1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

“He was a peasant!” roared Richard. He took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Take hold of yourself, Cis, and stop making excuses. You slept with a peasant.”

  “But Our Lord and Savior was not ashamed to go amongst peasants, so why should I—”

  Richard let go, went to the door of the chamber and turned. “I need Exeter’s support,” he spat. “I have plans for the House of York. Nan is to marry Holland now, and I’ll have no more said against it.”

  Before Cecylee could open her mouth to reply, he stalked out.

  For the marriage feast, she dressed Nan in a gown of green silk embroidered in silver thread, complete with matching cap, under which Nan’s hair fell down in long brown waves. Cecylee embroidered Nan’s gown herself, stitching Anne, Duchesse of Exeter around the hem, as if the monotony of the embroidery could somehow soothe her feelings.

  At length, the feasting came to an end and it was time for Nan to leave. Cecylee held her hand as they took the stairs for the last time to the courtyard where grooms waited with the horses and a litter for Nan, for she was too young to ride so many miles on horseback.

  “Goodbye, my sweetest child,” she murmured, stooping to kiss Nan’s upturned cheeks. She squeezed Nan’s fingers gently. “May God bless and keep you.”

  Nan’s eyes grew round. “Mama, where am I going?”

  “You are going to Exeter, to be with your new husband.”

  “But you’re coming with me, are you not, Mama?”

  Cecylee slowly sank to her knees before the tiny form and took Nan into her arms. She clung tightly and wept. It was a foolish thing to do, but she could not help herself.

  Nan started to wail. “Mama. Don’t let them take me! I’ll be good, I promise. I don’t want to go.”

  Richard walked up, his face thunderous. “Cis!” he snapped. “What are you doing? Why are you upsetting the child?”

  She rose shakily to her feet, fumbling for her handkerchief.

  Exeter came up behind Richard and glared. “Come now, child,” he said roughly. “Leave off your crying. Be a good girl and get into that litter.”

  Nan edged towards her mother.

  Cecylee’s hand instinctively curved around the tiny fingers.

  “I won’t,” said Nan, and stamped her foot.

  Cecylee’s lips curved in agreement.

  Richard clenched his jaw and without a word grabbed Nan. He hoisted her up and deposited her in the litter. The curtains closed.

  “Mamaaaa!” she wailed, her voice muffled by the curtains. “Mama! Mama!”

  Exeter got onto his horse, followed by his son Henry Holland, Nan’s new husband. He signaled, and the whole procession moved off, several knights riding alongside the closed litter.

  “Mama! Mama! Mama!”

  The wailing voice grew fainter and fainter as the entourage disappeared into the darkness of the oncoming night. Cecylee buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She did so right in front of the servants, it was beyond her power to do anything else.

  At length, she felt herself being gently led away. She threw herself onto her bed and howled.

  She came to with a throbbing headache and eyes that were sore from weeping.

  “There now, my lady, this’ll do you good.” Jenet opened the bed curtains and handed her a potion of her own making. “It contains valerian root and chamomile flowers.”

  Cecylee rose from the bed. “I cannot go on. When will I see her again?”

  “You are being sorely tried, my lady. But you must make your peace with it.”

  “Must?”

  Jenet shrugged. “Well, you tell me, my lady. Do you have a choice?”

  Cecylee sank onto the window seat. “I had little idea marriage would be like this.”

  “But you knew women lose their legal rights when they marry.”

  “It’s so easy for you. You have more rights than I. You, at least, can choose your husband. I had no choice. Nan has no choice. I wish I were a peasant.”

  “Sip some of this my lady, please. It will do you a power of good. You must keep up your strength for the baby that’s coming.”

  At those words, Cecylee drank some of the valerian and chamomile concoction. “Do I look dreadful?”

  “Of course you do. Your husband has been cruel to you.”

  She drained the rest of the cup. “He’s angry with me.”

  “I know, my lady. You’ve wounded his pride and his masculine vanity.”

  She grimaced as she leaned back against the window seat. Joan, Nan, Henry, Edward, Edmund, Beth, Margaret. She counted them like beads on a string. This baby was growing large and her back was beginning to feel its weight. If he was a son, she hoped that Richard would allow her to call him William after her brother Lord Fauconberg. “My marriage is past mending.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, my lady. Duke Richard has not banished you. He spends a great deal of time in your company.”

  “But he sends my children away.” Her eyelids started to droop. “I know I’m foolish about my children,” she murmured. “But I cannot help myself.”

  “That is one of the best things about you, my lady,” said Jenet taking the cup away and unlacing her gown. “How you love your children. ‘Tis a pleasure to see.”

  Chapter 22

  Dublin, Ireland

  Late Summer 1450

  “A messenger from London.”

  Duchess Cecylee and Duke Richard, in the middle of holding their daily audiences in the great hall of Dublin Castle, looked to the far side of the crowd. As the travel-stained figure wearily knelt before them, Cecylee straightened in her seat. It was nearly three years since Nan had been married off to Exeter, and during that time Cecylee hadn’t seen or heard of her daughter. Her numerous pregnancies made it impossible to travel the two hundred and fifty miles between Fotheringhay and Exeter. Cecylee counted out her beads on a string: Joan, Nan, Henry, Edward, Edmund, Beth, Margaret, William, John, George. And so, Cecylee wrote to Nan. Her letters had been returned unopened. When Cecylee had begged Richard to allow Jenet to visit, he’d refused. He would never forgive her for having taken a lover. Ever since, Cecylee sought out anyone who could give her news of her daughter.

  “How go affairs in France?” asked Richard, motioning the messenger to rise.

  “Not well, my lord Duke,” he replied bowing. “My lord of Somerset has handed Caen over to the French.”

  Richard recoiled. “What did you say?”

  The messenger repeated it.

  Richard shot out of his chair. “This is madness!” he stormed. “This means the end of English rule in Normandy!” He called for a scribe and dictated a letter to the King of England.

  While Richard was preoccupied, Cecylee turned to the messenger: “Have you news of my daughter the Duchess of Exeter?”

  The messenger shook his head.

  “Find out what you can,” whispered Cecylee, slipping him a sovereign.

  A month later, he reappeared. “His Grace the King bowed to your wishes and summoned parliament,” he began. “But after hearing Somerset’s explanation, he decided to make him Constable of England.”

  Richard stared at him, the color draining out of his face.

  Cecylee put her hand over Richard’s. Turning to the messenger, she inquired, “What do the people say about this?”

  The messenger bowed. “They murmur that Somerset must be the queen’s lover, madam.”

  Cecylee flinched, but Richard laughed. “Small wonder they think that,” he said. “Why else make Somerset Constable of England? I’ve never heard of rewarding someone for bad judgment. The queen must have made a special request. I must go home.”

  “My lord?” Cecylee looked searchingly into his face.

  “Aye, ‘tis time. While I struggle here to end the squabbles in Ireland, I see England spiral downwards into chaos. The people need me.”

  “But don’t you need permission of the king?” said Cecylee, feeling the baby kick. In a few months, she would present Richard with anothe
r child.

  Richard gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I fear matters have gone beyond that point. I must leave, and leave now,” he replied, kissing her on the cheek.

  And so, in the space of a few hours, Richard saddled up and left, taking the messenger and many others with him. It was not until he’d left that Cecylee realized she’d not had a chance to ask him about Nan.

  Several days later, the messenger returned and was ushered into the solar of Dublin Castle, where Cecylee was packing up her gowns and jewels, surrounded by her women and children, for Richard had instructed his wife to make all haste in leaving Ireland. Baby George was suckling his wet-nurse, four-year-old Margaret was playing with Jenet, while seven-year-old Beth kept close to her mother. Though Beth was now the same age as Nan had been at her marriage, thankfully her father had said nothing about marrying her off. Cecylee hoped that the deteriorating situation in England would keep him occupied for many moons to come. She motioned for the messenger to rise. “How is my lord?”

  “In good health, and spirits, my lady,” replied the messenger, bowing. “He successfully crossed to Wales and rode to Ludlow. There, he mustered a force of four thousand men and marched towards London. He is in London now, seeking an audience with the king.”

  Cecylee sighed and crossed herself, praying that common sense would prevail and that Richard would be safe. Nothing had gone right for him in recent years. The queen, fearing him, blocked all of his attempts to participate in government. Instead of making use of his considerable talents, she’d appointed York to be the king’s lieutenant in Ireland. The position sounded like a great honor, but Richard and Cecylee were both painfully aware that the queen had banished him from London.

  “Have you news of my daughter, the Duchess of Exeter?”

  The messenger hesitated and looked at the floor.

  “You heard something?”

  He coughed. “Yes, my lady. But nothing good, I am afraid.”

  “Tell me,” said Cecylee, motioning Annette to take Beth and the other children away.

  “I happened to have business in that part of the country, and so I rode over to Exeter Castle. It is a fine fortress, tucked into one corner of the City of Exeter, and the Duke of Exeter lives in a fine mansion within, so I am told.”

  “You did not go into the castle yourself?”

  “Alas, no, madam. I was turned away at the gate. But it was nighttime, and there was a full moon, so I let my horse linger nearby and—” He ran his tongue over his lips.

  Cecylee felt her unborn baby kick as she sank into her seat. “And what?” she whispered.

  “I swear I could hear a cry coming from the castle.”

  “A cry? What do you mean?”

  The messenger was silent.

  She rose. “I insist that you tell me.”

  “It sounded like someone screaming.”

  Chapter 23

  London

  Late November 1450

  Richard pulled his palfrey to a halt and turned his head at the clarion call. There it came again, and again. As the notes died away, Richard’s ear caught the thunder of hooves, and around a bend in the road came a large group of riders bearing the badge of the lion. John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, had arrived as promised on the outskirts of London.

  “Well met, nephew Norfolk.” York clasped hands with his powerful nephew-in-law, the son of Cecylee’s sister Cath. As premier Duke of the Realm, Norfolk’s opinion counted.

  “How is your lady wife?”

  “She is recovering from the birth of our son Thomas,” replied Richard, nudging his horse into a trot beside Norfolk’s. “The child is sickly, and Cecylee spends every waking hour nursing him.”

  The horses’ breath rose up in a steam in the chill November air. It was two months since Richard had hurried back from Ireland to confront his cousin over the mismanagement of affairs in France. Henry had bowed to York’s wishes and summoned Parliament to meet in London on November sixth.

  As the procession wound its way through the narrow streets of London, the people of London opened their upstairs windows to look down on them. These upper rooms jutted out over the lower ones, and were so close in places that it was possible for two lovers on opposite sides of the street to hold hands. When the people saw York, they took up his cry: “A York! A York! A York!”

  “I see you are popular with the people”, murmured Norfolk. “How many men did you bring?”

  “Three thousand.”

  “A goodly number. I brought a similar number myself.” He motioned for one of his men to dismount and knock at the nearest house.

  Presently, the casement window above was thrust open, and a dame with an elaborately starched white headdress, setting off her rosy cheeks, looked down on their company.

  “I have no rooms, good sir,” she said, when Norfolk’s man explained what he wanted. “This house and all of the surrounding ones are taken by men of my lord of Somerset’s affinity.”

  “There’s not a bed to be had between here and Whitechapel!” exclaimed another woman, opening the casement opposite. “London’s an armed camp. Why every fellow who fancies he can wield a stick has come here.”

  A child scampered into the street. York pulled on the bit so savagely, his horse reared. He quickly brought it under control. The child ran away unharmed.

  “Holy Mother be blessed,” said a dame, turning her head. “ ‘Tis indeed my lord of York. Good e’en to you, sir.” She dropped a low curtsey that made her head disappear below the sill of the open window. “May God prosper your cause.”

  York smiled and waved. “Did you hear what she said? I must find Somerset.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “A York! A York!” chanted the people, thrusting open their casements and leaning over the procession.

  “Garday loo!” shouted a maid as she prepared to heave a bucket of slops out of the window. “’Tis my lord of York,” hissed her mistress. “Wait.”

  “Thank you, good madam,” said Norfolk, inclining his head.

  “Save your wastewater for Somerset!” shouted a voice across the way.

  The crowd erupted into cheers and guffaws.

  “We must do something about the money woes of this country,” said Richard, pacing up and down.

  “Certainly, my lord,” replied Sir William Oldhall, picking up his pen. Richard had known Sir William for years, first as a councilor in Normandy, and latterly as his chamberlain. The House of Commons had demonstrated their support of York by recently electing Sir William to be their Speaker.

  “The king’s councilors are prepared to discuss fixing the income for the royal household,” said Richard. “But we need to go further. I propose that we pass an Act of Resumption that returns the huge swaths of land the king has given away to his favorites for the past thirteen years.”

  Sir William stroked his beard.

  Richard smiled. Sir William was a wealthy Norfolk landowner with powerful friends and relations. “Find out if public opinion would support this demand.”

  Sir William rose. “We should also get a promise from the king to restore law and order in the shires.” He bowed and left.

  “The seamstress has arrived with your gown,” said Eleanor, now Duchess of Somerset, curtseying low before the queen.

  Marguerite motioned her friend to rise.

  Eleanor slowly straightened but would not meet the Queen’s eye.

  Marguerite sighed. Eleanor had been so kind when she’d first come to England, lending her money so that she could pay her sailors. But as her relationship with the Duke of Somerset had grown closer, the friendship with his wife deteriorated.

  Marguerite could not really blame her. Like most aristocratic ladies, Eleanor had been married off as a child, but when her husband died, leaving her a widow at the age of twenty-three, she’d fallen in love with Somerset and married him secretly. But recently, Queen Marguerite had turned to her dearest cousin Somerset. Her great friend, the Earl of Suffolk, had been murdered t
hat spring, and the queen needed someone to take his place in her counsels and as leader of the Court Party. She and Somerset saw each other every day, and he was beginning to look at her—

  Marguerite never allowed herself to criticize her husband. She placed him in a special category, for he was like no man she’d ever known. Every day, he devoted himself to his prayers and to his charities. He was the most kind-hearted and sweetest-tempered lord, denying her nothing. Except that he would not, could not, Marguerite corrected herself, give her a child after five years of marriage. And she so longed for a baby, not only for political reasons, but for herself. If only she could have a son, York would be put in his place, for he would no longer be heir presumptive. And if not the king, then who? Marguerite smiled until her gaze landed on Eleanor. She bit her lip as her lady-in-waiting gently put the purple velvet gown embroidered in crimson thread over her head.

  Eleanor gave Marguerite her mirror and stood beside her to study the effect of the gown. It set off Marguerite’s sculpted profile and made her look much older than her twenty-one years. Marguerite sighed as she studied her face in the mirror, noting a couple of lines around her mouth. “How old I look. Don’t you think so, Eleanor?”

  Eleanor, who was some twenty years older than the Queen, glanced at her mistress, then turned and gathered up the Queen’s discarded gowns. Marguerite looked glorious, but she wasn’t going to tell her that. She too had noticed the way her husband looked at the queen. “It is true you have not the freshness you had when first you came to this land five years ago,” she said. “But you have been sorely tried, my lady. Especially this year.”

  Marguerite caught her friend’s hand as she passed by. “You are so good to me, Eleanor. I do not understand why.”

  Eleanor reddened as she averted her face. She turned to the queen’s dressing table and busied herself with clearing it, putting the stoppers back on the jars of rosewater, lavender water, and angelica water.

  There was silence.

  “How I miss Suffolk,” sighed Marguerite.