Queen by Right (77 page)

What can I do? It’s not surprising that I
Weep and sigh, with my dear lover dead.
For when I look deeply into my heart and
see how sweetly and without hardship I
lived from my childhood and first youth
with him, I am assailed by such great
pain that I will always weep for his death.

CHRISTINE DE PISAN,
ONE HUNDRED BALLADS

Baynard’s Castle, London
FEBRUARY 9 TO SUMMER 1461

C
ecily awoke with a jolt to find that she had slipped off the kneeler in the little chapel and onto the flagstone floor. She lay there, the cold stone against her cheek, wondering how she had come to be in the chapel. And then she remembered that she had come with Gresilde to attend nones after her sleepless night. How long had she been lying here? Quite some time, she decided, remembering she had sent Gresilde away. With a deep sigh and instead of rising, she chose to prostrate herself, her arms outstretched toward the altar and her face pressed against the rough granite, forcing herself to remember Warwick’s dreadful mission. She wished now that she had never woken from her swoon that day.

But she had, and so she made herself think about what had happened after she had been revived that day five weeks ago.

In truth, she had gone through the following few days in a trance, for she could barely remember telling her children that their father and brother had been slain, sending word for the household to assemble in the great hall to give them the tidings of their master’s death, ordering her mourning robes to be sewn, sending money to the churches in Baynard’s parish for masses to be said for the duke and earl, and indeed how she struggled through forkfuls of food the cook had sent up to tempt her day after day.

She did clearly remember the agonizing sounds of her children’s grief as Nurse Anne and Beatrice tried to comfort them in their rooms a passageway from her. After that first day, when she had gathered them to her knee in the solar and explained that Father and Edmund would not be coming back but that they were safe with the angels, she could not bear to be with them for long.

She also remembered the herald arriving soon after Warwick and having to sit through a description of the horror of that fateful day at Sandal and keep control of her emotions.

Richard was taken unawares when the royal army camped but a few miles away at Pontefract just before Christmas. Heralds went back and forth between the leaders, and a Christmas truce was negotiated. As Cecily had feared, food was scarce, and a large group of Richard’s men sallied forth one bitterly cold day to forage in the farms and fields around nearby Wakefield. Taking advantage of the diminished numbers at the castle, young Somerset, who was commanding the queen’s forces, advanced his army to the plain before the castle, having caught and slain many of the foraging soldiers. And then Richard, incensed by the breaking of the truce, ordered his soldiers to march out of the safety of the castle and face the enemy in the field. He had no idea, so the herald had reported, how large a force the queen had mustered. The Yorkists had been cut to pieces in short order.

Cecily remembered the herald had looked up at her with compassion when he gave her the facts of Richard’s death. He was slain among his faithful servants—Roger Ree, Davy Hall—and Warwick’s brother, Thomas, and his head struck from his body. When Salisbury had been captured, Somerset declared victory for the Lancastrians. More than two thousand of York’s followers had been killed. Cecily groaned now. And what for? she asked herself. Ah, Richard, my love, what was worth losing your life for? Richard . . .

She forced herself to think of his face as it used to be, smiling at her with love, those gray eyes crinkling, or loosing his braying laugh with his children, or concentrating on his devotions, or serious in discussion with his councillors. She could not think of the bloodied, grisly mess of flesh his dear face must have been on that dreadful day. And she refused to accept that Queen Margaret would have so ignominiously treated the head of a royal duke as they said she had, adorning it with a paper crown and making jests about the irony before setting it upon the Micklegate of York. If ’tis true, Cecily muttered to herself, then surely the queen has gone as mad as her husband.

She turned her thoughts from blood-soaked Micklegate to her brother, her sometimes infuriatingly indecisive brother, who, despite their difference in age, in the end had become her husband’s closest friend, who had stood with him at Ludlow and fled for his life, and who had fought beside him at St. Albans and Wakefield. The herald said Salisbury had pleaded with Somerset to spare him, even offering the duke money, but in the end he had been dragged from his cell in Pontefract by his own northern vassals and beheaded without trial by Exeter’s bastard brother. Cecily felt guilty that she
had not seen Alice yet. Alice too had lost her husband. She vowed to visit her without delay.

But now she must grit her teeth and try to reconcile herself to the most difficult of the three deaths that had devastated her family in the space of those twenty-four hours: the cold-blooded murder of Edmund, her beloved second son, the boy who had so endeared himself to his mother with his gentle ways and who had stolen her heart at an early age.

She heard again the herald’s harrowing pronouncement. “My lord of Rutland escaped the field with Master Apsall,” he had said, reluctant to add to the duchess’s woes, and Cecily had been surprised to hear that her sons’ tutor had joined Richard. “It was told to me that they took shelter under a bridge, but Lord Clifford had pursued them and his soldiers dragged the earl from his hiding place. Lord Edmund fell to his knees and begged for mercy, for the fighting was over and the battle already won.”

Cecily felt her bile rise again now as it had then at such horrifying treatment of her son. Lord Clifford, the man she had held hands with on Love-day, had cut her son’s throat himself, may he rot in hell. It was for revenge, the messenger had said, for the death of Clifford’s father at St. Albans.

Here, lying on the chapel floor, Cecily’s body heaved with dry sobs; her tears were spent, she knew. At least Somerset had buried all three bodies together at Pontefract after sending their heads to York. One day I shall take Richard and Edmund back to bury at Fotheringhay, she promised herself.

A candle guttered and went out. She knew she must have been in the chapel a long time. Gradually raising herself to a kneeling position, she looked again at the Virgin’s anguished face. Ah, Virgin Mother, could you not have spared my son? She crossed herself as she gazed up at the crucified Christ and told him, “I know now your mother’s agony, Lord. Did she not suffer your death for all mothers? Or must we all lose a son to understand your sacrifice?” She bent her head and whispered a paternoster. A calm had come over her, and when she looked back at Christ, she was filled with compassion and reverence. Over the years Cecily had discovered how much comfort she gained from prayer, and today it had once again brought her strength to go on with her life.

As she got up, brushed the creases from her gown, and straightened her head-covering, she realized for the first time in weeks that she was hungry. She reverenced the altar and slowly left the chapel. Reliving her life with
Richard had given her more solace than she could have dreamed of. Her spirit felt assuaged, and a glimmer of hope for the future without him had crept into her heart. It was as though Richard had released her, though it was possible that her heart might never truly mend. Her other children must fill the void now, she thought, determined to go to the youngest and help them through their loss.

Her legs still did not feel strong, but she walked with new purpose from the chapel. She could not help but ponder what Meg had alluded to the night before after her nightmare. Do my children look upon me as hard of heart? But, oh, how wrong they are, she ruefully smiled to herself, thinking back on thirty years of a passion-filled marriage. Perhaps I should not have hidden my feelings from them. Maybe I should show them how cherished they are and how much I cherished their father, and so she quickened her steps, longing to hold two of her remaining sons in her arms. Soon, she prayed, she could hold Edward as well.

Edward. She imagined his horror upon hearing the news from Wakefield. He had been at Shrewsbury, she was told, doing what his father had commanded him to do. But where was he now?

She had arrived at the small solar that the boys shared with Meg during the day and that served as their bedchamber at night. She put her hand on the door and entered just in time to hear Dickon tell his sister, “You aren’t even my nursemaid! Leave me be, you . . . you whey-faced wench!”

Cecily gasped, instantly changing from grieving widow to strict mother. “Richard! Where have you learned such talk? Apologize to your sister at once, and then you may go to bed without your supper. I am ashamed of you. To think your father has only been dead these five weeks! You children have lost all discipline.” This was not exactly how she had envisaged showing her children her love, but even in grief, she had to maintain order for their sake.

Becoming aware of horsemen in the courtyard, she frowned. George explained that seeing them was the reason for their quarrel and that Meg had rebuked him and Dickon unfairly.

“Come and see, Mother,” Meg said quickly, moving back to the window.

Cecily peered down and recognized her son’s livery. Her heart began to beat faster. “George, stay here. Margaret, come with me.”

“But, Mother, I am a man now. I am the head of the family in Ned’s absence.
I
should be by your side,” George sulked.

“When you look at me like that, George, all you show me is that you are still naught but a babe. Now do as you are told!”

When Cecily and Meg entered the great hall with their attendants, the herald fell to one knee.

“What news, master herald? Come you from my son?” Cecily went straight to the point.

“Aye, my lady. And I have to report a victory for Lord Edward seven days since!” A cheer rose from the assembled company. “At a place near Ludlow called Mortimer’s Cross.”

“I know the place,” Cecily said eagerly, gripping Margaret’s arm. Her heart filled with pride as she imagined her warrior son astride his white destrier, sword raised to the heavens. Mortimer’s Cross was a stone’s throw from Wig-more Castle, she remembered, and a pang momentarily suffused her as she remembered that afternoon of passion she and Richard had enjoyed there. Aye, ’twas a fitting place for a York to know victory, she thought.

The herald told his tale with flair, thrilling the company, which had grown in number once the news had been circulated that Lord Edward had won his first battle.

“My lord Edward was marching to meet with the earl of Warwick to stop the royal army from reaching London when he heard that a large force was moving from Wales to join the king. Lord Edward turned his army and chose to face this force of Welsh, Bretons, and Irish.” It was on the feast of Candlemas, the herald said, adding that some were loath to fight upon such a holy day. “But just before the battle began, a strange happening took place that convinced our troops Edward would be victorious.”

Cecily waved him on.

“’Twas close to ten of the clock, and we were chafing at the bit, waiting for the enemy to approach, when we noticed three suns in the sky.”

“Three? Do not babble nonsense, man,” Cecily snapped. “How can there be three suns?”

“I know not how, my lady. But I saw them with my own eyes. The strange apparition hushed the army, but then my lord Edward turned his horse to us and cried, ‘’Tis the symbol of the Trinity. God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost! It means God is on our side! ’Tis a sign.’ And we believed him then. He was so sure and so brave, and the light from the three suns shone bright on his gold-brown head, making him look like . . . like a young god,” he cried, his voice filling the hall.

After giving her more details, the herald ended with the news that Edward was now on his way to meet Warwick.

“Let us hope they have now met, herald, for the queen’s army is not far from here, I fear. We thank you for your service.”

Exultant with the news, Cecily called for wine for the entire company, and her arms prickled when the echoing shout “
À York!
” reached the rafters.

Even so, Cecily recognized the cold grip of fear. Would Edward be in time to unite with Warwick and prevent the queen from marching on London? Despite Edward’s victory, and unable to trust fortune to favor York for long, Cecily had good cause to be afraid.

L
ONDON WAS A
city whose nerves had teetered on a knife edge since the news of Wakefield had spread through the lanes, taverns, and wharves in January. For all his popularity, Warwick had not taken charge as the people had anticipated he would after Richard’s death. Alice told Cecily she feared he had lost his courage—otherwise why had he not sent out commissions of array to the surrounding counties to protect London from the queen’s army. Riders from the north had daily cantered through the city gates to report the atrocities taking place on Margaret’s march south. Cecily’s heart had wept to hear that Grantham, Peterborough, and Stamford—all formerly under Richard’s jurisdiction—had been ravaged by the bloodthirsty mob that traveled with the queen. It was said that nothing was safe in a thirty-mile-wide swath of the oncoming rabble, that the rape and torture of nuns and priests was rampant, the defiling and sacking of churches and abbeys common, and the burning and pillaging of towns and villages unrelenting.

Emerging from her brief period of initial grief, Cecily could only now sense the tension in the streets as people hurried to and from their homes and shops with an eye to the north. Any day they expected to hear the trumpets and church bells sound the alarm. She considered it too dangerous to let the boys go out to play or practice at the butts on those days when it was not pouring with rain or sleeting. Meg, she knew, took comfort in books. Cecily threw herself into the running of the castle, spending hours with Steward Heydon poring over the accounts, settling disputes, and hearing petitions.