The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  I wish you well. I regret our last months. It does not help when families are pulled apart, does it?

  I look for your return. May the Blessed Virgin keep you safe from harm, and from the sin of pride. It worries me. What might Richard have in mind? Nor do I think that you will always be a calming influence.

  In all honesty, I had hoped that you would accompany me to Northampton as a safeguard. No one will dare attack the Duchess of York, while the widowed Duchess of Buckingham will be fair game for vindictive Yorkists. I will spend the journey looking over my shoulder.

  Your sister in mourning,

  Anne

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Edward, Earl of March

  Written from Fastolf Place

  Ned,

  I leave George and Diccon here at Fastolf House. And Meg also. Their household is to be trusted and they are well guarded, but I ask you to keep a brotherly eye on them until I return. They should be no trouble to you, but George has an adventurous mind. Both he and Diccon were not anxious to stay behind while I travelled into the west.

  I have warned them that they must not disobey you. If you can take them with you into the City sometimes, it might help, but do not under any circumstances allow them to neglect their lessons. I am sure that you are well acquainted with all the ruses available to a young boy. You and Edmund used them effectively at Ludlow, to drive your governor to distraction.

  Only allow them to go hunting if under your supervision.

  Meg will not be a burden to you.

  When I return, your father will be with me. May the Blessed Virgin be praised. Then we will take our revenge for the humiliation that we all suffered at Ludlow.

  Do not forget that all eyes in London will be on you, as your father’s heir. Do not participate in youthful extravagance that will draw scowls down on the House of York. I wish to hear no news of your frequenting the stews and brothels in the environs of the Thames.

  Your loving mother,

  Cecily, Duchess of York

  Edward, Earl of March, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written somewhere between Baynard’s Castle and the Tower of London

  To my Lady Mother,

  I promise to visit them daily at Fastolf Place, even at the cost to my own convenience. Warwick and I are working together to restore peace in London now that Salisbury has ended the siege of the Tower. Warwick has ambitious plans for the future although he does not tell me the detail of them. I admire him. His reputation blazes like the rising sun on our horizon. He will be the strongest ally we have when my father returns.

  We are aware of the need to make a good impression. I promise there will be no surfeit of ale or flirting with women of ill repute. Any youthful extravagance on my part will be kept well hidden from the townsfolk. We plan a public pilgrimage to Canterbury, taking King Henry with us, to give thanks for the lasting peace. That should do the trick.

  Godspeed, my lady, in your own endeavours.

  You will assuredly blind everyone you meet on the road with the quantity of the gilding on your equipage and the polish on your horses.

  Tell my father that we await him without much patience. It will be good to see Edmund again. The House of York will be united once more.

  Your dutiful son,

  Ned

  Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

  Written from the Palace of Westminster

  Dearest Katherine,

  I was right about York buying our sister’s compliance. Another piece of hefty jewellery, this one to hang around her throat, more suitable for a bishop’s regalia. Not that she doesn’t deserve it, after being abandoned so disgracefully at Ludlow, but why would she be deluded by so obvious a ploy? It would need more than a sacred reliquary to make me travel the breadth of the country, when there really seems to be no need.

  Who knows what plans are afoot in York’s mind?

  Do you come to Northampton to join with me in my memorial? Two ageing widows, suffering similar loss.

  Your sister,

  Anne

  Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham

  Written from Epworth

  Dear Anne,

  Leave Cecily be.

  She knows what she is doing, and if she doesn’t she’ll not thank you for advice. Give it to her when she asks for it, if she ever does. Even you must see that to wear a reliquary containing a piece of the true cross, along every mile between London and Hereford, will give York’s return to England more than a holy blessing. He is, if nothing else, a cunning man.

  I have no plans to come to Northampton. I see little similarity in our loss.

  Keep me informed as to when you are intending to wed again. I never will.

  Your sister,

  Katherine

  England’s Chronicle, September 1460

  Who would have believed it? Can we give credence to what our eyes have seen?

  For those of you who are of a curious nature, it has been noted that a certain lady, of notable royal birth, a lady no longer in confinement, is once again on the move, this time out of London.

  Where could she be going?

  Since she travels west, alone except for a considerable entourage, we can only presume that she intends to make contact with her still absent husband. We hear that he is newly returned from Ireland. A husband who is still an outlaw and attainted for treason.

  Is this indeed the Duchess of York? When last she was travelling into London, hard on the heels of her Neville brother, her son and her nephew, together with their armies, it was in an unassuming litter, noted for much wear.

  Not so now. Here we have a superb show of wealth and magnificence, even regality. Mayhap it is not the Duchess at all, but the Queen herself? Ah, but we hear that the Queen is adrift in Wales, with neither wealth nor magnificence, and very little regality left to her name.

  What would you have seen if you were out and about at an early hour, on the road leading westward?

  Four pairs of fine horses to pull a wheeled travelling-litter.

  But that is not the half of it. All the splendour of blue velvet curtains, of blue cushions, of gilded tassels. It should be pointed out that the particular shade of blue, vibrant in the morning sunshine, has not been chosen by chance. It is one of York’s livery colours. No livery motifs as far as we could see but the ownership was unmistakeable, as was the ostentation.

  Thus our regal traveller is most certainly the Duchess of York. Since her husband, brother and son were stripped of their estates as well as their titles, it is interesting to speculate where the money for such aggrandisement came from. Irish coffers, we presume, containing Irish gold.

  Duchess Cecily is also clad in blue. It becomes her. As does the velvet and ermine cloak which bears the York insignia with a smattering of regal heraldic motifs to enhance the whole. Her hair might be confined in a gilded and jewelled roll, draped over by a short veil, but it might as well have been a crown.

  The writer of this chronicle, who claims lack of bias towards either York or Lancaster, would not suggest any underhand intent by the said Duke and Duchess of York. We will keep you informed of the progress of their return journey to London, so that you might bear witness to this grandeur for yourselves.

  Chapter Ten

  The House of York Is Reunited

  Recorded by the private hand of Cecily, Duchess of York, September 1460

  My heart leaps inordinately as I begin my journey to the west. I am full of hope for we will be reunited at last after almost a year apart.

  Hereford surprises me since its state of readiness for occupation is not good. I expect the linen will need airing if nothing else. I imagine that I can write my name in the dust on coffers and panelling. I doubt that our Steward has taken issue with the rodents in my absence. Why Hereford, of all places? Doubtless Richard has his reasons, to which I am not to be made privy.

  After a year’s absence, Richard is not a
llowing grass to grow under his feet. So I must travel immediately, without knowledge of what is being planned. He has clearly become used to unquestioned command while in Dublin, demanding my participation in his new campaign.

  Richard is still officially an outlaw, living under an attainder. Should I allow my mind to worry over this? I think not. There is a sea-change in this country. Henry is a prisoner in everything but shackles. Salisbury and Warwick control the capital. My nephew George Neville is Lord Chancellor. A parliament is summoned for October to ratify these changes.

  No harm can come to Richard – to us – now.

  I feel joy, pure as new season’s honey, as my hand writes the words. Richard wants me in Hereford, so I will go to Hereford. I need no persuasion. And I shall see Edmund again.

  If my designated mode of travel is unnervingly close to regal, then so be it. Richard left no detail unconsidered. It assuredly unnerved Ned at what must be accomplished in so short a time, with not one item being changed.

  It is fortunate that I am an adherent of the colour blue.

  What are Richard’s intentions?

  It will not be the first question I ask him. But probably it will be the second.

  I cannot imagine the intensity of our reconciliation. In all our early years apart when he was on campaign, it was never like this. There were times in the last months when I feared that we would not meet again on this earth.

  The miles pass so slowly. I could wish that my horse’s hooves were winged, as Pegasus, to draw me fast to Hereford through the clouds.

  Duchess Cecily is reunited with the Duke of York in Hereford Castle, late September 1460

  The azure curtains were drawn back with a sharp snap of the cloth and slide of their rail-attachments.

  He was here. He stood beside the carriage, within touching distance if he stretched out his hand. His eyes met mine, and in them I read a silent but heartfelt welcome. Around us, all seemed to pause, to be held in readiness for the outcome of our reunion. I realised that I was holding my breath. Slowly I exhaled.

  My entourage had drawn to a standstill in the familiar bailey of Hereford Castle, on the flat expanse above the River Wye, but it was Richard who filled my sight and my mind to the exclusion of all else. The anticipation of the discomforts and rodents of Hereford had paled.

  Instead of helping me to extricate my skirts and my veils, he turned to thank my escort, liberally dispensing coin, leaving my women to help me to alight, allowing me freedom to acknowledge so many faces I knew, both from Ireland and from the Welsh March. One instruction caught my attention. Worthy of note, but not unexpected. Within two days we would be gone from Hereford.

  As the horses were led away, he walked beside me and we mounted the steps into the Great Hall, where servants were waiting to divest me of my hood and cloak and gloves, dispensing wine, ushering me towards the fire that did little to warm the vast space. Only after what seemed an age of greeting and acknowledgement was Richard able to dismiss the servants.

  We faced each other. Just a little distance between us, yet it seemed so great. He had not yet touched me, nor I him. The air was full of tension, as if a single plucked lute string, not quite in tune, vibrated softly.

  Richard.

  Had I thought that I would not remember him? All was new-born in my mind, bright with immediate recognition. Not tall, not excessively broad in shoulder or thigh; indeed many would say slight of build. His hair was still as dark as the jackdaws that flocked in the trees beside the cathedral with none of the grey curse of age. Every turn of his head was familiar, every gesture with his fine-boned hands; the lift of his chin, the flattening of his brow when in thought. The sojourn in Ireland had left no legacy on him that I could see.

  I realised that I was staring at him, as he was at me.

  ‘Is Edmund here?’ I asked, in what was undoubtedly a croak.

  ‘Yes.’

  Such a simple exchange of news, and quite unnecessary, but it broke the ice. He smiled. I felt my face relax in return.

  ‘Cecily.’

  ‘Richard.’

  ‘My wife, of more years than I can count.’

  ‘I can count them.’

  So foolish, as if we needed a reintroduction, like young people in the early days of a betrothal. We were still smiling. We had been aware of nothing but each other since the moment I had arrived in the bailey.

  ‘You have had adventures,’ he said.

  ‘As have you. More dangerous ones than I, I suspect.’

  ‘Not if even half of what I have heard is true. Ludlow was an appalling humiliation.’

  I did not deny it.

  Now he took my hands, lightly kissed one palm and then the other, before he drew me to the window that looked down over the river far below. The scene did not interest either of us. Light fell on his face, so that now I could see the effect of a year’s enforced exile. Lines I did not recall, evidence of anxieties I could only guess at. What did he see in me? What signs of age?

  Very gently, he stroked one finger down my cheek.

  ‘I swear you have not changed to any degree.’

  ‘I would like to believe it.’

  Would not any woman seek flattery, and enjoy it?

  ‘I have not seen you for so long,’ he said, quietly as if we might be overheard, as if these were thoughts that had long been in his mind, ‘but I have not forgotten one inch of you. I honour you for staying behind. I honour you for speaking for our people. I fled. I know what was said of me, that I acted with neither honour nor courage and abandoned you. But you, my dearest Cecily, had the audacity to withstand every danger. I know what you did for me, for us.’

  My throat was tight with emotion.

  ‘It was my duty. Was I not raised to protect those who gave us their oaths of fealty? I only did what had to be done.’

  ‘More than that. Far more, and to the danger of your own life. How many times did my conscience tell me that I should have taken you with me?’

  I laughed a little, but softly. It was what I had wanted to hear.

  ‘When I stood in our home at Ludlow and was forced to face an invading rabble of soldiers, I thought so, too,’ I admitted. ‘And when I had to beg for mercy from Henry and Marguerite.’

  ‘All I can do is beg your forgiveness.’

  To my astonishment, he sank to his knees before me, holding my hands flat against his chest so that I could feel the beat of his heart beneath the rich cloth. Would the Duke of York kneel to me? In all the years of our marriage, he had been the dominant figure, the one who laid down the pattern of our lives together. Here he was, in subservient recognition of his faults, if faults they had been. His eyes were dark with a desire for confession, and for absolution.

  ‘No…’ I said. ‘You do not need to do this.’

  The heartbeat was firm and sure. I felt it spread through my own flesh, my own blood.

  ‘It is necessary. I have a great debt to repay.’

  ‘You have repaid it by coming home, although I’ll never forgive the deplorable lack of correspondence. Such excuses you could make for picking up a pen.’ I bent to kiss his brow, aware of the curve of his lips. ‘I was afraid you would stay and make your own kingdom in Ireland. But now you are here, nothing else is important.’

  I turned my hands to lace my fingers with his. ‘Stand up, my love.’

  Which he did, the reliquary latched to my bodice with its heavy chain immediately attracting his gaze. ‘Superb,’ he said, running his thumb over the gold mounts. ‘It makes exactly the statement of holy power that I had hoped for.’

  ‘And I am wearing it, as you instructed, although I thought it foolhardy.’

  ‘No footpad would attack you with such a powerful escort.’

  ‘I understood that I was to make an impression.’

  ‘Which you have. I received news of your approach two days before you arrived.’

  He drew me into the circle of his arms, the sacred reliquary a symbol between us. For a long mome
nt I simply rested there, my brow pressed against his shoulder. Here was the answer to my prayers over so many days and weeks. And then reality once more fought its way into my consciousness.

  ‘I have to ask. What are you going to do next? Why did I need to be here with you, if you will travel to London within two days? Why do I need to wear a King’s ransom in diamonds?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘My plans can wait, other than to say that I have come to claim my inheritance of York. Now, my dearest Cecily, I find a need to become reacquainted with you.’

  He linked his fingers with mine and drew me towards the door to the private chambers. Yes. It would wait after all.

  We discovered our chamber, made ready with fine linen and sweet-smelling herbs of lavender and rosemary, where all proved to be familiar and welcoming as, with deep affection, Richard once more enclosed me in his arms. We kissed and we talked and eventually we disrobed. Youth was not on our side, nor was agility, yet we found that no detriment. Did we not know each other so well? Had we not shared a passion, a union of heart and mind? Of ambition? The memory of every scar and memento of battle, every mark of the passage of time, was reclaimed and acknowledged. Thus we lingered with laughter and the softest of touches, until Richard’s patience abandoned him. His knowledge of an effective siege was without comparison. It was the greatest pleasure, for both of us, to spend much time in our reuniting.

  We had two days in which to make restitution for a whole year.

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham

  Written from Hereford Castle

  My dear Anne,

  I am reunited with Richard.

  It was unnerving at first. All was so familiar, and yet it was as if I needed to reacquaint myself with his face, his manner of speech, the sort of man he is. Without saying more, it was a reunion much enjoyed by both of us. Richard’s sojourn in Ireland has not changed the man I love.

  I pray that there will be no need for us to be parted again, but I doubt that life will be so placid, with Marguerite at large. All I can say is that I do not yet know what his plans might be.