Red Rose, White Rose (43 page)

On Whitsunday Richard and I walked behind the king into St Paul’s for the Pentecostal Mass and hosted a feast afterwards at Baynard’s Castle where it was announced that Richard would assume Somerset’s roles as chief adviser to the king and Constable of England. During the following weeks, working in the king’s name, he made new appointments to the posts which had previously been filled by Somerset’s cronies and several prominent Lancastrian nobles came to make their peace with him. I was glad to see that although Anne had ignored my letter, her husband Humphrey managed to give Richard the kiss of peace, despite his head being copiously swathed in bandages. My brother Will Fauconberg was also prepared to build bridges, even though he had clung to his Lancastrian roots and fought with the royal party at St Albans, and the king’s half-brother Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke came too, proving himself a fair-minded young man although a staunch royalist. By July a new Parliament had gathered and Richard, Hal and Dick all formally renewed their oaths of allegiance to the king before the assembled Lords and Commons in the Great Council Chamber at Westminster. Outwardly at least it looked as if peace had been restored to the kingdom.

In October, in yet another effort to show the world that York and Lancaster were reconciled, Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, invited Richard and me to attend his wedding to Margaret Beaufort at her mother’s home of Bletsoe Castle in Bedfordshire. This was the marriage that had been arranged by the king before his son was born, in order to bolster the Lancastrian line of succession to the English throne. Lady Margaret Beaufort was the direct heiress of the Beaufort claim and if anything happened to little Prince Edward, any sons who might be born to her would be rivals to Richard and his heirs for the succession. Edmund Tudor was the elder of the king’s half-brothers who had been born secretly to his mother Queen Catherine and her second husband, the Welsh squire Owen Tudor. King Henry had ennobled Edmund as Earl of Richmond and his younger brother Jasper as Earl of Pembroke because, apart from the queen and Prince Edward, they were his closest kin. Although they were fiercely committed to the Lancastrian cause I found myself admiring both these young men for their obvious desire to bring order and unity to their brother’s fractured kingdom and hoped they might provide future support for Richard in his similar aim.

In the event Richard did not attend Edmund’s wedding because as autumn closed in the king began to show signs that his malady was returning; by November Richard had once again been officially appointed Protector of the Realm and was too busy to leave the seat of government. However he insisted that I make the journey to Bletsoe and take our daughters Elizabeth and Meg with me so that they might witness a dynastic marriage of the kind they would soon be expected to make themselves.

It proved a good idea because although Margaret Beaufort was only twelve years old she was a bright and intelligent girl who had been well prepared for the union by two of her older half-sisters who had made young and successful marriages to older men. On this occasion the bridegroom was twenty-six, more than twice the age of his bride but an exceptionally handsome and spirited young man who proved easily able to charm her into smiles and laughter and dance the jewelled buckles off her shoes at their wedding feast. Although I, like most mothers I knew, was opposed to brides being bedded before the age of fourteen, the church sanctioned twelve as the canonical age and a marriage was not legally binding until it had been consummated. Edmund Tudor was Earl of Richmond but his title did not carry any great estate; only when the union was declared legal would he gain possession of the Somerset lands and revenues to better support his high degree. My impression was that he would quickly charm his little bride into enjoying his company both in and out of bed.

Being as yet unaware of such legal and moral niceties, my young daughters were vastly impressed by the whole occasion and on the ride back to London conducted a girlish argument about which of them would marry the bridegroom’s athletic younger brother, the dashing red-haired Jasper Tudor. Meanwhile Richard was exploiting the Tudor Welsh connections by appointing Edmund Tudor to a lieutenancy in South Wales, where Richard himself was Constable of Carmarthen, and charged him with the task of subduing the rebel Gryffydd ap Nicholas, who was defying royal decrees and raiding Welsh estates legally held by York and Buckingham. By the end of November both Tudor brothers were commanding military units in Wales, Jasper in his vast stronghold of Pembroke Castle and Edmund, having no Welsh residence of his own, ensconced with his garrison and his new young bride only a few miles away at Lamphey Castle, the fortified rural retreat of the bishop of St David’s.

By the next February, however, King Henry had recovered his senses and reappeared at Westminster Palace. The council immediately revoked Richard’s appointment as protector but insisted that he keep his place among their number. The queen kept her distance from London, where she was almost universally disliked, but Jasper Tudor journeyed back from Wales to lend his support to his newly recovered half-brother. Surprisingly he and the Duke of Buckingham proved invaluable allies to Richard on the council as it struggled to balance the royal exchequer and restore the rule of law.

Anne had joined her husband at court and when I learned that both she and Alice de la Pole were to be Easter guests of the queen at Greenwich, an invitation which had not been extended to me, I thought it an opportunity to try and bridge the gulf that had developed between us following the violent conflict at St Albans. I still exchanged letters regularly with Alice and suggested in one of them that after the visit she might coax my sister to come with her to Baynard’s. The two of them would be arriving on Easter Monday.

On the morning of the proposed visit I had sudden misgivings. I confessed as much to Hilda as we walked together to the solar following Mass in the chapel. As well as her four-year-old boy Aiden, Hilda was now the proud mother of a little girl called Marie and her two infants shared Anicia’s nursery with Dickon and Ursula. Having children of similar ages had cemented our friendship even further and she was now my closest, almost my only confidante.

‘There was a time in France when Anne and I were on the best of terms,’ I explained to Hilda, ‘but I do not think we will ever be so again after St Albans. She seems to hold me responsible for the duke’s actions, as if we women have any say in whether swords are drawn.’

‘Even though her husband and son are recovered from their injuries now?’ Hilda asked. ‘I can imagine it might be different if they had died.’

‘The Duke of Buckingham is fit and well again but I believe their son Stafford is still ailing. There is some infection in his wound that inhibits healing. Also his wife is the daughter of the Duke of Somerset, who was killed at St Albans. Although Humphrey seems able to set aside his political differences with Richard, I see there are reasons enough for Anne and her family to hate us.’ As I said this I realized just what an emotional leap my sister would be making in coming to visit me.

‘Now that I have children of my own I find it easier to understand the scars left by battles such as the one at St Albans,’ remarked Hilda solemnly. ‘Think if it had been Edward or Aidan who had been injured or, God preserve them, the duke or Cuthbert who had been killed. We would not easily forgive those responsible, would we? Foreign battles do not leave such a personal legacy. We just hate the French as a whole, not the individuals who kill our loved ones.’

Her words stopped me in my tracks for until that moment I had never truly understood the possible repercussions of the internecine warfare which constantly threatened to tear at England’s foundations. More than ever I wanted to heal the rift between myself and Anne. It was as if by so doing I might prevent the delicately poised peace between Lancaster and York from tipping into the abyss.

I gazed at my companion for several seconds until I noticed her quizzical expression. ‘Thank you, Hilda,’ I said hurriedly. ‘You have shown me that the answer is to involve the children. I will bring Elizabeth and Meg into the solar. Perhaps their presence will diffuse any atmosphere of conflict.’

So it was that later that day, when wine was served to Alice, Anne and me at the solar hearth, my two younger daughters were sitting demurely to one side with Hilda.

‘How did you find the queen?’ I asked Anne who was beautifully dressed in a crimson gown trimmed with sable and jet, her head encased in a jewelled turban headdress. She looked impressive but on edge, as if she was suppressing strong feelings. We had exchanged distant kisses on her arrival.

‘She is well,’ she replied rather stiffly. ‘She is very happy with her robust little prince, my godson, and relieved that the king has returned to good health.’

I nodded and noted her deliberate mention of her status as godmother to the Prince of Wales, an honour she obviously cherished. ‘Yes, his grace appears to be completely recovered. It is a relief to all of us.’ I turned to Alice. ‘And your son John? We so look forward to having him join our household among the duke’s squires. He will have the benefit of being guided by my brother Cuthbert, Lady Hilda’s husband.’ I gestured in Hilda’s direction and noticed as I did so that Elizabeth was gazing out of the solar window but Meg was listening intently to our conversation.

Alice smiled a little wistfully. ‘It is kind of the duke to take him on but I shall miss him sorely when he leaves Wingfield. He is a wonderfully easy companion.’

‘I found that when I sent a son to become squire in some other household I usually gained a potential daughter-in-law instead,’ observed Anne. ‘Do you have any plans for your son’s marriage?’ She glanced rather pointedly at the two girls not far away.

‘There have been some discussions,’ said Alice vaguely. ‘Of course the inheritance is still uncertain.’

I smiled at her conspiratorially. We had privately been corresponding over a possible marriage between her son and Elizabeth but although Alice had been granted control of her dead husband’s estates in trust for her son, the titles were presently in abeyance and I knew Richard would not consider allying one of his daughters to anyone less than an earl, even if he did hold most of Suffolk and Norfolk.

Not wishing to pursue that topic further at present I turned to Anne and took the plunge, asking gently, ‘And how is my nephew Humphrey, sister? Has there been any improvement in his condition?’

Blood instantly rushed to her cheeks. ‘No, not really,’ she blurted, glaring at me alarmingly. ‘Though I wonder you dare to ask.’

It was the reaction I had been afraid of but I knew it was a subject which had to be aired. I cast another quick glance at Elizabeth and Meg, more to remind Anne that they were there than to check on their deportment. Anne’s sharp tone had attracted Elizabeth’s attention away from the window. ‘I can pray for him,’ I said and added earnestly, ‘If there is anything else I can do I hope you will tell me.’

I was taken aback by the fierceness of her response. ‘You can thank the Almighty that your sons are too young to fight and tell Hal’s son Warwick to curb his bloodthirsty bears.’ Anne’s face was contused, her voice harsh with grief as she pursued her point. ‘Humphrey was defending the barricades at St Albans and heard Warwick’s order to take out the commanders and let the soldiers run. Minutes later three of the bears held my son down and one ground a mace into his groin. Thank God he already has a son and heir, for there will be no more children of that marriage.’

My hope in bringing my daughters into the solar was that their presence might lighten the atmosphere. I had not anticipated the depth of Anne’s anguish at the nature of her son’s injury nor realized that it was Warwick she blamed as much as Richard for its cause. I thought of John’s bitter anger at the violence Warwick’s bears had inflicted on his nephew Jack at Middleham and all at once the full extent of the divisions within the Neville family hit me. It was not only Westmorland Neville against Salisbury Neville it was nephew against uncle, cousin against cousin and now sister against sister. But I could not brook her unbridled outburst. Anne might feel justified in venting her anger on me, but I considered it unnecessary to inflict such verbal violence on my daughters.

I felt tears of indignation prick at my eyelids. ‘I am devastated by your son’s injury, Anne, believe me. I had no idea of its nature. But I am also shocked and sorry that you chose to inflict such a grim description of it on my young and innocent daughters.’

Anne leaped to her feet, glaring at me. Icily, she said, ‘They will hear of much worse done to people closer to them before long I fear. You Yorks have not yet suffered loss or injury from this accursed feud with Lancaster, Cicely – and I would not wish it on you – but I believe it cannot be long before you do. I did not really want to come here but Alice persuaded me. It was not a good idea after all. I bid you farewell.’

Turning on her heel, Anne crossed the room in a furious rustle of brilliant crimson silk. As she waited impatiently for the chamberlain to open the door for her, I suddenly remembered the neat way she had produced a hidden knife from her boot in Rouen. She was an indomitable woman, my sister of Buckingham. At that moment I told myself that if we were ever to meet again I would not underestimate her.

‘I will go after her,’ said Alice, making to rise.

‘Please do not leave,’ I entreated. ‘I want my girls to hear more about your son John.’ I beckoned Elizabeth and Meg to draw up their stools. I was hoping to distract them from dwelling too much on what Anne had said about her son’s injury. They had met Alice before but not her son. ‘Lady Suffolk’s son will shortly join your father’s henchmen at Fotheringhay. He is nearly fourteen and I hear he is very good looking.’

‘Does he have red hair, my lady?’ Elizabeth asked Alice sweetly.

Alice was surprised by this seemingly random question, not knowing what great effect the rufous Jasper Tudor had had on girlish dreams. ‘No, Elizabeth, he is fair haired.’

‘Does he read books?’ asked Meg, the scholar amongst my children.