Queen by Right (68 page)

Meg cried out in alarm. “Slay him? Say it is not so, Mother. What has Father done?”

“Nay, George! ’Tis you who are the addlepate,” Cecily scolded him. “Look how you have frightened your sister and brother. Go with Nurse Anne immediately and wash out your mouth. Use the soap on him, Nurse. Then come and ask God for forgiveness for your cruel words.” She knelt down and took the crying Dickon in her arms. “Soft, little one, he knows not what he says. Pay him no heed.” Oh, why did we tarry here? she asked herself again. ’Twas the greatest folly.

As George retreated to the washbasin, Meg dared to speak up. “Why must you always punish George, Mother? He is too young to weigh his words.”

“Pish!” Cecily retorted, wondering how she was able to conduct such a mundane conversation at such a dangerous moment in their lives. “He knows very well what he is about. Come, let us pray and then get you to bed, Meg.” She shivered, but whether it was from fear or mounting anger that she and Richard had put them in such danger, she could not say.

She took comfort in continuing to maintain the children’s normal routine. After prayers she tucked the two boys into their big bed and kissed them. “God keep you both this night,” she whispered, before leaving Nurse Anne to
blow out the candles and stoke the fire. At Meg’s door she took a deep breath before entering.

Her daughter was in her bedrobe, sitting on the end of her bed, awaiting her turn for Cecily’s goodnight kiss.

“Now we can talk, Margaret,” Cecily began, and thirteen-year-old Meg trembled, knowing that when her mother used her full name, it was almost certainly serious. “I fear George may be right and the king is come to do battle. It seems to me the time for parleying is done.” She sat down next to the girl and patted her knee. “I shall not explain to you now what has led up to this confrontation with the king and queen, but when we are safe again with your father at Fotheringhay, you shall know. For now, I need you to be sensible, and of all my children, you are the most sensible, the cleverest,” she told the blushing Meg. “I am thus counting on you to watch over the boys in case neither your father nor I can do so in the next few days.”

Meg’s hand flew to her mouth at these fearful words, and her slate-gray eyes grew wide with disbelief. “You would not go anywhere without us, would you, Mam? Are we in danger?”

“Certes, I would not leave you alone, sweet child,” Cecily assured her, “but if your father needs me to leave or to go with him, then I must.” She could not bear to voice her fear that she might be taken or even killed if Richard were not victorious, and what would become of her children?

She recognized the bitter taste in her mouth was more anger mounting in her. She wanted to accuse Richard for this dangerous predicament, but she knew she was not blameless. Instead she forced herself to focus on Meg’s worried face. “That is probably not going to happen, but you are the oldest in the nursery and, in case of need, you must bear some responsibility for your brothers. There are loyal servants here who will take you to Aunt Alice at Middleham or to your sister at Dartington if that becomes necessary. Now, stop looking like a fish searching for food and tell me you understand what I am saying. I am counting on my brave Meg.”

Meg drew herself up and clasped her hands neatly on her lap. “I understand, Mother. I will be brave.”

“Is there aught I can do for you now, child? I see you have Ambergris under the bed, and you have Beatrice to keep you company.”

Meg nodded. “You should tell Ned his dog is here, Mother, and that I will look after him.” With a catch in her throat, she asked, “I should like more than anything to wish Father a God’s good night. Is it possible?”

Cecily knew the child had avoided the word good-bye and was relieved. She stood up. “I shall tell him to come directly. Goodnight, my dear,” and she swept out of the room before Meg could see her tears.

A
FTER RICHARD HAD
said farewell to his favorite daughter, he returned to the great hall, his mood somber. Cecily and Gresilde had joined the lords, who were now draining the dregs from their cups and preparing to ride down the hill to spend the night in the camp with their troops. Richard shook off his melancholy and picked up his leather gauntlets.

“Are we ready, comrades?” With a rousing assent the men exited the hall and hurried down the steps to where their huge destriers were being held by grooms. Richard lagged behind, pulling Cecily behind an oaken aumbry displaying the household silver, and kissed her trembling mouth with a fierceness that troubled her.

“Pray for us, Cis. Pray that the king accepts our petition at the last minute and I shall return here on the morrow without an arrow being loosed. But if we fight and lose, submit yourself to Henry. He will not harm you or the children.” And he kissed her again. “Oh, how I have loved you, Cecily Neville,” he told her anxious eyes. “For all my life I have loved you. I warrant no others in this realm have loved as deeply as we have. I must return to you—I will return to you.”

This time it was Cecily who drew his mouth to hers and stopped it with another urgent kiss. “And I have loved you with every breath, my sweet Richard. Take my heart with you, for if you do not return, I would live without it anyway.”

They heard his name called by the mounted knights, and he let her go reluctantly. “Adieu, my proud Cis, my rose of Raby!” he called, striding to the door.

Cecily ran after him. “Not adieu, my lord! But au revoir.” She followed him out into the night where the darkness hid her misery and she could stand alone on the steps to watch his torches recede. Then she flew across the courtyard to her sanctuary in the round chapel to pray for his return.

A
N HOUR LATER
, still on her knees, it seemed as though her prayers to the Virgin had been answered, for she heard the portcullis rise noisily on its chain, and the thud of hooves told her the lords must be back. Puzzled, she ran to the great hall steps, arriving in time to see Richard emerge first from the passage through the gatehouse.

“How now, my lord?” she cried, as he swung off his mount, his armor clanking. “What is amiss?”

Richard said nothing but grasped her arm and led her inside. They were followed by Salisbury and a furious Warwick.

“That whoreson traitor Trollope!” he cried. “If I ever find him . . .”

Pages and other retainers had begun to settle down on the floor of the hall for the night when the sudden arrival of the lords roused them, adding to the chaos as the knights, their spurs ringing on the black and white stone floor, began unstrapping their armor.

“What happened, Richard?” Cecily asked her husband, helping him unbuckle his sword. She looked around for Roger Ree and spotted him making his way to his master. “Help my lord with this, Master Ree,” she commanded, as Richard was too preoccupied with Warwick’s ranting.

“Those sons of bitches! My own men of Calais. Pah! Traitors, cowards all! May they be damned in hellfire!” Warwick swore, flinging his gauntlets onto the dais.

“Swearing will not bring them back,” his father said, almost as though he were talking to a small boy. “We have no time for whining over what has occurred. We must decide what to do about it.”

“Andrew Trollope, a captain under Warwick, has slipped away with many of the Calais men to fight for the king,” Richard explained to Cecily. “It was a goodly number that left and he took others of our troops with them. They came willingly enough here, knowing the possible consequences, but in the end, the turncoats claimed they could not bear arms against their king.”

“Traitors all!” Ned’s voice rose from the group now, and Cecily gasped when she saw her two sons in full armor standing among the others. Dear God, they are indeed men, she thought miserably. Seeing them fully armed shattered the image that she had of them playing together as children on the deck of the ship bound for Ireland, with miniature bows and arrows at the butts, or wrestling on the grass in brotherly sport. But now they were arrayed for real fighting, and her stomach lurched.

The lords and their councillors sat discussing strategy long into the night. Cecily dozed on the steps of the dais.

Finally Richard thumped his fist on the table and rose, knocking over his stool and jolting Cecily awake. “So we are agreed,” he cried. “Our cause is lost if we fight with such diminished numbers, and if we surrender we will surely be executed to a man. We should allow our troops to slip away as best they may. Tell me we are agreed.”

A resigned “Aye” answered him.

Richard thanked those who had joined him there at Ludlow and advised them to return to their homes. “I thank you all for your good counsel. I shall go north into Wales and then, God willing, to Ireland. Rutland will come with me, and March will go to Calais with Warwick and Salisbury. I fear most of us will be attainted, but if you will bear with us, we can bide our time until the moment is ripe to return. I shall keep you informed as best I can.”

A youthful voice caused all heads to turn to the end of the table. It was Edmund, and Cecily glowed when he began to speak.

“I crave your pardon, your grace, but what plans have you made for my lady mother, the duchess, and my brothers and sister? Will they go with us to Ireland?”

The heads swiveled back to Richard, who gave his son a warm smile. “My heartfelt thanks to you, Edmund, for reminding me of my duty to my wife, but I have not forgotten her, I assure you.” He turned to Cecily, who he knew was listening. “On the advice tonight of your brother and some of my other councillors, my lady, I shall ask that you remain with the children and throw yourself upon the mercy of the king.”

Edmund rose then, his face white. “Upon the mercy of the queen, you mean, my lord!” he shouted. All eyes turned once again to him. “That woman hates us. I would not put it past her to murder our mother and Meggie, George, and Dickon in cold blood! I shall not go with you. I shall stay and defend them with my life.”

At that Edward jumped to his feet. “And I shall stay with Edmund, my lord.”

Again the heads swiveled to the top of the table. Before Richard could speak, Cecily left her spot on the dais steps and came to stand beside him, looking fondly down the table. “My dear sons, you make me proud,” she assured them. “But I must do what my lord and his councillors decide—as must you. What good are you to the house of York if you are dead?” She looked from one face to the other, seeing adoration on one and duty on the other, and she smiled. “Do not be afraid for me, boys. Margaret of Anjou may be a schemer, but I believe King Henry has a fondness for me. He is too saintly a man to harm a woman and her children, and it is a good solution that I request his mercy for us all. If I know King Henry, he will not hesitate to be charitable.”

A murmur of assent followed this speech, and Edward sat down promptly, a grin of satisfaction on his face. Edmund, Cecily realized with sadness, was
humiliated that she had dismissed his gallantry, but she could not run to him and console him for fear of wounding his pride further. You see you can be brave, my son, she told him with her eyes and was rewarded with a glimmer of a smile.

“To horse then, my lords. Send your captains to inform the troops they may leave their posts and slip quietly away.” Richard grunted. “I would very much like to stay and see the queen’s and young Somerset’s faces when they awake tomorrow facing an empty meadow, but not enough to risk my life and our cause.” He took a deep breath and swept his gaze over those seated at the table. “And if there are those of you who believe ’tis best to submit to the king and receive his pardon, then I shall not stand in your way. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your loyalty and service and wish you God speed, my lords, gentlemen.”

The company made their farewells, and one by one made reverences to Cecily, awe, respect, or pity in their eyes. It was still dark two hours before dawn, giving the Yorkist troops plenty of time to gather their belongings and steal away.

Richard embraced his wife quickly and told her he had arranged for a few guards to remain with her, including Piers Taggett, then he left without a backward look, knowing they had said their good-byes earlier. With a supreme effort, Cecily steeled herself for the farewell with her older sons, embracing them both in turn.

“You will write to me from Calais, Ned,” she said, still giving him motherly instructions. “And listen to your uncle and cousin.”

Her six-feet-three-inch son grinned down at her, shaking his head. “Have you forgotten I am no longer a child, my dear lady mother? I promise I shall write, but I may sometimes keep my own counsel when it comes to my uncle and brother.”

Then it was Edmund’s turn, and it was all Cecily could do not to throw herself on the floor and beg Richard to leave him with her. Instead she embraced him tenderly.

“I love you for speaking up, Edmund,” she whispered. “You see, I knew you had courage, and now your father knows it, too.” As he knelt for her blessing, she said simply, “God bless you, my son.”

And then her menfolk were gone—her husband, her two sons, her brother, and her nephew and all their retinues, galloping into the Welsh hills, there to go their separate ways. She shivered and only then realized she was cold, but
not as cold as when she finally climbed into her empty bed and lay there aching for Richard’s familiar warmth.

C
ECILY COULD NOT
sleep. Her mind was a jumble of images from the past days, snatches of conversations, fanciful imaginings, frightening thoughts, and whispered prayers. She wanted to cry, but she could not. When would she see her husband and sons again? Their flight was better than watching their bodies being dragged off the Ludford field, she supposed, trying to take comfort from that.

Despite her despair at her menfolk’s departure, and despite the fear for her children’s safety, Cecily could not ignore the anger that threatened to overwhelm those first two emotions. Why did Richard not see this coming? Why had he not insisted on her leaving with the children as soon as word came that Henry was on the move toward them? And then, she had to admit that she, too, should have insisted and hadn’t, selfishly wanting to stay by her husband’s side. Damn, damn, damn! she muttered, what have I done?