THWARTED QUEEN
A Novel of Cecily “Cecylee” Neville (1415-1495),
Wife of the White Rose of York,
Mother of Richard III,
Grandmother of the Little Princes in the Tower
Cynthia Sally Haggard
Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Sally Haggard
Ebook formatted by: Fowler Digital Services
For my dear friend Beth Gessert Franks
for all her endurance of Cecylee
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Plantagenets from 1377
The Nevilles
England and France circa 1422
Prologue
Book One: THE BRIDE PRICE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Book Two: ONE SEED SOWN
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Book Three: THE GILDED CAGE
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Book Four: TWO MURDERS REAPED
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Books Used in Research
Characters
PROLOGUE
She useth to arise at seven of the clocke,
and hath readye her chapleyne to saye with her mattins of the daye,
and mattins of our lady;
FROM ORDERS AND RULES OF THE PRINCESS CECILL
QUOTED BY JOHN WOLSTENHOLME COBB (1883)
HISTORY & ANTIQUITIES OF BERKHAMSTED
Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfordshire
Feast of Saint Joseph
March 19, 1495
Now I am ready to speak, for death will be with me by year’s end.
The House of Tudor shall declare this tale a lie. They will say I’m an impostor. Let there be no mistake about my identity. As proof, I lay forth my name in its true construction:
CECYLEE
Queen by Right
Duchess of York
Abbess
I am Cecylee—not Cecily or Cicely. My name has been corrupted by those who claim to have the ear of the present King of England, one Harry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a self-styled King Henry VII. Let those who seek to dismiss my testament compare this sign with the many documents signed as Duchess of York and Queen by Right.
I have had other names. I was born Lady Cecylee de Neville, in May 1415. In the year 1424, I became Duchess of York. Admirers called me the Rose of Raby. Enemies called me Proud Cis. I am the mother of Kings Edward IV and Richard III. I have seen my sons kill their opponents, and even their kin.
Folk think me saintly, for I hear Mass several times a day. I hear religious texts while I dine, I spend hours on my knees in prayer. This causes them to disbelieve some of the unflattering stories whispered about me. Folk are too kind if they imagine that a pious old woman couldn’t have sinned. It grieves me greatly to say this, but late in life, while I was living in the countryside as Abbess of a Benedictine Order, I was responsible for the murder of two of my grandsons.
In these pages, I make confession, using my voice and the voices of others important to its weaving.
BOOK I: THE BRIDE PRICE
“A gracious lady!
What is her name, I thee pray tell me?”
“Dame Cecille, sir.”
“Whose daughter was she?”
“Of the Earl of Westmorland, I trowe the youngest,
And yet grace fortuned her to be the highest.”
FROM A FIFTEENTH-CENTURY BALLAD,
ANONYMOUS
Chapter 1
Castle Raby, Scottish Marches
The Feast of Saint John
June 24, 1424
Today they tell me I must behave.
I’m not allowed to laugh loudly, stare, or make remarks.
I must put on my best gown, the pink silk damascene with the long train, balance my heavy headdress on my head, and play my psaltery. The king’s uncles are coming to visit.
Today, they decide if I’m suitable enough to be made Duchess of York, and maybe queen. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, the boy I’m supposed to marry, is only thirteen, but they say he will be the richest peer in the kingdom when he reaches the age of twenty-one.
“But that’s not for years,” I point out. “I’m only nine years old. Why do I have to do this now?”
“Richard is the king’s cousin,” Audrey, my mother’s maid, tells me. “If the king were to die, Richard would be king. Your father wants to secure your future now.”
I sigh. Sitting in stuffy rooms listening to Mama and Papa and all those important people they know wearies me. If you are the Earl of Westmorland, like Papa, and the king has given you the task of guarding the English border against the heathenish Scots, then you must want to know many such people. But I prefer to frolic under one of the huge trees that surround the castle.
I turn my head slightly, and Audrey mutters as she stuffs my thick blond hair into the netting under the headdress. Sliding my eyes to the right, I can just make out the shapes of the trees through the newly glazed windows of our rooms in Bulmer’s Tower. Bulmer’s Tower is a five-sided tower shaped like an arrowhead that stands apart from the rest of the towers comprising Castle Raby. It can be easily defended from a sudden raid on the castle, so Papa decreed that all of us should live here. The trees seem small and very faraway.
Mama enters my chamber, carrying my psaltery. Her eyes look pink. Silently, she scrutinizes me, her lips pinched, as Audrey curtsies and steps aside. Then she takes my hand and leads me up the steep spiral stairs to the solar.
“How much are you willing to pay for her?” says a deep voice.
Mama clenches my fingers so tightly I yelp.
“That is John Plantagenet, Duke of Bedford, the senior uncle to the king.” Mama, Joan de Beaufort, Countess of Westmorland, turns me around so that I have to look into her eyes. “He’s just been made regent of France, and rarely comes to England. It is a high honor for him to visit us, Cecylee.”
�
��But you don’t seem happy,” I remark as we peek through the arras.
Mama shakes her head and puts her finger to her lips.
“Two thousand marks,” replies Papa.
Through an opening in the richly woven tapestry, I find Richard standing in one corner, his hand running through his hair. For the past six months, he’s been living at Castle Raby. When I asked why, Papa pinched my cheek and said it would be well if we got acquainted. I try hard to be pleasant, but he is so serious. He’s dressed in black. Couldn’t he think of some other color?
Duke John looks around the solar, his sharp eyes taking in Papa’s glazed windows, the newly installed hooded fireplace on the north wall, and the rich hangings. He reminds me of a merchant at a fair.
“Four thousand?” he says.
Papa stares at his lap as if he’s just discovered something fascinating, perhaps a pulled thread, on his silver and blue robe. Ralph de Neville, Earl of Westmorland, must never be too quick to compromise.
A cough erupts as a gentleman enters from the door opposite and bows. I turn to Mama.
“That is Duke John’s younger brother, Humphrey Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. He lives in England and acts as regent for the king.”
“How old is the king?”
“Three years old.”
“He’s ten years younger than Richard then.”
Mama quietly shushes me.
Duke Humphrey smiles at Richard. Perhaps they are friends. I did hear someone say that Richard always stays with him when he visits London.
Duke Humphrey shakes his head.
Richard smiles faintly.
Duke John sighs. “Three thousand?”
“’Tis a goodly sum,” says Duke Humphrey. “Three is the sign of the Trinity. ‘Tis the perfect number.”
Papa strokes his white beard. The corner of his mouth quirks. Then he roars with laughter. “Done. Let us drink to it.”
Mama gives me a look, which means to stay here behind the arras and be quiet. She goes to Papa. “You know I am not happy with this.”
“Cecylee needs to marry,” replies Papa. “This betrothal will make her Duchess of York, and you know where that might lead.”
A duchess! I wiggle with excitement. That would make me more important than Mama! She says softly, “I care little for that kind of future. I want my Cecylee happy in her life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snaps Papa.
Duke John looks surprised. He holds his wine cup high in the air and stares at Mama. To my surprise, she kneels.
“She is my youngest daughter, and only nine years old. Do you have to do this now?”
Papa bangs his cup on the arm of his chair, ruby-red liquid sloshing to the floor. “Mind yourself, my lady,” he hisses, wagging his finger, as Jenkin rushes to clean it up. “Never contradict your lord in public.”
Drawing a handkerchief from her long triangular sleeve, she dabs her eyes.
Papa helps her up, leads her to her seat, and signals for wine.
Mama looks straight at me and nods.
I run into the room. Suddenly all eyes are upon me. I dip a deep curtsey, rising smoothly and without wobbling, the way Mama taught.
Richard bows and smiles, then frowns. I smile back, trying to coax that frown away, and when his features smooth out, I turn to Mama. “What shall I play for the company? Shall I do I Cannot Help It If I Rarely Sing?”
Papa slaps his thigh and bellows with laughter.
Mama smiles: “Why not sing This Lovely Star Of The Sea?”
Settling onto the window seat beside Richard, I nestle the psaltery in the crook of my elbow, pluck it, and began to sing. I love to sing, it’s so good for the spirits.
“This Rose of Raby has spirit as well as beauty,” says Duke Humphrey after listening for a few moments.
“She’s not shy,” replies Papa, smiling.
Duke John winks at Richard. “I know you must be eager to wed.”
Richard colors a fiery red, making the gentlemen laugh heartily. I sigh.
“When is the ceremony to take place?” asks Duke Humphrey.
“I wonder if it could be this year,” says Papa, “in October, on the Feast of Saint Luke.”
I strum my psaltery with a flourish and finish the song.
“What are you going to sing now?” whispers Richard.
“Wait and see.” I glance at the adults, who are busy talking, and play softly I Cannot Help It If I Rarely Sing.
“Cis!” exclaims Richard, laughing softly. “Your lady mother—”
“It’s too late now, isn’t it? Shhh. How can I talk to you if I have to sing?”
Richard smiles and sinks back onto the cushions next to me. He looks less serious.
“Where will they live?” asks Duke John.
“Where would you like to live?” whispers Richard.
I think for a minute. I don’t want to be far away from Mama. “Do you have a castle close by?”
“I have many castles, Cis. But not here.”
“Oh.” I turn away. “I don’t wish to move.”
“I know that you, my lords, have much on your minds,” says Papa, bowing. “So I wondered if they could be betrothed rather than married. That way both Richard and Cecylee could continue to live here.”
Richard nudges me. “Did you hear what they said?”
I nod and smile. I pluck my psaltery and take a deep breath:
A gardyn saw I ful of blosmy bowes
Upon a ryver, in a grene mede,
There as swetnesse evermore inow is,
With floures white, blewe, yelwe, and rede—
“What is that song, Cis?”
“It was written by Granduncle Chaucer. I made up the tune myself. Shall I teach you?”
Richard puts a hand on my arm, for Duke Humphrey speaks. “Is it not true that you have a large number of soldiers garrisoned here at Castle Raby?”
“Indeed,” says Papa, “I am warden of the western march, and I have to patrol the land from here to Scotland.”
“I like not the idea of rough soldiers being so close to this pretty rose.”
Duke John stares at me. “Why not have little Cecylee and young Richard live at court with their cousin King Henry?”
“But Cecylee will be safe here with me,” says Mama, hands tensing on her chair.
“This is a serious issue,” says Papa slowly. “It is true that I have a large garrison of soldiers here because of the Scots raids, and because of the lawless nature of this country.”
“We would not want our wild rose plucked before her time,” says Duke Humphrey. “Young Richard here is close to the throne. It would not be seemly if his wife-to-be were caught in a rough soldier’s embrace.”
Confused, I turn to Richard. “What are they talking about?”
“Your virtue,” he replies, reddening.
“But there is no blemish on my virtue.” I frown.
Richard pats my hand. “You would not be able to defend yourself against any man determined to take you. You have not the strength.”
“I have a good kick. And I know where to aim.”
“Cis!” Richard pulls down the corners of his mouth. He looks strange, but then I see he is trying not to laugh. “How do you know that?”
“Audrey.” My mother’s maid has been with her for hundreds of years, and knows everything. I ease the psaltery into a comfortable position, strum for a minute of two, and then sing a song I composed to please Mama:
I once was in a summery dale,
In one such little hidey-hole,
When I heard a great debate
Between an owl and nightingale.
Their brief was stiff and stark and strong,
Sometimes soft, and sometimes loud,
As either side swelled up against
The other, and cursed each other out.
Letting fly their evil thoughts,
They said the very worst they could,
And on and on about their songs,
‘Tis my favorite song, and it always makes Mama laugh. She says it is very old, perhaps one hundred and fifty years old, written by someone unnamed, but I make it my own by strumming loudly on the heavy accents of the poem, particularly the words “stiff and stark and strong”. I look up, expecting her grin, but Mama looks pinched around the lips. She signals for me to stop.
“How would you guarantee her safety?” asks Duke John.
“I could give her apartments in the keep for her very own use,” says Papa. “They are accessible only through a flight of steep and narrow stairs. There is a guardhouse underneath those rooms, which could be garrisoned by my most trusted men.”
Duke John comes closer. “You want this marriage so much, you are prepared to lock your daughter up?”
My mouth opens, I look at Mama.
She stares at the floor, her fingers tensed around the bunched fabric of her silken skirts. Suddenly she looks up and glares.
She glares at Richard.
Chapter 2
Michaelmas
September 29, 1424
I fly upright in bed; something wet has touched my ear. A hound regards me mournfully with his large brown eyes. Laughing out loud, I snuggle up to him in the pile of furs.
An Irish Wolfhound with wiry hair, long legs, and floppy ears, Clavis is a birthday present from Papa. He said, now that I’m growing up, I should have a hound. It would attack whenever I’m in danger, just like in the saying, they are gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked. I retorted, who would dare to accost me, the youngest daughter of the greatest lord of the land. Papa said only, better to be safe than sorry.
I lie in my new apartments in the keep, the bed in the main chamber, a large room made of flat white stone. The windows are so high up, I have to angle my head to see the castle courtyards below. I miss looking out at my trees, and I’m tired of the faint stench of latrines that makes its presence felt, even on cold days.
To the right of the window opposite my bed, a door leads to a small room where Jenet sleeps. Next to my bed, another door leads down a steep spiral staircase to the guardroom. When Jenet enters this morning, I hear the scrape of metal and the sound of male voices. She curtseys, pours a jug of angelica water into the bowl, and waits. I turn away, burrow under my furs, and cuddle up to Clavis, who growls appreciatively. I giggle as I count under my breath. How long will it take for Jenet to speak? Once, I counted all the way up to three thousand before my new maid timidly asked if I wouldn’t like to wash my hands.
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