Red Rose, White Rose (18 page)

Seeing that I was becoming very distressed, Anne took my hands in hers. ‘But you had little Annie between those two lost boys, Cicely, the healthy, bonny child I saw in the nursery this afternoon. And look at you now!’ She gestured at my very round belly. ‘You can hardly consider yourself barren!’

‘I know, I know. I was so happy when I discovered I was with child. I did not expect it because Richard only came back from campaigning on a flying visit last August. It was baking hot in the castle and he could see I was wilting so he ordered tents to be erected in the river meadow at the Abbey of Saint Catherine. We dined in the open air, the two of us on the bank of the river, and when it got dark the sky was full of falling stars. We lay on cushions gazing up at it. I had never seen this miracle before but Richard said it happened every year and called them celestial embers. It was beautiful. This baby was conceived under a shower of Heavenly brilliance and so at first I was full of optimism, but as the birth draws nearer I have become terrified again. Perhaps it was not celestial embers but God’s wrath descending.’ I stumbled to a halt and gazed at Anne, blinking away the tears that continued to brim in my eyes.

‘You think I cannot I understand your fear, Cicely, but you are wrong. You were just a baby when I was betrothed to Humphrey at the age of nine and went to live at Stafford, and the years since have set us apart. Listen: I was fourteen and Humphrey was sixteen when we were bedded and told that our duty was to get children, but no one told us how they were conceived. For two years we thought that kissing was enough and when we discovered the truth we were too embarrassed to actually perform what was required of us. Two more years passed before we stopped being just friends, which we had been from the start. After that, like you, I had a slipped pregnancy, then a beautiful little boy that died and then another. But we did not despair. Finally, after nine years of marriage we produced little Humphrey and then Henry and John – three healthy boys in quick succession, followed by Annette, as we call her. Then our troubles started again – Margaret only lived a few months and George and William barely breathed at all, one after another. I thought I would have to be content with four healthy children until, as you know, Joan arrived two years ago and then Catherine last year. So now we have three boys and three girls who, God willing, will all grow and prosper. We can never be sure, of course. But you are not alone, Cicely! God works his wonders for some of us and for others there are no miracles of birth at all. You already have a healthy child and you must believe that the one you are carrying now will be another – perhaps the son you crave, perhaps not, but you should remember that we Nevilles are prolific breeders. Look at our mother – fifteen children in twenty years and only two of them did not live to adulthood. You may think now that you have failed but, in truth, you have probably hardly begun.’

She reached out and gave me a clumsy hug, laughing as she did so. ‘See, you are so near your time that I can hardly reach around you! This will be a healthy baby, whether male or female, and you will go on to have many more, I am certain. Until one day you will be only too glad to say “No more! I have done my share of producing sons and daughters for the dynasty of York.” Mark my words and have faith.’

I felt my spirits rise as they had not done in months, comforted by her laughter and positivity. ‘Oh, Anne! I am so glad you have come. You will stay to see me through this, won’t you?’

‘I am not going anywhere, little sister. After the midwife, I want to be the first to set eyes on the next Duke of York!’

Rouen Castle, 28th April 1442

Cuthbert

W
hen he was not campaigning, Richard practiced his arms skills daily. These fights and jousts were nominally friendly, but they were always ruthlessly competitive. Sometimes he challenged one of his retainers, a young knight or squire whose mettle he wished to test, but most frequently he chose me to cross swords with or ride against in the lists, I think because we were well matched. On occasion these practice bouts between us had lasted up to two hours, even in full armour. Then, at the St George’s Day tournament, I had been hailed the champion and I was fiercely proud of this recognition of my knightly prowess and, importantly, much boosted financially by the prize purse that went with it. However, I was not surprised when, only five days later, Richard chose to challenge me at the practice ground.

‘I become the champion if I beat the champion I think, Cuthbert. Let us see if your grey hair will stand a second trial in a week.’

‘I will let you know when I find one, your grace,’ I said. I was all of a year older than Richard and he liked to draw attention to the discrepancy.

It was not hard to guess why he was challenging me. Since daybreak the whole castle knew that the duchess had gone into labour in the early hours; the duke was seeking distraction from the matter that was uppermost in his mind.

‘What shall we wager on the outcome?’ I asked.

‘Which outcome?’ he asked. ‘Whether I win or whether you find a grey hair?’

‘As you will not win and I will not find a grey hair, that would be betting against a certainty in either case. Instead I will wager my champion’s purse that before one of us yields your wife will be delivered of a lusty boy.’

‘I will certainly not bet against that!’ he protested. ‘And do not imagine that you have the advantage because my mind is elsewhere.’ He strode out into the middle of the arena and his squire hastily ran after him with his helmet, earning a cuff round the ear for his pains. ‘I had not forgotten the helmet, Yves! You were too slow in bringing it.’

That told me all I needed to know about Richard’s state of mind. I had no fear for my champion’s crown. If this fight ever came to a result, as far as I was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion. We were of similar height and physique, we both had stamina, but a knight who fought with half his attention focused on the outcome of a dynastic birth-struggle playing out in a closed room high above him in the castle keep could not hope to prevail. In less than the time it took for a priest to say high mass, I had Richard backed up against the perimeter fence with the blunt tip of his sword buried in the sand.

‘I yield,’ he panted, spreading his hands wide. ‘Sir Cuthbert of Middleham remains the champion knight.’

I raised my sword high and bowed and as I did so I noticed Richard’s Chamberlain, Sir Andrew Ogard, hurrying across the bailey, a wide smile on his face. He fell to his knees heedless of the dusty ground and announced jubilantly ‘The duchess has safely delivered a son, your grace, not ten minutes ago.’

Richard made the sign of the cross. ‘God be thanked,’ he breathed. ‘A son you say – and all is well? Does he wail lustily and how fares her grace?’ Sir Andrew gave his assurances on both counts but Richard did not really listen. He threw his arms around me and clasped me in a fierce bear-hug. ‘Heaven be praised, it is a boy, Cuthbert! May God bless my son and make him strong and fearless. Come, brother, let us storm the keep and get a glimpse of him!’

With his arm around my shoulder, he hauled me along with him whether I would or no. All around us news of the birth spread like flames in a breeze, causing sudden bursts of noise in celebration. On the practice ground sweating foot-soldiers dropped their weapons and raised their fists and voices in triumph for their lord, on the topmost tower of the castle the white rose emblem rattled up the flagpole and in the forge the smiths and armourers hammered out a crescendo on their anvils to salute the newborn son of York.

‘Tell them to ring the chapel bell!’ Richard yelled over his shoulder at his Chamberlain. ‘And send word to all the churches. I want to hear every bell in Rouen chime. The House of York has an heir!’

We took the successive keep stairways two steps at a time and arrived breathless at the lying-in chamber but Lady Anne would not grant us entry. ‘This is not a place for men,’ she declared firmly and gestured at our armour and sheathed swords, ‘especially not for men who clank and reek of combat. Cicely is being tended by the midwives and presently will be ready to receive you. But if you wish to celebrate with your lady wife, my lord, I suggest a clean doublet and soft shoes.’

I glanced sideways to gauge Richard’s reaction; he looked angry and crestfallen but I could see that he acknowledged the justice of her advice.

‘Very well, but I demand that you bring the baby out to me now, Lady Anne,’ he insisted. ‘I must see my son and heir.’

Several officials of the York household were gathered in the ante-room. I knew Richard would not wish to lose face in front of his servants but when I caught Lady Anne’s eye I saw there an unmistakable twinkle. She dropped a curtsy and opened the door wide. ‘Indeed you must, your grace, and acknowledge him as your son for all to see.’

A nurse stood behind her with a bundle of warmly wrapped baby in her arms. The small newborn features of his face were framed by the folds of white shawl. I am no expert but he looked peaceful, pink and healthy. Richard bent to peer closely at the crumpled face and as he did so the child’s eyes opened. One of the few scraps of information I had about tiny infants up to that time was that their focus is blurry, but this one seemed to gaze steadily and deeply into his father’s eyes as if he saw into his soul.

Richard was captivated. ‘Tell Cicely we shall call him Edward,’ he announced without looking up.

Lady Anne gave a satisfied nod. ‘After your uncle, the last Duke of York. It is a good Plantagenet name.’

‘Yes, my lady, after my Uncle Edward, Duke of York, but also after his grandfather King Edward the Third and
his
father King Edward the Second and
his
father King Edward the First. This child is a prince. I would have everyone recognize that the blood of England’s kings runs in my son’s veins.’

Richard’s gaze was still riveted on his boy’s face and so he did not see Lady Anne and I raise our eyebrows at each other. Neither of us spoke but it was clear that we were both somewhat taken aback by the messianic tone in the duke’s voice.

Lady Anne shrugged. ‘I will tell Cicely what you have said my lord. As you can imagine she is tired but utterly delighted to have given birth to a boy. She immediately gave praise and thanks to God and made fervent prayers for the child’s future health, as did we all. We will have her washed and radiant for your return. Oh, and she said to tell you that the baby is very long. He is going to be tall.’

Any further words were drowned out by the sudden clamour of bells. The peal started in the nearby cathedral belfry and was gradually echoed from every church tower in every corner of the town – a glorious, dissonant, joyous sound – as Rouen rang out a deafening welcome to young Edward of York.

Later, after Richard had donned a gown of truly triumphant crimson figured damask with long, trailing sleeves, dagged and lined with blue satin, he visited Cicely alone and then came to the great hall of the castle to lead the toasts to the baby’s health and receive the congratulations of his household and vassals. In the castle cellars a tun of wine from the Garonne was broached and orders were given to the cooks to prepare a great feast for the following day. I was among those who approached the duke to offer a personal toast.

‘I cannot find the words to say how pleased I am for you and my sister, your grace,’ I said formally, raising my cup. ‘I drink to the future of England and France and your son’s undoubted role in it.’

Euphoria still suffused his countenance, or else it was the wine that coloured his cheeks. Suffice it to say that Richard received my toast with visible glee – and an audible slur. ‘Oh you are right there, Cuthbert. He will be a prince among princes! I saw it the moment I laid eyes on him.’

For the second time that day he put his arm around my shoulders, this time his whispered words borne on wine-charged breath.

‘I will let you into a secret, brother-in-law. This evening I made a decision. I intended to set off this new gown of mine with the gold Lancastrian collar King Henry presented to me before I departed for France, but when I put it on it made me feel like a dog. Dogs wear collars and work for scraps, do they not? I will not be the king’s dog. So, to celebrate my son’s birth I am going to have my own collar made, one that shouts to the world “This is the House of York!”.’ He drew back and briefly laid his finger to his lips. ‘Don’t tell Cicely, will you?’

I kept my voice low to match his. ‘You have my word on it, Richard. Where will you have it made though? The best goldsmiths are in Paris but I do not think even you can wrest that city back from the French without the support of parliament and the king. As things are, that does not seem very likely.’

He gave an airy wave of his hand. ‘We have contacts, Cuthbert. Believe me, it will not be made in London where spies would spread word of it around Westminster before the gold is cold. I am only sorry it will not be made in time for Edward’s baptism.’

‘And when is that to be, my lord?’

The duke’s brow furrowed. ‘Ah, now there Cicely and I differ. I want my son to be baptised in Rouen Cathedral with full pomp and ceremony but Cicely cannot forget the death of little Henry. She thinks Edward’s health will be at risk among a great crowd of people in the cathedral and wants him baptised in the castle chapel. I have decided to bow to her maternal fears. The baptism will take place in the chapel tomorrow.’

‘Cicely is right, Richard,’ I said making the sign of the cross. ‘The devil must be driven out as soon as possible and there is no point in taking risks. There will be plenty of occasions for pomp and ceremony when the boy is a little older.’

Richard stepped back and took another gulp of wine, beckoning a passing servant to refill his cup. He nodded solemnly. ‘There will indeed, brother. I assure you he will be brought up to understand the importance of such things in the exercise of power.’

Rouen Castle, 1443

Cicely

A
nne had been right. My belief in the unforgiving wrath of God was unfounded and, a little over a year after Edward’s birth, Richard and I were blessed with another healthy baby boy. This time I was confident enough to allow him to be carried to the cathedral for a full ceremonial baptism. We called him Edmund after the first Duke of York, Richard’s grandfather and also after his mother’s brother, Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, whose untimely death had almost doubled Richard’s inheritance.