“Childbirth? I didn’t know she was expecting.”
“Her daughter Anne died last year, at the age of twenty.”
I sank into a chair, my arms wrapped around me, and rocked to and fro. Nan’s daughter, Anne Holland, had been married to the Serpent’s son Thomas Grey. He’d made her die in childbirth.
“Nan decided to have another child. The child lives and is called Anne St. Leger.”
“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “Was she happy, with her—her lover?”
“They were married, Mother dear,” said Beth, chafing my cold hands. “Anne got her divorce three years ago and has been married for two years.”
“It’s all my fault,” I burst out, rising. “I should never have let her go. I’ll never forget the day she was torn away from me. If only—”
The rest of the sentence disappeared as I flung myself onto my bed. “If only I’d never met Blaybourne,” I sobbed into a pillow, “then Richard would not have punished me with Nan’s marriage.”
Beth sat by me and held my hand.
“We can’t have run out of time.” I wept. “I had plans to see her again.”
Beth summoned Jenet, who mixed up a potion to help me sleep.
I slept that day. But it was many moons before I slept well again. The sands of time had run through my fingers, and Nan was gone, dead at the age of thirty-six. I paced around my chamber during the dead of night. Why hadn’t I done more to reach her? Dark waves of guilt washed over me as I gazed at the stars.
In October 1476, Bella presented George with their fourth child, a son they named Richard. But she never recovered. By mid November, she was so ill, she was taken home to Warwick Castle to die. She passed on just before Christmas 1476, at the age of twenty-five. Their child died ten days later.
George was heartbroken, and I was consumed with worry. Naturally, George wished to marry again, for he had two children under the age of five. His first choice was Mary of Burgundy, now nearly twenty years old. On her father’s death in January 1477, she had become the heiress to his vast duchy. But Edward thwarted George at every turn, and the Serpent added fuel to the fire by proposing her own brother Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, as bridegroom. In the end, Mary married Maximilian of Austria with Edward’s blessing.
George’s second choice of bride was Princess Margaret of Scotland. But Edward again forbade the match. Surmising that the Serpent was responsible for these decisions, George decided to strike at her through one of her women, Ankarette Twynho, who’d served Bella before her death. Taking the king’s justice into his own hands, George arrested, tried, and executed Dame Twynho on the grounds that she had poisoned Bella, being the means by which the Serpent had put a curse on Bella to make her die.
Edward was furious, but did nothing.
“The king is showing a great deal of forbearance,” I remarked, listening to Robert Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, explain the situation. “You have seen George much of late. How is he?”
Bishop Stillington cleared his throat. “I have some news that I fear will greatly distress you, and that is the reason for my visit.”
I gripped the chair handles.
“The Duke of Clarence is publicly declaring the king to be a bastard.”
“Not that,” I murmured. But of course he would say such a thing. I had taught him to say it, and it was becoming clear that in the wake of Bella’s death, George was becoming unhinged.
The bishop signaled to my women. “I fear I have greatly distressed you.”
I waved them away and sipped my wine. I must do penance for my sins, and one way I could do that was to hear the worst.
“What else does George say?”
The bishop sighed and lowered his voice: “He declares the king to be a necromancer and says that his marriage to the queen is null and void because tradition forbids the King of England to marry widows.”
I shook my head. “George is not well. The death of his wife has been a great shock.”
“You might be right, my lady. His actions seemed designed to cause the most offense. Why, yesterday he publicly accused the queen of murdering his duchess by poison and sorcery. And he refuses to eat or drink anything at court.”
My hands trembled as I put my wine-cup down. “What of the king?” I whispered.
“He is very patient with his brother.”
But that could not last much longer. As I paced my chamber that night, gazing at the moon, I could imagine the Serpent’s reaction:
“I tell you, he’s gone quite mad,” she would say. “He thinks he can do anything he likes, such as storming into your council chamber and demanding that the king’s justice be overturned.”
Edward would sigh. It was true that George was becoming a problem, but he was loath to act. His brother was amusing. And they were both so alike, much more so than their youngest brother Richard. “George has no real power. He is greatly upset by his wife’s death.”
“Edward! He’s dangerous. Don’t you remember how he plotted against you with Warwick? But worst of all is what he’s said against me. He says I’m not your legitimate wife!”
“No one takes him seriously.”
“Sweeting, think about this. If Clarence believes I’m not your legitimate wife, then what is he going to think about our children? He’s going to say they are bastards. And so he’ll not allow our Edward to inherit the throne. What say you to that?”
“You have a point there.”
“And so you will see to it that Clarence is removed, won’t you, my sweeting?”
And so it came to pass that George was incarcerated in the Tower of London. Months passed and Edward did nothing. Then, he summoned Parliament to meet in January 1478 to try George publicly for his offenses.
“I have a copy of the attainder with me.”
The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier, handed me his scroll and bowed. Thomas Bourchier, a kinsman-by-marriage of my lord husband Richard, had been chosen by Richard to be Archbishop of Canterbury when he was regent of England. Over the years, we had developed a close friendship.
“Pray be seated,” I said, “and read it to me. My eyes are tired today.” I sat opposite him in front of the fireplace, my face concealed by shadows.
The Archbishop cleared his throat. “The king read the indictment himself. He accused his brother, George, Duke of Clarence, of new treasons to exalt himself and his heir to the regality of the crown of England. He said that he had ever loved and cherished his brother, giving him so large a portion of possessions that seldom had been seen. The duke’s love, for all this, did not increase but grew daily more and more in malice. He falsely and traitorously intended the destruction and disinheriting of the king and his issue.”
I put my hand in front of my face as the Archbishop stopped. I could not deny the charges. And, yet, Edward had never handled George well. What would have happened if George had been allowed to have a position in Edward’s cabinet? Would he have used it to try and take the throne that way?
“What will happen now?”
“The Lords and the Commons demand that the sentence be carried out.”
I gripped the chair so hard, my knuckles went white. If that were true, George would suffer the full horrors of a traitor’s death, the hanging, the drawing, and the quartering. Couldn’t Edward lock him up for the duration of his lifetime? But Edward had done that for Henry of Lancaster, only to find he became the focus of opposition. Henry of Lancaster had been removed, a threat to Edward’s throne.
I pinched my lips together and rose, then wobbled. The Archbishop rushed to put a hand under my elbow. I sank into my seat.
“I must write to the king.”
Dear Edward, I wrote, Archbishop Bourchier has told me that George has been indicted on charges of treason. I beg you not to let him die a traitor’s death. I humbly request that you commute the sentence to a beheading, or some other way preferred by George, and that you allow it to be done privately to spare our family further
scandal.
In sorrow, Cecylee, Duchess of York.
I gazed out of the window. It was bitter cold, and I struggled to keep my heavy fur wrap around me as I stood there, sleepless. Dawn came, black changing to grey and white. It was February 19, 1478, a cold day under the clouds, snow falling. Wisps of chill damp infected my bones as I knelt to pray for the soul of my son George.
Had he been executed the night before?
What had become of him?
I was near unto sixty-three years, yet hours went by as I continued to fast and pray, moving my lips over the prayers composed by Saint Bridget of Sweden:
O Jesu, endless sweetness of all that love thee, a joy passing and exceeding all gladness and desire, the savior and lover of all repentant sinners …
A voice softly said, “Mother?”
Slowly, I opened my eyes and through my cloudy vision a face gradually came into focus. The face seemed to be George’s. But it dissolved and became Richard’s. I’d never noticed Richard to be like George before.
I tried to move, but could not.
Someone lifted me up and gently set me into my favorite chair. The room came to life as folk stoked up the fire and bustled around with cups of mulled wine and refreshments.
“I cannot eat,” I murmured.
Richard sat down beside me. “I’ll not have you go as well.”
An image of George the day I’d faced down the Lancastrian army at Ludlow filled my head. How bright and handsome he’d looked in his suit of green and gold, chosen especially to match my outfit. He showed little fear, even when the army burst into town, staring at everything with his unusual blue-green eyes. And now I would never see him again.
“Mother,” came a voice. “Mother, where are you?”
“George?” I murmured. Someone’s warm hands picked mine up, and Richard’s face wavered into view. “You must eat, Mother. You’ll make yourself ill if you do not.”
I took my handkerchief out of my sleeve and dabbed my eyes. A procession of people filled my mind’s eye: my beloved Joan, my lost daughter Nan, my murdered child Edmund, my lord husband Richard, and my dearest friend and confidante, Mama. I sagged in my seat, bone weary. Truly, I was living a long and unhappy life. Lisette’s curse had come true. Maybe if I continued to fast, I could see Mama again.
But Richard was by my side once more. He cut a small morsel of my favorite honey wafer, put it on a plate. Then he stared me down until I took a nibble. He handed me my wine cup and used the power of his blue-grey eyes to encourage me to take a sip.
“You’re so quiet, Mother.”
I lifted my eyes. “George?”
Richard slumped in his seat and took my hands. “He’s gone.”
“How?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
I stared at my hands as tears slipped past my lids and down my cheeks. I was responsible for George’s death. By announcing the king’s illegitimacy in front of everyone, I provided the motive to turn against his brother. George had always been intensely jealous of Edward, but I refused to see that. I believed I could manage George, but he was unstable and easily led.
What a sin I had committed by being unfaithful to my lord. Edward was not legitimate, but he’d executed the legitimate heir. What had I done? What monster had I brought into our family?
I stared into Richard’s blue-grey eyes. Was I with my lord? No. Richard was the only son left to me, and I must protect him. I sat up in my chair.
“What will you do?”
“I’ve been loyal to Edward,” replied Richard. “And will continue so while he lives. But I owe no loyalty to his wife, nor to her numerous relations.”
“The queen is dangerous,” I remarked, rising. “Remember what happened when she stole the king’s signet ring and had the Earl of Desmond and his two young children executed? And all because he made some unfortunate—and very true—remarks about the king’s choice of a wife.”
Richard glanced at me. “I’d forgotten that.”
“You are next,” I said, going to him. “Mark my words, if she has any excuse to rid herself of you, she will.”
“I’m determined to fight for what is rightfully ours,” he said. “And you must be determined, Mother, not to let George’s ... death get you down.”
“You’ve given me hope,” I replied, as I blessed him.
I do not know what happened to darling George. He died in mysterious circumstances in the Tower on the night of February 18, 1478. Some say he drowned in a barrel of Malmsey wine. But I preferred to think that he died the more dignified death of beheading by an expert swordsman.
Poor George was buried in Tewkesbury Abbey, next to his wife Bella.
Five years passed. The country seemed to be at peace.
Until one day, in early April 1483.
Chapter 62
March to April 1483
I knew nothing of these events until much later, for the Serpent neglected to tell me.
Edward loved fishing and had insisted on going out on a boat in the cold, blustery, wet weather of March 1483. It was not surprising that he caught a chill and had to take to his bed. But everyone expected him to recover, for he was only forty years old.
However, Edward was as intemperate in his eating habits as he was with his mistresses. Gone was the lean, muscular, and handsome youth crowned king at the age of eighteen. In his place was a man with an enormous stomach, who frequently purged himself for the pleasure of gorging on food and drink.
The Serpent summoned a horde of doctors, to no avail. Edward died on the ninth day of April.
If she did not act quickly, the Serpent’s hold on power would disappear. Her first aim was to get her eldest son, twelve-year-old Edward, Prince of Wales, to London, where he would be under her care. For when his father died, the prince was some two hundred miles away at Ludlow. Fortunately, she’d used her charms to convince Edward to give the guardianship of his heir to her brother, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, whose loyalty to her was unquestioned.
Her second aim was to deal with the king’s younger brother, Richard of Gloucester, immensely powerful in the north of England partly because he owned an enormous amount of land and partly because he had the power to dispense the king’s justice. It was imperative to keep the king’s condition secret from Gloucester, because Edward had named him Protector of the Realm until Prince Edward reached his majority.
But if Prince Edward were brought to his mother in London, he could be crowned immediately, and there would be no need for Gloucester to act as Protector.
The Serpent loathed and feared Gloucester, for he was close to me and, like me, had disapproved of Edward’s marriage. Unlike George, Richard was crafty enough to keep his feelings to himself. But he’d made his displeasure with the Woodvilles plain by rarely coming to court.
The Serpent lost no time, apprising Rivers of Edward’s death and urging him to bring the young prince to London.
To the late king’s mother and younger brother, she wrote not a word, hoping we would not learn of Edward’s death until it was too late.
Chapter 63
April 11 to 17, 1483
To Cecylee, Duchess of York, Greetings.
Madam,
It has come to my attention that you may not have been apprised of the sad news of the late king’s passing, here in London, on the ninth day of April. You should also know it was the late king’s wish that his brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, be Protector of the Realm until such time as Prince Edward reaches his majority.
Written this eleventh day of April, in the year 1483,
Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury.
I sagged and dropped the letter. Edward dead? How could that be? He was only forty years old, and he was a vital, larger-than-life person whose ringing laugh made even the sourest person merry. Whatever had happened?
I sat in my chair for many moments, hearing the vast silence of his absence. I no longer went to court and had not seen him in years. My
sons and daughters communicated with letters and visits. All except Edward, who never visited, and rarely wrote. Over the years, I’d only been able to glean news of him from others.
But he was my son, and had been a daily presence in my thoughts for the past forty years. Despite his irresponsibility and lack of taste, he’d been a strong king. He held everything together, keeping the factions of his government at bay by giving Richard power in the north while the Serpent’s family had their power base in the south.
Now what would happen?
The Serpent was well placed to seize power, for she was in London, and her relatives had been rewarded with positions in Edward’s government. I gripped the arms of my chair.
What was going to become of Richard?
If the Serpent prevailed, she would strip him of his offices. She would take away his land and his home. She would leave him with nothing.
But she would not end there. No. She would find some way to incarcerate him in the Tower.
I picked up the Archbishop’s letter. It was written two days after Edward’s death. Had anyone told my remaining son? It reminded me of the time when Henry of Lancaster had gone mad, and the Bitch of Anjou had kept the news from Richard of York.
I sat up suddenly, berating myself for the sluggishness of my mind. Of course the Serpent would not want Richard of Gloucester to know about his brother’s death! I must write to him at once!
To Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Greetings.
Dearest Richard,
I write in haste to tell you that Edward the King passed away suddenly this ninth day of April. I have a subtle suspicion that the Serpent may not have apprised you of this news, and so I urge you to move swiftly to protect your interests. Perhaps you should have Prince Edward transferred to your care.
Written this thirteenth day of April 1483,
Your loving mother, Cecylee, Duchess of York.
While I anxiously waited for a reply from Richard, the Serpent held her first council meeting. First, she asked for a new bidding prayer to be said in the churches. This was customary on the death of a sovereign, but the Serpent had purposely worded it so that the name of Richard of Gloucester was left out.
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