1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  I scrambled to my feet and tugged at Somerset’s sleeve. “My lord, I beg you. Be merciful. What have these people done?”

  He disengaged my arm roughly, and spat out a response. “You can stop all this, my fine lady.” He eyed my spattered skirts. “Just tell us where they are.”

  “Never!” I cried.

  A high neighing made me turn. Marguerite d’Anjou, Queen of England, dressed in cloth of gold, sat on a black horse. As the queen eyed me grimly, I journeyed back in time to when I’d last seen her and asked for a pension of one thousand marks in return for Richard’s loyalty. My cheeks warmed, ice crawled up my spine. What was I doing here with three children? I shouldn’t be putting their lives in danger. I should have gone to the priory at Wigmore as Edward had suggested. After all, the queen could kidnap the boys. Why wouldn’t she? She had already taken two of Salisbury’s sons.

  The queen’s hard voice cut through my wandering thoughts. “My lady York, well met. I see you have mislaid your husband.”

  George opened his mouth, and I put a hand on his shoulder to forestall him. Perhaps I could persuade her to be reasonable, one woman to another. Wrinkling my nose, I again lowered myself to my knees as the men guffawed, making cracks about the state of my garments.

  “Madam,” I said, “I beg you for the love of Christ, be merciful to the folk of Ludlow. Prevent your soldiers from torching their homes, from looting, from rampaging.”

  I paused, and bit my lip.

  “You lied!” exclaimed the Queen, pointing her whip at me. “You came to me all those years ago, begging me not to notice your lord’s treachery. Why should I listen to anything you say now? You are two-faced madame. You are duplicitous.”

  I trembled as I bowed my head. I learned then that Marguerite never forgot the wrongs done to her.

  “So you imagine we are animals,” continued Marguerite. She raised her hand. “Let us show my lady York.”

  She let her hand fall, and the Lancastrian beasts set to work. By the time they’d finished, Ludlow was nothing more than an ash-heap. When they’d finished with the town, they went into the castle, and all of our costly furnishings, clothing, and books were thrown about, looted, and burned.

  I was forced to watch with my three children. The worst part of this harrowing and humiliating experience was the sound. The sound of horses panicking, people screaming, fire roaring, people begging for their lives, women pleading to be spared from rape.

  By the time they’d finished, dusk was falling. It was the worst day of my life. Most of all, my children had to go through it. Margaret wept silently, her face smudged from the smoke blackening everything. George clutched his dagger so hard it made his fingers bleed. But the worst was the effect it had on seven-year-old Richard. He disappeared. I could not rouse him. He just stared at me. Silent.

  At length, they arrested and escorted us to Stafford Castle, the residence of the Duke of Buckingham and my sister Anne. I hadn’t seen much of Anne since we were children, and I wondered how she would be now. After all, her husband and mine were mortal enemies.

  “Cecylee.”

  I turned, and there she was. My sister, only looking older.

  She came forward, lines of concern etched on her face, and kissed me on the cheek.

  I don’t know why it was, perhaps because she suddenly reminded me of Mama. But suddenly, I broke down.

  Anne took in the sight of my three children, filthy and exhausted, and immediately ordered hot baths and refreshments. She took me by the hand and led me into her chamber, where I was given a much-needed bath and some fresh garments. Anne’s servants arrived, bearing hot possets, and we sent the children to bed.

  “Where is your husband?” she whispered as we sat by the fire.

  “You know I cannot tell you that.”

  She sighed. “Wherever he may be, he has left you to bear all this by yourself. Why, leaving a lady and three children to face down a whole army—”

  “That was my idea,” I interrupted, my cheeks burning. “My lord was against it, but he had no choice.”

  “You mean he was not able to anticipate the situation?”

  “No,” I replied, looking away. “Things moved so fast.”

  “I worry greatly for your safety, Cecylee,” said Anne, leaning forward and patting my hand. “If a lord cannot protect his wife and children, who will?”

  I hung my head as I knotted my fingers together. My feelings simmered just out of reach.

  Chapter 41

  Stafford Castle, Staffordshire

  Autumn 1459 to Summer 1460

  Richard and his allies determined to launch one final, decisive attack against the Court Party, and this naturally meant invading England from Ireland and Calais.

  I knew little of these matters, for I was under house arrest and scarcely any news got through. Anne was kind, but loyal to her husband, the Duke of Buckingham, and she never discussed matters of political import. For the first time since that fateful summer when I’d met Blaybourne, I was separated from Richard. I couldn’t even send or receive letters.

  As the months passed with no word, my feelings gradually unraveled. I was furious with him for blundering yet again, leaving the children and me in such a perilous situation. I’d never seen an army before and had no idea the situation could be so dire. I imagined that I would kneel before the Lancastrian commanders and they would honor my requests. They would lead me back to Ludlow Castle and then march on somewhere else. It never occurred to me that they might sack and burn the village of Ludlow, loot and destroy my possessions, and force me to watch the horror of it all with three children. Of course, Richard must have known how bad things could’ve been. But he’d fled anyway.

  As I saw the damage that had been done to the children, I grew angrier and angrier. Margaret seemed unable to stop weeping. George talked about killing people with a disquieting light in his eyes. But Richard was the child who worried me the most, for he did not seem like a normal seven-year-old. During the day, he was silent. At night, he couldn’t sleep from the nightmares that haunted him.

  I tried to make life as normal as I could for the children. I had Richard sleep with me at night, while George and Margaret slept together. But what was I to do about Margaret’s constant weeping? It grated on everyone’s nerves. One day, we sat with the ladies of Anne’s household, embroidering, when I noticed how accomplished Margaret had become.

  “My sweet,” I said, as an idea struck me. “How would you like to embroider some shirts for your father?”

  “Father?” whispered Margaret, after looking around to be sure no one was listening.

  I smiled sadly. Margaret was already acting far older than her thirteen years.

  “It would mean a great deal to him.”

  Margaret smiled for the first time in many weeks.

  I kissed her, then my thoughts turned to the other Richard, my youngest son.

  “It worries me that Richard is so silent,” I murmured as Margaret dried her tears, opened her needlework box, and started hunting for skeins of silk. “Does he talk at all when I’m not around?”

  “Not really,” replied Margaret, threading her needle. “He seems to enjoy reading books.”

  Wasn’t that an unusual occupation for a seven-year-old? “I would like you to spend more time with him. He needs to be with people.”

  “I could ask him to walk with me when I go outside with the others.” Anne had four daughters living at home who were around the same age as my children.

  “A good thought, my love,” I said rising, and smiling at her. “And now, I must see to George.”

  With his father gone, George saw himself as the head of the family and strutted about self-importantly, earning him laughs and sneers from those of Buckingham’s affinity. I sighed as I made my way to his chamber. The boy was charming and intelligent, but—

  “My lady,” called Jenet softly. She came forward, and put her mouth close to my ear. “The London merchants have given my lord of W
arwick eighteen thousand pounds.”

  I stared at her. That was an enormous sum of money. It could only mean that the merchants were full weary of the bad government of the king and had actually paid Warwick to invade England. I opened my mouth when Jenet indicated with her eyes that someone was watching.

  I turned slowly around. It was Anne.

  “Cecylee!” she exclaimed, kissing my cheek. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for George,” I replied. “I am worried about him. He has so much energy and not enough to do.”

  “That’s very true,” said Anne, laughing, taking my arm.

  Had she noticed Jenet? I guided Anne downstairs in the opposite direction. “George isn’t a scholar,” I continued. “He needs something to channel his considerable energies.” And dull those bloodthirsty thoughts.

  “ ‘Tis time he became a page,” remarked Anne. “Perhaps he could serve his uncle Buckingham.”

  I thanked her as I smiled my misgivings away. I hoped George would behave himself, not speak out of turn, nor divulge matters best to be silent about. Most of all I hoped that George’s position in Buckingham’s household did not mean that he was being held hostage against the good behavior of his lord father.

  In June of 1460, my nephew Warwick arrived in Kent. My lady queen was unable to prevent this from happening—or prevent the arrival of my brother Salisbury, or that of my son Edward, Earl of March. Her sailors mutinied, and thus the Yorkist ships passed them by, unmolested.

  I bit my nails to the quick on hearing this news, whispered to me by Jenet. Warwick was taking a great risk by occupying a town in Kent, for his lands and sphere of influence lay in the distant north and west. This meant that he had to take London before he could reach his lands.

  He was held in such esteem and affection by the people of Kent and the Londoners, however, I need not have worried. When he sent messages asking for support, the mayors of the little Kentish towns readily complied. Soon, men flocked to Warwick’s standard in large numbers. Then, though my lady queen tried to prevent the Yorkist lords from entering the city of Canterbury, their sympathizers gave them the keys. The gates were flung open and the people gave Warwick, Salisbury, and March a warm welcome. During their short stay, Warwick secured the good offices of the papal legate, which had the effect of encouraging the bishops to join the Yorkist cause.

  News of the invasion had by now reached London. The mayor of that city, anxious that he not been seen as treasonous sent a cautiously worded message to Warwick, advising him that he would not be permitted to enter.

  It did not matter.

  Warwick had so many friends among the merchants and the people that the mayor was persuaded to reconsider. On the second day of July, the gates of London were thrown open, and the Yorkists lords entered the city followed by around forty thousand armed men.

  “Their plan now must be to gain control over the king,” I murmured to Jenet as we sat outside with our sewing. Stafford Castle was quiet, all the menfolk gone to the queen’s army, commanded by Buckingham.

  “Your son Edward and my lord of Warwick are to leave London for Coventry where the king resides,” she whispered.

  However, the king left Coventry and marched to Northampton to take refuge in the almost impenetrable Fen country surrounding the Isle of Ely. The queen’s army arrived in Northampton to protect the king, drawing itself up in battle order.

  On the tenth of July, Warwick’s army arrived. He tried to avoid battle by sending the papal legate and other bishops to the king to beg an airing of the grievances of the Yorkist lords. My lord of Buckingham accused the bishops of hypocrisy and advised the king to pay them no heed.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, with the rain teeming down, watched by the papal legate and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Warwick ordered his trumpeters to sound the call to battle. Edward commanded the vanguard. His advance across the Nene marshes was met with a deadly series of volleys from the Lancastrian archers.

  Chapter 42

  Stafford Castle, Staffordshire

  July 1460

  As I stepped onto the castle battlements, a cooling breeze lifted my veil. I looked for George but he was nowhere to be seen. Thank goodness that George had been considered too young to fight; for Buckingham would certainly have taken him when he left the castle a fortnight ago. I could only marvel at my good fortune. Buckingham had been courteous, and more importantly, had refrained from making hostages out of my two boys. I thanked God every day for their safe deliverance while I awaited tidings of the latest conflict.

  Though it was hot, the commander of the garrison at Stafford Castle did not allow his men to relax. All were stationed at their posts and had to remain there, while Anne directed her servants to pour watered-down ale. Leaving Anne behind me, I wandered along the parapet encircling the castle wall. I came upon George engaged in assisting a squire with the commander’s heavy armor. While the two boys tightened buckles and tied laces, the commander scanned the horizon.

  I watched for a moment. This son reminded me most forcibly of my father. Like him, George was an amusing and lively companion. Even his gestures were similar as he told jokes. His bright eyes took everything in, and I sighed once more with sorrow as I thought of the horrors he’d seen that day at Ludlow. At that moment, he glanced up.

  “Mama!” he called, looking like the young lad he was.

  I smiled into his blue-green eyes. “Well met, my son.”

  “And how does my nephew?” remarked Anne, coming up silently behind me.

  “Well, madam,” responded George gravely. “I’ve been learning all about how to clean armor, and which order the pieces go on.”

  “Lord George has a quick wit,” remarked the commander, bowing. “He’ll make a fine squire some day.”

  There was an awkward pause. How I wished this war would end. I turned to look at the horizon, which shimmered in the heat.

  “Someone’s coming,” remarked George in a whisper.

  I shot my son a look, then scanned the horizon again.

  “To your posts!” roared the commander. “Ladies, I must ask you to wait below.”

  “George!” I exclaimed as fear gripped me.

  “Mama!” he exclaimed, mimicking my tone.

  I watched helpless as George scampered away.

  “Leave him be,” said Anne quietly. “He’ll only fret if he’s mewed up with us.”

  I sighed as I follow Anne downstairs. I went to my bedchamber to see Richard, who was feeling poorly. I wondered if he would survive this latest bout of illness. I’d lost so many children, two daughters and four sons who’d never grown up, locked in my memory as the small children they’d been when taken up to heaven. I recited the litany now as I looked down at Richard’s wan face: Joan, Henry, William, John, Thomas, Ursula.

  Sitting down, I took Richard’s small hand in mine. What kind of man would he be? He was tenacious. He’d shown that by the way he clung on through the worst of his illnesses. He was already showing the promise of a fine mind, preferring to play chess and read books. And he was preternaturally serious, just like his father.

  I smiled, thinking of Richard. We’d met in December 1423 at Castle Raby. I’d been a lively eight-year-old sent out one bright December day to tend to my roses when I saw a strange boy watching me.

  When asked who he was, he drew himself up stiffly. “Richard, Duke of York.”

  I tossed him some pert reply and turned my back on him while humming a favorite air. When I turned around, he was still there. “You’re so serious!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you ever smile?”

  At that, he had smiled. Tentatively.

  And now, I hadn’t seen him in nine months. I’d grown accustomed to life without Richard, and found that it suited me. Most of all, I reveled in the freedom of making my own decisions without the need to consult him. I felt a twinge of guilt. How was he faring in Ireland? I’d heard nothing—

  A door banged, and then there was the sound of heavy feet. I
bent over my son to hide my fear. The child was stirring.

  “Mama?” he said sleepily. Then suddenly his pale face lit with a smile.

  I swung around.

  “Edward!” I exclaimed.

  Any misgivings I had about Edward vanished as I took him in, standing in front of me, tall and gleaming in his suit of armor. I thought he’d never looked so handsome, and my heart caught in my throat.

  “Mother,” he said, bowing. Then he kissed me on the cheek before turning to the bed. “And how goes brother Richard?”

  To my amazement, Richard pushed himself up in bed and leaned forward eagerly. Under his older brother’s smile, Richard shed years, looking like a little boy rather than an old man.

  “I bought you a gift,” remarked Edward.

  How had Edward found the time to get his little brother a gift?

  Edward reached into the folds of his tunic and drew out a horseshoe. “ ‘Tis from White York, my stallion that helped me win the battle.”

  “Battle? What battle?” I asked.

  “All in good time, Mother,” replied Edward. He turned to Richard. “Tuck it under your pillow for good luck.”

  “I wish I could fight like you,” remarked Richard, gazing at Edward with shining eyes.

  “You do fight,” said Edward, patting his shoulder. At that moment, the door blew open, and George entered, followed by Margaret. “Tell us the news!”

  Edward gave an account of the Battle of Northampton, and I could hardly believe he was alive. “You were under fire from the Lancastrian archers, and the weather was atrocious?”

  “Aye,” agreed Edward. “The mud was thick and viscous. That’s how White York lost his shoe. But the Lancastrians could not fire their cannon because the rain was teeming down. When we reached their defenses, Lord Grey de Ruthun gave the signal, and his men helped us over the barricades.”

  I clasped a hand over my mouth. Edmund Grey, a faithful supporter of the Lancastrian cause, threw his allegiance in with the House of York? “He should be rewarded,” I breathed, drying my hands on my handkerchief. “I’m most grateful that Lady Fortune was with you that day.”