Queen by Right (78 page)

She was informed that Warwick had finally gathered a force from the southern counties and together with other Yorkist lords had marched out on the twelfth day of February to prevent Margaret from reaching London. And
they took with them as their figurehead that most hapless of monarchs, King Henry the Sixth.

But that was a week ago, Cecily mused now, putting down her book of Christine de Pisan’s ballads and removing her spectacles. She shivered and went to throw a log on the fire, the spitting embers disturbing Ambergris. Surely Edward had caught up to Warwick by now. She hoped that their lengthy absence boded well for London’s safety.

She watched the boats ply the gray water of the Thames, a wintry sun trying to pierce the leaden cloud that had loosed a few snowflakes onto the cottages and hovels along the south bank of the river. To the east of them she could see the tower of St. Mary Overie.

Being on the water side of the castle, she did not hear the portcullis grind open to let the horsemen enter the courtyard, but shouting did pierce her reverie, as did Ambergris’s first growl. The dog rose from his warm spot by the fire and began to bark.

Beatrice came hurrying in, her long face even longer. “The herald has returned with others, your grace, and their mood is grim.”

“Where is Lady Margaret, Beatrice? Find her and come down to the hall. Gresilde and I will go there immediately.” Cecily gathered up her train and hurried down the spiral staircase through the great hall and onto the steps to the courtyard, where Steward Heydon was conversing with the herald. The man knelt before her, muddied and wet through, and doffed his cap. This time the news was not of victory but of a stunning defeat of the seemingly unassailable earl of Warwick by the queen’s army.

“At St. Albans you say?” she asked, annoyed with herself for not controlling the tremor in her voice. “And what of my lord of Warwick? God forbid he is not slain.”

“Nay, your grace. The earl and the rest of our force who escaped the slaughter have fled west to find your son, Lord Edward.”

“Praise be to the Virgin for that!” Cecily exclaimed, although concerned to hear that Edward had not arrived in time to join the fray and beat back the queen.

“The king was with the earl at the battlefield,” the herald continued. “He is with the queen now. Some said they saw him at the edge of the battlefield sitting under a tree, laughing at his enemies.”

“Sweet Jesu, the poor man is indeed mad,” whispered Cecily, crossing
herself. Then she addressed the somber company, looking around the high walls of the inner ward at the servants and attendants hanging over balconies or crowded on stairs and at the soldiers, some wounded, who were thronging the courtyard itself.

“Hear this, loyal friends of York. We are in grave danger.” She ordered those who were armed and hale to follow Warwick’s trail and join Edward. The wounded must be cared for at Baynard’s, and she assured them she would not desert them or the household. “God help us! And may God bless the earl of March!” she ended on a rallying note.

“God bless Lord Edward!” the household echoed, less enthusiastic, and murmured misgivings on their way back to work.

Cecily welcomed the soldiers into the hall, where she took charge, making provision for the wounded, commanding the cook to make food for those leaving to join Edward, and passing through the ranks with a smile of encouragement here and a word of thanks for their duty there. Meg trailed along behind, emulating her mother with nods and quiet words of commiseration or gratitude.

Throughout the procedure Cecily was also desperately trying to think. What if Margaret does enter London? Any loyalty for her royal person or any respect she might have won if she had simply marched south to claim the capital and her husband after her victory at Wakefield had disappeared up in the smoke of every house and field she had burned. Nay, we cannot expect any mercy from Margaret of Anjou. After all—and Cecily saw the irony clearly now—who inherits England now rests between her son and mine.

And it suddenly occurred to Cecily that her younger sons were in danger as well, for they were also heirs to the throne. She must send them away immediately, she decided. But where? To Nan in Devon? You foolish woman, Cis, Exeter would find them there. To Bess in Suffolk? Nay, Bess was too young to take on such responsibility and besides, she was lately with child. They would not be safe anywhere in England, she realized with a jolt. They must go abroad. She racked her brain. Who were Richard’s allies in Europe? Oh, if only dear Anne of Bedford were still alive! But that gave her an idea: Anne’s brother, Philip of Burgundy. He was an ally, was he not? Aye, after Northampton he had made overtures of friendship to the Yorkist lords. In a split second her mind was made up. There was no time to waste, no time to write letters. The boys must leave at once. Her eye fell on Meg, and she beckoned to her.

“Margaret my dear, I want you to go up to your apartments and tell Nurse
Anne to ready George and Richard for a journey. Tell her to pack their warmest clothes and one fine doublet and bonnet each. I will be there anon.”

“Where will they go, Mother?” Meg asked boldly.

Cecily was astonished. “’Tis not your place to question me, Daughter. Pray do as I tell you at once!”

Meg flushed, glancing anxiously around at those standing close, and Cecily felt ashamed for embarrassing her child. “You will know in a little while, my dear,” she said more kindly. “I simply do not have time to explain now.” With a heavy heart, she watched Meg turn away.

Dickon was on the verge of tears when Cecily found the boys half an hour later.

She clucked her tongue. “Where is your York backbone, Richard!” she admonished him. “You are near ten years old and here you are behaving like a baby. ’Tis not the first time you have been without me.”

“But . . . but . . . Meg has always been with us. Why can’t she come, too?” Dickon tried to stop his lip quivering, but he did not succeed.

It was his sister who gathered him into her arms and cajoled him out of his fear. “’Twill be an adventure, Dickon!”

This caused Dickon to wail even more loudly. “I did not like the last adventure. I was frightened at Ludlow.”

“That’s enough, Richard,” Cecily admonished him, and then felt another pang of guilt for her sharp words. She should not take out her anxiety on these innocents, she remonstrated with herself. She took pity on her youngest, who looked so pathetic, his thin legs encased in hose far too big for him and his chin trembling, and she held out her arms, taking him gently from Meg. “Hush, child. It will not be for long, I promise, for Ned will come and take London and all will be well.”

At Edward’s name, Dickon brightened. “You think he will really come, Mother? I would dearly love to see Ned again!” He blinked back his tears and attempted a smile.

Cecily stood up and drew George to her as well. “Now, would you like to know where you are going?”

“Aye, Mother,” chorused the boys. “And why?” added George.

“’Tis for your own safety, George. If something should happen to Edward, pray God it does not, then you and Richard are York’s heirs and thus are heirs to the crown.”

Cecily reminded them to mind their manners, study hard, and write to her
often, for they would be guests at the court of the mighty duke of Burgundy. “Aye,” she laughed, as their eyes grew round, “and you will have your first voyage on a ship!” She held her thumb between her fingers for luck, as she was taking it on faith that Duke Philip would receive them kindly.

“A ship, Georgie!” Richard enthused, his tears forgotten. “We are going to sea, like the game we played yesterday!”

“Aye, Dickon, and I will protect you, never fear,” George told him.

“I am not afraid, George!” Richard exclaimed. “I am a York. And we Yorks are never afraid!”

“There’s a brave boy, Richard,” Cecily said, much relieved. “I want both of you to remember how brave you were at Ludlow. You can do it again, I know you can. Now, say good-bye to Meg and come with me.”

They made their way to the castle quay, where Steward Heydon had commandeered a boat without markings. She saw the boys safely stowed in the stern and then stepped in herself, Heydon taking the bow seat. George’s gentleman attendant, holding the boy’s luggage, eased himself next to Heydon. Cecily had entrusted the strapping young man with a missive and instructions to take the boys to Philip.

The boatman dipped his heavy oars into the water and pulled away from the pier toward the scores of ships moored in the Pool on the other side of London Bridge. Cecily sat with her black fur-trimmed cloak wrapped around her shivering children as they huddled together for warmth against the damp February evening.

“I will be back with the tide, Meg,” Cecily called to the desolate girl on the wharf waving her brothers farewell. “You must take care of everything until I return. You know what to do. You have learned well!”

The boatman rowed from ship to ship, and Cecily and Steward Heydon haggled with their captains to no avail until a sturdy carrack bearing the Flemish name of
Zoete
hove into view. The steward hailed a crew member dumping dirty water over the side. “Your captain, mariner? Where is your captain?” he shouted, and the man nodded and ran off. A few moments later, as the boatman maneuvered the boat alongside and grabbed the rope netting hanging from the gunwale, a burly man with a globe of a face appeared above them.

“Ja?
I am der captain, Captain Bouwen. Vat you vant?”

Sir Henry stated his business and held up a pouch of coins that Cecily had given him. When the man knew he was in the presence of a noblewoman and
that he might be rewarded even more for taking the two boys to Flanders, he nodded and grinned, calling over his shoulder to two of his sailors, who swarmed down the makeshift ladder like monkeys.

There was hardly time to kiss the boys and whisper her love before they were manhandled up the swinging netting and safely onto the deck, their attendant scrambling behind them. Just then a wake from a passing boat caused the boatman to let go of the rope and tend to his oars, and Cecily’s hand reached out into the widening space between the vessels, blinking back her tears, as the boys, ashen-faced and crying her name, receded farther and farther from her. Raw panic engulfed her as her eyes focused on the small figures. Would she ever see them again? Was the captain trustworthy? Would they be shipwrecked before they even reached Duke Philip and his duchess? Would Duke Philip take them in? Would Dickon catch cold? Sweet Jesu, what had she done? Had she, too, like Queen Margaret, gone mad?

S
HE DID NOT
have time to worry about her sons, as London began to shut down in anticipation of the queen’s arrival with her horde. But, strangely, Margaret did not come, and a few days after the battle, instead of taking advantage of her victory, she chose to stay where she was at St. Albans and negotiate with the mayor and aldermen of London for the surrender of the city. Back and forth the emissaries rode between the mayor and the queen, Margaret wanting a triumphal entry for herself and Henry and the city’s complete surrender. The city fathers even sent three noblewomen to mediate for them with Margaret, knowing that she would treat them well for their past service to her. Cecily was not surprised when she heard that her sister Anne was one, along with Jacquetta of Bedford. They fared a little better. The king and queen agreed to remove the army to Dunstable and that only they and the other leaders would enter the city as victors.

But the mayor and his aldermen hadn’t reckoned on the Londoners’ hatred of the queen. They bolted their doors, rolled down their shutters, shut up their shops, and even upset carts of food destined for the queen. When Margaret promised that no one would be punished and that London would not be pillaged, the mayor was pleased and petitioned the people to surrender. But instead a riot ensued, the citizens took the keys to the city, and it was clear that London would not submit to the king and queen.

So when the sound of marching feet and fanfares of clarions and trumpets did resound on the eve of the month of March, Cecily knew with pride it was
Edward and not Margaret who was being cheered and feted from Chepeside to Bishopsgate and from Newgate to the Tower. Dressed in her dove-gray mourning gown and her black steepled hennin, with only her precious sapphire around her neck and her ruby betrothal ring for jewelled adornment, she waited on the throne in the great hall for the arrival of her magnificent son.

That day the February rain had finally stopped and the sun was shining on Edward’s red-blond hair as he came riding into the courtyard on his white horse, its trappings torn and bloodied, his cuirass dented, and his hand bandaged. To the cheers and shouts of welcome, the grinning young duke dismounted and, standing proudly on the steps of his father’s palace, he raised an arm in salute.

Then he strode through the doorway on his long, strong legs, and Sir Henry announced, as Edward’s squire had hurriedly instructed him: “His grace the duke of York, earl of March and Ulster, and true heir to the throne of England, France, and Ireland.” Edward nodded, pleased with the steward’s new styling, and went straight to his mother, where he bent his knee and bowed his head.

“Your grace,” he said, his baritone strong and warm. “I humbly ask your blessing.”

“You have it, my son,” Cecily said, surprised at the hoarseness of her voice. “We give you God’s good greeting.” Rising, she held out her hands. “Come give your mother a kiss.”

“ ‘L
ET US WALK
in a new vineyard, and let us make us a gay garden in the month of March with this fair white rose and herb, the earl of March.’” Meg quoted the words from a parchment one of her attendants had given her. “’Tis what they are saying in the city about you, Ned, although ‘fair white rose’ is hardly how I would describe you.”

“Ha!” Edward replied from his chair, stretching out his long legs lazily. “I suppose you think that fits you, Mistress Nose-in-a-Book.”

Irked, Meg shook her head. “I do not, in truth. I am too tall and too plain by far,” she retorted and flung the paper on the floor.