Red Rose, White Rose (52 page)

‘What is wrong with her?’ she asked.

‘Life, war and the futility of both,’ I answered, still hugging Anne’s shaking shoulders. ‘Have you a kerchief, Meg?’

‘It should be you who is crying, my lady mother,’ she said, pulling a square of white linen from her sleeve. Even in prison Margaret could be relied on to have a clean kerchief.

I took it from her and pressed it into Anne’s hand. ‘Your aunt is crying for the news she fears to get from a battle she cannot prevent. Perhaps we should all be doing the same.’

When Anne had soaked the kerchief with her tears, she blew her nose and tucked it up her sleeve. ‘I will have it washed and returned,’ she said to Margaret, her expression rather sheepish. No reference was made to her storm of weeping but, on leaving, she gave me the faintest of rueful smiles and said, ‘I hope neither of us will need to wear black again, Cicely.’

Anne had not worn black since the year of mourning for her son had ended and the fine blue silk gown and jewelled headdress she wore now made me painfully conscious that I still wore the same dull brown kirtle I had donned on my last day at Ludlow. All our clothes would have been threadbare, had it not been for Margaret’s skill with a needle.

‘Please keep me informed, Sister,’ I begged, hoping that at last we had struck a chord of empathy. ‘Pray do not let me suffer in ignorance.’

All through the following day I heard nothing and I fretted, wondering if there had been a battle and if so, what had been the outcome. It had rained almost without ceasing and at noon the next day we heard the drawbridge winding down and Dickon spotted a mud-caked courier waiting to cross over the moat. Still we heard nothing but in the afternoon when the rain had dwindled to a damp drizzle we went out onto the wall-walk for some fresh air. George was the first one to notice something amiss.

‘Look, lady mother. The flag is halfway down the pole. Does that mean someone has died?’

From the battlemented roof of one of the gatehouse towers sprouted a flagpole and George was right, the standard was flying at half-mast; a gold shield slashed with a blood-red bend, topped with a ducal cap and surrounded by the blue garter sash. It could only mean that Humphrey of Buckingham was dead and my sister was back in black. I made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer for Humphrey’s soul. I had never considered him an enemy and now I mourned for my sister who, although plunged into a dynastic marriage at fourteen, had somehow made it a love-match.

It was days before I discovered how Humphrey had died outside the king’s tent as the Lancastrian camp was overrun by Warwick’s crack Kentish fighters. King Henry had been captured alone in his tent and later taken to London in formal procession by Dick and Edward. It was the first word I had received that York’s cause was in the ascendant and my beloved son was safe and uninjured.

All the same, I could not celebrate because those were dark days for all of us at Maxstoke. Ursula, who had weathered the winter without a recurrence of the ague, had been taken ill again and this time her condition deteriorated so fast that there was no time for anything to be done about it. Although the young constable acquired what Anicia needed for her herbal cures and sent for a physician, by the time he reached us it was too late. Weakened during our imprisonment, the fever had seemed to burn her up overnight and she died in Anicia’s arms as dawn broke.

Coverdale, Yorkshire, Summer 1460

Cuthbert

H
uge snowdrifts kept Coverdale cut off from the rest of the world until spring. I spent my time digging fodder out of haystacks to feed the over-wintering stock crowded into the ground floor of the old bastle and fuel out of the woodpile to keep us from freezing in the tower. But at least deep snow lessened the likelihood of Lancastrian incursion into Salisbury-held lands.

In April, however, the expected summons came for all tenants to present themselves at Middleham Castle. Since the Duke of York had purchased my manor off the Earl of Salisbury, I had not expected to be included in this summons but the messenger came anyway, with a letter specifically addressed to me.

To Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, lord of Red Gill Manor, greetings,

Although you are not a tenant of the attainted Earl of Salisbury’s estate, as a tenant of York and a known member of the treasonous Yorkist affinity you are nevertheless summoned by order of his grace King Henry to report to Middleham Castle. Present yourself at noon on the feast of St Mark and I will endeavour to see you privately.

Your friend and debtor,

John, Baron Neville, Lord of Middleham

Written this twentieth day of April, 1460

Lord of Middleham! So John Neville had succeeded at last in acquiring Middleham Castle from the attainted Salisbury estates! I decided that the fact that he called himself my debtor showed that he had not forgotten his sojourn at Red Gill Bastle with Cicely, or who had made it possible.

I went to Middleham Castle on the day specified, hoping to gain news of Cicely and the rest of the York family but I did not expect it to be good. It was a vast ant-heap of a fortification, its many towers and buildings crammed tightly within its soaring curtain. The smoke-darkened walls dominated the town, dwarfing the surrounding houses like a threatening thundercloud.

Lord Neville met me in the constable’s room above the gatehouse and I could see his surprise at my appearance when I walked in. I had taken Cicely’s advice and embraced the style of a yeoman farmer and so I wore a leather jack over a coarse but clean brown tunic and hose tucked into sturdy leather boots. I had also grown a full beard and jammed a wide-brimmed felt hat down over my long, grey-streaked hair. On an occasion such as this, when I was uncertain of my security, I wore a gambeson beneath my tunic and a dagger hidden in my boot. I had not announced myself as a knight and I had not been searched by the guards therefore neither had been found.

John had aged considerably in the eight years since our last meeting. He was bare-headed, his pale hair faded to white and his complexion weathered and crisscrossed with fine lines; deeper furrows ran between his nose and mouth. I had passed a clerk leaving the chamber as I went in so he was alone with a pile of ledgers and scrolls on the table in front of him but he rose and moved around it to greet me.

‘Good day, Sir Cuthbert,’ he said solemnly. ‘You have come, so I can legitimately enter your presence in my list of attendances, therefore you should not be further inconvenienced by the Middleham receivers. I feel I owe you that at least, even though we may fight under different banners.’

I pulled off my hat and made him a brief bow of acknowledgement. ‘God give you good day, my lord. For a time we thought you might come over to York but it did not happen; it was disappointing,’ I said bluntly.

He spread his hands ruefully. ‘York did not stand a chance, even with the two thousand men I brought to Ludlow. It did not seem worth turning my coat to fight with a side that could not win.’

I had not had John Neville down as a good-time man but now I knew that was what he was. I shrugged, quashing the temptation to ask why in that case he had signalled his possible support at all. ‘Next time, perhaps?’ I suggested.

‘Perhaps.’ He moved across to a chest on which stood cups and a jug. ‘May I offer you wine?’ He held the spout of the jug over a cup, awaiting my reply before tipping it.

‘Yes, if you please.’

‘Where is Cicely now?’ He handed me the filled cup.

‘I believe she is living with her sister, the Duchess of Buckingham, but I do not know under what circumstances.’

His eyebrow flicked upwards. ‘Awkward, I imagine. The Buckingham heir died recently of the wounds he received at St Albans and her husband is the king’s commander in chief, as you know. Why did Cicely not go to Ireland with the Duke of York?’

I explained about the health of the youngest children. ‘But she was not happy in Dublin when they were there before,’ I added. I made no mention of the very obvious signs of a rift in the York marriage, thinking it might feed what I saw as his unnecessary and continuing obsession with Cicely.

‘Do you think York will try to return to England?’

I stared at the red rose badge on his shoulder. ‘If I knew the answer to that I would hardly tell you,’ I pointed out.

‘Will you join him if he does?’

‘Perhaps.’

He half-smiled at the tit-for-tat reply. ‘It seems these wars between the roses are fought on perhapses.’

‘It is a pity they are fought at all. Too many good men die unnecessarily as a result.’ I took a gulp of wine.

John studied me seriously over the rim of his cup. When he lowered it he said, ‘One of my retained knights is Sir Gerald Copley. He asks for you everywhere he goes; says you abducted his sister and boasts that he will kill you in revenge.’

‘Is he here in Middleham?’ I asked, hoping the alarm I felt did not show.

John made a face. ‘No. I do not find him pleasant company. I sent him to Sheriff Hutton. I take it you would rather he did not discover your whereabouts.’

‘Correct. I fear for my wife’s safety if he finds out.’

‘Yes, I see. Well, the queen has recently issued another order of array, in her son’s name of course, so I imagine most fighting men will be heading south quite soon. Personally I do not like conscription.’

‘I do not like the way conscripts fight,’ I said. ‘Why has she done that?’

‘I imagine it is a precaution, in case York and Warwick attempt an invasion.’

‘Can a man invade his own country?’

‘A traitor is considered an alien.’

‘The Duke of York is a cousin of the king. Do you consider King Henry an alien?’

He did not answer that but walked back around his desk and sat down. When he spoke again the subject had changed.

‘When you next see Cicely, will you give her a message for me?’

‘I will, of course, but it may not be for months, or even years,’ I replied. ‘I hope it is not urgent.’

His lips twitched. ‘No, it is not urgent. Just tell her that I have a son now and he is called Ralph. He is five years old. I hope she will be pleased.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I think she will be.’ I placed my empty cup back on the chest. ‘With your permission I will take my leave now, my lord. Thank you for the wine.’

Lord Neville inclined his head. ‘Goodbye, Sir Cuthbert. I am glad to have met with you. I am sorry we cannot be friends. In different circumstances I think we might have been.’

I reserved judgement but I thought about his last words as I rode home. He was a Neville and a northerner, as was I. Yet I had chosen to pledge my allegiance to the Duke of York, who was a southerner, a Plantagenet nobleman of the old school. Richard dealt fairly with his feoffees and followers but at the same time assumed an inherent superiority. He prided himself on being a lawgiver, an administrator, as well as a soldier. He could be noble and magnanimous. He was admirable but not attractive. I realized that the half of me that was a northern commoner, my maternal inheritance, liked a touch of flamboyant charm in those he was asked to serve. I had pledged my loyalty to York because of Cicely, not because of Richard; the Neville half of me was glad to be one.

It was August before the news from the south began to stir my sense of knightly obligation. I would go frequently to Middleham to gather news and come back more unsettled every time. In June the townsfolk secretly celebrated the landing of Dick of Warwick and Edward of York in Kent and then in July they openly cheered on hearing news of their victory over the Lancastrian army at Northampton.

Following Northampton the king had become effectively a prisoner in the Tower of London and the queen and prince had fled into Scotland. England held its breath, wondering what would happen next, waiting for Richard to come from Ireland.

Walking around the barmkin in the evening to shut the chickens and ducks in their coops for safety against marauding foxes, Hilda asked, ‘Has there been good news or bad?’

I had spent an hour in the Spread Eagle Inn that day. ‘The latest news is momentous,’ I told her, ‘more momentous even than the achievement of Dick and Edward at Northampton. Richard is coming back to claim the throne. A Parliament has been summoned for October. Cicely has been in London for a month now and I believe that any day I could receive a summons from her. If I do, Hilda, I shall not be able to stop myself from going; unless of course you stop me.’