Authors: Cynthia Sally Haggard
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #15th Century, #England, #Medieval, #Royalty
Thwarted Queen
THWARTED QUEEN
A Novel of Cecily “Cecylee” Neville (1415-1495),
Wife of the
White Rose of York
,
Mother of Richard III,
Grandmother of the
Little Princes in the Tower
Cynthia Sally Haggard
Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Sally Haggard
Ebook formatted by:
Fowler Digital Services
For my dear friend Beth Gessert Franks
for all her endurance of Cecylee
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
She useth to arise at seven of the clocke,
and hath readye her chapleyne to saye with her mattins of the daye,
and mattins of our lady;
FROM ORDERS AND RULES OF THE PRINCESS CECILL
QUOTED BY JOHN WOLSTENHOLME COBB (1883)
HISTORY & ANTIQUITIES OF BERKHAMSTED
Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfordshire
Feast of Saint Joseph
March 19, 1495
Now I am ready to speak, for death will be with me by year’s end.
The House of Tudor shall declare this tale a lie. They will say I’m an impostor. Let there be no mistake about my identity. As proof, I lay forth my name in its true construction:
Queen by Right
Duchess of York
Abbess
I am Cecylee—not Cecily or Cicely. My name has been corrupted by those who claim to have the ear of the present King of England, one
Harry Tudor, Earl of Richmond
, a self-styled King Henry VII. Let those who seek to dismiss my testament compare this sign with the many documents signed as Duchess of York and Queen by Right.
I have had other names. I was born Lady Cecylee de Neville, in May 1415. In the year 1424, I became Duchess of York. Admirers called me the Rose of Raby. Enemies called me Proud Cis. I am the mother of Kings Edward IV and Richard III. I have seen my sons kill their opponents, and even their kin.
Folk think me saintly, for I hear Mass several times a day. I hear religious texts while I dine, I spend hours on my knees in prayer. This causes them to disbelieve some of the unflattering stories whispered about me. Folk are too kind if they imagine that a pious old woman couldn’t have sinned. It grieves me greatly to say this, but late in life, while I was living in the countryside as Abbess of a Benedictine Order, I was responsible for the murder of two of my grandsons.
In these pages, I make confession, using my voice and the voices of others important to its weaving.
BOOK I: THE BRIDE PRICE
“A gracious lady!
What is her name, I thee pray tell me?”
“Dame Cecille, sir.”
“Whose daughter was she?”
“Of the Earl of Westmorland, I trowe the youngest,
And yet grace fortuned her to be the highest.”
FROM A FIFTEENTH-CENTURY BALLAD,
ANONYMOUS
Chapter 1
Castle Raby, Scottish Marches
The Feast of Saint John
June 24, 1424
Today they tell me I must behave.
I’m not allowed to laugh loudly, stare, or make remarks.
I must put on my best gown, the pink silk damascene with the long train, balance my heavy headdress on my head, and play my psaltery. The king’s uncles are coming to visit.
Today, they decide if I’m suitable enough to be made Duchess of York, and maybe queen.
Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York
, the boy I’m supposed to marry, is only thirteen, but they say he will be the richest peer in the kingdom when he reaches the age of twenty-one.
“But that’s not for years,” I point out. “I’m only nine years old. Why do I have to do this now?”
“Richard is the king’s cousin,” Audrey, my mother’s maid, tells me. “If the king were to die, Richard would be king. Your father wants to secure your future now.”
I sigh. Sitting in stuffy rooms listening to Mama and Papa and all those important people they know wearies me. If you are the Earl of Westmorland, like Papa, and the king has given you the task of guarding the English border against the heathenish Scots, then you must want to know many such people. But I prefer to frolic under one of the huge trees that surround the castle.
I turn my head slightly, and Audrey mutters as she stuffs my thick blond hair into the netting under the headdress. Sliding my eyes to the right, I can just make out the shapes of the trees through the newly glazed windows of our rooms in Bulmer’s Tower. Bulmer’s Tower is a five-sided tower shaped like an arrowhead that stands apart from the rest of the towers comprising Castle Raby. It can be easily defended from a sudden raid on the castle, so Papa decreed that all of us should live here. The trees seem small and very faraway.
Mama enters my chamber, carrying my psaltery. Her eyes look pink. Silently, she scrutinizes me, her lips pinched, as Audrey curtsies and steps aside. Then she takes my hand and leads me up the steep spiral stairs to the solar.
