Queen by Right (75 page)

Cecily finally found her voice, and the men all turned to her when she spoke. “Nay, my lord, you are wrong. Not,” she hurried on, reassuring her husband, “about your claim to the throne but about your claim that the people can no longer tolerate Henry. While you were abroad, I had time to witness that in truth they love their king for his simplicity, his piety, and his gentleness. To them he is almost a saint, his madness a sign he has been touched by God, and—if you are fair—he himself has done no wrong.” She took a deep breath. “And now I must agree with my lord of Warwick that your recent behavior is causing dangerous confusion.” She balked at adding the obvious: treason.

Warwick snorted. “Confusion, Aunt? It is coming to open warfare.” He turned to Richard. “What would you have me tell the lords and the council, your grace? I will gladly be your envoy, if you will not go to them yourself.”

A
N HOUR LATER
Warwick was rowed back to the city with a written explanation of Richard’s family lineage and a letter asking that his detractors refute it, or if they could not, then to explain why he should not wear the crown.

Sadly, Cecily watched Edward go with him, hating the dissension between father and son. Later, she sat in the chair opposite her husband, who was despondently slumped in his.

“Where did I go wrong, Cis?” he asked so pathetically that Cecily held out her hand to him. She wished she could tell him, but she did not know. Somewhere between Ludlow, Ireland, and London, Richard had lost his way. And she grieved for those simple, long-ago dreams they had both shared.

A
LL THROUGH
O
CTOBER
the lords and bishops deliberated the question of Richard’s claim. They thought it was a matter between the king and the duke of York. Henry, in his usual fashion, could not make a decision except to tell his justices to find any objections they could to Richard’s written claim. But the justices refused, saying it was a matter for the king and God. Edmund told Cecily that one justice had remarked, “I fear the matter is so high it passes our learning.”

“Pah! What an assortment of craven, weak-willed bum-baileys they must be,” she had replied angrily.

What will become of this? Cecily wondered, gazing out of the window on that late October day and chewing on her lower lip. For more than a fortnight she had spent many hours trying to persuade Richard to listen to Warwick and take up his role of chief councillor, a role that she assured him would bring him just as much power and satisfaction. But he remained unmoved. He refused even to see the king, though he was lodged so close at the palace. She also spent many more hours on her knees in the royal chapel, which did not afford her the comfort her prayers usually did.

Meg was practicing her psaltery across the room. Cecily was vaguely aware that her daughter was not a gifted player, but the music soothed her anyway. She was idly turning the pages of
The City of Ladies
, in which Christine de Pisan imagined a world run by powerful women, when a rap at the door was followed by the unannounced entry of the man always on her mind.

“Richard?” she questioned, startled but pleased that he should seek her out at this time of day. He had eschewed her bed for more than a week now, and her spirits were very low. Meg abandoned her instrument to go to her father and was rewarded with a kiss.

Cecily was relieved to see Richard smiling, and she approached him with hands outstretched. After only a hint of hesitation, he took them both and kissed each in turn. Then, taking her to the velvet-cushioned settle, he invited her to sit with him. Meg tactfully made her excuses, always embarrassed by her parents’ affection for each other, and left them alone.

“What is it, Richard?” Cecily whispered. “You seem . . . well, more at ease” was the only way she could describe the visibly lessened tension in his shoulders and neck. Even the frown that had marred his pleasant features of late was gone.

“I have come to tell you that you and Warwick have won. My quest for the crown was ill-advised. Aye, I see that now, and I shall not pursue it.” He saw her face brighten, a reply upon her lips, but he stayed it with a raised hand. “But I have also won, my dear, for I have had my claim acknowledged—my right accepted.”

Cecily raised an eyebrow. “How? What can you mean?”

“The lords have come to a decision, and the king has agreed to it,” Richard told her, masking his bitter resignation. “It is not the one I had hoped for all
those months in Ireland, but it is acceptable to me for the sake of peace in the kingdom. I hope ’tis acceptable to you.” He noticed the dark circles under Cecily’s eyes and the melancholy evident in them and felt a pang of guilt, guessing he was the cause, but he could not apologize yet for doing what he thought was right. “Before I tell you, Cecily, I must hear from you whether you believe I would have made a good king.”

Cecily looked down at her ruby betrothal ring and then up at him. “With all my heart I do, my love. And I have believed in your Mortimer claim from the first time I heard it at my mother’s knee from no less a man than my uncle, Cardinal Beaufort. Surely you must know that. Have I not been by your side, counseled you, perhaps pushed you sometimes against your will, and never wavered in my love for you all these years?” She hesitated for a second but knew she must speak what was in her mind. It was the least she owed her beloved husband—her lord. “But I also take as true that Henry is the Lord’s anointed and that to depose him would be a sin. But aye, my lord, I do believe you would have made a better king. Does that mean I reject your claim? Nay, it means we have a moral dilemma and one I am overjoyed to hear you say you have resolved.” She smiled. “When we were children and I said I should like to be a queen, I was but dreaming. Now I know better. A crown does not afford one happiness. Look at Henry and Margaret. Nay, I am content to be your duchess.”

“Or we could add Queen by right to your title.” Richard laughed, gazing with love and respect at his remarkable consort. He took a deep breath. “I thank you for your honesty, Cis. First, you will be relieved to know I have relinquished my claim—for now—and have accepted the will of Parliament and Henry.” He then murmured an aside: “I pray history will judge me an honorable man.” Seeing Cecily impatiently waiting for the crux of his bargain, he hurried on. “It has been agreed by all that Henry shall wear the crown as long as he lives, but on his death, it shall pass to me and to my heirs. I have no doubt our son will be king one day.”

Cecily gasped, taking in his words. Her relief was overwhelming. She slipped to her knees and crossed herself. “That is indeed a remarkable resolution, Richard,” she said, but then, with hesitant incredulity, she asked, “Am I to understand that Henry is willing to disherit his own son? I fear the queen will not take the news well. Did none of the councillors point this out to his grace?”

Richard scoffed, “I care not what Margaret of Anjou thinks, Cecily. Nor
do the people of England. They have turned against her. It does not sit well when a woman attempts to govern and, as I have said before, a Frenchwoman at that. And she has demonstrated willful cruelty to her subjects. Besides, the rumor persists that Edouard is not Henry’s child.”

“Ah, Richard,” Cecily said, and sighed. “I pray you have not stooped to spreading such a lie.”

“Nay, Wife, but I will not defend the lady either,” he assured her. Joining her on his knees, he took her face in his hands. “Do not concern yourself with Margaret, I beg of you, but simply rejoice in the new turn in our fortunes.” He kissed her mouth tenderly. “I bless the day you entered my life, Cecily Neville. A man could not hope to have a better consort.”

“Pish, Richard!” Cecily retorted. “I—”

She did not finish, for Richard had stopped her mouth with another kiss—one that would have made Meggie blush.

“I
SWEAR TO
almighty God and all his saints that I will honor you, Henry, as my sovereign lord until the end of your days and that I shall do nothing to hurt or diminish your reign or royal dignity, nor do anything or consent to anything that might lead to the endangerment or end your natural life. So help me God.”

Richard knelt and kissed Henry’s ring. The king sat on the very throne that Richard had claimed not twenty days before. Cecily had been given special permission to watch the ceremony from the small gallery of the chamber, and she knew what pride her husband had had to swallow for him to kneel there before the king and his lords and bow his head. It is for the best, my dearest, she reminded him silently. Now, God willing, we can all live in peace.

It was Edward’s turn to give his pledge, and her heart lurched when she saw her magnificent son bend on one knee to the uninspiring monarch enthroned in his monkish garb. Edward’s ringing young voice echoed his father’s words and with more generosity of spirit. Edmund was barely audible when it came his turn. And then the king rose and in a flat monotone without malice or bitterness spoke his piece.

“I, Henry, by the grace of God king of England and France and Lord of Ireland, do recognize the claim to the throne of Richard, duke of York, and his heirs, which shall be theirs at the time of my death and not before. I charge all persons here to put it abroad that it shall be considered an act of high treason for any person to conspire against the said duke’s life. And now, my lords, you
must swear to uphold this agreement and all its particulars with the duke, as he must now swear to defend you from those who would object to it. Do you swear?”

With one voice the lords cried, “Aye, we swear.” Cecily’s skin prickled. She looked down at her husband, standing proudly between his two strapping sons under a huge iron chandelier, and was mesmerized at the sight of so many candles shining brightly down on their heads.

Then below her she heard Henry call to Richard. “My lord, we should hear evensong. Will you accompany me to St. Paul’s?”

“’Tis done well, Grizzy, very well,” she said to Gresilde as they left, but then she frowned. “However, I know not what Margaret of Anjou will say—or do—when she is told her son has been disinherited. As a mother, I know my claws would be sharp and showing.”

Cecily was not the only one pondering the queen’s reaction to the new succession, as she learned from Richard later.

“Henry was asked outright to send the proclamation to Margaret skulking in Wales and have her swear to uphold it along with their son,” Richard told her, as they knelt on their cushions in front of their little altar to give thanks. “For a moment he glared at us as though he would assert his authority and refuse, but then, much to our astonishment, he threw back his head and laughed. ‘My lords, do you really believe the queen listens to anything I say? Nay! I think you will have a fight on your hands, for you have threatened the thing dearest to her heart—her son’s future.’” Richard paused as he opened the book of hours to his favorite prayer. “For once I believe Henry was thinking clearly. We dare not dismiss the queen’s ambition so lightly.”

Cecily resisted saying, “I have been telling you so all along.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Cecily’s assessment of the Londoners’ affection for Henry was borne out when the king, appeasing their wish for a formal procession and holiday, sallied forth, and the citizens cheered and chanted “Long Live King Henry!” along the route. Warwick, bearing the sword of state, walked ahead of Henry, who was decked in royal purple with a crown upon his head. Cecily could hear cries of “Warwick! Warwick!,” again revealing the strength of her nephew’s hold on the capital.

Edward had been given the honor of holding the king’s train, and behind him, alone on horseback, rode Richard. The few shouts of “Long live the duke of York!” were drowned out by the others, and Cecily, in a litter with Meg, was
saddened that Richard’s actions of late had tarnished his reputation with the people. He is a good man, she wanted to shout to them, a good man and true, but instead she sat stoically upright in her litter and stared straight ahead. She took comfort from her children—her daughter by her side, with Edmund, George, and Dickon on foot proudly flanking their mother’s vehicle.

“I
AM CHARGED
by Parliament to ride north and bring order there, Cis,” Richard told her in early December. November had passed uneventfully, with new appointments on the council and calm restored to the city. However, news that York’s and Salisbury’s estates were being pillaged by the northern lords in company with the duke of Exeter was causing concern in the Yorkist government. Those lords had not been present to make their pledges in October, and as long as they, together with those other foes, Somerset and Devon, were out of sight, Richard and his council could not rest easy.

“Aye, it means I will not be with you for Christmas, my love, but Edmund, Salisbury, and I shall keep the season cheerfully enough at Sandal, I don’t doubt,” he said, stroking her belly as they lay together after making love. “As you requested, Baynard’s is being readied for you, though why you would want to leave this luxury for that drafty place, I cannot understand,” he teased and, reaching up, snuffed out the candle in its sconce. “God keep you this night, my love. I wish I could ravish you once more, but I cannot stay awake much longer.”

It seemed to Cecily that their passion had never been stronger than it was now. Richard’s urge to bed her had increased since the difficult October days, and Cecily had become as uninhibited as she had been in those first few years of their marriage. She wanted to believe that the troubles of the past two decades were fading into memory and that she could look forward to middle age and time alone with her husband. She refused to think about Richard and Edmund riding north to quell unrest or about Edward setting out for the Welsh marches to recruit men to aid Richard on his northern mission. After all, Queen Margaret was still in Wales. Warwick, Cecily’s nephew, was the most powerful noble in the realm after Richard, Henry was powerless and out of the way at the bishop’s palace, and her brother Salisbury was Chancellor of England. As well, the French had changed their minds about invading, and life in London had resumed its normal hustle and bustle, the people seeming contented with the arrangement Parliament had made and with the new Yorkist government.