The Queen’s Rival

Take a tench, scald it and roast it.

Grind pepper and saffron, bread and ale, and mix it all together.

Take onions, chop them and fry them in oil and mix them in.

Serve it forth.

Better than the eels, I would say.

Chapter Seven

The House of York Begins to Stir Again

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

Written from Tonbridge Castle, March 1460

My dearest Kat,

All I hear is rumour.

The Neville Earls in Calais are taking up arms.

Salisbury and March and Warwick are plotting a return.

There’ll be an invasion from Calais before the year’s out.

As far as I can tell, there is no proof that anyone plans to do anything, much less put to sea. What Richard might be doing is shrouded in impenetrable fog.

George is becoming an expert collector of gossip, informing me that Ned is coming home because Sim, one of the grooms in the stable here, tells him so.

Perhaps it is true. What are we coming to, when the grooms know more than me? And what if they returned and were met with strong resistance from a royal army under Sir Richard Woodville and his son who are proving fervent supporters of the King and Queen? Would you care to write to Richard and warn him that my spirits are fast descending into hell?

My main concern is for Meg, for I see where her thoughts are straying. Who will she marry? She is of an age to have a husband chosen for her. Were not her sisters much sought after?

The problem now is who will look to the disinherited House of York for a bride? No one. My heart weeps for her. As it is, Meg is destined to remain a spinster and I, through default, a widow.

Your anguished sister,

Cecily

Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Epworth

Stop that, Cis!

This is all a product of isolation and self-pity! There is more than rumour to all this, even here in Lincolnshire. Every house talks of it, a ripple of excitement from those with Yorkist sympathies, and fear of what it might threaten from those who wish the impending invasion would simply go away.

I hear from Beaumont that Somerset, empowered by the Queen, is building a fleet in Sandwich, to invade Calais, put down the rebels, and take the Captaincy of Calais for himself. Not much chance of that, I’d say. March and Warwick have already poked Somerset’s nose. They’ve raided the port of Sandwich, then escaped back to Calais without harm. My guess is they’ll wait until Somerset’s fleet is rebuilt. Then strike again. Somerset remains bullish, but he must be cursing Warwick to the heavens.

Ned would seem to be finding his feet at sea under his cousin Warwick’s command.

Of your errant Richard I hear nothing. I don’t see that my writing to him will have any effect. It looks as if he may in all truth be considering a permanent position as King of Ireland. Could you not be resigned to living out your days in Dublin with an Irish crown to wear?

I’ll see if I can get any truth out of our brother Salisbury.

Tell Meg not to worry. One day she will be a much-desired bride. Have not I managed three husbands? And I have no call on either intellect or beauty, whereas she has the promise of both. She is very much your daughter, Cis. I wager that one day she will make a fine marriage.

Your hopeful sister,

Katherine

I have included a nostrum for guarding against headaches and melancholia. I use it when Beaumont becomes too Lancastrian for my Yorkist principles, although I advise you to administer it sparingly. It can be very powerful in its after-effects. I speak from experience.

As for your late slur on my liking for the ‘antique’ houppelandes, they are comfortable. I am too old to be dealing with close-fitting bodices, high girdles and bared shoulders.

A Nostrum of Wild Valerian: A most potent herb of Mercury

Collect the root in summer in moonlight.

Hang it to dry in the Still Room.

Powder the dried root and stir into a cup of heated wine.

Drink morning and evening.

Excellent against the trembling and palpitations.

Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Calais, March 1460

Cis,

I write care of Katherine as she tells me I must. Our plans to return to England from Calais come on apace and I can promise that there will be an invasion before the year is out. Our feet will be back on English soil again. My son and nephew are already making life difficult for Somerset. It is Warwick’s pleasure to thwart his plans at every opportunity, destroying his ships almost before they are built.

Even better, my son has sailed along the west coast, avoiding Exeter, to make contact with York in Waterford where, so he says, plans for his return are being laid. Warwick says there is little sign of such preparations but we must trust in York’s ambitions. Unless there is truth in the talk that he sees himself as King of Ireland.

Be patient and sit tight, Cis. You always were the most restless of my sisters. There is nothing to be gained from worrying over things that you cannot change.

Your brother,

Salisbury

Edmund, Earl of Rutland, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Dublin Castle

To my Lady Mother,

My father is still mightily occupied and so am I. My appointment as Chancellor of Ireland takes much of my time. We are safe and have much support here. When William Overey arrived from the Queen with writs for our arrest following our attainder, he was arrested instead, tried by my father, found guilty of inciting rebellion and disobedience, and promptly executed for treason. It was the first execution I have seen. It was not pleasant but necessary, so my father said.

The Queen has no sway here. The Irish are keen on their independence and they hope my father will remain. Did you know that we have our own Great Seal?

Rest assured, my father says that we will take no action that will endanger you, since you are the only one under the Queen’s hand who can be punished for our actions.

We are enjoying the hunting in the forests around the city.

We are in no danger. Every man of property has now to keep a mounted archer within his household to ride at a moment’s notice to defend Ireland against any English invasion.

I can think of no more that will interest you.

Your obedient son,

Edmund

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

Written from Tonbridge Castle

Oh, Kat,

What an unsettling letter this is from Edmund. It gives me no comfort at all. It seems more and more possible that Richard will remain in Ireland, creating a kingdom. Perhaps there never was a plan for him to return.

What do I do? Wait here in vain, or try to escape this bleak confinement to follow him?

Ignominiously, it appears that I am his weak spot in his planning, as I am the one under the control of the English crown, and so can be used as a pawn against him.

Richard is being wretchedly silent about it all.

The Wild Valerian does not help either.

Your increasingly desperate sister,

Cecily

Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Epworth

Well, you ask my opinion, Cis. Do you truly need it? Living in adversity with Anne has robbed you of your strength of will. How can you be so indecisive!

You know what you must do.

Ask him, Cecily. Ask him plainly. Tell him what it is that you fear. What have you got to lose? The letter might fall into the wrong hands, but it’s not going to say anything the political world is not chattering about. It is not some Court secret that you are divulging. All the world is wondering if Ireland will have a King Richard in the near future.

Do it!

Or no. I will. I will take him to task for you. How can he leave you in permanent ignorance? You should expect a fast reply from Richard.

Katherine

I regret the inefficacy of the Valerian. Try instead an infusion of the new-grown leaves of the Greater Periwinkle. It is excellent in warding off nightmares and hysteria. You sound to be much in need.

Richard, Duke of York, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Dublin Castle

My dearest long-suffering Cecily,

God’s Blood! Your sister has a sharp tongue, even through the medium of her pen.

Once again, I have been remiss. I acknowledge it. It would be dishonest of me to claim my preoccupation with matters of power. Katherine rightly says that my silence is alarming. Surely my fear of any future plans falling into the hands of the Lancastrians does not preclude a letter to my wife. She suggests that the gossip is more damaging than the truth. Edmund, I understand, has been surprisingly informative.

I have no master strategy as yet, but this I can say. It is not my plan to remain in Ireland. It might be safer here for the health of my neck, but my future is in England.

My future is with you.

I will return.

Look for news before the end of August. I know this will be less than satisfying but I am in good heart and I understand that you are, too. I have given Edmund a brief but effective lesson in discretion when addressing his mother. I have also enclosed with this a gift to reassure you that you remain with me, in my heart and mind, at my rising and at my final prayers at the end of the day. I know that you will make use of it.

Your loving but repentant husband,

Richard

Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

Written from Tonbridge Castle

To my dear Katherine,

If you were under the impression that York was neglecting our sister, then it is necessary to revise such an opinion. She has received a letter and a package. She has shown me neither. She keeps one in the bosom of her gown, so its content must be of value to her. The other, the package, she has safe-stowed in her jewel coffer.

I have investigated that package. I have no shame. It is a finely wrought gold crucifix, heavily bejewelled and set over-all with diamonds. If affection can be judged from the weight of bullion and precious stones, then Cecily is well loved. I could wish that Humphrey remembered me in similar glittering terms when he is long absent. As he is at present.

As for our sister, there is also a brightness about her, a liveliness that had become lacking. It is as if an inner candle has been lit, the lines on her brow smoothed out. She was always the most handsome of us all, and now it is evident, despite the passage of years.

I could wish that if York was not going to return, he would have left her alone. Disappointment will only restore her to desolation. I do care for her, regardless of her political malfeasance. She is my sister, after all.

I trust that you remain in good health despite your slippery husband. He might be a staunch Lancastrian, but I cannot like him.

Do I like any of my brothers by law?

Your sister,

Anne

Duchess Cecily experiences a renewal of joy at Tonbridge Castle, June 1460

It was the last day of June, the country somnolent around me with sultry heat, when I sat alone in Anne’s garden, destroying a spire of lavender which I should have been harvesting under my sister’s direction.

‘Idle hands find malicious tasks,’ she informed me as she handed me the basket and shears.

Now bees were busy around me, but I was not. I could hear Anne, distantly engaged in conversation with a delegation of merchants demanding her support over some local squabble. Meg was stitching a new gown in the solar with Anne’s women. Our clothing much depleted, she was delighted with a bolt of velvet from Anne’s store even though her opportunities to wear it were limited.

Running footsteps and loud voices shattered my retreat. George and Diccon. They stood before me and bowed.

‘Mother. Sim says that you must come to the stables.’

‘Sim says?’ It was hard not to be imperious. ‘The mythical Sim again.’

There was a cunning slant to George’s eye. ‘He says it is imperative.’

‘What do you say, Diccon?’ He usually proved to be a solemn fount of knowledge, if not always impartial; Diccon had a youngest child’s eye to his own survival.

‘I say to come. There is a new horse, a huge bay, like Father’s. It needs a name.’ His smile was ingenuous yet still I suspected some youthful plotting, particularly when George nudged his brother with an elbow.

When did I ever obey the dictates of a groom? With no urgent demand on my time, and a curiosity, I stood, brushed the lavender heads from my skirts and followed as they raced ahead. It was too hot for running but I admired their enthusiasm. They were laughing.

Into the warm shadows of the stable, pungent of horse and new-laid straw.

‘So where is Sim? And where is this magnificent animal that I must immediately admire?’

A soft laugh to my left. ‘Here he is, my Lady Mother.’

How would a mother not recognise the voice of her eldest son? I froze. Waiting. All my senses warned me that this was not possible.

‘I hoped you would welcome me,’ he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

I turned slowly, unable to smile in return, unable to even touch him. I realised that in my hands I still clasped the lavender-basket and shears. My first words were unforgivably as sharp as the blades.

‘What are you doing? No supporter of York is safe here. Buckingham has a commission to assemble every man of Kent capable of fighting, as soon as even one rebel sets foot in England.’

‘Which is why I’m dressed as plain as the merest groom, rather than a son of York.’ All of his father’s confidence.

The basket and shears now fell unnoticed from my hands, the lavender scattering.

‘Oh, Ned.’ At last I embraced him, then put him from me to take stock, my hands gripping his arms. I was forced to look up to survey his face. Had he grown in the months since Ludford Bridge? In that moment he filled my whole world.

‘Are you well? You look well.’ The words tumbled from my tongue. He was vivid with good health. And then, as I absorbed the implication of his presence in Tonbridge Castle’s stable, I felt a surge of joy bubble up inside me: ‘Is this an invasion?’

‘Yes.’

Immediately all my anxiety was back, three-fold. ‘Then even more dangerous.’

I drew him further into the stable, into an empty stall. ‘Did you truly bring a horse?’

‘Of course. I needed an excuse to get me through the gates. One of your neighbours who is quietly Yorkist wrote me a note to guarantee my authenticity. I am bringing the animal for Humphrey’s consideration.’

How young he was. It was naught but an adventure for him, delivering a warhorse into an enemy camp. I did not know where to start with my questions.

‘Tell me. Tell me what has befallen you since Ludford Bridge.’

I pulled him to sit on a heap of straw, regardless of the damage to the high nap of my velvet.

‘We escaped to the Dorset coast, but found it impossible to get to Ireland, so we took ship to Calais where we knew we would have a friendly welcome. From there we’ve been attacking the English coast—’

‘So I’ve heard—’

‘We landed in Sandwich a week ago.’

‘Have you much support?’ I could not wait for Ned to lay his plans out for me to see, my emotions torn between maternal delight, fear for the future, and anticipation for the political manoeuvring which I had so critically missed. ‘What do you intend?’ Suddenly, in my mind, a battle loomed, with all its dangers. ‘Have you come back with an army?’

‘Will you wait, and just listen, madam? I’ll tell you all.’ There was tolerance of my love for him. Waving away his brothers, he spoke fast, low-voiced, with a marked maturity in his choice of words, his clipped delivery reminiscent of Warwick. I felt his dominance, his control of the meeting, with surprise, and not a little alarm.

‘I have scant time.’ Already he was watching the movement of the sun, the creep of the bars of shadow across the floor as the minutes rushed by. ‘This is what you need to know.’

George and Diccon had retreated no distance at all, until I turned my eye on them and they vanished into another stall. I expected that they were still listening.

‘From Sandwich we marched to Canterbury. Warwick was right. He said the men of Kent would be pleased to welcome us, despite royal orders to repulse us.’ His eyes were alight. ‘Ha! They opened the gates of Canterbury as soon as they saw us on the horizon. Warwick is popular hereabouts.’ I smiled, detecting a note of hero worship in my son for his thirty-one-year-old much-experienced cousin. ‘Welcoming verses had been pinned to the city gates. Some local wordsmith had put pen to parchment.’ He laughed, struck an attitude with chin raised and fists on hips. ‘Edward, Earl of March, whose fame the earth shall spread. I liked the sound of it. We came with two thousand men and we are collecting more along the way. Warwick says it will top ten thousand by the time we are in London.’

I wondered how often I would hear the phrase ‘Warwick says’.

‘The thing is,’ I said when Ned drew breath, ‘what will you do when you get to London? Is this more treason that you are plotting? Will you challenge the King?’

His voice, supremely confident, fell again.

‘No. We have talked of this. We’ll not take up arms against the King.’

So easy to say, so difficult to accomplish if Marguerite pushed for a confrontation, which she undoubtedly would. My brother and nephew must know this. But Ned was explaining.

‘We have published a list of what we hope to achieve, to win men to our cause. We do not attack the King but rather his disreputable counsellors who tell him that good is evil and evil is good. Henry is being persuaded to hate and destroy his friends.’ I could hear my brother Salisbury’s words here. ‘We’ll be in London by the first week in July – next week, in fact. It is all happening so quickly. We offered prayers at the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket and received the blessing of Archbishop Bourchier who agreed to ride with us. It helps to have family in high office. My Neville uncle and cousin are already marching on to Rochester and Dartmouth. I came here first.’

He took my hands in his. How large they were, like small hams, dwarfing mine. In a moment of softness I lifted our joined hands to my cheek, before releasing him and returning to hard planning.

‘What will you do when you get there? What are Salisbury and Warwick planning?’

I did not know how far they would be prepared to go. A shadow of uncertainty momentarily crossed Ned’s face but his reply was assured.

‘We will negotiate with Henry. Loosen the ties to his so-called friends. We will become the most loyal subjects that he has, and so we will be restored to the King’s right hand.’

It sounded like my brother. But what about Warwick? Would he be ambitious for more? There was an undeniable strength in him. I suspected that leading a flotilla of piratical ships against Somerset was not the height of his ambition.

‘Do you give us your blessing, my Lady Mother?’

‘Of course. But take care. Be sure to winnow your friends from your enemies,’ was all I could say. ‘And thank you. That you found time to think of me. Should I ask why you must make a twenty-mile detour, when Warwick is by now in Rochester?’

‘To see if you needed rescuing, of course. My aunt can be a severe taskmaster.’

It made me laugh, imagining my son insisting to my sister that I should escape with him and join what she would see as a rebel army, riding with them to London, intending to bring down the King’s vicious friends. Who would win the battle of wills? I thought that it might just be Ned.

In that moment in the stable, gilded with dust motes, his hair transformed into a golden cap, his once-broad cheekbones sharpened with maturity, I had the image of riding into London beside my son. Plantagenets and Nevilles returned in glory to put right the attack on their inheritance. It was a breathtaking vision of all I could hope for, a vision I would wish to be part of as Duchess of York. But I shook my head. I would be no help to him at this stage in his journey to adulthood, and perhaps a hindrance.

‘I am safe enough here. Your aunt has no designs on my life and we have come to terms over the extent of my freedom. You must expend all your energies on coming to some agreement with Henry. When you have done that, then send for me.’ My heart lurched at what had not been said through all of our exchange of words. I held even tighter to his hands. ‘What of your father? Are you in communication? Will he join you?’

‘We hear nothing.’ Ned was untroubled. ‘But of course he will come back. All our success hangs with him. He must protest his innocence and loyalty so that our lands and our titles are restored to us. He will return. Do you not believe it?’

He thought me a weak woman prey to fears and rumour.

‘He will return,’ I repeated. I stood, my moments of maternal weakness past. ‘It is time you left, before your aunt has finished with her merchants. Will you be safe? Are you alone?’

‘No, I have a small escort waiting for me beyond the village. I wager I’ll be back soon enough, to open the gates for you. What a dour place this is. How do you stand it? I might just lay claim to the horse, too. It’s one of Warwick’s. No one will know if I take it with me. If challenged I’ll argue that it is unexpectedly lame and no use in battle.’

We were standing. I wished that Ned had not resurrected the thought of battle. Reaching up, I drew his head down and kissed his brow.

‘God keep you safe, my son. May the Blessed Holy Mother walk beside you and give you good counsel.’

He surprised me by sinking to his knees and kissing my hands. His fervent dedication, almost a vow, moved me unbearably.

‘And may She walk with you, too. God grant the day when all will be put right in this turbulent nation and we are reunited. I will fight for the restoration of the House of York, as my father would wish me to do. We will become once more King Henry’s most trusted cousins.’

I watched him go. He bent a little, shuffled a little, transforming himself into a faceless, nameless ostler. No, he was no son of York in that disguise.

‘Will he come and see us again?’ Diccon asked, watching him go.

‘Will there be a battle?’ George added.

All they had received was their brother’s heavy hand clapped to their shoulder in farewell.

‘Perhaps and perhaps.’ I collected the forgotten shears and basket, abandoning the lavender spires on the floor. ‘Now show me this animal that has earned your brother’s admiration.’

Ned had not taken it with him, after all.

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk