long. With Salisbury is Bishop Coppini, a tame papal legate who, since he is no friend of Marguerite, will give them the support of the church.
Salisbury is left in charge of the siege of the Tower of London which is holding out strongly. Warwick and my son have marched north.
Richard was expected to be returned for this battle, so they say. Did he arrive? Surely I would have heard if he had.
It has crossed my mind to make a bid for freedom, to insist on some transport, even if a mere horse, and ride to London. It appeals in my weaker moments, but common sense will prevail. What if Warwick loses the battle? If so, King Henry and the Queen will once more be in the ascendant and I would be returned to my sister’s threshold in all ignominy. Or I would have to become a fugitive in the wilds of Scotland.
We all live in fear of what will happen on the battlefield. If you hear anything, even if it is only imperfect rumour, please send word. I am in silent distress.
Would it not be better if there can be a reconciliation before they meet in a passage of arms? I fear we have reached an impasse that will only be breached by the spilling of blood.
Your sister,
Cis
England’s Chronicle, the tenth day of July in the year 1460