by Anne O'Brien
I too hope that your husband remains in exile.
Your loving mother,
Cecily
Royal Proclamation
On this day, the eleventh day of this fair month of August in the year 1467
Born to King Edward the Fourth and his wife Queen Elizabeth
At Windsor Castle
A daughter
Mary
England’s Chronicle, August 1467
For those not caught up in the celebrations for another royal daughter, here are some more movements on the Woodville front to give rise to speculation. None of them will be enjoyed by Duchess Cecily and the Nevilles.
Earl Rivers has been made Constable of England. Which puts him firmly in a position of authority in the Royal Council.
As if that were not enough, George Neville, Archbishop of York, brother to the Earl of Warwick, has been dismissed by his royal nephew from his position of Lord Chancellor. Our King finds his desire to achieve a cardinal’s hat a conflict of interest. The Archbishop is also scheming in a marriage that is not to the King’s liking. (We are bound to secrecy about it for now!) What if the Neville brothers are driven into an alliance against King Edward?
On a lighter note, Duchess Cecily’s sister Anne, once Duchess of Buckingham, has decided to re-enter the state of matrimony.
We wish her well.
We also wish the Lady Margaret, youngest sister of the King, health and happiness in her forthcoming marriage.
Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, to Cecily, King’s Mother
Written from Tonbridge Castle, September 1467
To my dearest sister,
I have decided to remarry. He is Walter Blount, Lord Mountjoy, and, before you ask, he is no fortune-hunter, nor a Woodville adherent, and has wooed me with great consideration. He already has three sons to inherit his own property. I plan to live in peace with my books and Walter.
If you wish to send me a betrothal gift, I much admire your Book of Hours made by the Master of Wingfield. I can enjoy it as I confess my sin of covetousness.
Your affectionate sister
Anne
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Anne, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham
Written from Baynard’s Castle
Dear Anne,
If you will be content with the match, then I will wish you every happiness. I know him for a loyal supporter of the House of York, a brave man on the battlefield and a pious one. Nor do I think his ambitions are particularly strong.
Another marriage is not for me.
All is at peace in this kingdom, but until we have a son born of Edward and Elizabeth, the House of York is not as strong as I could wish. Warwick remains a worry when I attend Court and see his restlessness, but I have hopes of reconciliation. Meg’s imminent marriage must be pushed forward, although there is no doubt that her suitor, the Duke of Burgundy, is keen to achieve an English alliance against his enemy France. I hope that it will bring her every happiness. Warwick may need to be persuaded to accompany her as regal escort but I think I can do that. It will give him a high profile in the King’s favour.
I still need to bring the sacred remains of Richard and Edmund home to Fotheringhay.
Thus I cannot yet retire into solitude with my books, even though the future suddenly seems far more benign for the House of York.
What can go wrong?
Your loving sister,
Cis
I have sent you the Wingfield Book of Hours with all my best wishes. Marriage to Lord Mountjoy will strengthen your allegiance to the House of York, remove your predilection to suffer agues, and give you a more skilled cook who can make masterpieces out of salted meat.
Royal Proclamation
On this day, the third day of July in the year 1468
Graciously escorted across the sea by her cousin the Earl of Warwick
The marriage of the Lady Margaret, King’s Sister
To
The Illustrious Charles, Duke of Burgundy
One of the mightiest Princes in the world that weareth no crown
Joined in Holy Matrimony in the City of Bruges
With much celebration and magnificence and priceless jewels
None has been seen to equal it since the days of King Arthur’s Court at Camelot
Chapter Twenty-Two
An Eruption of Family Discord
Duchess Cecily detects a plot at the Palace of Westminster, summer 1468
My fears assuaged by the success of Margaret’s marriage into the House of Burgundy, I closed my mind to the ever-widening rifts created by Edward’s marriage and promotion of the Woodvilles. It was five years since that disastrous meeting in the forest, or wherever it was. I believed it was a time for healing within the ranks of the Court.
Until I saw it for myself. The disharmony. The rank disapproval, the sour dislike, the rampant hostility. The whole Court was awash with it, just below the surface. I could taste it, smell it, like a miasma from the overused drains, thick as a glaze on a roast pig.
It was a most unfortunate incident, precipitated by Edward’s clever and witty Fool. I condemned what he did, but I should have been grateful to him for opening my eyes to reality. At the time I would have had the despicable little creature torn limb from limb by Edward’s wolfhounds.
Edward’s Court was smoothly and expensively dressed and jewelled, united in the endless round of conversation and exchange of views. Even in the height of summer with the heat of London pressing its weight down on us, the Court met and made its patterns under Edward’s watchful eye as I steered a gracious course between Plantagenets, Nevilles, and Woodvilles alike. Even Warwick, elegant in dark-patterned damask, seemed not as sombre as his wont, engaged in discourse with Earl Rivers. All was placid, the Queen restored once more to society after the birth of her daughter, resplendent in trailing skirts and extravagant veiling.
An outburst of laughter to my right marked the change in the atmosphere, the rising murmur of voices in response to some unexpected merriment that dragged all attention. It was Rob Woodhouse, Edward’s Court Fool, small in stature, agile and impish. Ridiculous in appearance he might be with his skinny limbs and barrel chest but no Fool in understanding, he was making his way across the room as a space opened before him, the vivid Fool’s garb with its tassels and bells catching every eye and ear. He lurched to halt in front of the Queen.
I sensed the danger, like wood-smoke on the air. Here was an intent sufficient to stir the sleeping dragon of enmity into open, fire-breathing mockery. Was the Fool not clever with words?
Edward sensed it, too; moving smoothly to the Queen’s side, he cocked his chin.
‘Master Woodhouse,’ Edward rose with humour to the bait cast by the Fool. ‘Have you been travelling? And garbed for winter? One of the hottest days of the year and here you are clad in thigh-length boots and with a travelling staff. Is this a jest?’
‘No jest, sire.’ Rob Woodhouse planted his staff with a thump, looking around for maximum effect, his eyes twinkling in their malice. ‘I would never have believed it. Only the first days of September and the summer one of the driest in memory.’ His voice had a terrible carrying quality, his gaze moving over the little knot of Woodvilles. ‘Dry, I say. Inordinately dry.’
And there was my son Clarence, face alive with equal mischief.
‘So why the need for boots and staff, Sir Fool?’ he asked.
The Fool smirked.
‘Because the Rivers run so high it’s near impossible for lesser mortals to get through them. I had to search the depth with my staff for safe-footing.’ He thumped the staff forcefully to the floor again between his two booted feet. ‘How will it be come February, I ask myself, when the Rivers are in spate?’ He giggled unpleasantly. ‘All those not of a watery connection will surely be swept away in the deluge.’ His stare was turned on me. ‘Did my lady the King’s Mother not have to paddle through the deep puddles to reach her son’s side, on her recent journey from Fotheringhay? I swear that h
er elegant shoes are still damp from the experience.’
The Fool’s jesting carried through the chamber to monstrous effect. I felt Earl Rivers stiffen behind me. The gathering held its horrified breath. All eyes were turned on the Queen. The Fool angled his head with a comic expression of despair, falsely shocked at his own outspokenness. Then there was a stifled laugh, an intake of breath, a mutter of excited comment.
How dare the Fool voice such an opinion in the face of the King? How dare he draw me into his jest, and what role did my son Clarence have in this? I held my breath lightly against the derision, resisting the urge to strike out with my hand to wipe the bright laughter from the Fool’s face. All hung on Edward’s reaction. Would he order the man to grovel in apology, to kiss the floor at the Queen’s feet, or to get out of his sight? Anything to show this spiteful Court that the King’s decisions were not to be the object of ridicule. Edward must stop this.
He simply laughed aloud in appreciation of the wit, aiming a light-hearted blow at the Fool who dodged and shook his staff in mock combat. The Fool might be fast and agile but Edward was faster. With a lunge and a swoop he had the man by the scruff of his tunic, lifting him so that his booted toes swung helplessly above the floor. The staff dropped with a clatter.
‘Forgive me, Majesty. I meant no harm,’ the Fool whined.
Edward shook him, a terrier with a rat. ‘Best that you ask the pardon of my lady wife.’
‘I will, sire. Or she assuredly will demand my head on a platter.’ And as Edward dropped him to the floor in front of the Queen, the Fool flung himself to his knees.
‘Grovel well, my friend. Or you’ll find my boot against your backside. And at the same time extend your apology to the King’s Mother.’
The laughter in Edward’s face was still there but so was a warning. Oh, yes, I saw what Edward was about. To use humour, sharp and deadly, to draw the sting. The anger that had all but curled my fingers into fists drained away as reluctant admiration for my son crept under my skin. The fine art of compromise learnt at my knee had not been lost on him.
‘Cry pardon, lady.’ The Fool pressed his forehead to the floor at the Queen’s feet, and then at mine. ‘Spare me and I’ll sing your praises for ever in poetry.’ He risked a glance around, one bright eye gleaming through his mussed hair. ‘Some Rivers are beautiful beyond the wit of man. I can compose verses to your fair skin and sparkling eyes.’
‘Spare me your rhyming, Sir Fool.’ To her due, the Queen found her voice and mimicked Edward’s light buffoonery.
But all was not yet won.
I stepped in. Lifting the Fool to his feet, brushing down his clothes with a kindness at odds with my thoughts, I restored the staff to his hands. ‘If your poetry is as dull as your wit, Sir Fool, mayhap you’ll be the one to be swept away by the Rivers in spate!’
The Fool kissed the hem of my gown, but his expression as he looked up, not at me but at the Queen, was as venomous as ever. I shook him, yet more gently than my son had.
‘Take care with your footing in future, Master Woodhouse. It would be so easy to fall into the torrent.’ I gave him a push in the direction of the door, and he stumbled away, brandishing the staff, whistling tunelessly.
It was the right thing to do. A crow of laughter sounded, a breathless chuckle, and the heavy insolence in the atmosphere dissolved into general, if uneasy mirth. I turned to engage Rivers in conversation again, as if the bite of the words had caused no wounds. But something made me glance over Rivers’s shoulder toward the door. There was Woodhouse grimacing, still clutching the staff, his boots squeaking on the floor. Suddenly he was not alone and the anxiety was gone from his face, replaced by a cunning satisfaction. He bowed, a grin spreading over his lively features. And there it was. A heavy purse swiftly changed hands, from my son Clarence to the Fool, my son nodding briefly and clasping the creature’s shoulder.
Clarence?
And then I saw Clarence’s gaze shift from the Fool, across the room towards the Earl of Warwick. It was a momentary connection, eye to eye, before Warwick turned away, but I had not been mistaken. There was scheming here, of that I was certain. Warwick would use any means, high or low, to oust the Woodvilles from Edward’s affections. My heart shuddered uncomfortably, reminding me of my age and the passing of years. Once it would have beat strongly, whatever the shock. There were unexpected dangers all around. Warwick would make use of my son George and the Fool. How far was he prepared to go to undermine the King?
Looking back as I departed, it was to see Warwick and Clarence in some exchange of words. I was right to be concerned about my son and my nephew.
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Edward, King of England
Written from Baynard’s Castle, February 1469
Edward,
It is my wish, as it has been for some time, that we reinter the earthly remains of your father and brother in the church at Fotheringhay. It is almost ten years now since the Duke of York died so tragically, and he should not lie forgotten in some meagre grave at Pontefract.
If you would put in motion the demands for the reinterment, I would be grateful.
My brother Salisbury was reinterred with suitable ceremony. Why not the Duke of York? It does not look good, Edward.
Your mother,
Cecily, King’s Mother
Edward, King of England, to Cecily, King’s Mother
Written from Eltham Palace
To my Lady Mother,
I will arrange for the reinterment of my father.
As long as you understand that at the ceremony my wife, as Queen, will take precedence over you.
Let me know if this is acceptable to you, and I will go ahead with arrangements.
Your dutiful son,
Edward
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Edward, King of England
Written from Baynard’s Castle
Edward,
It is not acceptable.
How could you possibly presume that it would be?
This is the reburial of my husband, in a church that I have refurbished, in a tomb that I will pay for. Fotheringhay is the keystone of the House of York. How can Elizabeth Woodville take precedence over the widow of the Duke of York and the mother of the Earl of Rutland?
Cecily, King’s Mother
Edward, King of England, to Cecily, King’s Mother
Written from Eltham, February 1469
To my Lady Mother,
I think you must give more consideration to this small issue.
Reply to me when you feel that you can comply with my desires in this matter.
Until then my father, sadly, remains at Pontefract. I will not have the tensions between you and my wife made more public than they are already. I am not willing to become a laughingstock, hen-pecked between wife and mother.
I have an incipient uprising in the north to deal with, under the spurious name of Robin of Redesdale. No sooner is one spate of rioting put down, than another breaks out under the same leader.
If you have nothing to do with your time, you might communicate with your Neville relatives in the north to discover the culprit. Taxes seem to be the main issue.
As for the reinterment of my father, I will have my way in this.
The ceremony must be after the birth of my third child. As you are aware, Elizabeth is in confinement until that date. I expect that it is too much to ask that you visit her and give her the benefit of your experience and skill in such matters as child-bearing.
The least that you might do is to pray for a son.
Edward
Cecily, King’s Mother, to Edward, King of England
Written from Baynard’s Castle
Edward,
I want the earthly remains of my husband and son to be returned to Fotheringhay.
And I will take precedence at the ceremony.
There is nothing else to be decided.
Of course I will pray for a son of York. It is essential for the stability of the kingdom.
Cecily, King’s Mother
England’s Chronicle, February 1469
Now here’s an interesting development in the ongoing tale of the clash between our two royal ladies, one more royal than the other.
It is well known that the Dowager Duchess rarely presents herself at Court when the Queen is in residence. She shows the minimum respect required by a subject to a Queen. The nod of her head is equivalent to a nervous twitch from a cobweb brushing your hair in a dusty cellar.
But now, since neither royal lady can accept the precedence of the other in Court matters, even on the delicate occasion of a reburial, Richard Duke of York is destined to remain in his obscure grave in the north at Pontefract.
We hear a whisper that the King has put into operation measures that will drive the Duchess to her knees in fury and cause the shedding of many tears. We suspect the fell hand of the Queen who is in confinement at Westminster.
Not that there is a problem with an heir for the King. Until the happy day that the Queen bears a son, his brother George, Duke of Clarence, remains our King’s heir. Much to that Prince’s satisfaction, we imagine.
We hear that young Clarence is considering taking a wife. Since he has now reached the age of nineteen years, that would undoubtedly be good policy. Will he look abroad for a woman of valuable foreign connection? Or will he look closer to home?
There are few eligible women of rank and birth in England after the winnowing of such at the hands of the Woodvilles. We hear rumours…
And if they prove to be true, expect more explosions in royal ranks.
Edward, King of England, to Cecily, King’s Mother
Written from Eltham, late March 1469
To my Lady Mother,
It is my wish, Madam, to make changes in the occupancy of the royal residences.
My wife and I and our growing family will continue to enjoy the palaces at Greenwich and Sheen. Baynard’s Castle is yours, for your use, for all time.
It is my will that Fotheringhay be available for the sojourn of Elizabeth when she wishes to remove from London for the good of her health. It is clear, from all you have said, that it is not possible if you are still in residence there. For that reason I wish that you restore all your rights and title to the manor of Fotheringhay to me.