The Queen's Rival

by Anne O'Brien

  What an impression we must have made. I in my blue-velvethung carriage which had suffered little from its recent travels over the autumn roads. Nothing that a thorough clean could not put right in the night before our arrival. The horses had been groomed to gleam as bright as any for a tournament. But that was not the height or depth of it. With us rode a retinue, of eight hundred horsemen, Richard said. The trumpeters of Abingdon were in fine tune.

  Now I understood why I had been ordered to Hereford. Richard wanted to shout his royal credentials far and wide, from the border-lands of Wales to London, to as many who would throng the route to watch us pass by.

  Even as I rode, the curtains of my litter drawn back so that I might see and be seen, I felt fear building in me until it all but choked me. Should the end result of our return not be achieved through negotiation, through careful manoeuvring? Should we not bend our Yorkist knee before the King, brought forth from the Tower for this occasion?

  ‘You look anxious,’ Richard said as he drew abreast of me when the mass of people slowed our pace. ‘You are in no danger. There’ll be no more imprisonment for you.’

  ‘I don’t fear that. This is what I fear.’

  I swept a wide gesture with my arm.

  Here was no subtlety. Here was no negotiation. Here were the beginnings of insurgency. I had already seen the shocked expressions, even as the masses cheered with raucous voices.

  ‘It’s too precipitate, Richard,’ I censured, something I had privately sworn I would not do. But I could not support this explosive aggrandisement of York power.

  ‘They have to know what I fight for.’ Unperturbed, his face creased in a smile, albeit severe. ‘Besides, the crowds will cheer such a display. No one welcomes a weak leader.’

  And they did cheer. I remembered the old stories of the Londoners cheering the return of Bolingbroke. But any crowds would cheer when primed with ale and a colourful event to enliven their day. At Bolingbroke’s coronation he had set fountains running with red wine in Cheapside.

  A brusque movement of horseflesh brought me back to the present. Richard was about to ride off to the front of our procession.

  ‘Do you go on to Baynard’s Castle?’ I called after him, still unsure of his immediate destination.

  He turned his horse, returned, leaning down to address me. ‘I go straight to Westminster Hall. I have not come this far to hesitate now.’

  I put out my hand to touch his sleeve, then curled my fingers into the rich cloth as if I could still prevent the plans that were fomenting in his mind.

  ‘Just remember, Richard, that you are not yet King.’

  ‘Can you give me one reason why I should not be King? Have we not already wrung every drop of blood from this discussion?’

  ‘But until you are…’

  I had not thought that he would drive the claim home so urgently. Had Richard not agreed that he would take no undue risks? It would be far better to step carefully, to remake old connections, to reaffirm old friendships. He had been absent from the political manoeuvrings for a whole year.

  He must have seen the anxiety in my face. ‘What advice will you give me, Cis?’

  ‘Exactly the same as I offer every time we speak of this meeting at Westminster. Be careful not to tread on magnate toes. They’ll not thank you for it. Get my brother Salisbury on your side. Warwick too.’

  ‘I’ll be as circumspect as you would hope for, Cis, but I will make my case whether they like it or not.’

  Pride was stamped over every inch of him from his azure-andgold-patterned chaperon to his costly thigh-length boots. How had I ever thought that I could influence the manner in which he would announce the right of his royal blood? The year in exile had honed his temper, which had always been unpredictable when his pride had been challenged. I had seen only flashes of it, when the journey was hampered by organising such a major force, but I feared the worst. They would turn on him like a pack of hunting dogs bringing down a tined stag. The mob in the streets might acclaim him with his royal banners but these men in parliament, used to wielding power with the ear of King Henry, were of different calibre.

  I could not even be there, in parliament, to see my worst fears unfold.

  Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from the Palace of Westminster

  Cecily,

  This is a disaster! Has he lost his wits? Well, you did warn me, but I had not expected this. No one could have expected this. York will make excuses for the outcome. Of course he will. He has an argument, full of fervour, to cover every eventuality. I’ll tell you the truth, even if no one else will.

  I was already in Westminster Hall when he arrived. So were March and Warwick. A family affair. It had been a busy session, but at least the atmosphere was one of calm achievement, set to welcome the returned Duke of York. There was no animosity, rather a degree of compassion for a man who had suffered exile and disinheritance.

  Compassion? Understanding? York set a burning brand to it, stoking up anger and hostility. The Hall shook on its ancient foundations. He marched in as if he owned the place, daring any man present to object.

  Could you not have stopped him? You had the whole journey from Hereford to London to talk some sense into him.

  Well, the end result was a scene that will be engraved on my mind for all time. York strode directly to the dais at the far end of the Hall where the King would sit. But Henry was not there. The throne, under the canopy of state, was empty. Yet still it was a sacred space, untouchable, impregnable.

  York should have known that. Should I have stretched out my arm to stop him as he strode past? How could I? I never thought that he would do it.

  He was undeterred by the cautious inhaling of breath as he marched through the midst. He bowed to the throng. Then, as if all had been planned, even to his gesture, he placed his hand on the arm of the empty throne, at the same time turning to face the Hall and its assembly.

  It was as if he had cried out:

  This is mine. I will have it.

  I swear every man there held his breath. I felt March stiffen. Warwick looked less than impressed but not altogether surprised. The whole assembly was transfixed as if awaiting the next step. No one was persuaded to respond or reply. Every face, every expression was set in stone, rigid in disbelief.

  As for York, did I detect a moment of surprise, of uncertainty? After your victorious progress through England he had expected voices raised in welcome and support. What he had not expected was the slide of an eye. A silence. An embarrassment that could be tasted like bitter herbs on the tongue.

  Slowly he removed his hand from the gilded chair. Every breath was held as tight as a drawn bow-string.

  York took one step away from the dais, stepping out from the shadow of the canopy. From my close proximity, I could see the anger simmering within him, his mouth tightened into a line of fury.

  His voice rang out in a claim that the throne and the crown were his by right as the true heir of King Richard the Second. You will not be surprised to know that it was followed by a murmuring of dissent, low at first like a distant hum of bees, then growing in intensity. York raised his hand to throw down another challenge, only curtailed when the Archbishop stepped forward with a suggestion that York should seek an audience with the King. His brow heavy with frustration, York strode back through the length of the Hall, retracing his steps, ignoring the shiver of noise behind him. The only wise action of the day, to my mind. What he will say to King Henry I have no idea, nor what the King will say to him.

  I cannot foresee the outcome. Speak to him, Cis. Tell him that he must not pursue this outrageous course. He is digging a pit into which we will all be cast if he claims the throne as his own.

  If he thought that he had such a strong right to rule, why wait until now to shout it from the roof beams like a cock on a dunghill?

  York has become a danger to himself and to the rest of the family.

  Use any influe
nce you have. I think he will not listen to me. I doubt he will listen to anyone other than the voice in his head and the conviction in his heart that tells him he should be King.

  Your brother,

  Salisbury

  Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

  Written from Fastolf Place

  I suppose I should thank you for this account of what happened. I suppose I should have expected it. Well, I did, but not quite in so brutal a fashion.

  No, I could not stop him. I have already placed your arguments before him but to no avail. You know him well enough. Who could alter his direction, once he has the bit between his teeth like a high-mettled warhorse with spurs applied? He might wear a fetterlock emblem to proclaim his name, but I have yet to see one that could shackle him to less than a gallop when the road is clear.

  Do you think he will listen to me if I tell him that the throne can never be his? The year in exile, humiliated and disinherited, has spiked his temper. Besides, his claim to the crown is as strong as any, and does he not have the strength and ability to hold it and bring this sad country to peace?

  Try to keep faith. All might not be yet lost.

  Besides, have you considered that I might agree with him? I may regret the manner of his challenge, but what do I think of his claim of legitimate inheritance? You have not asked me that question, dear brother.

  Cecily

  Richard, Duke of York, to Cecily, Duchess of York

  Written from the Palace of Westminster

  Cecily,

  You will hear soon enough and I doubt you will enjoy the telling of it.

  I was driven to do it.

  You would say I should have hugged diplomacy to my breast. That if I see myself as King, I should be able to exercise self-control when dealing with these pompous magnates. Instead I allowed my desire for justice to overwhelm my political sense. It is done. Now we must await the outcome.

  I am sending this to Fastolf Place since I presume you have gone to be with our daughter and young sons. Ned and Edmund are with me.

  I need you to come to Westminster, where I have taken occupation of the King’s chambers. Henry has moved into those put aside for the Queen. I am expecting a delegation from Salisbury and Warwick. From their concerted frowns when I walked out from the seething parliament, I don’t expect it to be a friendly one. You must come to pour oil on troubled waters for me.

  Did I not say at Hereford that I would have a crucial role for you to play?

  Come soon.

  Richard

  Duchess Cecily experiences a hostile family reunion in the Palace of Westminster

  What a desperately angry half-hour it proved to be. What a tumultuous clash of opinion and antagonisms, when Richard returned to our accommodations, fast followed by my brother Salisbury and nephew Warwick. My chamber in the palace, cramped and confined in this rabbit warren of accommodation, hung about with dusty tapestries, seemed to be full of angry men. The only blessing was that their armed escorts were left outside, but there was still a surfeit of weaponry to hand if tempers frayed too far.

  As I realised from the start, there was no place for a woman in this conflagration.

  There was Richard, fists braced on hips, standing at one end of the chamber, our Neville kin smouldering side by side at the other, my sons Ned and Edmund hovering somewhere between. I, firmly ensconced at Richard’s side, could have laughed at the incongruity of it all, but this was no laughing matter. Richard has stirred up a hot-buzzing hornets’ nest, and here were the principal Neville hornets, prepared to sting.

  I imagined the raised voices could be heard in St Stephen’s Chapel, providing an uncomfortable background to Compline.

  ‘So you met with King Henry in a private conversation,’ Salisbury accused.

  ‘Yes I did,’ Richard replied, all belligerence.

  ‘I doubt you got much support from him. Or sense. He would hardly agree to handing over his crown to you.’

  ‘No, he did not.’

  ‘Then where does that leave you? Leave us?’ Salisbury’s expression was heavy-browed with disapproval. ‘Or do you plan to keep your conspiracy to gain power a secret?’

  ‘Why would I? Are we not family?’ At last, in reply to my tug on his sleeve, Richard had relaxed a little, his fists falling to his sides, his hands flexing open as if to dispel some of the aggression. ‘Henry stated the rights of his inheritance, descended from his father the fifth Henry. He assured me that you – and I – had all sworn featly to him, if we chanced to have forgotten. At least he recalled that much of our past history. He then asked, how could his right be then disputed after almost forty years of ruling? As I told him, it could, quite easily. Furthermore…’

  All I could do was open the door to allow servants to enter, bearing ewers and cups. An edgy silence fell on the room as they proceeded to fill the vessels and dispense them to our guests. It would not soothe the passions, but it would at least give a moment for reflection.

  ‘I swear that the lords will oppose it,’ announced Salisbury into the silence.

  ‘There was no great opposition from the lords when King Richard was deposed by Henry of Lancaster,’ Richard retaliated.

  ‘King Richard threatened the power of his lords,’ Warwick replied, admitting what would be the key concern of every magnate in the country. ‘Our King Henry, even in his madness, has never been a threat. What advantage is there to us in removing him? What we saw today was an upheaval that could topple all power into your hands. Name me one magnate who will hand over his own power to a man who has just marched into London with an army?’

  Richard’s reply flared once more with heat.

  ‘Do you accuse me of threatening you? Of abandoning my friends with whom I have struggled and fought against adversity? Would I put power before family loyalty?’

  Which was exactly what Warwick was saying. What they saw before them, what they had seen in Westminster Hall, was a man of power, of unbridled ambition, belted and booted, vibrant in fur-trimmed blue and black and gold damask. A man who had marched through London to wide acclaim with an army at his back and royal banners above his head. Salisbury and Warwick might have their own loyal forces, but these were insufficient to challenge Richard on a field of battle, if it ever came to that.

  ‘I say that you are presumptuous in your claims. What happens if we do not support you?’ Salisbury asked, his thoughts running in a similar pattern to mine. ‘Do you turn your army on us? Better for us the weak King we have than a tyrant who might just shed our blood in his own cause.’

  Tyrant. An ill-chosen word, I thought.

  Richard picked it up too. ‘I am no tyrant. Do you not know me better than that?’

  ‘I thought that I did.’ Warwick waded into the quagmire of dispute once more. ‘But now you are urging us to break our oaths to Henry. It is a sin. It is blasphemy.’

  ‘And it wasn’t a sin and blasphemy when we faced him at Ludford Bridge? Your oaths to Henry had no weight with you then. Are you saying that you had no thought that I would return one day to claim what was mine? When we met at Shrewsbury, I made all plain.’

  ‘I don’t recall your telling me that you would snatch the crown,’ Warwick replied.

  An accusation that Richard simply ignored, which made me presume it to be true as he continued in his fierce denial. ‘Now you accuse me of threatening to use my army against you. I see no threat. Who planted that despicable seed? Was it my brother of Salisbury?’

  He glowered at my brother. I held my breath for the inevitable outburst from Warwick in defence of his father. To my amazement it was Edmund who replied, stepping forward, less combative in figure, far less aggressive in voice and face.

  ‘Speak peace, cousin Warwick, not war. There is no force here. We all know that my father has the right to the crown. Why should he not claim it? Why should we not support him?’

  But Warwick swept Edmund’s suggestion aside with the flat of his hand as if it were
a troublesome gnat.

  ‘I’ll stand by my oath of allegiance to King Henry, as my father will stand by his. And so will the rest of the lords. Answer me this, York: if you are so certain of your claim to the throne, why have you waited until now to fly it like a new falcon?’

  I realised that I was holding my breath. Richard had indeed kept silent on this for all the years of his manhood.

  ‘The fact that I did not does not make my claim less true,’ Richard snapped.

  ‘I like not your ambition, York.’

  ‘I like not your accusations, Warwick.’

  Warwick placed his cup on the table with a sharp sound, deliberately turning his back on Richard. I knew it would be dangerous to allow him to leave in this mood. I nudged Ned with a nod in Warwick’s direction, while I moved to talk with Richard.

  ‘You cannot afford to antagonise my family,’ I suggested sotto voce.

  ‘They cannot afford to antagonise me. Warwick talks of my ambition. I like not his.’

  I looked across to where Ned was in deep conversation with my nephew of Warwick.

  ‘All shall be well,’ I heard Ned say. I could not hear the reply.

  Edmund and Salisbury were in conversation, my brother’s face as uncompromising as a dish of cold pottage.

  I could only hope that the rift would be patched, even if the patching remained evident with clumsy stitching. As I stepped forward to add my own sisterly soothing to my brother’s mood, with barely an acknowledgement of farewell, the Nevilles strode out of the chamber in a cloud of prickly animosity.

  ‘What a pleasurable family reunion that was,’ I declaimed to anyone who would take note. ‘I see that we will soon be at war with the Nevilles as well as the House of Lancaster.’

  And I took myself to discover a refuge in King Henry’s private chapel, my only company the frescoed angels benignly clutching their harps, with no ruffled tempers to be seen or heard. I was too weary, too dispirited, to do more, unable to see the future clearly. My only solace was my deep satisfaction in my sons, of their attempts at conciliation. All I could hope was that Ned understood exactly what it was that his father had taken in hand, the inherent danger of it all. As the heir to York he needed to know.