Queen by Right (48 page)

In the space of two months that year of 1447, King Henry lost two of his kin who had helped raise and counsel him. As though life was not worth living after his nemesis Gloucester was no longer there to oppose, Henry Beaufort, cardinal, bishop, and councillor, expired on the eleventh day of April and
was buried in the marble tomb he had built for himself in his cathedral at Winchester. Cecily had shed no tears for her stern uncle.

“Shall we take the children to Ireland?” Cecily asked after a long pause, the resignation and reasonableness in her voice easing Richard’s tension.

He nodded, fidgeting with his dagger hilt. “We shall set up court just as we did in Rouen, I suppose.”

“How long this time, Richard?” she murmured, dreading leaving her homeland again, not to mention her favorite castles of Fotheringhay and Ludlow. She went to him and kneaded the knotted muscles in his shoulders.

“You will not like it, Cis. Ten years from December,” he answered, relaxing under her fingers. He patted her hand when she gasped in dismay. “But I will take my time about going, I can assure you.”

Richard had set some conditions for the appointment and was able to assure Cecily that the king and Suffolk would allow him to recover some of his lost lands from the Irish chieftains and that, should he manage the royal exchequer well, any surpluses would be his. He grunted. “I suppose it was an attempt to make up for the monstrous Rouen debt. But—damn Suffolk all to hell!” he swore, rising abruptly. “’Tis nothing more than banishment. And soon Maine will be back in French hands and, God help them, Somerset will be in charge at Rouen. I was aghast in May to hear Parliament exonerate Suffolk for ceding Maine and Anjou. Christ’s nails! He sold us out for the younger daughter of a paltry poet prince.” He slammed his fist into his other hand. “It all makes me sick unto death.”

Cecily swung Richard round to her and threw her arms about him. “Do not talk of death, my love. What would I do without you, in truth? What would the children do without you? We shall make the best of things in Ireland, and perhaps we shall be touched by the magic of those ancient Gaels.”

It was astonishing to Richard how the curve of her body, the silkiness of her skin still aroused him after all these years. She had lost yet another boy child not a month since and named him William for her brother, but it seemed to Richard that she had expended all her grief upon her other losses and had accepted God’s will this time with a certain degree of equanimity. He had promised himself not to pressure her back into his arms too soon, but now he could not resist her mouth so close to his and so kissed her passionately. Thoughts of Ireland, Gloucester, and Suffolk were forgotten as Richard reached under her skirt to fondle the most private parts of her, exulting in her moans of passion. Not seeing anywhere to lay her down, Richard moved
Cecily back to the waist-high window embrasure and sat her upon it. Still kissing her, he managed to untie his points, drop his hose, push up her skirts, and thrust himself into her. Cecily spread her legs for him, gripping the edge of the windowsill for leverage. Both found the new position titillating, and not long after finding a rhythm, they climaxed together in a single cry of shared pleasure.

Her legs locked about his waist to hold him in her as long as she could, Cecily whispered, “Such wantonness in an old married pair. ’Tis shameful. But it is as well we left Piers at the bottom of the hill or he might have come to our rescue upon hearing such a cry.”

Richard could not bear to let her go. Life always seemed better when Cecily was with him, he mused. And like this, we are as one. Who cares about king, country, or banishment when I have a love such as this and the fruits of that love ever waiting to welcome me home. More pragmatically, he thought, at least in Dublin he would be king of the castle.

Looking over Cecily’s shoulder, he saw a pair of magpies fly past the window.

“Two for joy,” he murmured, nuzzling her. “They must have heard us.”

T
WO YEARS LATER
, looking back from the stern of their carrack at the dark Welsh hills tumbling into the sea, Cecily took with her images of their journey from Ludlow through the high mountains of Wales, over the treacherous straits of Menai, to Beaumaris on the voyage to Ireland. She had waited the last two years at the rosy-stoned castle of Ludlow, situated on the edge of the seemingly impenetrable land of dragons and Owen Glendower, as Richard prepared for his lieutenancy.

They set off in the middle of June with a mile-long train of carts, pack-horses, riders, and litters that snaked like a gaily colored ribbon along the primitive roads into Wales. They stopped at Richard’s castles of Montgomery and Denbigh before inching their way through the forested valleys until suddenly confronted by the barren Snowdon mountains. There the nights were cold, and servants harvested armfuls of heather and bracken to burn, gathering around to sleep on the ground in their cloaks. The green plants made more smoke than fire, Cecily complained one night after a fit of coughing. Richard chided her and reached out to touch her ruby betrothal ring.

“Remember our pact that day of your attack? We must never forget how fortunate we are. We have a tent and fur blankets to keep us warm, Cis. Why begrudge those less fortunate a little comfort—if that is how they see it.”

On the gently rocking deck of the two-masted carrack, Cecily smiled at the memory. Richard was a good man and preferred to look for the best in his fellow man. She wished more people knew that side of him, for he showed the world a stiffer bearing. No matter, she decided, because what was most pleasing to her was his kindness to his children. Aye, he had occasionally given both boys a thrashing, but the next day he would take them hawking or fishing. She watched him walking up and down, explaining to the eager Edward and Edmund how the sails worked.

She was hand in hand with Bessie, who was shivering in the cool sea breeze. Nurse Anne, her russet woolen gown billowing out around her, stood by with three-year-old Meggie in her arms. The nurse had grown plump in the Yorks’ service, but her devotion to the children and their love for her was worth every flampayne, custard, and sweetmeat the woman consumed, Cecily thought.

Who are you to cast stones, Cis? she asked herself, feeling the swelling belly under her gown. She would have this child in Dublin, and wondered if it would be the first of many born there. She sent a quick prayer heavenward to the Blessed Mother, hoping that this babe would not be taken from her too. Another son of York had entered the world the previous November but had lived only a few weeks into the wicked winter that froze the water in the moat and Cecily’s washbasin every morning and mounded snow so high on the roads and fields that food had been scarce and travel impossible. They had chosen to name their ninth child in honor of John of Bedford, but he had none of his namesake’s strength and had soon withered. Let this one live, Holy Mary, Cecily pleaded, clutching Bessie’s hand so tightly that the child squeaked, “Mama!”

Richard glanced up at the quarterdeck and waved, the pheasant feathers in his cap in danger of being whisked away in the wind. “Papa, papa!” Meg cried. “Do come up here.”

The boys scrambled up the steps to join the women, running to the rail to peer precariously over the stern. “If you fall in, we shall not turn back to rescue you,” Richard warned. “I shall not hesitate to chain you to a mast for the rest of the voyage if you cannot stay out of mischief. Do I make myself clear?”

Stepping back from the gunwale, both boys nodded sheepishly and rejoined their parents. Edmund slipped his right hand unseen into Cecily’s and, as he was wont to do when he felt safe, stuck his left thumb in his mouth.

“Thumbsucker! Mama’s boy,” seven-year-old Ned taunted him, mimicking his brother and making Meggie laugh. Edmund let go of Cecily’s hand and
ran full tilt at Edward, knocking him off his feet. A wrestling match ensued, and Richard watched, amused, as the younger, slighter Edmund fought like a scrappy terrier against the stalwart, athletic Edward.

“Do put an end to it, my lord,” Cecily begged, casting her eyes heavenward. “You know it will only end in tears.”

Too late. Edward had used his fist to thwack Edmund in his belly, and Edmund let out a wail, “Nurse Anne, he hit me. Ned hit me,” the predicted tears coming as he kicked and wriggled to get out from under the pummeling. “Get him away from me. He is hurting me,” he sobbed, and as Edward raised his arm, threatening to deal the final blow, Edmund begged, “Stop it, Ned! I give in. You win.”

“Enough!” Richard bellowed, making several mariners stop what they were doing to stare at the noble family. Edward froze, arm still poised above his blubbering brother. “Never hit an adversary when he is down and pleading for mercy,” their father told them. “That is the way of savages. You will learn the civilities of war when you are a little older, but for now, learn this first lesson. Respect your enemy and always follow the rules of chivalry. Now, help your brother to his feet, Ned, and let me see both of you grasp an arm in friendship.”

The boys did as they were told, Edward apologizing and throwing his arm about his brother. Edmund wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave Edward a self-deprecating grin. Cecily smiled over their golden heads at her husband.

“Let us hope they will always be friends, Richard,” she murmured as he joined her. “’Tis a fearful thing to see brother fight against brother.”

Richard grunted. “I was spared any such temptation, my love, but sometimes I wish I had had a brother.” He put his arm around her and murmured. “I am hopeful you are carrying a son, and then Edmund will have a younger playmate to lord over.”

R
ICHARD WAS BUSILY
occupied from the moment he arrived in Ireland. The Yorks were astonished at the welcome they received. Among the many gifts showered on them before they even arrived in Dublin were four hundred head of cattle and two beautiful Irish horses for Cecily.

Richard had been dismayed that John Talbot, the old veteran, who had preceded him as lord lieutenant, had not proved to be as good a governor as he was a soldier. In fact, he had governed by cruel soldiering, which had not helped matters between the native Irish and those Anglo-Irish who had been
living around Dublin since Richard’s Plantagenet ancestors had conquered the island almost three hundred years before.

After the first night’s banquet, the old earl of Ormond, the leader of the Anglo-Irish in Ireland, who had greeted the Yorks upon their landing at Howarth, told Richard and Cecily, “We have often begged our sovereign lord Henry to send us a prince of the blood fit to rule us and keep the peace beyond the Pale. No one can gainsay that with your royal blood and family ties you are that man, your grace. You are a prince of England and Ireland, and all will bow down before you with true allegiance.”

“I hope so, my lord,” Richard replied. “I assure you, Ireland is dear to my heart.” As its largest landowner, I am sure it is, Cecily chuckled to herself, but she did not doubt her husband’s sincerity.

Reaching Dublin by boat, the city walls rising from the southern bank of the Liffey reminded Cecily of Rouen’s river approach. Once in the Liffey’s tributary, the Poddle, which formed the moat for the castle, the small skiff reached the wharf below the Powder Tower, and its royal passengers disembarked. Cecily looked up to see men-at-arms leaning precariously from the ramparts to catch their first glimpse of the new lieutenant. You have a good man in my husband, Cecily wanted to assure them.

I
NDEED, WITHIN A
month of their arrival Richard had marched to his earldom of Ulster, and everywhere he went the chieftains gave him fealty, two a little more reluctantly than the others, she recalled. But once those two great chiefs, O’Neill and O’Byrne, had submitted, the rest followed. Henry O’Neill had gone as far as to swear that he would take up arms against anyone who waged war against Duke Richard or his heirs, English or Irish. There was even some civility restored between the two great Anglo-Irish leaders, Ormond and Desmond. Sir William Oldhall had told Cecily that Richard had done in two months what Talbot had failed to do in two years, and Cecily thrilled to his words.

Richard’s successes in Ireland were made sweeter when news reached Dublin in August of Edmund of Somerset’s ignominious defeats in France after he broke the truce by sacking the Breton city of Fougères. King Charles, allied with Brittany, retaliated, and castle after castle in English Normandy fell to the French armies. Richard was deeply saddened by the events and refused to be cheered by Cecily’s point that King Henry had made a mistake in choosing Edmund Beaufort over him to command in Normandy.

“In truth, it is not about an individual—not about me, Cecily. It is about the honor of our country. Somerset has damaged our honorable reputation and lost all that we had gained, and I weep for England,” Richard said. Cecily wondered that he did not add, “And all my hard work was for naught,” because that was what she was thinking.

A
T
M
ICHAELMAS,
R
ICHARD
hosted scores of lords from Meath, Munster, and Ulster both Gaelic and English at the castle in Dublin. It was the first time in living memory that the Irish chieftains had sat down at table together and with a lord lieutenant in his stronghold at Dublin. Before Richard went down to the great hall to receive them, Cecily, heavily pregnant and confined to her chambers, once again reminded her husband that his accomplishments must surely be noticed at Westminster.

“It seems no one has noticed, my dear,” her husband told her. “I do not believe Henry cares a ratcatcher’s arse about his Irish domain. As long as I keep the peace here, they can forget about Ireland. And once again, the exchequer has failed to send me what I need for next spring’s campaign, and hardly enough to recompense me for this summer’s. Instead, the council gives Somerset aid for his campaign and rewards Suffolk’s favorites with manors and lordships. The king, ’tis said, is bankrupt from all his gifting and the people are taxed out of their homes. Alas, dear lady, they have no thoughts to spare for me and Ireland.”