by Anne O'Brien
War! Bloodshed! Death!
Once more we have to report a battle that has stained the fair fields of England near the town of Northampton, on the banks of the River Nene in the sacred environs of Delapre Abbey.
Those who hoped that the flight of York and the Nevilles after Ludford Bridge, and the subsequent attainder of this treasonous family, would bring an end to any conflict were misguided. Those who hoped that King Henry would be left to rule in peace were misled. We understand that many of you care little who rules, as long as you are safe from lawless mobs, and your properties are not despoiled in battle or siege. For those of you who have an interest, the Neville Earls of Salisbury and Warwick are back in force with the youthful Earl of March.
What do we see on the field of conflict?
Well over a thousand men dead. A defeat for the Lancastrians. Their army is destroyed, their captains hunted down and hacked to death. The ground sodden with rain, the gunpowder of the Lancastrian guns rendered useless, the whole lasted no more than a half-hour when Grey of Ruthin turned from Lancaster to York, betraying the royal forces by helping the Yorkist troops to find a way through the royal defences. Those Lancastrian soldiers who tried to escape across the swollen River Nene drowned in the deluge.
A disaster! Unless you are a supporter of York.
What happens now?
Where is the King?
We do not know. The Queen took him to the battlefield, but we have no news of his fate.
Nor was the Duke of York seen in the heat of the conflict. Was he even there?
By the time you read this, we may be better informed.
We pray for the King’s good health.
Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from the Yorkist camp in London
We have a victory!
Before all else, Cis. For your comfort. Your family all survived the battle and fought with courage. Any rumour to the contrary is false. Warwick sent a fast courier from the battlefield.
King Henry was taken captive in his tent, where he was discovered on his knees in prayer. Marguerite and the young Prince have fled to Wales to take refuge in Harlech Castle which is under the control of Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke. We will deal with that later. The Great Seal of England has been placed in the hands of my son George Neville, Bishop of Exeter.
We are in control, Cis. We will command the future.
I regret that the Queen was allowed to escape. For now we must rejoice at justice being seen to be done.
The King is being brought to London, a prisoner, under Warwick’s aegis, where some form of government will be made with Henry’s agreement, willing or otherwise. It gives me hope that the bloodshed might end and the rights of inheritance of York and Neville be recognised. In that royal pavilion on the battlefield, Warwick was exemplary in his efforts to smooth over past differences, kneeling before King Henry, asking forgiveness, as he restated our loyalty to him. Ned, because of his young age, had not yet sworn his fealty to the King. There on the battlefield, full of solemn dignity, he took the oath.
I would ask you one question, Cis, although I fear that you are in the dark as much as I. Where is York? All we had planned, to join forces to demand restitution from Henry, has collapsed. York has not, as far as I know, left Ireland.
What in God’s name is he thinking?
All we have achieved, all we have fought for, was done without him. London was taken in the name of York. The rotting heads of Yorkist supporters have been removed from their ignominy on London Bridge. But where is he? God’s Blood, Cecily! Why is he not here, fighting at our side? Why is he not here to remind our citizens of his name and his face, his rightful heritage beside the King?
It drives me to improper language, and I ask your pardon.
On a calmer note, wherever he is, whatever devious plotting is engaging his mind, you are now free to return to London. There is no longer any compulsion for you to remain at Tonbridge Castle with our sister.
I do not yet know the names of the Lancastrian dead. I think in some quarters it will not be good news. The common soldiery was spared, but not the commanders, which was Warwick’s policy from the start.
Be prepared for some sad losses. It is all part of the terrible aftermath of the battlefield.
Your brother,
Salisbury
Duchess Cecily faces death at Tonbridge Castle, July 1460
My sister Anne looked as if she had been struck on the head with a poleaxe.
I did not know who had informed her, but by the time I found her it had been done. Nor was it done with any compassion. Probably announced to her by a harassed courier, as bleakly as any death on a battlefield might be reported. She had dismissed her women. Spine straight, shoulders firm, Anne stood at the window and looked out to the north. She might have been listening to some voice, which was not audible to me, or perusing some distant scene that only she could see. There was no expression on her face. Like all Nevilles she had an inner strength to weather storms and torments.
She had loved him. She had not made great fuss by it, but I knew that over the years he had grown to be the very centre of her life. Now her husband, the powerful Duke of Buckingham, was dead. A man of integrity, of honour; a man of high temper, it is true, but also of humour and compassion. He was cut down as he attempted to protect our worthless King, who had not even emerged from his pavilion to face the enemy.
‘I did not love him,’ she informed me no sooner had I opened her door, her face still angled away from me. ‘Not as you love Richard. But he had all my respect. And affection.’ She swallowed, now covering her face with her hands in despair. ‘I think that I did indeed love him.’
I walked to stand beside her. I did not touch her. I thought she might disintegrate if I did. All the animosity that had built between us melted away into a useless puddle at our feet. She was my sister, the most beloved, and she needed me.
Slowly, allowing her hands to fall away, Anne turned her head to look at me.
‘Humphrey is dead.’ Tears that she made no effort to control spilled down her cheeks. ‘Cut down in the battle,’ she said, her voice flat as if recording an event which was of little account to her. ‘He was defending the King who had taken refuge in his tent.’
How I wished, with some savage response to my sister’s misery, that Humphrey had lost his life, if so he must, in defence of a worthier man.
‘He’s dead, Cecily.’
The tears dripped faster, marking the fine velvet and fur edging of her bodice. Her hair was pleated and pinned but still uncovered, tendrils damp against her cheeks.
It broke my heart.
‘Oh, my dear.’
I put my arms around her and she wept as if her heart were broken, too. As perhaps it was.
Regardless of dignity, of the stuff of our garments, we sank to the floor, my arms around her, her face buried against my shoulder, reconciled at last through her loss and grief. I stroked her hair that was fast becoming unpinned, murmuring useless words of comfort, trying to imagine my own mourning if the news had been that Richard had been cut down on the battlefield. When one of her women knocked softly and opened the door, I shook my head so that it was closed again, equally quietly. All I could do was allow Anne to weep. There was nothing I could say in comfort, nothing I could do but pray for her ease of heart.
This was her moment of sorrow. She must offer it up alone, through her tears, for her dead husband.
At last the sobs quieted until they were no more than a hitch of breath and Anne applied a square of linen, which I had pushed into her hand, to mop up the ravages. She began to talk.
‘When they fought in France, it was always easy to fear the worst. You must know that, Cis. How often was Richard away on campaign when you were settled in Rouen? Months at a time. And you were so young. In Ireland, too. But we never expected conflict on our own soil, did we? It seems so much worse; family against family, English lord against English lord. A
t least when the enemy is French we can justifiably detest them. But these are my own people. The campaign plotted by my own nephew Warwick was responsible for Humphrey’s death.’ Another sob threatened. ‘I lost my son in the aftermath of St Albans. Now I lose my husband. I know not whose hand it was that cut him down. I don’t think I wish to know.’
‘It is said that it was done by a force of Kentishmen, under Warwick’s command,’ I said. I thought she might indeed wish to know, being so close to home.
She might have sobbed again, but controlled it.
‘I am so sorry, Anne,’ I offered, pushing her hair from her cheeks and throat, realising for the first time that the soft brown hue was now marked with strands of grey. How the years passed by without our realising it. It made me grip her hands hard, as if to anchor us both to this moment.
Anne’s gaze sharpened, she pushed herself from my embrace. Her voice had acquired a sharp edge, too. ‘Our brother and nephew, and your son, are unscathed. It was a victory for the House of York. The King is in Yorkist hands and the Queen is fled with the Prince. All due to Warwick’s bloody strategy.’
‘I know.’
I could make no excuses. Nor would I even try. The Queen had, equally callously, condemned the menfolk of our family to death. But one piece of news she should know. I gripped her hands once more, to still them on her lap.
‘Katherine’s husband, John Beaumont, met his end on the battlefield. I imagine that Warwick had no intention of allowing him to live.’
‘I doubt she’ll miss him,’ Anne replied with vicious lack of compassion. ‘She had no love for him.’
‘No.’
‘Three husbands dead and buried.’ Bitterness still spiked her tongue. ‘Will she look for a fourth to share her old age?’ But then the grief returned, the overwhelming sorrow for all we had lost. ‘Where will it end?’ Anne wailed. ‘Who will be the next to die? Our family is ripping itself into shreds.’ Then her tone hardened. ‘No need for you to weep yet, Cis. But one day I swear that you will.’
It was like the clang of the mourning bell. It struck home, as she knew it would, and my hands fell away from hers.
‘Oh, you have lost children,’ she continued. ‘All so young, barely before they drew breath. I am not lacking in pity for you. To lose infants before they have lived to the end of their first year is tragic. But it’s not like losing a son and husband on a battlefield, hacked down by an enemy who is of your own blood. Was your husband York even there?’
‘No,’ I admitted. I had heard nothing of Richard.
‘Perhaps you should give thanks that he was not. At least he is alive.’
And then, her face twisted in anguish: ‘Listen to me. I am wishing death on the Yorkists. Am I no better? It is like a disease, a plague that infiltrates every nook and cranny and drags us all down. I swear that I have been as much your enemy as the most fervent Lancastrian, even the Queen. And I am ashamed.’
I stroked her arm, relieved when she did not flinch. ‘My heart weeps for you, Anne,’ I said. ‘How can we take opposite sides?’
But Anne was now distracted by the terrible practicalities. ‘The new Duke will be our grandson Henry. He is four years old. It is too great a burden for such a young age.’ Wiping her tears on her sleeve, she closed her fingers into my sleeves like a raptor’s claw. ‘Shall I live to see him die on a battlefield, too?’
I sat with her as she fell into restless dreams, incapable of offering her any comfort. Anne had enough living sons and daughters to give her consolation, enough to keep any woman busy, but that was no solace for her loss. She was right. We had lived with war for so long, in France, in Ireland. But here on English soil it is so much worse. I wondered if Katherine had after all wept for John Beaumont. I did not think so.
I could not contemplate Richard’s death.
I allowed my rosary to slip through my fingers, bead after bead, as I lifted all whom I loved into the Blessed Virgin’s care. How accurate Anne had been in her grief. We were tearing our family and England apart.
The rosary prayers came to their allotted end with the final coral bead. It was the rosary that Anne had coveted. I had not expected to use it in her household to mark the death of one so close to her.
Prayers complete, I began to make plans.
Chapter Nine
The Restoration of the House of York Gains Momentum
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Edward, Earl of March
Written from Tonbridge Castle, September 1460
Ned!
Drag your mind from battles and conquest for one moment and listen to me.
I have a need to return to London.
Find me somewhere to stay. Is there any reason why I should not leave Tonbridge, since King Henry no longer has jurisdiction over me? I think not. I have had my fill of captivity.
Are you still outlawed, or has the attainder been reversed now that the King is no longer in control? I have not heard, but since Salisbury has broken the siege of the Tower of London, the residents preferring surrender to starvation, what is to keep me here?
I am bringing Anne with me. I think that she might wish to go on to pay her respects to Humphrey at his grave in the Church of the Grey Friars in Northampton. You might send for Katherine to join us, too. Three sisters together; it is many years since that was so. I regret it is to fulfil such a melancholy task.
It is my preference to stay at Baynard’s Castle. It is comfortable and large enough to accommodate any visitors. I would be grateful if you could have it arranged and all put in order for me.
Have you heard from your father? I have no idea where he is or what he is doing.
Your affectionate mother,
Cecily, Duchess of York
I am of course relieved beyond measure that you survived the battlefield at Northampton. Did I need to say that?
England’s Chronicle, September 1460
For those who are interested in the bellicose movements of the families of Neville and York: our Duchess Cecily of York is on the move.
Where will she take up residence? We understand at Fastolf Place on the banks of the Thames in Southwark, a very comfortable and secure dwelling, all enclosed with a buttressed wall of new bricks. The Duchess of York wished to go immediately to Baynard’s Castle, but her son the Earl of March insisted on Fastolf Place as easy to defend with two gatehouses, its own inlet from the river and a private dock. He is obviously concerned with keeping his mother safe from Lancastrian reprisals.
Meanwhile the Yorkists tighten their hold on the capital. George Neville, a wily cleric and brother to the Earl of Warwick, the priest who opened the gates of London to his father’s troops, has been created Lord Chancellor and given the care of the Privy Seal. A neat little Neville coup d’état.
What of King Henry?
All is quiet on that front.
We look forward to welcoming Duchess Cecily to the capital.
Will the Duke of York return now that all the excitement is over? Perhaps his wife knows more than we do.
Richard, Duke of York, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from Dublin to Fastolf Place, September 1460
To my well-beloved Cecily,
The time is right. All is now in place for my return.
When you read this, Edmund and I will have landed, near Chester if the winds and tides are in our favour.
Here are my immediate commands. I require you to join me. I will travel to Ludlow. And then on to Hereford, before turning my face towards London and my true inheritance.
Come to me in Hereford.
Time is of the essence. Arrange your travel forthwith. I enclose instructions for you to give to Ned’s Steward. Tell him to obey it to the letter. You will not arrive here in the Welsh March unnoticed.
Of course you have my love and admiration, as always.
Forgive the brevity of this. There is much demand on my time. My courier carries money to pay for your journey. There is nothing for you to do but set out.
Wear the jewel that I have enclosed.
I regret Buckingham’s death.
He is a loss to England. I could have worked with him. Was he not of our own blood through his mother, granddaughter of the third King Edward? Buckingham was a true Plantagenet. Express my consolation to your sister.
Your affectionate husband,
Richard, Duke of York
Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard, Duke of York
Written from Fastolf Place to Ludlow Castle
My lord,
In some haste to settle the care of our children before I make my leave. Which you, of course, found no time to consider.
Now it has been done, I have made arrangements.
The Steward’s grizzled brows met above his formidable nose when I handed over the instructions. He said he had seen nothing like it in all the years of service to our family. The last I saw of him he was issuing orders, loud enough to wake the Devil. His minions were scampering while George and Diccon were getting under his feet.
I will travel with all the panoply that you have demanded.
I will be with you forthwith.
Why Hereford? I can think of better accommodations. Nor do I comprehend why you should need me there. If you have returned, why not just come to London and meet me here?
I expect there will be a reason. I will come, a perfect image of wifely obedience, wearing the jewel.
Cecily
Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York
Written from the Palace of Westminster
I regret that you cannot travel with me to Northampton. I had hoped for your stalwart if acerbic company, now that we are to some degree reunited in spirit.
Before I left Fastolf Place, I saw the arrangements taking shape. I am astonished at the level of ostentation. What was wrong with the litter we used to bring us there from Tonbridge? I dare not estimate the cost of all this. Some would say that it is an outrage. What sort of statement is this to be, from a traitor’s family?