Thwarted Queen (24 page)

Next day, as Richard adjusted to the gloom inside the king’s tent, the first thing his eyes lighted upon was Somerset. He jerked back.

Somerset bowed low with a flourish.

Another figure emerged from the gloom. It was the queen. She scowled.

Richard felt an icy finger crawling up his spine. Somerset was like a weevil who wouldn’t go away.

“Welcome, my cousin of York,” came the dull tones of the king’s voice.

Coming forward, Richard knelt and kissed the king’s ring. Then he brought out a parchment. “As you requested, my lord King, I have drawn up a the list of articles of indictment against my lord of Somerset.”

The king nodded slightly.

Richard slowly unfurled the parchment.

“What’s this?” shrieked Marguerite.

Henry slid his eyes towards his wife.

“Give that to me!” she screamed, making to reach for the document.

Henry sat stone still.

“How could you connive in this underhanded way with this—this viper?”

Richard took a deep breath and looked up. “My lady Queen, you do me an injustice. I am merely asking for the law of the land to be followed, and Somerset to be tried for his crimes.”

“I am merely asking for the law of the land to be followed,” sneered Somerset, mimicking Richard’s lisping
r
’s. “Poppycock. You want power, my lord of York.”

“My cousin has come in good faith to sue for peace,” remarked Henry.

Richard turned to look at his cousin. Henry rarely stood up to anyone, least of all his wife. But Marguerite turned on him. “How could you go behind my back to your own worst enemy?” She jabbed a finger at Richard: “He’s as cunning as a fox.”

“He has the support of the Commons,” replied Henry, but Marguerite was not listening.

“How could you listen to him? How could you arrest my dearest cousin to suit the whims—”

“He has the support of the people,” said Henry. “That does count for something in this country.”

“The people. Piffle,” retorted Marguerite. “He goes on and on about the supposed crimes of our dear cousin. But what of his own ambition? I tell you, my lord King, York should be arrested. Immediately.”

“No,” said Henry.

The scene blurred before Richard’s eyes. He’d dismissed his army. He’d come alone with only a few trusted retainers, believing he would have a private meeting with the king. How could he have blundered into this trap? Facing him, not two feet away, were his worst enemies. If they chose to arrest him—if they decided to try him for treason and execute him—Richard clenched his jaw as sweat trickled down his back. How was he going to get word to Cecylee?

An image of Cecylee filled his head, as he’d last seen her. She’d looked like a wounded bird. And they’d been arguing.

About Nan.

When Cecylee had returned from Ireland, she’d insisted, with a persistence and determination he did not know she had, that he allow her to send Jenet to Exeter to inquire into the health of their daughter. Richard had agreed; he would have no peace unless he did. Cecylee had packed up several boxes of things, medicines, Nan’s favorite sweetmeats, even some things she’d left behind when she’d married Exeter, and sent Jenet off. It took her three months to return, bruises still visible upon her cheeks.

“I begged and pleaded, my lady, but he wouldn’t let me in. Why, one of my lord of Exeter’s men hit me in the face when I told him that your ladyship insisted that I see the duchess.”

She rubbed a mark the size of a man’s fist.

After Jenet had curtseyed and left, Cecylee had sat there silently, staring at the fire. It had unnerved him, to have his lively and talkative wife sitting there, unnaturally still. Finally, she’d lifted her head.

“You’ve killed her, Richard,” she remarked before she stalked out and shut the door behind her.

He’d not been allowed into her bed since.

And now, as he took in his perilous condition, the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

“I’ll send for the Constable of the Tower,” declared Marguerite. “He is hard by.”

“No,” said King Henry.

Marguerite turned to pull the tent flap aside.

Henry rose. “I tell you no,” he said loudly, his usually pale face flushed. “I agreed to arrest Somerset to be tried on charges of treason. He should be taken to the Tower.”

Marguerite froze, poised in the action of leaving the tent. Her black eyes lost their sparkle as her face slackened. “You cannot mean that, my dearest lord.”

She moved swiftly, knelt before the king, and took his hand. “What has he ever done to deserve this?” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

And so the king agreed to let Somerset go free.

“Your lord is in grave danger.”

Cecylee stared at Sir William Oldhall. Richard? Danger? As she sagged into the cushions of her chair, she thought she saw Blaybourne standing before her: “Would you have me?” he asked. “I have always loved you, my love,” she said, the words torn from her lips. “I will keep you safe,” he replied, as his face dissolved into the face of her father. “I will lock you up,” said Earl Ralph, ”for you may be queen one day.”

Someone touched her arm; Sir William’s face swam into view.

“My lady,” he said, touching her with a mud-splattered glove, “you look overwrought. Would you like me to come back when you have rested awhile?”

Cecylee came to with a jolt.

“What has happened?” she whispered.

“He has been taken prisoner.”

Cecylee felt the color drain from her face. She’d been married to Richard now for fifteen years, and her lady friends envied her for the way he doted on her. She was never long out of his company. She traveled with him everywhere. She sat in on the various meetings he held. She held court with him in the great halls of various castles. She provided him with counsel in the privacy of their bedchamber—along with other pleasures, which caused her to breed nearly every year.

Her lady friends sighed as they talked about how lucky they were if their husbands merely ignored them. One lady considered herself fortunate that her husband was never around. Too often, husbands shouted at their ladies, or worse.

“You are so lucky, Cecylee, to have a husband that loves you,” ladies exclaimed.

And Cecylee smiled, blushed, and turned the conversation into another current. For how could she explain that, though things had mellowed, there were still tears in the fabric of their marriage? Richard had never forgiven her for Blaybourne, and she had never forgiven him for Nan. Their marriage worked because they never discussed certain subjects, and also, thought Cecylee with a sigh of regret, because Richard still loved her. And now, she could not imagine a life without him. She counted out her beads on a string: Joan, Nan, Henry, Edward, Edmund, Beth, Margaret, William, John, George, Thomas.

“How many men can we raise?”

“Not enough to free him. His army is scattered to the winds.”

“How can you be sure? We must be able to muster many men from our estates.”

“We do not have much time, my lady,” replied Sir William.

Cecylee set her lips. “We must fight our enemies some other way. We shall have to spread reports abroad.”

Sir William glanced at her with a frown.

She placed her hand on his arm. “I am quite recovered from my shock, thank you, good Sir William. Let me explain. Since we cannot fight with an army, we must fight in the court of public opinion. The people of England should hear that my lord of York has been taken prisoner.”

Sir William stroked his beard. Cecylee snapped her fingers and dictated to a waiting scribe:

Good People of England,

My lord of York, the People’s Champion, has been arrested. My Lady Queen made him ride ahead of her in her train, as if he were a prisoner. She and my lord of Somerset have provided him with lodgings in the Tower.

Good people, I need your help in persuading Our Sovereign Lord the King to set him free. I enjoin you, therefore, to tell your friends and neighbors this news, so that we may bruit it abroad.

May God bless you for your efforts.

Given this sixth day of March, in the year of our Lord 1452.

By Cecylee, Duchess of York.

She signed her name and instructed a servant to ride to the collegiate church in the village of Fotheringhay and request the scribes there, in the name of their duchess, to make a hundred copies of the document. “While they do that, get a team of riders together, so that this can be placed in the marketplace of every good sized town.”

The man bowed and left.

“Now master scribe, there is another message I would have you write. Make it in the form of a report, that a king’s councilor would have. Put into this that Edward of York, Earl of March, has mustered an army of eleven thousand men and is marching on London from Ludlow. Say that he is gathering strength at every turn as the people rise to set my lord of York free.”

Sir William shook his head. “’Tis fortunate that folk are not aware the Earl of March is a lad of only ten years.”

One month later, the king issued a general pardon to all those who had risen against him. He graciously included my lord of York in this pardon. Four months after that, King Henry visited York at Ludlow Castle during his annual royal progress.

Duchess Cecylee was not there to greet the king, for she was lying some one hundred miles away at Fotheringhay, heavily pregnant with her twelfth child. When he was born, in October 1452, she named him
Richard
after his father, in thanksgiving for her husband’s release.
Joan, Nan, Henry, Edward, Edmund, Beth, Margaret, William, John, George, Thomas, Richard
, thought Cecylee, as she lay in bed, recovering from Richard’s birth.

Despite the king’s visit, no progress was made in the furtherance of York’s wish that his voice be heard on the king’s council. Instead, early next year, Parliament authorized the king to be able to raise twenty thousand archers at a moment’s notice, fearing that York would rise again. Alarmed, Cecylee decided to make a private visit to the queen around Whitsuntide, in the year 1453.

“What good would it do?” asked Richard. “She’ll just laugh in your face.”

Cecylee’s grey eyes flashed as she thinned her lips. “Someone heard screams from Exeter Castle,” she remarked coldly.

“You listen to gossip.”

“The last time you said that to me, you forced Nan away from my side. The information I have comes from one of your agents.”

“Cis, I’m so sorry—”

“Do you want me to help you, or not?”

“You’re going to tell the queen I’m loyal and acting in good faith?”

“Exactly,” replied Cecylee, lifting her chin. “She will be moved by my plea to show pity for the children.”

He turned away. How could Cecylee be so naïve? The queen hated him. On the other hand, his lady wife was greatly upset about Nan; he wanted to comfort her. He tingled as she gently touched his arm. Since he’d returned from prison, she’d thawed and allowed him back into her bed. In return, Richard had made a private vow that he would not marry off their daughters before the age of consent at twelve years.

“Remember, Richard, she knows little of me,” remarked Cecylee. “I believe I can persuade her.”

“How can you persuade her when she would never believe me?”

“Because we have a common bond, being ladies of high station.”

“I don’t see how.”

Cecylee put her small hand on top of his and lifted her face.

“You know the queen is expecting a baby. I shall take it upon myself to bring her such things as a lady in her condition might like. Then I can advise her—”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with politics. How does your knowing about breeding make you persuasive?”

“I will catch her when her guard is down. She will be feeling vulnerable, anxious about the ordeal she is to undergo.”

York stroked his beard, regarding her. Sir William Oldhall had brought a full report of Cecylee’s cool handling of the crisis that had nearly cost him his life. He’d described her brilliant idea of fighting in the court of public opinion. “At first I did not know what she was talking of. Truly, I thought her wits had gone. But she was merely many strides ahead of me. You know how quick the duchess is.”