Queen by Right (65 page)

Henry himself came next, eschewing his drab clothes and resplendent for once in a flowing purple velvet robe trimmed in ermine, a jeweled crown upon his head, and genuine pleasure at his brilliant idea shining on his face. How could he not have seen it for the mummery it was? Cecily wondered. He had surprised her by the sincerity of his smile when he noticed her and he had lifted a hand in salute. She dropped a low curtsey where she was standing in the line and could do nothing but return his guileless smile. Dear Mother of God, he does not remember I am not supposed to be his friend, she had thought. When she raised her head again, she saw him gazing vacuously at a point over her head just as he had done all those years ago when he was but a child. His chamberlain steered him toward the church door and it seemed to Cecily that the king had forgotten for a moment where he was or what he was doing there. Once he stepped into the dark doorway, Cecily had heard the organ thundering over a choir singing “Hallelujah!” to welcome their king inside the magnificent church.

Then Richard had stepped forward, his arms held stiffly at his sides, his eyes straight ahead and his determined chin leading. However, when his partner stepped next to him, he turned his head slowly and bowed. Had he known before that moment that he was expected to take the she-wolf ’s hand? But as he had not said anything to her before they left Baynard’s, she believed this
must have come as a surprise. He had so slowly taken the tips of the queen’s icy fingers in his hand, reluctantly partnering with his greatest enemy in this absurd procession.

And so they all went into St. Paul’s to give thanks for this day of loving kindness. She remembered holding young Lord Clifford’s hand, grimacing as she thought of the irony now. Aye, he was naught but a boy then, but by the time he arrived at Wakefield, he was well and truly a man.

Once again Edmund’s sweet face floated before her, his gentle gaze warm as summer. She shut her eyes tightly to rid herself of any vision of his ghastly end at Clifford’s hand. Instead she forced herself to return to that fateful Lady Day.

Aye, Love-day, they called it—and how long did the loving last? A few weeks of festivities had given way to more violence in the streets by June, while Henry and Margaret spent time together at the royal apartments at the Tower and at Humphrey of Gloucester’s old palace of Greenwich. She and Richard had stayed away from London, living at Fotheringhay and Ludlow. Richard remained convinced he was in danger from the queen and her minions.

In one disturbing incident in November of that year, Cecily’s nephew Warwick had narrowly escaped assassination. He had returned from Calais upon a summons from the council to explain his attack on a Hanseatic salt fleet, and while he was making his report in Westminster’s Star Chamber, his waiting retainers were set upon in the great hall. Hearing his servants cry “A Warwick! A Warwick!” the earl had rushed out of the meeting to see what was amiss. Those of the court party and even servants bearing knives from the kitchen attacked him, and the earl barely escaped to his barge with his life, subsequently fleeing back to Calais. I think ’twas then I realized how important it was for Calais to be in Yorkist hands, Cecily thought now. It became pivotal when Richard finally turned his thoughts from standing beside Henry’s throne to Henry’s throne itself.

A knock on the door startled her. Did she really want to be disturbed yet? After a second’s hesitation, she called, “Come,” thinking she must make certain Meg was up and feeling better. Oh, and who knows what that pair George and Richard are up to, she mused.

Gresilde and Beatrice bustled in to dress their mistress.

“Did Father Lessey miss me?” Cecily asked as Gresilde rolled one silk stocking up Cecily’s calf and tied it above the knee. “Did I miss sext?”

“And lauds, prime, and terce,” said Gresilde cheerfully, accepting Cecily’s foot for the second stocking. She had been dismayed when she saw her
mistress’s swollen face but knew better than to question her. “I hope you rested well, your grace. Perhaps a cool compress for your eyes will help,” she fussed.

Cecily reached for her robe and shook her head. “Nay, Gresilde, I am suffering from too little sleep, ’tis all. But I must attempt to redeem myself by attending nones or Father Lessey will be despairing of my immortal soul.”

An hour later, the duchess of York emerged from her chamber, dressed as elegantly as usual, her high hennin supporting a long veil that floated down her back and shoulders and half hid her face. She was accompanied to the tiny private chapel in the castle, where her dear friend and confessor, Richard Lessey, awaited. After the short service, Cecily begged to be left alone to pray and study her favorite writings of St. Brigid.

She knelt on the tufted hassock decorated with the white rose of York and began to tell her rosary. Father Lessey gave her a benediction and together with her attendants he left the vaulted room. Gresilde would have stayed, concerned for her mistress’s melancholy, but Cecily assured her that she would prefer to converse with God alone.

“Dear Lord, I pray you watch over my son Edward in these dangerous times to come,” she began. “He is so very young, not even nineteen, and yet he leads an army of thousands who believe in his cause, to uphold his father’s birthright. His own birthright, in truth. I cannot ask you to take sides, for it is well known King Henry is as holy as a mortal can be and thus must be in your favor. But Edward is a good boy, and his mother loves him dearly. I beg that you return him to me and his brothers and sisters hale and whole.”

Once again, Cecily’s thoughts focused on her children. They must be her reason for living now that her husband was gone. I must be mother and father to them, I suppose, she reminded herself. Praise to St. Monica that we found a good husband for Bess, recalling the sweet betrothal ceremony at Fotheringhay a few weeks before Love-day. John de la Pole was two months older than his bride. The sixteen-year-olds were so shy with each other on that day, she thought back fondly, remembering her own wedding day at Bisham. It had been an odd choice, considering John’s father had been the exiled and subsequently decapitated William, duke of Suffolk, Richard’s nemesis during the Normandy days. The boy had not been granted his father’s title yet, but Richard had believed it would not be long in coming, and thus Bess was well married, lately with child, and back at Wingfield following her visit at Yule-tide. And, praise be to God, Anne had found peace in one of Exeter’s out-of-the-way manors in Devon with her little daughter.

She gazed up at the crucifixion scene painted on the altarpiece and averted her eyes from the figure on the cross. Instead she focused on the weeping Mary at His feet, understanding more than ever the agony of losing a child in such a barbaric fashion. “Dear Mother of God, comfort me in my losses, I pray, and take into your arms my son Edmund, whose death dare I say was as cruel as your own Son’s.” She prayed even more fervently for Edward, “my eldest son, whose shoulders are still too young to bear the burdens heaped upon them by his father’s death. Give me the wisdom to counsel him well and lead him from conflict, if that be the right way. I fear his parents’ ambitions may have set his feet on a bloody path, and I pray he will forgive us. But his fate is in God’s hands, and I pray you intercede for me with Him and bring Edward home safely. And finally, dear Blessed Mother, help me to guide my youngest children into God’s grace and to give me the strength to protect them always.”

Margaret, George, and Richard. Only I can raise them now, she told herself. I alone can protect them.

But you have done that before, Cecily, on that fearful day at Ludlow. She thought back to that summer on the Welsh marches, where she had felt removed from the politics that embroiled Richard in London and where she had spent the last truly idyllic days of her life thus far.

Ah, Ludlow! With its warm, plum-colored stones.

PART SIX

Astonished, shamed and beaten, I did repent
Of what I’d said and done, recalling all
My folly, and perceiving that I had brought
Upon my body martyrdom and grief.

ROMAN DE LA ROSE

24
Ludlow, Autumn 1459

A
fter nones on one brilliant September day at Ludlow, Cecily could not resist the call to the hunt. She called for Constance, but upon discovering the doctor had taken Dickon out to play, Cecily sent for Gresilde and Beatrice to dress her. With Richard and his troops there to defend the town, there was no reason she could not hunt close by, she told the disapproving Gresilde, who clucked her tongue and wagged her finger, making Cecily laugh.

“I shall be perfectly safe, my dear Grizzy,” she told the older woman affectionately. “Besides, I can ride faster than any armed soldier. You are naught but an old mother hen. Now hurry with my riding gown.”

She and Piers, followed by another falconer, two grooms, and her greyhound, made their way across the Dinham Bridge and directly up Whitcliffe Hill toward the village of Richard’s Castle. She watched a red kite soar above them, hearing its distinctive and repetitive
he-he-heea
over the trilling of the Teme far below her. The mild air and the bright blue sky exhilarated her, and she urged her palfrey up the slope. She loved to feel the strength of the horse under her, taking her away from the mundane tasks expected of her every day and allowing her to return to a more innocent time when she had ridden out with her father and had not a care in the world.

Earlier she had watched in amusement as Constance peeked out from behind a blackberry bush where she was hiding from Dickon, who darted up and down the pathways in the castle’s kitchen garden as he tried to find her. A quiet, serious little boy of almost seven, he rarely complained and was completely devoted to his big brother George. Most of the time, George tolerated Dickon dogging him from the archery butts to the bowling green or to the stewpond, where he fished, but he could suddenly get impatient with his baby brother and a swift kick or shove would be sternly punished by their mother.
Poor Dickon, Cecily sighed as her horse climbed higher and she thought on the times her son had run away after being bullied, not wishing anyone to see him cry. Then there were the occasions when he would make his mother smile to see his determined chin—just like his father’s—thrust forward and his fists balled up ready for a fight with George. She often wished he were more affectionate, but she admired his independent spirit, nonetheless.

“Dickon will follow George almost anywhere,” Cecily had told Richard that summer, “but when George flouts Nurse Anne’s rules and then denies it, our earnest Dickon draws the line. He does not inform on George, but I can see it distresses him that his brother lies.”

“Dickon may not be our most endearing child, Cis, but you cannot doubt his loyalty,” Richard had replied, chuckling. “I would far rather have Dickon on my side than George.” And Cecily had sighed, knowing he was right, but never wishing to speak ill of any of her children.

Now she crested the hill and took her merlin from Piers, sighing with pleasure as the bird bobbed and wove on her wrist, recognizing its mistress’s gentle caress. At this moment the captor and the raptor were as one: the captor waiting for any sign of prey and the raptor knowing it would soon be free. Cecily admitted to herself that it was an experience almost as spiritual as receiving the Host. Both Cecily and Richard visited the mews daily to commune with their falcons, and Richard was wont to have Priam on a perch in his privy chamber while he dictated correspondence to his clerk. Cecily had long ago drawn the line at his bringing the treasured bird into their bedchamber.

“Soft, my sweet Niniane,” she murmured, stroking the hawk’s glossy plumage. “You shall fly soon, I promise.”

Piers was attending to Richard’s prize falcon when the greyhound startled a quail from the bracken. The falconer swiftly untied the bird’s jesses and unhooded it. Priam saw its prey as soon as Piers launched the magnificent creature into the air, and in a breathtaking display of soaring and plunging, the bird had the unfortunate quail in its talons before it could flit to the safety of the next clump of bracken.