Red Rose, White Rose (19 page)

I did not attend the baptism, but afterwards Richard proudly related that he had carried Edward into the cathedral and revelled in the gasps of surprise from the guests when he set his son down and they watched him walk unaided to his nurse.

‘You should have seen their faces, Cicely – only three weeks after his first birthday! There he was in his red velvet gown and little jewelled slippers, his head held high as he toddled across the floor. He grinned at them all, so proud and pleased. He already knows how to charm his public.’

I smiled indulgently, enjoying Richard’s immense pride in his elder son. Nevertheless I could not resist reminding him whose baptism it had been. ‘And Edmund – how did he behave?’ I asked.

The Duke of York had the grace to look a little guilty. ‘Edmund? Well, how do newborn babies behave when they are dunked in water, even if it be warmed and holy? He yelled his head off – and the devil was successfully dealt with, thanks be to God.’

‘Good. I hope he will learn to accept being second to Edward in everything, as you clearly intend him to be.’

‘I do not!’ Richard was indignant. ‘I am already acquiring as much territory in Normandy as possible so that Edmund will have his own revenues and a good motive for keeping the French at bay. It will not do for him and Edward to fight over my York estates.’

I frowned. ‘Cuthbert tells me our household servants are already calling Edward “The Rose of Rouen”. That could prove an awkward name if you intend to set Edmund up over here.’

Richard appeared pleased by this piece of news, ignoring my warning. ‘The Rose of Rouen? Do they really? People love an alliterative epithet, do they not? You were called “The Rose of Raby”, as I remember.’

‘I still am in the northland I believe. You see no harm in it then?’

‘Harm? What harm could there be? York is the house of the White Rose and now there are two heirs to ensure its future. That can be nothing but good.’

Of course the fortunes of the house of York did not rely entirely on the flourishing of our children. A good deal depended on what went on in the halls and chambers of Westminster Palace, where the young king seemed incapable of resisting the overtures of those with the smoothest tongues. To Richard’s exasperation, slick operators like Cardinal Beaufort and his nephews, the Earls of Somerset and Mortain, pushed their preferences through the council while the king’s personal attention seemed focused not on the parlous situation in France but on the endowment of new schools and colleges in England.

‘Education is all very worthy,’ Richard fumed when he learned of the astronomical sums parliament had voted for King Henry’s pet projects at Eton and Cambridge, ‘but it does not pay the soldiers who defend the borders of his French kingdom. Does he not realize that ranks of scholars will not win back the towns and castles which the French seize because our garrisons lack reinforcements and supplies?’

I knew he was thinking of Pontoise, the important eastern gateway to Paris, overrun by the French the previous year, since when several less important but no less strategic towns had fallen as a result. Despite the thousands of crowns Richard had spent from his own coffers, Normandy was becoming more and more vulnerable. Then instead of the expected attack on Normandy, the French made a surprise assault on Gascony; England had held it for centuries; most of the wine that flowed down English throats came from there.

To add insult to injury, the Earl of Somerset had been appointed Captain General of Aquitaine over Richard’s head and given a force of twenty thousand men to chase the French out.

His wrath at this news had exploded through the door into my solar, sending my young ladies scurrying for the door. ‘By St George and St Michael, Cicely, this time I have had enough! I have petitioned the king time and again to send money and reinforcements and he never does. Now he writes that he has been obliged to divert all funds and forces to Somerset for his expedition to Gascony. A king is never
obliged
! Henry is not obliged, he is cozened!’

I could think of nothing to say that might calm his anger. But Richard’s tone had moderated slightly when he continued, ‘We can only pray that Somerset keeps the French so busy in Gascony that they will leave Normandy alone. Meanwhile I shall begin my own negotiations to secure a truce with Burgundy so that at least the merchants of Rouen can begin to trade with the Low Countries again.’

For myself, I felt thoroughly let down because I had always considered the Beauforts to be allies. Now I thought back, however, since my mother’s death it had become more than obvious that they no longer felt any loyalty to her family. It seemed that Neville links to the Lancastrian throne were disintegrating.

On the twenty-first day of September there was a tournament to celebrate Richard’s birthday. His sister Isabel came from Picardy with her husband Henry Bourchier, Count of Eu, and my sister Anne and her husband Humphrey made the risky ride from Calais. Scores of lesser knights and nobles rode in to compete in a variety of jousts, which offered tempting purses to the victors, but none succeeded in unseating my brother Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, who added another pot of gold to his winnings from the St George’s Day tourney.

At the banquet which followed, Richard chose to reveal another deal he had done while negotiating his new trade treaty with the Low Countries. A recent merchants’ train had delivered a fabulous new collar made to his design by goldsmiths in Antwerp and as we made our grand entry down the centre of the Hall of Estates a wave of astonishment accompanied our progress. Displayed prominently around his throat, a dazzling river of gems and gold brought gasps of awe from the guests. It consisted of a chain of twenty white-enamelled gold roses, each set with an enormous yellow diamond at its centre, similar to the rare and beautiful stone that had so struck me on the brooch he gave me before our wedding. Other smaller gemstones – sapphires, emeralds and rubies – gleamed along the filigree gold links, while from the front hung a single magnificent colourless diamond, intricately cut across its surface so that the light from the candles and flambeaux was fractured into brilliant multiple rays that appeared to dance around the hall, reflected off walls and ceiling, clothes and faces. This unique jewel, called the White Rose, flashed a glittering message of possession, wealth and exalted rank. There was no mistaking its purpose was to declare York’s pre-eminence in the peerage and proclaim Richard’s royal lineage.

As we took our places at the high table, I marked the startling contrast between Richard’s sparkling York White Rose and the plain gold gleam of the Lancastrian SS link collar set on the shoulders of the newly created Duke of Buckingham, my sister Anne’s husband, Humphrey. Nor was I the only one to do so.

‘The goldsmiths must have scoured the gem markets of Europe for that white diamond.’ Humphrey kept his voice low so it would not carry past me to Richard. ‘Even Croesus cannot have spent so much on one bauble.’

Happy though I was to have my sister join the ducal ranks, I raised my chin and challenged her lord’s sardonic gaze. ‘Great princes should not pretend to be paupers,’ I said. ‘The House of York is a royal house; it should have its regalia.’

‘There can only be one royal house in England,’ said Humphrey, fingering the links of his own chain. ‘The throne belongs to Lancaster, as do the crown and sceptre. Regalia are for kings, not princes.’

‘You wear a Lancaster collar, my lord, yet you are not a son of Lancaster. That is your choice. The Duke of York chooses to wear the symbol of his own house.’

‘I am loyal to the king and wish to display my loyalty.’

‘My lord is also loyal but the king should not be surprised if one of his loyal subjects sometimes wishes to wear his own “bauble” as you call it.’

‘No,’ said Humphrey, his voice thin and flat. ‘The king will not be surprised.’

Troubled by this conversation, I reported its content to Richard as we lay beneath the covers that night, thinking that he would share my concern, but he gave a crow of delight.

‘Humphrey is jealous. He wishes he had thought of it himself but now he is bound to wear the SS collar forever, like a fawning hound. There will be no renown for the House of Buckingham. It is a house of followers, not leaders.’

The wearing of the Rose had also caused my sister Anne to whisper a warning to me during the evening’s entertainment. ‘You must be careful, Cicely. You and Richard have been away from England for a long time and the king is impressionable. He will be told of this new collar and there is an affinity at court which will lead him to conclude from it that York is a threat to his throne.’

I had thought to repeat her words to Richard too but now decided against it. It was his birthday. He was entitled to celebrate his achievements and revel in the stir he had created with his precious collar. So I leaned over and ran my hand down his chest, threading my fingers through the familiar growth of dark hair and feeling his stomach clench as I reached his navel. ‘It is a beautiful White Rose, my lordly love, fit for a magnificent prince.’

Richard smiled and rolled over to take me in his arms. ‘You cannot deceive me, Cicely,’ he said running his own hand over my slightly rounded belly. ‘I suspect you are already carrying our child again but let us pretend you are not. It is these children we make that will blaze the honour of the White Rose into history.’

Elizabeth of York was born the following April but during my pregnancy Richard had watched with deep concern as major moves were made from London towards a truce with France, to be fortified by a marriage between King Henry and the Duke of Anjou’s daughter Margaret. The Earl of Suffolk and his wife led an English mission to the proposed bride’s home in Nancy but it was noticeable that they made no courtesy visit to Rouen on the way. Negotiations were protracted and even after Suffolk had stood in for Henry at a proxy marriage, King Charles of France insisted that the young bride come to Paris for a series of celebrations and processions to demonstrate the strength of French support for her. He also took the opportunity to instigate further negotiations before the truce was finally concluded.

‘No one in England has had sight of this treaty yet,’ Richard fretted as he waited for a summons to Paris to collect the new queen and bring her to Rouen. ‘Only Suffolk knows what it contains, just as only he and his entourage have laid eyes on young Margaret of Anjou. She may be hare-lipped or lame-brained for all we know.’

‘Gossip among the ladies of my salon would indicate the opposite,’ I countered, taking advantage of his private visit to my chamber to kick off my shoes and raise my swollen ankles onto a cushioned stool. I was only weeks away from my lying-in. ‘They say she is uncommonly beautiful and descended from a line of strong-minded women.’

‘Strong-minded?’ Richard echoed. ‘The opposite of Henry then; how will he cope?’

I laughed. ‘As most men do I imagine – by getting her with child and then ignoring her.’

He glared at me from under knitted brows. ‘It is not something to jest about, Cicely. This Frenchwoman is now our queen. You will have to dance attendance on her.’

I returned his glare with a submissive smile. ‘I know, my lord. I pride myself on being able to do that with grace and patience. I get plenty of practice.’

From the change in his expression Richard was uncertain how to take the last remark but, predictably, he chose to ignore it. He brooded instead on the treaty, wondering out loud, ‘What exactly has Suffolk promised in order to obtain this marriage?’

We were not to get a full answer to this question for several years. In mid-March Richard set off for Paris, no doubt much changed since his last visit which had been for King Henry’s French coronation, at a time when it was still under our control. Expecting to participate in one of the impressive processions that had been arranged for Queen Margaret’s farewell, he took an escort of six hundred archers in English royal livery, only to disover on arrival that these were over. King Charles had left Paris for his favourite residence at Chinon, a departure which Richard construed as a snub to his office as King Henry’s Lieutenant in France. Instead he was joined by the Duke of Orleans to escort the young queen to Poissy, an abbey town to the west of Paris where a flotilla of barges, freshly painted, was assembled to convey her and her entourage down the Seine to Rouen.

Margaret of Anjou was, as rumour had suggested, very beautiful. Not blonde and pearly complexioned, which the English considered the essence of feminine loveliness, but dark-haired and olive-skinned like her redoubtable Spanish grandmother, Yolande of Aragon. She was also well-mannered and mature beyond the sum of her years. I was charmed on first acquaintance when she caught my hand as I began to sink into my courtesy.

‘Non, non, Madame la Duchesse,’
she began solicitously, then attempting her rudimentary English. ‘Do not incline yourself. You are
enceinte
. You must sit.’

In deference to my advanced pregnancy, we had met in the middle of the Hall of the Estates and not at the foot of the exterior stairway, as was customary, and she broke away from her entourage to take my arm as if I was a delicate pottery figurine and escort me up the steps of the dais, chattering away in French as she did so.

‘Vous devez rester, Madame de York. Vraiment je crois que c’est présque le jour de vôtre accouchement. C’est aimable de tous, vous me bien acquéillir à Rouen.
’

I nodded and smiled at her, thinking that I must ensure my own children were taught such kindness and consideration. Within moments we were seated together at the high table and involved in a conversation about her journey, how well she had been looked after by the Earl and Countess of Suffolk and how much she was looking forward to reaching England, but not to crossing the Channel.

‘
J’ai peur du mal de mer
,’ she confided, making a little French mou with her lips, which I found quite endearing, ‘
mais il faut passer sur La Manche n’est-ce pas, si je veux me rencontrer mon marié?
’

I was about to reply that it was indeed necessary for her to cross the Channel if she wished to meet her bridegroom when a good-looking, bearded man of middle age stepped between us, bowing punctiliously to the queen. ‘Forgive me, your grace; I am happy to see that you are making the acquaintance of her grace of York. Have I your permission to let the trumpets sound for the start of the banquet?’ He tugged a little nervously at his beard and lowered his voice to murmur, daringly close to the queen’s ear I thought, ‘And the stewards have arranged the order of seating with your grace in the centre of the table, rather than here at the end. May we assume your graces will move into the assigned places, where your canopies have been erected?’