Praise for Anne O’Brien

‘O’Brien cleverly intertwines the personal and political in this enjoyable, gripping tale’

The Times

‘O’Brien is a terrific storyteller’

Daily Telegraph

‘A gripping story of love, heartache and political intrigue’

Woman & Home

‘One of the best writers around…she outdoes even Philippa Gregory’

Sun

‘The characters are larger than life…and the author a compulsive storyteller’

Sunday Express

‘A fast-paced historical novel’

Good Housekeeping

‘This book has everything – royalty, scandal, fascinating historical politics’

Cosmopolitan

‘O’Brien’s page-turner vividly brings to life the restriction of women, and the compassion and strength of this real-life figure from medieval times’

Woman

‘A gripping historical drama’

Bella

ANNE O’BRIEN was born in the West Riding of Yorkshire. After gaining a BA Honours degree in History at Manchester University and a Master’s in Education at Hull, she lived in the East Riding for many years as a teacher of history.

Today she has sold nearly half a million copies of her books worldwide. She lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century timber-framed cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches in Herefordshire on the borders between England and Wales. The area provides endless inspiration for her novels about the forgotten women of history.

Visit Anne online at www.anneobrienbooks.com.

Find Anne on Facebook @anneobrienbooks and follow her on Twitter @anne_obrien.

Also by Anne O’Brien

THE VIRGIN WIDOW

DEVIL’S CONSORT

THE KING’S CONCUBINE

THE FORBIDDEN QUEEN

THE SCANDALOUS DUCHESS

THE KING’S SISTER

THE QUEEN’S CHOICE

THE SHADOW QUEEN

QUEEN OF THE NORTH

A TAPESTRY OF TREASON

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Anne O’Brien 2020

Anne O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008225513

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With all my love, as always, to my husband George.

He has accompanied me in my close companionship with

Cecily Neville, Duchess of York (whether he wished to or not).

‘Dame Cecily, sir, whose daughter was she?

Of the Earl of Westmorland, I believe the youngest

and in grace her fortune to be the highest’

CLARE ROLL

‘Cecily, wife unto the right noble Prince Richard, late Duke

of York, father unto the most Christian Prince my lord

and son King Edward IV…bequeath and surrender my

soul to the merciful hands of Almighty God my maker’

CECILY’S WILL

Cast of Characters

The House of York and its Household

Richard, Duke of York

Cecily, Duchess of York, King’s Mother

Their children:

- Edward, Earl of March, Duke of York, King Edward IV

- Edmund, Earl of Rutland

- George, Duke of Clarence

- Richard (Diccon), Duke of Gloucester,

- Anne, Duchess of Exeter

- Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk

- Margaret (Meg), Duchess of Burgundy

The House of Lancaster

King Henry VI

Queen Margaret (Marguerite) of Anjou

Edward of Westminster, Prince of Wales

The Nevilles

Richard, Earl of Salisbury, Cecily’s brother

Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, Cecily’s sister

Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, Cecily’s sister

Richard, Earl of Warwick, Cecily’s nephew, son of Salisbury

Daughters of Warwick:

- Isabel, wife of Clarence

- Anne, wife of Gloucester

George Neville, Bishop of Exeter, Archbishop of York, Chancellor of England, Cecily’s nephew, Warwick’s brother

The Beauforts

Edmund, 2nd Duke of Somerset

Henry, 3rd Duke of Somerset

Edmund, 4th Duke of Somerset

The Woodvilles

Richard Woodville, Earl Rivers

Jacquetta, Lady Rivers, (once Duchess of Bedford)

Their children:

- Elizabeth, Queen of England

- Anne m. Viscount Bourchier

- Antony, Lord Scales, Earl Rivers

- Margaret m. Earl of Arundel

- Mary m. Earl of Pembroke

- Jacquetta m. Lord Strange

- John m. Katherine Neville, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

- Lionel, bishop of Salisbury

- Katherine m. Duke of Buckingham

- Eleanor m. Lord Grey of Ruthin

- Martha m. Sir John Bromley

Two sons by Elizabeth Woodville’s first marriage to Sir John Grey:

- Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset

- Sir Richard Grey

The Yorkist Royal Family

King Edward IV

Queen Elizabeth

Their children:

- Elizabeth

- Mary

- Cecily

- Edward, Prince of Wales

- Richard, Duke of York

- Anne

- Katherine

- Bridget

Rob Woodhouse, the Royal Fool

Burgundy

Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy

Charles the Bold, his son, Duke of Burgundy, husband of Margaret of York

France

King Louis XI

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Epigraph

Cast of Characters

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Why Write about Cecily Neville?

And Afterwards

Travels with Cecily Neville, Duchess of York

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

A Domestic Interlude in the Most Loyal House of York

Cecily, Duchess of York, to my youngest son Diccon, on the occasion of his seventh birthday celebrated here at Ludlow, on the second day of October in the year 1459

Today, my son, we mark the day of your birth.

You will have unwrapped your gifts by now, among them a fine dagger from your father with a damascened blade. He persuades me that you are old enough to own such a weapon. It belonged to him when he was a boy. He has the scars to prove it. Ask him to show you them when he has a moment of leisure. It is not a bauble and you should treat it with respect. I will confiscate it if you use it unwisely.

From me you will have discovered the book of stories of Greek heroes which you are now able to read. They all use their swords and daggers with care.

Enjoy the special day, with all the family here together, although you will be disappointed that the promised tournament will not happen. Your father has much on his mind with so many of our soldiers billeted in the castle and in the town, but your brothers have something planned so that the day does not go unmarked. The cook will make your favourite Payn Ragoun to be served at the end of dinner; it is the day of your birth so I will accept a little indulgence.

Remember to thank the Blessed Virgin Mary for your life and health.

Remember your duty to God and to the King, whatever happens in the coming days.

Remember your duty to your family of York.

Do not forget to attend Mass.

I have also given you an illuminated Book of Hours that belonged to me when I was a young girl. I know that you will be tempted to write in your own birth-date in the page of October. Do not do so. It is a masterpiece of clerkish work and will not benefit from your scrawl in the margins.

From your loving mother,

Cecily, Duchess of York

To my Lady Mother, Duchess Cecily, on the evening of this second day of October 1459

My tutor says that I must give you gracious thanks for the gifts, and prove that I can write well.

My father showed me the scar where his first dagger hacked into his wrist when he was skinning a rabbit. I promise I will not do that. My father said that he was too busy to show me the rest. I have not written in my Book of Hours. But one day I will. One day I think it will be important to me to mark the day of my birth. I promise I will write it neatly.

I have started to read the book of Greek heroes. I have decided I would wish to be like Achilles, to live bravely and to die well, even if I am not very old when I meet my doom.

I enjoyed the Payn Ragoun, although George ate more than I did. He says it is his right because he is three years older than I am.

I hope it makes his teeth drop out.

I have also had to hide my new dagger from him.

From your dutiful son,

Diccon

Cecily, Duchess of York, to her son George

I wish to see you in my chamber immediately after Mass.

It has come to my notice that you have not yet learned the lessons of either generosity or humility, or family affection. Gluttony, I must warn you, is also a sin.

Do not put me to the trouble of coming to find you in the stables. You will not enjoy the consequences.

Because I know that you will take heed and learn from your mistakes, I remain your loving mother.

Cecily, Duchess of York

Cecily, Duchess of York, for the immediate attention of the Duke of York

Richard,

I warned you that Diccon was too young for such a gift. George is suffering from a severe attack of envy so that Diccon has already had to fight to keep possession of his dagger. They have both been blooded and show signs of battle, but our younger son has emerged victorious. He might lack the physical bulk of George but his spirit is strong.

I advise you to make no mention of their colourful afflictions when you next see them. Do not praise them for any false courage. I have dealt with the matter.

I think this will find you before I do, when you at last return to the castle.

I know that you have much on your mind and that you will say, rightly, that it is my role to supervise the education of our sons, but sometimes a word of paternal admonishing would not go amiss.

In exasperation,

Your loving wife,

Cis

Chapter One

The Death of Loyalty

Duchess Cecily teaches a lesson in Ludlow Castle, October 1459

We were in occupation of one of the corner chambers in the old gatehouse keep at Ludlow Castle because it was a good vantage point from which to detect approaching marauders. Despite the lack of light and the all-pervasive reek of damp, I lit candles then unrolled the precious scroll with a flourish. It was a line of succession, drawn as a tree with thorny branches, all the way from the first man and woman on earth, Adam and Eve, enclosed in leaves and flowers in the Garden of Eden, to King Henry the Sixth, our present crowned and anointed King of England.

‘Hold down the corners,’ I said to my children.

My two elder sons already knew this lesson well, as did my elder daughters, Anne and Elizabeth, who were wed and living in their own households. Here with me were my three younger offspring. Margaret, more frequently called Meg, at twelve years was adept at reading and could work it out for herself. George at ten, and Richard, known to all as Diccon to avoid unnecessary complications in our domestic dealings, the youngest of my sons who had not yet achieved eight years, were still in the process of gleaning information on old alliances. It was time they knew of their profound inheritance. Indeed, in the circumstances, it had become an urgent affair.

George slouched over the table edge, pressing down hard with his whole hand, while Meg applied her fingertips with neat precision. Diccon had his elbows splayed along one edge, leaning close to survey the pattern of lines and names.

‘Do you see the roundels, painted next to each name?’ I pointed to some of them, the closest to us today and the most highly coloured, all capped or crowned with gold. ‘The scribe has included a picture of each King, and his heraldic symbol so that you might recognise him.’

They peered over the document, sufficiently engrossed, even George who preferred weapons to books.

‘Our King Henry.’ George pointed. ‘Our cousin.’

Meg placed her finger on a sword-wielding figure, two branches above. ‘That is the fourth King Henry.’

‘He was my mother’s – your grandmother Joan’s – half-brother.’ I traced my finger down from that fourth Henry to his son, the fifth Henry, and then his grandson, the sixth, our present King. ‘These Kings – all three Henrys – are from the House of Lancaster.’

‘Why is the fourth Henry the only one with a sword?’ Diccon asked.

‘Because he used the sword to slice through the branches of the tree. There.’ I pointed to the break in the branches. ‘Henry cut the order of succession and deposed King Richard.’ I watched as a frown furrowed George’s brow. ‘The fourth Henry is what we would call a usurper.’

‘What happened to Richard?’ George asked.

‘He died. In Pontefract Castle.’

‘Did Henry have him killed?’ Meg asked.

‘No one knows.’

‘I wager he did. He is fierce in the picture.’ Diccon looked impressed.

‘What do you learn from this?’ I asked.

‘They are all branches of the same tree, from father to son. Except there, when the Lancastrian Kings took over.’ Meg regarded me with her solemn stare. Her eyes were forthright, her chin stubborn, her countenance often firm-lipped and unsmiling, but I thought she would grow into a handsome woman. My husband said that of them all she was most like me, and perhaps he was right. She was developing a strong will. ‘Would it have been better to keep Richard, whatever his faults?’ she asked.

‘The Lancastrian Henrys have brought us a peaceful and strong country,’ I stated. ‘Victory abroad in battles against the French. Richard may not have done so. And Richard had no son to follow him. It is important to have sons.’

‘Is our King Henry a good King?’ Diccon asked.

‘Sometimes he is not well,’ I suggested. ‘Sometimes he needs good advisors.’

‘Like our father?’

I regarded Diccon. My other sons would be as tall and broad and fair as the painted angels on the walls of my private chapel. Diccon would be neither tall nor broad, and his hair was the dark of a raven’s wing. He was the image of his father, who had more wiry strength than powerful muscle.

‘Yes, like your father.’

But King Henry’s worthiness was not a subject for discussion. We were stepping on the quivering ground of a morass that had recently begun to weaken the solid foundations of our vast, far-flung family.

‘But where does our father fit on the branches?’ George asked.

I pointed further back than the deposed King Richard, to the great third King Edward who had won battles at Crécy and Poitiers and thus defeated the French.

‘We come here, from the sons of this King Edward. He had five sons. Your father is descended from one of those sons, the Duke of York.’

‘I know that I will not inherit my father’s title, even though I have his name,’ Diccon said.

His acceptance rather than childish wistfulness made me smile. ‘You are named for him, but it is Ned who will be Duke of York. You will have your own title when you have grown a little more.’

My eldest son Edward – still Ned in his adolescence – would make an exemplary Duke of York.

I replaced the scroll, locked the coffer and returned the key to the purse, appropriately embroidered with our emblems of falcons and fetterlocks, at my girdle.

‘So our father is royal. We are royal.’ Diccon’s mind was still absorbed in the multi-layered branches of the tree as we left the chamber, even as he hopped with an excess of energy. George raced ahead down the narrow stairway, his voice echoing in a strident farewell, and I let him go. Meg walked with grace at my side.

‘You have Plantagenet blood in your veins, just as King Henry does. From your father and from me.’ It was never too early to instil some sense of pride in their inheritance, as I had learned it at my mother’s knee. My mother Joan, as one of John of Gaunt’s Beaufort children with Katherine Swynford, once disgracefully illegitimate before being restored to respectability, had more than her fair share of pride when she was wed to Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland.

‘Why are we not on the tree as well, if we are all descended from the great King Edward?’ Diccon was asking.

I dropped my hand lightly on his head, ruffling his already ruffled hair.

‘Because we do not rule.’

‘Even though the fourth Henry was a usurper?’

He had remembered the word well.

‘Even though he was a usurper. We do not have the right to rule, and we never will.’

‘To think otherwise would be treason,’ Meg stated with all the smooth assurance of youth and untried loyalties.

Diccon looked to me for confirmation.

‘That is true. We are loyal subjects to the House of Lancaster. The House of York will always be so.’ I spoke what were to become fateful words. ‘Whatever you hear to the contrary, we are loyal subjects.’

There were storm clouds building on our immediate horizon. It was a simple thing to make this declaration of fealty. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold it as a truth.

At this moment there was an army outside our gates, almost within our sights across the river. It was led by Marguerite, Queen of England, who would be quick to cry me false.

Cecily, Duchess of York, to her grace the Queen Marguerite, late of Anjou

Written from Ludlow Castle, on this tenth day of October 1459 Sent by the Duchess’s personal courier, claiming safe conduct for his return with the Queen’s reply

Your grace,

I regret this need to write to you. My lord the Duke of York forbids it, but I cannot ignore the desperate situation in which we find ourselves. Do our armies not face each other, about to engage in battle, on the fields beside Ludford Bridge?

I fear for the outcome, as I am certain you do also. Was there not enough bloodshed less than a month ago at Blore Heath, when two thousand of your Lancastrian troops were slain, including your commander Lord Audley?

It stains my conscience. It must also weigh heavy on yours, your grace.

You will call us traitors, but you must know in your heart that the Duke of York has never been moved by thoughts of treason. Your most royal husband Henry is our King. Nothing can change that. We do not seek his overthrow, no matter what poison the Duke of Somerset might drop in your ear. He may be my Beaufort cousin, but there is much bad blood between the Beauforts and my husband and I would counsel you to beware his advice. Somerset’s only interest is to wipe out York as a rival to his own position as the most influential of royal counsellors.

Because of this, I need to remind you that I have always proved to be a friend to you in the trials of your early days as Henry’s wife, when you were anxious and alone in Rouen, a new bride laid low with illness. Remember when, in your pregnancy, you asked for and received advice because, with children of my own, I was able to give it four-fold. And I gave it willingly, and with much affection and respect for your dignity as a somewhat neglected young wife.

Now those we love and esteem are brought together, by fate, on a battlefield.

As women we can change that outcome. We are not without influence. We should not waste our days in devising vengeance for past slights.

I beg you, your grace, use sweet words to draw our King back from the brink. As I will use mine with my lord the Duke of York.

Your defeat at Blore Heath at the hands of my brother, the Earl of Salisbury, will sit ill with you, but now is the time to negotiate and heal the wounds. If we cannot extricate ourselves from this tangled mess, the fields beside Ludford Bridge may well be soaked in English blood before nightfall tomorrow.

With all humble reverence,

Your lowly servant

Cecily, Duchess of York

Marguerite, Queen of England, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from the royal pavilion at Ludford Bridge, on this tenth day of October 1459

Madam

Your empty words carry no weight with me. When the Duke of York takes up arms against my lord the King on a battlefield, it is treason. I recall your kindness in the past, but those days are long gone, drowned in Lord Audley’s blood. Further death can only be prevented if York is prepared to bow the knee and sue for mercy.

Somerset remains my most cherished advisor. York will do well to remember that.

I have no pity for your present situation.

Marguerite, Queen of England

England’s Chronicle, October 1459

Blood and death on a battlefield, Englishman facing Englishman.

How have we been dragged into this fine goblet of disaster?

Is there anyone alive in this unfortunate country who does not know?

We have a King whose mind is not to be relied upon.

We have a Queen who sees the lure of power for herself and her young son.

We have a royal cousin, the Duke of York, whose views are ambivalent. Does he wish to be an efficient Protector and Counsellor to our sad King? Or does he desire the crown for himself?

Our noble Duke is haunted by a vast array of enemies who will undermine his reputation for honesty and hard work on behalf of the King. The Beaufort Duke of Somerset is the most dangerous. So much for the Love Day travesty of renewed friendship last year, when all erstwhile antagonists walked hand in hand, arm in arm. An event that we would all happily forget since it achieved nothing but a mockery of our King’s attempts to heal the enmity between his most powerful magnates.

Now it seems that the adherents of York and Lancaster will face each other on a battlefield at Ludford Bridge.

We advise you to pray for a fast resolution. For which side you will pray is a matter for your own conscience. Duchess Cecily will be praying hard for her husband, despite the array of Neville relatives who still cleave to King Henry and the Lancastrians.

Cecily, Duchess of York, to her estranged sister Anne, Duchess of Buckingham

Written from our castle at Ludlow, on this tenth day of October 1459

Sister, written in haste so excuse the scrawl and blots,

Do not give up on my letter and consign it to the flames before reading past the first sentence. I am writing to tell you that by the end of tomorrow your sister and her closest family may well be dead in a ditch or taken prisoner as traitors.

I can hear your thoughts already, loud and clear from distant Kent, accusing Richard of desiring the crown for his own supreme ennoblement. Unfair, Anne! That is and never was Richard’s desire, no matter what Queen Marguerite might announce to the world.

The King’s army is outside our gates. I do not know what information you have, but it would be remiss of you if you allowed yourself to become cut off from these dangerous developments. I feel it my duty to write in warning for we will not emerge from this unscathed, although who will suffer most – you or I – cannot yet be determined.

When we were children, who would ever have predicted that, through marriage, we would have become enemies, cleaving to opposing sides in battle, you for Lancaster, me for York. It wounds my heart, but what is done, is done.

I am presuming that your misguided husband Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, is at this very moment within shouting distance of us here in Ludlow, with the Lancastrian army at King Henry’s side. I can only hope that Henry is not the man for waging war, that he will withdraw and agree to parley, but as Richard says, the King is not always in command of himself, much less his armies.

Neither one of us, Anne, can deny that Henry has proved dilatory in recent years, even when he appears to be in control of his senses.

Richard is confident there will be no battle. He says that we are as well prepared as we could be with ditches and palisades of stakes, with well-set ambushes and traps. We have cannon set in place. Nor will Richard fight, unless provoked beyond reason.

This was Richard’s final reassurance as he left me to inspect the soldiery that inhabit, like a plague of rats, every corner of the town and castle. Which should comfort me, but it does not. Do you think Buckingham might use his considerable weight to persuade Henry to negotiate? I know he is a man of good sense and moderation, if he can but capture the King’s flea-hopping attention from my cousin Somerset’s constant aggression. You should know that Marguerite has refused any kindly intervention. She stands like a beacon on a hill-top, agleam with regal authority and vicious recrimination. All of our past closeness is buried under acrimony and fear.

I am afraid, Anne. My sons Ned and Edmund are with Richard on the battlefield. I know they are of an age to be there, but I fear for them, particularly Edmund who is not as robust as his brother. Meg, George, and Diccon remain here with me at the castle, although George claims he should fight beside his father. He is already almost as tall as I, but then it has to be admitted that I cannot boast of any degree of stature. At this moment he is polishing his weapons.

Oh, Anne, do we not both know what it is to lose children to death? I cannot imagine your grief at the loss of your only son and Buckingham’s heir, from his wounds from a Yorkist sword after the Battle of St Albans. At least you and Buckingham could be consoled that he had a son of his own, your grandson, to inherit the dukedom.

I cannot even consider the loss of my sons to Lancastrian swords, on my own doorstep here in Ludlow.

I do not expect compassion from you. The political rifts have been dug too deep. All I can ask is that you petition the Blessed Virgin and Holy Mother for a peaceful outcome, and understand that it was never my intention to be at odds with you. It is the way the world works when men have ambitions.

From your sister who, despite all, loves you as much as she ever did.

Cecily

Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary

Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou among women

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

I raise before you the names of those dear to me, who even now stand at the forefront of their forces on the battlefield. In your blessed mercy, preserve them, keep them safe, nurture them in their decisions and bring them safe home. If they must face death, give them courage and fortitude.

I pray that you do not give credence to anything my cousin, Henry Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, might offer up in his prayers. He has proved, in all his dealings with the House of York, to be nothing less than a serpent in the royal grass. He would perjure his soul before telling the honest truth.

Amen

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

Written from Ludford Bridge

Cecily,

Marguerite encourages the King to break out his banners and don armour, as if he were a true soldier and leader in battle, which we know he is not. The King would rather sit in his pavilion and read his missal, but the Queen has him firmly under her heel. I fear that the mummery of the King in full battle array is having the desired effect, filling our troops with awe. There is much desertion, our soldiers abandoning the battlefield to flee or skulk in the streets of Ludlow.

I will negotiate with the King, but never on Somerset’s terms.

Whatever the outcome, never doubt the esteem in which I hold you, nor my dedication to the future of our children. You are the one shining candle in the present darkness.

Richard

Chapter Two

Disaster Threatens the House of York

Duchess Cecily faces her worst fears in Ludlow Castle, the twelfth day of October 1459

It was midnight, the darkest hour when barn-owls called and bats flitted noiselessly, caught as black shadows in the gleam of the guards’ lanterns. I was sitting on my bed, sleepless, book in hand, but the Life of St Maude with her piety and charitable works did not keep my attention, not even her clever involvement in the tenth-century politics of Bavaria. The children were asleep, exhausted by the excitement and tensions in the coming and going of mounted men and cart-loads of supplies.

All my senses leaped into nervous life when there came the distant clatter of a disturbance at the main gate which provided access into the town. I had already cast aside the book by the time a servant, who had been given instruction to keep me abreast of all events, no matter how trivial they might seem, tapped on my door. I dragged a heavy robe over my shift to follow him down the stairs. If it was an opportunistic attack from the royal army I would trust our watchmen to keep the barbican gate closed. But how had a hostile force managed to circumvent Richard’s careful defences and reach the centre of Ludlow? Forcing myself not to run, I climbed to the vantage point at the top of the old gatehouse keep, pulling up my hood over my braided hair.

My throat was dry with fear.

What I saw made my heart thud in a heavy beat, for the barbican gate was already open, distant figures moving in the outer bailey, our guards offering no resistance to these incomers with their escort. There were no banners, no visible heraldic symbols to indicate who they might be.

The beat of my heart thudded loudly in my ears.

A small group, tight-knit, rode across the expanse towards the inner gateway below me. I leaned forward, my fingers curled hard around the coping stones. But then my heart slowed at what I saw. I remained where I was, as they rode beneath me into the inner bailey. I knew exactly who my late-night visitors were in spite of dark enveloping cloaks.

By the time I had descended they had all dismounted, allowing me to pick out a quintet of strained faces as hoods were pushed back or helms removed. A potent mix of Nevilles and Plantagenets. My brother Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, my nephew, another Richard, Earl of Warwick. My sons Edward and Edmund. And Richard, my Richard, Duke of York. Already in urgent and low-voiced conversation, before I could even ask what was happening, Richard left the group, took my arm and pulled me into the guards’ antechamber, dispatching its only occupant with a tilt of his chin.

‘What’s happened?’

My fingers dug into the cloth of his cloak as they had dug into the stone revetment. I could read nothing in his face in the light of the single torch.

‘Disaster.’ His voice was a croak.

‘Why are you all here? Has there been a battle?’

For if it was a disaster, where was the rest of the army? We had heard no noise of conflict or conflagration. For the first time I noted the groove between Richard’s dark brows as he leaned close, his voice low. This was not meant to be overheard.

‘A pardon came, apparently from the King, if we would lay down our arms, a pardon I thought not to be trusted. It had the imprint of Somerset all over it. Or perhaps the Queen, to lure us into surrender and so into a trap. But Andrew Trollope, God damn his soul to hell, the man in command of Warwick’s main force from the Calais garrison, accepted it, declaiming to his troops that he had never wanted to fight the King in person.’

‘Could he not be persuaded?’

We were both whispering. Whatever had occurred was worse than I could imagine, nor should it be spread abroad.

‘He gave me no chance. The last we saw of Trollope was a retreating cloud of dust, taking his men with him. I took the only decision I thought left to us. I sent a letter to the King, asking for a parley. The reply came back, almost immediately, that he would not. He would do his negotiating with arms and battle in the field.’

‘Did he write it? It doesn’t sound like Henry. Marguerite perhaps.’

‘Who’s to know?’ For a moment he sounded so weary. ‘It will be a battle and without Trollope’s men we are lost. There will be no mercy. I misjudged it, Cis. How could I misjudge it so badly?’ Richard rubbed his gloved hands over his face as if to clear his vision. ‘Henry looked every inch a warrior, standing proudly tricked out in armour under his royal banner. Even his thinning hair managed to gleam in a kingly fashion beneath his crown. Our troops were weak at the knee at the sight. And there it is. We daren’t risk a battle. They’ll all go over to him as their King within seconds of a Lancastrian call to arms.’

I could see defeat, engraved deep in the lines from nose to mouth. His familiar features had become a bleak map of failure.

‘What will you do?’ I knew without asking, but dreaded the reply.

‘We have no choices left. It must be flight.’

I could not hide the horror in my face. ‘You have abandoned your men?’

This was no time for my censure. Many would say it was not the place of a woman to express disparagement, for what developed on a battlefield was man’s work. But this was a step beyond treason against the King. For the puissant Duke of York to abandon his troops was anathema. These were our men, our tenants, our soldiery, born and bred in loyalty to their Plantagenet lord.

‘Have you disbanded them and sent them home?’ I persisted.

I could almost see his face flush in the shadows, but his voice was edged with his own righteousness, his own belief in what must be. ‘No. I have not. We need time, and to disband the army would give Henry freedom of action to pursue us here to the gate of our castle. The army remains in place until tomorrow. I have told our officers that we have retired here for the night, and that we will return at dawn. The Lancastrians will see nothing amiss until we have gone.’

‘Richard…’ I did not like it. I did not like it at all, but could think of nothing to say. He had made the decision.

He sensed the tenor of my silence, as he would after more than thirty years of marriage, through good times and worse. ‘I know. It’s bad, but we must redeem what we can from a desperate situation. Henry will not wage war on common soldiers. It’s us he wants. If we stay we will be taken prisoner, if not killed outright. That will be the end of our cause.’

I thought that he was trying to convince himself that our men would not be obliterated by his decision to escape. I held his hands, willing him to tell me that flight was not the only possibility, but I knew, as clearly as he, that they must get out of England before the royal hounds were slavering at their heels.

‘We’ll go in different directions,’ he was explaining, already planning, while I had moved no further than the despair that he would leave me. ‘I’ll take Edmund with me into Wales and from the coast we’ll take ship to Ireland where I know I’ll be welcomed. My years as King’s Lieutenant in Ireland will stand me in good stead. I’ll make my base in Dublin.’

How confident he was, or at least sounded – possibly for my sake – that this journey would not entrap him into the hands of his enemies.

‘Salisbury and Warwick will go south and they have agreed to take Edward with them. When they reach the coast, they’ll take ship and join us in Dublin or make for Calais. Either move will be safe. With the boys travelling separately, there is at least the chance that one of them will survive to continue to lead the House of York.’

My family stripped from me in this one momentous decision, in which I had had no voice at all. I had considered the outcome of battle. I had not accepted that I might be abandoned to face the Lancastrians alone.

‘When do you go?’ I asked, my voice steady.

‘I can’t stay any longer than this hour.’ He was as calm as I in the circumstances. ‘We must go immediately before anyone can raise any sort of alarm.’

‘I understand.’

And I did. But surely there was one question I must ask.

What of me? What of those three young children asleep in their beds?

My lips parted to ask it, only to be prevented by an embrace and a hasty kiss before he put me from him.

At the door he turned, his voice breaking in bitter self-condemnation, full of despair.

‘I abandoned my army, Cecily. I abandoned my banners. They are lying there to be trampled on, come the day. All the pride and glory of York to be buried in mud and ignominy.’ His eyes, wide and despairing, held mine. ‘And now I must abandon you. You did not ask. I honour you for it. But I cannot take you and the children with me. Time is too short, and I must get our sons away before they fall into Lancastrian hands. Oh, Cis, my dear love. What have I done?’

He strode back towards me, enveloping me in his arms as he had done so often, in cold departing or joyful arrival. At the same time he whispered in my ear. I replied in kind, but then placed my fingers on his lips to silence him. No time, in this chill guard-room with dawn fast approaching, to express what might be in our hearts.

They were sentiments that I would remember for ever.

And then: ‘Keep the gates bolted, your guards set,’ he commanded, returning to practicality. ‘They’ll not get in and they’ll not harm a woman and children. Whatever his weaknesses, Henry has more chivalry than to do that.’

But what about Marguerite? What of her chivalry?

Another question I dare not ask.

‘I have no doubt of the quality of your courage. The Nevilles were all bred up in adversity and pride. Keep faith with our people here. Will you promise me?’

‘I promise.’

‘You will never know the depth of my gratitude.’

Now his kiss was deep and wretched indeed. I clung to him for a second, absorbing the essence of him, for what might be the final time.

‘Go, Richard. Go before the huntsman sounds the three long motes for the hounds to seek the hart. You will be hunted most fervently by the Duke of Somerset.’

‘But by God’s will, we will escape and take refuge.’

‘Amen.’

Out into the cold air of the inner bailey, there was one more burden to lie heavily on my heart. I must bid farewell to my two sons, for how long I could not imagine.

‘May the Blessed Virgin keep you safe from harm,’ I said, a soft benediction as all was clamour and activity around us.

A grip of hands, a light kiss of farewell, cheek against cheek. This was no time for excess emotion. Ned was eager to be away, his gaze already straying towards the impressive bulk of his cousin of Warwick, but Edmund remained and shivered under my grip. There was only a year between them but Edmund still had much growing to do, in confidence as well as in height and breadth of shoulder.

‘You will bear yourself nobly as a son of York,’ I encouraged him. I would worry over this son more than I would over Ned.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘You will be the first to tell me that you have no time for accepting maternal advice on your conduct, but pay heed to your father’s instructions. Be strong in the faith that I have instilled in you and in your duty to your proud name.’

Edmund bowed his head as if taking a solemn vow before an altar. I felt him straighten, his spine stiffen. He was already taller than I.

‘I swear that I will, madam. I swear that you will be proud of me.’

‘It is time to go. I look for the day when we will be reunited.’

I was pleased to see him walk with more assurance as I pushed him in Richard’s direction. A woman’s tears or anxieties would bring nothing to this emotional occasion.

‘Farewell, my love.’ My final words to Richard. ‘God keep you and bring you home.’

‘Uphold the honour of the House of York,’ he replied, ‘the honour which I have this night all but buried. I will keep you in my mind and my heart.’

‘As you will remain in mine.’

Surprising me, he drew me close in the darkness, running the pads of his thumbs over my brows, my cheekbones, my lips, along the line of my jaw.

‘Just so that I can remember you,’ he said, ‘when time and distance between us seem too vast.’

The last I saw of my warlike family, they were riding for the outer gate, supplied with money and food for what could be a long journey.

I was beyond tears. I could not imagine when I would see Richard again, or any one of them. I returned to my chamber where, with deliberate self-control, I dressed for the coming day when I must face the Lancastrians. I would stay here in Ludlow, as I promised Richard that I would. I would hold firm to that promise and protect our people with every remaining breath in my body.

Recorded by the private hand of Cecily, Duchess of York

I am alone and Richard has gone, fled from Ludford Bridge, leaving me to record the manner of his flight. Cowardly. Dishonourable. Contemptible. Despicable. The denunciation of my lord clamours in my head.

That is what they will say of Richard. These words will be written in history, in my husband’s blood. Richard of York, the great lord who betrayed his wife and children to the marauding Lancastrian army to save his own neck. Who abandoned his army and relinquished his banners on the battlefield because he dared not face his King. The chroniclers will look to me for condemnation, for would I not join my diatribe to theirs? The Duchess of York must surely disavow her loyalties to an ambitious husband who left her behind.

What had he said in those final minutes together, when we could have merely spoken of our love for each other? I record his words here, for my own encouragement in future times of despair, when hope dies within me. Do not let them turn you against me, he said. We have lived and fought side by side for so many years. I need you to believe in me.

Oh, Richard, how could I not believe in you? But why leave me to face the enemy alone? We were capable of riding as hard and as fast as the rest. Why not take us out of danger, for our safety?

And why had I not, in the end, voiced my fears? Why had I not demanded to be rescued from what would become a second battlefield, here in the streets of Ludlow?

I had not asked because I knew all the answers and I already understood all the thoughts that had not been spoken between us. The questions I had wanted to ask and had not because time was too short. Who would know Richard and the working of his mind better than I?

If he had remained to face the royal army, it would have been more than the carefully worked and gilded flags that suffered. It would have been catastrophic defeat, leading to almost inevitable capture and death by the edge of the axe. Flight might save his life and that of our sons. And life meant hope of return, to put wrongs right.

But what if, in the process of flight, they were recaptured? A fast beheading outside the walls of our own castle? There would be no trial, no recourse to the King’s mercy. Even now Richard might be in Lancastrian hands, facing death.

All is quiet both within and without the castle. But so is death silent. Silent as the grave. Richard and my two eldest sons might already be bodies, stripped and humiliated on public display.

Why had he not taken me with him?

I trust my courage will run as freely as this ink on my pen.

I am here alone because I am the keystone. I am the one firm guiding hand to hold all in place until better times. Easy to fly like a mallard from the nest when a fox comes prowling. Richard trusts me to remain to care for those in need, to speak out for our people’s interests. If I had ridden with him, if we had all fallen into enemy hands, the House of York would have been obliterated in the blink of an eye, in a fit of mad revenge for the bloodshed at the battles of St Albans and Blore Heath. What if we had made it to the coast to take ship? Any whirlwind storm to sink our vessel and we would all lie, bones stripped of flesh by fish, at the bottom of the sea.

Now I must brace myself, forcing my shoulders to bear the burden placed on them. Here are the remaining children who are the hope of York, under my care. Meg, who will grow to make a profitable alliance with a European Prince, George who will be the heir to the dukedom if his brothers suffer misadventure, Diccon with all his fervour.

And here am I, to guard and guide them. I must pray that in their youth they will not be held responsible for their father’s sins.

Nor, I pray, will I.

I cannot take you with me because you are needed here, Richard had whispered at the end, answering the question that I had never asked. I have trusted you all my life. You are my heart and my soul and my right hand. I need you to stay here to hold all I have of value. I need you to hold fast to all that I am forced to abandon. I swear that I will return and take up my heritage once more, but I need you to keep the name of York alive in the minds of our friends and allies. And our enemies. Our heritage must not be allowed to die through lack of tending. Will you do it for me?

I had placed my fingers on his mouth to still his words. Such faith he had in me, and I would hold fast to it. There would be no further destruction of the House of York under my watch.

A record of the sons and daughters of Richard, Duke of York, and Cecily Neville

I have instructed my clerk to make this record. His hand is more legible than mine. In these days of uncertainty, our marriage and the fruits of it must be put on record. For those who may wish to know, I give my signature and my solemn oath before our priest, here at Ludlow, that these are the true offspring of Richard Plantagenet Duke of York and myself, Cecily Neville.

The document will be kept in the sacred safety of the Church of St Mary the Virgin at my beloved Fotheringhay.

Anne | born at Fotheringhay on the tenth day of August in the year 1439
Henry | born at Hatfield on the tenth day of February in the year 1441; died
Edward | born at Rouen on the twenty-eighth day of April in the year 1442
Edmund | born at Rouen on the seventeenth day of May in the year 1443
Elizabeth | born at Rouen on the twenty-second day of April in the year 1444
Margaret | born at Fotheringhay on the third day of May in the year 1446
William | born at Fotheringhay on the seventh day of July in the year 1447; died
John | born at Neyte on the seventh day of November in the year 1448; died
George | born at Dublin on twenty-first day of October in the year 1449
Thomas | born at Dublin on fourteenth January in the year 1451; died
Richard | born at Fotheringhay on second day of October in the year 1452
Ursula | born at Fotheringhay on twentieth July in the year 1455; died

How much joy and sorrow is recorded here. The joy I may acknowledge in my sons and daughters who grow with health and vigour to enter into their own marriages, to raise their own children for the future greatness of England.

The sorrow I keep hidden close in my own heart. Richard knows of it, but it is not to be discussed since it brings grief to both of us. So many dead within a year of their birth.

There will be no more children now. Age has placed its withering hand on my womb.

Here is my testimony to my love for Richard and his love for me.

It is a testimony also to my sorrow.

The last will and testament of Cecily, Duchess of Neville

Made and witnessed by our priest, this twelfth day of October in the year 1459

In the event of my death (I pray that it will not happen) in the aftermath of the battle that never came to pass at Ludford Bridge:

I give the care of my younger children, Margaret, George and Richard, into the safe hands of Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, my sister’s husband. He is a man of integrity who will guard and guide them until their father is able to return. I ask that he will protect them from the waspish tongue of my sister. They do not deserve any degradation.

To my sister Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, I bequeath the rosary-beads that she covets made with white-amber gold and coral. There are two strings. I pray that she uses them well to make petition for my soul.

To my serving women I give my jewels to be distributed amongst them in my memory. I owe them much for their past loyalties. They will find them buried beneath the floor in the stables, placed there in case of a Lancastrian sack. My Steward knows of their whereabouts.

I give all the remaining property belonging to me in Ludlow Castle, including all my books if they survive the coming pillage, which is debatable, to the parish church of St Laurence in Ludlow, to be sold and the money given to the poor who I fear will suffer greatly when the Lancastrian troops are let loose on them.

Finally, to the Queen I give a silver pyx containing the flesh of Saint Christopher. I pray that the Queen’s eyes will be opened by this Holy Martyr who, patiently, gave his life to the service of Christ. I pray for her selfless devotion to the needs of this war-torn land. She will need more patience than I have to manage her increasingly fragile husband.

I wish my body to be buried in the Church of St Mary at Fotheringhay, and leave money for that purpose. No other place will do, whatever my family might say.

Signed and witnessed on this day,

Cecily, Duchess of York

Duchess Cecily faces the sack of Ludlow, the thirteenth day of October 1459

I rose with the dawn, knowing in my head and in my heart that this would be a day of danger. As soon as the final blessing was administered by my priest at Mass, I had my sons and daughter stand with me before the altar in the chapel. Hastily clad in funereal severity, this was a time for utmost respect and solemnity; no jewels, no outward show, no ostentation. We could be in dark-clothed mourning, as black as the clouds that seemed to enwrap the Ludlow towers.

‘Whatever happens today, you will remember that you are my children. You are the figureheads of the House of York.’ I spoke calmly, sternly. Here was no occasion to stir panic. ‘Any man who looks at you, whatever his status, whatever his standing in life or the state of his soul, he will see honour and pride and duty to a noble cause. He will see your royal blood shining through whatever trials we are called upon to face. Do you understand me?’

They were so young, but they could still carry out this task. Whatever befell us I would have them stalwart in their demeanour. I tried not to imagine the effects of a marauding army in the town. It might not come to that, but to be forewarned was to be forearmed, and I would have no weakness.

‘You will do what I say. If I send you on an errand you will go without question.’ I could think of any number of eventualities when I would need them to be obedient.

‘Has Father left us?’ asked George.

‘He has gone because he must. He will return with help to rescue us if we need rescuing. Until then we will hold this castle in our proud name. You will all be very brave.’

I saw to it that they broke their fast and drank a cup of ale. I kissed each one.

‘Never forget that you are well loved.’

Then we waited. Beyond our sight our army would discover the disaffection of their leaders, their empty tents, the abandoned banners. In the cold light of day it was hard to make an excuse for it but I understood. I must understand. As for my own strategy, it was difficult to construct since the next few hours would be as formless as a shadow in a deep well. It would depend on the outcome of King Henry’s response. I returned to the question. What would happen when Richard’s army found itself leaderless?

Kneel for mercy if it had any sense.

Three hours after dawn the noise of a rampaging force began as a distant threatening hum, growing in strength until I could not deny it. Henry had loosed his troops to take revenge on a town that would have stood in defiance. But our walls and towers and gates would hold. To the north the River Teme and steep crags and the Mortimer Tower would protect us. Leaving the children in the sanctuary of the chapel, I climbed to the top of the great keep, to look down between the crenellations. The sight stunned me.

There were soldiers, an unruly mass of them.

They were running across the outer bailey. The gates from the town had been opened. Word had spread, as it assuredly would, that the Duke of York had betrayed the men of our garrison. Demoralised, some of our troops had opened the gates and let in the royal army. Below me I heard the sound of the bars on the inner gates being lifted too, to allow access into the private chambers. Within minutes this mob would be occupying my castle, my home. I could do nothing to stop them.

Face them? I must. But could I protect any one of my household from a howling mob? I knew the limitations of my own authority when authority had been cut off at the knees. I descended, taking little account of the steepness of the stairs, until at the bottom my path was barred by one of our garrison. But where were his loyalties now?

‘Let me pass,’ I commanded, as if I had all the confidence in the world.

‘I have come to find you, my lady. Though where would be best for your protection, I know not.’

He was loyal. I felt my momentary terror subside.

‘Do you know what happened to our army?’

‘The King demanded their obedience, my lady. They knelt before him and asked for mercy, which he gave well enough, his quarrel not with ordinary soldiers. By God, any number of them have joined the royal troops that are laying waste to the town.’

‘And to my castle. Get me through this rabble to the chapel where the children wait.’

There, beneath the arch of the chapel door, we stood at bay. I could not stop them; I did not try. These were the memories that would haunt me for ever, battering at me as I held the hands of Diccon and George, Meg standing with her fingers clasped on George’s shoulders to pre-empt any courageous idiocy. All my senses seemed to be drenched in icy cold, but I would stand firm as I watched the destruction of my home.

Some captain of the King’s army beat a knot of soldiers away.

‘No reprisal against her,’ he ordered.

‘She’s the Duchess. Wife of a traitor. Those are traitor’s brats.’

‘We don’t wage war on the Duchess of York. King’s orders.’

A momentary relief laid its hand on me, but how long such chivalry would last I knew not.

‘I advise you not to draw attention to yourselves,’ the captain growled. ‘Go into the chapel.’

‘I will not. If my home is to be made a ruin around me, I will bear witness to it.’

‘You’re a brave woman, lady.’

I did not feel brave.

As the rape of our castle raged on, I turned my sight inwards so I might not see my property, my clothing, my furniture, my finely stitched tapestries, all the precious items of my personal existence, being carried past me. The vestments and chalices from the chapel followed, clutched in filthy and disrespectful hands. But I did see them, anger building within me. Everything I had loved and cherished and valued was stripped away. All I could think as the morning passed: would they fire the buildings? They were too intent on looting. They were too drunk on their success, but when their rapaciousness was sated, might they not light their torches and burn my home to the ground? Had the London mob not destroyed my grandfather’s Savoy Palace until not one stone was left standing on another?

All that day it went on, a seething mass of hatred and greed, until they trickled out to join their fellows in the town. While I, wearing a heavy cloak cast over all, prayed that it would disguise the fact that I was shivering with a fear I dare not show. My sons must learn to face adversity with a strong heart.

Leaving my despoiled home, I went out into the town where I stood at the market cross to see the fate of Ludlow for myself. The children were still with me. They must see and experience the terror of an army, frenzied and without discipline, tearing itself and its fellow citizens apart.

The sight stopped my breath. The boys drew close. Margaret slid her hand within mine. The horrors of a sack were beyond words, the town robbed to the bare walls, pillaged and befouled. The streets stank with drink and vomit that seemed to lap against my shoes and soak my hem. Houses of merchants had been raided, broken items of furniture and pottery shards littering the streets.

No one touched me or my children. We stood there in that monstrous voicelessness of a town shattered beyond repair. Even the birds were stricken silent. Then the evening was rent by the wailing of a child, followed by voices raised in fear and despair. There had been no inordinate death, unless by chance, no full-scale slaughter, but the anguish could be tasted on the air.

‘Where is the King?’ I asked a man who was rounding up drunken soldiers.

‘Gone to Coventry with the Queen. They will hold a parliament.’

So Henry had given them the freedom to do this, allowing them in their bloodless victory to take revenge. But we had done no better. Not one of our leaders was here to give our people the promise of sustenance and recompense. No one except me.

Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Tonbridge Castle, Kent

Cis,

Rumours are flying in vast flocks, thick and mindless as starlings in winter. I cannot detect what is true or false since I have heard little from Humphrey. All I know is that York lost his courage when the sun set, abandoned his troops and fled. And so did our brother Salisbury. An incomparable betrayal. Leaving you to pick up the pieces of their treachery.

I’ll not mince my words. Do not be arrogant, or a martyr for a cause that is lost for all of you. Did Duke Richard tell you to stay in Ludlow? Do not tell me that you obeyed him without question. His flight might have been ignominious, but surely it would have been better if you had all gone with him.

I trust that I do not hear of your death. All I can do is promise to care for your children if their mother is cut down by an undisciplined mob or executed for treason. If you make a will, be sure to leave me the white-amber rosary-beads spaced with gold and coral which belonged to our mother. I have always coveted them. Or perhaps they were two separate sets of beads, I cannot recall. I will happily have them both, in your memory.

Your judgemental sister,

Anne

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

Written from Ludlow Castle

My dearest sister Katherine,

To whom can I open my heart, if not to you? Not to our sister Anne who has abandoned compassion. Because of the fifteen years that you have lived longer than I, and through three marriages, I know that you have the experience to understand the terrible humiliation that has laid me low. Anxiety I have known, inordinate worry when Richard has been engaged in dangerous affairs in his French campaigns, but nothing like the attack that assailed me in my own home after Ludford Bridge.

What was the worst of it? It has struck at my pride. Nevilles were not born to relinquish their pride, or to surrender, but I have been forced to do so. I have not told Richard; I could not burden him with the full scale of it when he has enough to bear. I will not tell my priest since he will simply preach that pride is a sin. I will tell you. I need to write it down to absorb the enormity of what happened, so you must be the sufferer.

Perhaps you will know of the ravages from your present husband, Viscount Beaumont, parroting the self-congratulatory voices of King Henry’s Court. Somerset’s is the loudest and most unforgivable, full of self-adulation for the victory as if he had driven Richard from the battlefield with his own sword. Was your husband at Ludford Bridge? Close as Viscount Beaumont is to the King and Queen, I expect that he was. If so, he made no attempt to rescue his sister by marriage, but then I would expect no less. He has been remarkably two-faced in his loyalties. He might once have been a friend of York, but now he kneels to the Queen.

Despite my courage that day, it failed me at the end. I could not immediately enter the Great Chamber to view the depredations for myself. I knew it would be heartbreaking. When I eventually did step across the threshold it was as bad as I had expected, my private chambers stained, robbed, and defiled. The grim outrage of it, the rank stench of destruction and squalor, will remain forever engraved in my mind like the scrolls on my crucifix.

Do you know what hurt me most?

My books, Kat, my precious books, their leather covers fouled unspeakably by the trample of feet, scattered across my chamber in rude disharmony. My fury at such sacrilege was momentarily more painful than all the rest, yet there they were for me to reclaim. The rabble had no need for them, not even to burn them in revenge. I thank the Blessed Virgin that they are left to me.

There, Kat, as you see, I am indeed guilty of vanity, of selfish acquisitiveness, regretting the state of my books when all around me our people have lost everything. I am ashamed. I should rejoice that we are alive and unharmed, but where do we go from here? I think travel would be dangerous, if I should be recognised. I await a message from the King. And from Richard, of course.

I should tell you that I have made my will. I think I have nothing to leave you. Anne will get her rosaries because I am wearing both of them beneath my shift.

No one laid a finger on me or the children. At least we were spared that, even if the King’s troops consider Richard to be a traitor and a coward. It is a comfort, if a meagre one, that Richard was not here to see the wilful desecration of his Mortimer inheritance. I have not told him of it, nor will I. I do not yet know where he is.

I am suffering from an excess of exhaustion. I have no time to be exhausted. I wish you were here with me to give me the benefit of your clear sight and caustic tongue.

Your sister,

Cecily

England’s Chronicle, October 1459

Blood, rape and rampage. Have we not written these desperate words before?

Troubled times for those living in the Welsh March.

The prosperous town of Ludlow has been sacked by royal forces.

Where was the Duke of York? Fled in fear of his life.

We must have compassion for the townsfolk who suffered bloody violence and mistreatment. Reports say it was nought but a drunken frenzy, houses raided, possessions stolen, even down to the cooking pots from the hearths.

We consider it a disgrace that in this fair land, soldiery should have been allowed to run riot and harm our merchants and townsfolk who had no part in the hostilities. Who can defend the assault and rape suffered by the women of the town? But there appears to have been little morality in this event on either side. How many of the mob were Yorkist soldiers, summarily abandoned by their commanders on the battlefield? We must put some of the blame at the feet of the Duke of York and the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick.

We are told that the Duchess of York herself appeared in the centre of it all as witness to the foul event, refusing to allow her people to suffer alone, with all the diligence of the incomparable lady that she is. We commend her to your sympathies.

But will the Queen feel the same compassion? We doubt it and fear for the Duchess’s future. Will the Queen put her on trial for treason in her husband’s absence? We hear that those townsfolk arrested suffered no further punishment but to their gold coffers when they were allowed to buy their release. No such good fortune for the Duchess, we fear.

But where is the Duke?

A question certain to be asked when parliament meets with the King in Coventry.

Chapter Three

A Bitter Humiliation

Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, to his sister by law Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Coventry, October 1459

My dear Cecily,

I send you a warning.

Since I have no news of your imprisonment or death I must presume that, despite the despoiling of the town and your castle, you are still in Ludlow and at liberty. It is expected that King Henry’s new parliament, which he has summoned to meet with him here in Coventry, will declare all involved with the House of York in the inexcusable stand-off at Ludford Bridge as traitors and deal with them accordingly.

Even though I too find it impossible to condone York’s behaviour in battle or in flight, I write in a spirit of compromise. I urge you to throw yourself on Henry’s mercy.

Come to Coventry and plead your innocence. Bring the children with you. I am certain that you will be given safe conduct. Beg for royal mercy on your younger children, your household and your people. If you do not, things will go ill for them.

I believe that it is what York would want you to do.

This is no time for Neville or Plantagenet self-conceit. The Queen is not leaning towards mercy, but Henry has a kind heart.

Your servant,

Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham

Written from Ludlow Castle, October 1459

Humphrey,

As you see, I am still alive and at liberty.

Do I need you to advise me of the need for compromise? I wake with it every morning, chew it through every meal and take it to my pillow every night. It is a bitter mouthful, giving me no sustenance but despair.

Do you even know that Henry will have mercy? Can you rely on his being in control of his wits from one month’s end to the next? Yet you advise me to put my head into the lion’s mouth.

Do not talk to me about Richard’s dishonourable behaviour in taking flight. I know at first hand the humiliation of having to plead for my life with the ravaging hordes who invaded my own home. Yet if my family had stayed at Ludford Bridge to debate the issue, my husband, brother, nephew and two sons would be dead or on trial for treason.

I will consider your advice. I see the value of my coming to Coventry, but I will not put my young children into the hands of the Coventry parliament. That would be a denial of my duty and care as their mother.

You should know, Humphrey, that I wrote a will before we were invaded, leaving Meg, George and Diccon to your immediate care if I were done to death by a howling mob, since I know you for a man of honour. I have destroyed that will. Perhaps I should have kept it in case Marguerite decides to send me to my death.

With thanks for your thoughtful but ill-timed advice,

Cecily, Duchess of York

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

Written from Epworth, Lincolnshire

Cis,

Your experience at Ludlow is diabolical. I will restrain myself from adding to your heartbreak by addressing some harsh words towards your husband. What was he doing to leave you to face this alone?

I would suggest that you come and stay with me. But that would be comfortable for neither of us. As you say, my husband, John Beaumont, is as closely in bed with the Queen as it is possible to be without committing a sin. He might once have been a close friend to York but now he sees his ambitions in Marguerite’s camp. Being a participant in the Council of the young Prince of Wales suits his pomposity very well.

I fear you would not find a welcome here.

If you could tolerate her, it might be best to cut your losses and go south to Kent and beg sister Anne’s charity. Humphrey might be a King’s man but he is the most equable and honest man I know. And of course we must allow Anne some compassion, losing her son so tragically last year when they must have hoped the wounds suffered at St Albans had healed. I suppose that she will always lay the blame for her son’s death at the door of York.

Do keep me informed of your predicament.

I suggest that you say nothing to your eldest daughter Anne, to forestall any sensitive information from reaching her despicable husband’s ears. But you know this, of course, and must eternally regret the marriage that united her with Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter. The Hollands never were trustworthy. I suppose his willingness to support the Lancastrians was not then an issue, and his close relationship with the King as his cousin would have seemed highly desirable when we were all at peace. I know that York dipped well into his coffers to buy that marriage.

Poor Anne, saddled with Exeter as a husband.

But back to your problems.

If you are persuaded to go to Coventry I could arrange to meet with you there for some support, particularly against the Queen. I expect John Beaumont will be more than vocal against you and yours in the parliament.

I will happily thwart him and argue your case of innocence and wifely duty. Which are traits that John has never witnessed in me.

Your loving sister,

Katherine

Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Coventry

Cecily,

Events move on apace. Henry, as we expected, summoned a parliament to meet here in St Mary’s Priory. It had more to do with Queen Marguerite’s desire to stamp her will on the situation than Henry’s muddled plans for the future. Sometimes it is impossible to know what he thinks and hopes for.

The outcome is no surprise. Those with a voice to raise against York and the Nevilles did so, loudly and viciously, with the result that the whole of your family – the Duke of York, the Earl of Salisbury, the Earl of Warwick and your two young sons, March and Rutland – are all attainted. Their lives are under threat if they ever fall into the hands of Marguerite and her supporters, their lands are confiscated to the use of the crown. If they return, they will die.

In effect you are now homeless, penniless, powerless: wife of a traitor.

The Queen has achieved your legal and financial ruin. You are stripped of everything: estates, honours and dignities.

I know that this will hurt you. You once had a close and loving relationship with the young woman who has since become bellicose and vengeful. Sadly the atmosphere in this parliament has erupted into one of vicious family division. Viscount Beaumont, your brother by law and one-time fervent supporter of York, was one of those most outspoken in the destruction of York and the Nevilles. It is no surprise that parliament is named the Parliament of Devils.

I have no notion whether King Henry agreed with this wholesale condemnation of his cousin of York. Whether he did or not, whether it was Marguerite’s guiding hand, or even the malign influence of Somerset, Henry’s royal seal was put to it.

The immediate anxiety for you is whether you will be attainted, too. If you are branded traitor, what will be the future for your three youngest children? Your household, tenants and retainers also deserve your immediate consideration. They will suffer for their loyalty to the House of York unless you grasp your duty to them.

Get yourself here to Coventry. Put on your finery as Duchess of York, jog the King’s memory of the Love Day parade, and remind him of your royal blood. I’ll do what I can for you, but as you know full well, my loyalties remain with Lancaster. I will not desert my fealty to the King.

You can’t stay in Ludlow behind your walls in the face of this disaster.

Your concerned brother by law,

Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham

Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary

Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.

Holy Virgin, guide my steps. Give your blessing to my decisions. Soothe my fears.

Keep safe my beloved Richard and my sons. And my brother and nephew.

You are the only source of help in this time of need.

What do I do?

I know it will entail much bending of the knees and a severe attack on my dignity. It is, I suspect, the price I must pay. I must accept the blame showered by the Queen on my bent head. Better that than an axe to my neck.

In gracious thanks for your mercy,

Amen

To Henry, his most noble grace, my Sovereign Lord the King, from his unworthy subject Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Ludlow Castle

I regret, your grace, the terrible rift that has opened up between our families.

I ask permission to approach you to beg mercy, for myself and all those dear to me who would profess their sworn allegiance.

I call on the Plantagenet blood that binds us together.

Your most loyal subject,

Cecily, Duchess of York

Henry, King of England, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry

To Cecily, my well-loved cousin,

We will be pleased to welcome you here at our Court in Coventry, small as it is.

I have tender memories of the past, when you and your family were the counsellors to whom I turned, before the sad circumstances that afflict us at present.

I will listen to your plea for mercy and respond as you would hope.

You need not fear for your own safety or that of your young children whom you may bring with you. You will be made welcome and given suitable accommodation.

Henry

Marguerite, Princess of Anjou, Queen of England, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Madam,

My lord Henry and I have spoken of this together. He will be guided by me, whatever the tone of his reply to you.

What is it that you require from us? There can be no mercy for Richard, Duke of York. Nor for Salisbury or Warwick. Their flight is true evidence of their guilt. The same applies to your sons.

Did they not raise arms against us? Will the fair realm of England be forever torn apart by York and his minions?

Do not mention the fiasco of the Love Day in my hearing.

Unless you can deliver the guilty menfolk of your family, and particularly your husband, into our hands I see no value for your journey to Coventry.

Where is Duke Richard? I expect that you will say that you do not know. I find it hard to believe that you have not had word of him. Where are your sons? Unless we deal with them now in their early years, they too will grow to be traitors to the realm.

What a troublesome family you have, Duchess Cecily.

Unless you can bring them to royal justice, you will not be welcome. You will put your own freedom in jeopardy if you come to my lord’s Court at Coventry. If he has offered you safety in your travelling, I would advise you that he is not in a position to guarantee it.

I neither expect nor need a reply to these instructions.

Marguerite, Queen of England

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham

Written from Ludlow Castle

Dear Humphrey,

I dare not travel to Coventry.

I confess to you, where I would not speak of it elsewhere, to cowardice. I see no hope from Marguerite who regards me as some species of vermin, warning me against travelling. She has developed a surfeit of Angevin pride of late, although perhaps it was always there, waiting to emerge.

Unless the situation changes, I stay in Ludlow. If I come to Coventry I think I would find myself incarcerated at royal pleasure.

Do you have any news of Richard? Or of my brother and his family? I have none.

I feel that I am ensconced on an island in the middle of a hostile sea.

I have plenty to occupy my time here. The sack of Ludlow has left many in need. The state of my castle is beyond my description.

Your sister by law, in fear,

Cecily

Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, to Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry

Cecily,

Here could be the answer to all your prayers, although it will not help Richard or your sons. I enclose a copy with my courier. Please reply by return.

Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham

Hoping to give you some encouragement on your island.

Royal Proclamation

By the hand of the King

Appertaining to those traitors who raised their standards against me at the Battle of Ludford Bridge

Issued by me on the last day of November 1459

In a fervent desire to restore peace to this unsteady country

By my royal will and pleasure

A royal pardon will be granted to all rebels willing to submit before me, in my royal presence in Coventry, within eight days of the issuing of the proclamation

Henry R

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham

Written from Ludlow, by the hand of your exhausted courier

Humphrey,

I am coming to Coventry.

I put myself in your safekeeping if this pardon proves false and it is a trap. I will also consign your Lancastrian soul to the Devil!

Cecily, Duchess of York

Chapter Four

Confrontation between York and Lancaster

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

Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry, November 1459

I am in Coventry, at Henry’s Court, and the children are with me.

Before you explode in righteous fury that I should leave the safety of Ludlow, I am gambling our safety, the whole of our future, on Henry’s promise of a pardon. Buckingham says it is worth the risk, and I must believe him.

Will I ever see you? Once again I am sending this letter in pure unsubstantiated hope that you and Edmund are safe in Dublin. I have had no word of you, or of Salisbury, Warwick and Ned. For all I know you might be at the bottom of the sea in a chance storm, but I must hold fast to the fact that you are not and are ensconced in some degree of luxury in the old apartments in Dublin where we enjoyed happier times.

I live in a constant state of alarm, Richard. Every day Henry’s revenge hangs over us, but we knew that, didn’t we, when we stood firm against the royal favourites?

I have done all I can by claiming Henry’s pardon at Coventry before the given day. Did you know that he had done this? I fear it is the Queen’s influence that the time is deliberately too short for you and my brother and nephew to return and claim their grace. I do not know how efficient your couriers might be in bringing news.

If you are employing them, perhaps you might find time to contact me. I would value, more than you might imagine, some communication with you.

When I arrived at Coventry, at Humphrey’s urging, Henry was seated in some degree of state in the bishop’s chair, backed by tapestries most aptly chosen to fill me with dread, stitched with the detail of blood and pain of Christ’s suffering at the crucifixion. The setting might be one of wealth and power, but it has to be said that Henry’s garments left much to be desired for a King: plain and drab, more monkish than regal and with much scuffing around the hem. Open on his lap was a missal, as if he would rather be reading the holy words than dealing with recalcitrant subjects. Unfortunately for me, Marguerite was by his side, clearly in queenly mode, with Somerset smirking behind her shoulder. Henry smiled in greeting. When Marguerite did not, I knew that this would be a difficult meeting. I concentrated on the King for therein lay my redemption.

I sank to my knees, submitting to his mercy, claiming the pardon he had offered, for you, for Ned and Edmund. Henry’s smile widened as if he would truly welcome me. He tilted his head, then opened his mouth to reply. He was still smiling when Marguerite’s hand moved to overlie his where it rested on the carved arm of the chair. The touch immediately silenced whatever he might have said. His eyes slid to her face then back to me, his brow furrowed as he spoke at last, his voice hesitant as he rejected any hope of mercy for you. How could he pardon a man who had raised arms against him? He spoke the words as tritely as a well-trained popinjay. Marguerite nodded her approval, while I began what I knew, deep within me, would be a negotiation that would bear no fruit. I had considered my approach, summoning all my wit and persuasive skills. There had been no bloodshed at Ludford Bridge. There had been no battle. The King must never doubt the Duke of York’s ultimate loyalty.

Henry still frowned at me, yet he raised his free hand, the one not gripped by his wife, to beckon me to rise. Only to be denied by Marguerite who insisted, in tones as cold as the stones on which I knelt, that, if you, Richard, wish to achieve a pardon, you must appear in person to bow the knee.

So there you have it. It is an invitation to return and sue for mercy, but not one I think you will clasp to your bosom. I would trust Henry but Marguerite will not be moved. You would assuredly be cast into a cell.

Fearful of wearing out the royal patience, I could not petition for my brother and nephew. But for myself and my children I must. It seemed that Marguerite would keep me kneeling until the clap of doom, yet still I kept my spine rigid, my chin raised.

I asked what I knew you would need me to ask. Mercy for myself and our young children, who are entirely innocent. I raised my hand to indicate the small figures where they stood behind me, where I had left them just within the door, surrounded by royal guards as if they might leap to attack the royal party. I begged a pardon for the people of our household who are under my orders and have never proven ill-motivated to the King. Thus I threw all of us onto the insecure lap of Henry’s infinite mercy.

I had never begged so much in my life. In that day I subsumed all my pride to need. And even as I asked I knew that all would rest with Marguerite. Still less than thirty years to her name, still slight of build, but she has gained an uncompromising maturity since I last set eyes on her. She holds the life of so many in her pretty hands, sparkling with royal gems. Would she allow them to be covered with blood, our blood?

Throughout the whole, the Queen remained silent and intractable, her dark eyes gleaming with the hardness of frost, but at least Henry was moved so that he stood, tucked the missal under his arm and came to lift me to my feet, promising to consider my plea, offering me hospitality until it has been decided what to do with us.

I can give you no hope, Richard. Marguerite’s influence will reign supreme, and I have stepped on the hornets’ nest, dragging the children with me into peril. Somerset merely basks in an air of satisfaction. There has been no opportunity to speak with Henry alone. If Marguerite is not with him, then Somerset will be.

Meanwhile I am comfortably ensconced in a room in the Bishop’s Palace, hoping for an opportunity to get this letter to you. I think I have found a discreet Yorkist supporter in the Bishop’s household, a priest who can be trusted if my letter is accompanied, extortionately, by a gold noble. There is no lock or bolt on the door but there is a man posted outside it, and he is no priest; he bristles with weapons, as if I might fight my way out.

My final advice: don’t come back. Not yet. To do so would be your death. Marguerite is not to be trusted.

The children are in health. My love for you needs no expression. You behold me driven by a determination to plead our cause in the face of rank hostility.

Cecily

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

Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry

Following hotfoot after my previous letter. If they both arrive with you at the same time, the vagaries of travel being what they are, read this one first.

This morning I was requested to attend an audience in Henry’s private chamber, utterly relieved to discover he was alone except for a discreet body servant who retreated to some minor task. Henry walked towards me, his hands were warm around mine. I knew that he had decided. Regrettably he was at his most loquacious, intent on discussing the weather, his reading from his missal, and what he had eaten to break his fast.

And I am wasting time in not telling you the whole!

You, my dear love, and our sons, Ned and Edmund, remain disastrously attainted, because you have threatened Henry’s sovereignty too highly. I doubt it will come as much surprise to you. To raise arms against an anointed King is treason for all to see, and thus Henry has been advised that you must be punished. Our Neville relatives, also. Salisbury and Warwick are attainted, too. The pardon offered was an empty one and can never apply to you.

But I, thank God, am blessed. I and our youngest children are deemed innocent of all such treason. Henry was gracious and noble enough to grant me a pardon. And although our estates remain sequestered and in royal hands, I am granted the sum of one thousand marks paid to me yearly from those lands.

So there it is. A pardon and a more than respectable income for me, but a traitor’s reputation for you. I would not leave Coventry empty-handed; the time spent on my knees had won a specious victory. But when the King abjured me, his precious cousin, to remain a loyal subject, when I silently bent my head as if in agreement, I discovered that I could not embroil myself in such a lie. If I must take the path of traitor, too, so that we might be united, I will willingly do it. I will work steadfastly to do all in my power to smooth your return. By the by, it seems that there will be no restrictions on my movement, which loosened the tight knots of fear that I might be put under some restraint at Court and have to live out my days under Marguerite’s hostile eye. It is in my mind, if I can gain royal permission, to travel to Middleham and do what I can for our household. Our people have been granted life and limb, even if their lands and possessions have been confiscated, which is as much as I could hope for.

Oh, Richard! Was this mess truly of our own making? Was it all worth it?

And why would I not decide to settle my household at Fotheringhay? Because Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, God rot his soul, even though I must claim him as a son by law, has been handed our forfeited castle at Fotheringhay for his own use. I hope that he falls from the battlements. You must return soon, if only to get it back from him.

I still don’t know where you are! Have pity on me, Richard! Send me word.

Your loving wife,

Cecily

Duchess Cecily faces Queen Marguerite’s retribution in St Mary’s Priory, Coventry, November 1459

‘The King is too trusting; you should not believe all that he says. I am come here to make all plain to you.’

Words to cut through the vestige of relief that had settled over me. No sooner had I dispatched my letter with another substantial bribe than the door of my chamber opened to a rustle of rich cloth, a light footstep and an intense aroma of musk from her habitual perfume. There, dominating the room with her presence, stood the Queen, accompanied by the King. With a bleak twist of her lips that masqueraded as a smile, she drew me aside towards the window, away from Henry, who picked up a well-worn book, leafing through the pages, divorced from any further communication. His shoulders were hunched, his gaze vague, his face devoid of any emotion that might indicate a knowledge of what his wife intended. I doubted that he would have understood anything that was said, even if he had been standing beside me.

Marguerite regarded me with the attention of a hungry raptor. She had grown into a handsome woman, her dark hair now covered by a beaded and embroidered roll, resting flatteringly low over her forehead, although her high-bridged nose spoke volumes of a dominant will. She was not a woman to relish being thwarted. At least she did not have the advantage of height. Neither of us could boast an impressive stature.

‘The King is generous,’ the Queen advised in the softest of cadences as if she would accept the pardon Henry had just granted me, but then the edge hardened and her lips, smiling no longer, were tight with recrimination. ‘Sometimes he is too naive in giving his trust. You are not entirely free to determine your own future, madam. We are concerned that, given your freedom, you will use it unwisely.’

‘How could I, my lady?’ I queried, instantly wary of what she was planning. ‘I have three young children to care for. I have only the grant so kindly given by the King, as you know. I have no lands, no rents. No title, even.’

I could read her hatred of the House of York in every gesture as she swept her skirts and moved to stand beside Henry as if to protect him from unseen danger. ‘Given your freedom, what would prevent you from leaving England and joining the arch traitor? The money for the comfort of your young children must not fall into your husband’s hand to be used against us. I know that you still have powerful friends, powerful families in England who would help you. There are Bourchiers and Nevilles who will flock to your banners if they should ever be raised again. It would be better for all if you remained in England, with no contact of any description with Richard Plantagenet.’

A little rush of panic forced me to stiffen my knees. To have no contact, no letters? I kept my silence as she delivered her sentence.

‘We have agreed that you will be kept under strict surveillance.’

‘Am I to be incarcerated?’

It came as a shock, although I should have expected it. I glanced at Henry who had turned away towards the window, the book held close as if he had difficulty in reading it without a stronger light.

‘The King knows what he needs to know,’ the Queen replied to my unspoken query. ‘I will make the decisions here, and inform my lord if I consider it necessary.’ Marguerite continued in the same soft accents, ‘All has been arranged. You will be sent to live in the custody of your sister, the Duchess of Buckingham. I imagine she will not be persuaded to allow you a free hand in your conspiracies against the crown. Her husband is one of our most loyal supporters.’

I remained calm. ‘Do I have a choice in this, my lady?’

‘None.’

Which was plain enough. Any hope of my aiding Richard’s return was fast dissipating like autumn mist before the rising sun.

‘And how long will it be, that I must I bear my sister company?’

‘Until we are certain of the loyalty of the House of York. It may be until death takes a hand to rob us of our traitors.’ The returning smile on her lips was not a friendly one. ‘It may be a long sojourn if the Duke of York remains alive and in exile. You must bend your mind to it, madam. We have arranged that you will travel there tomorrow.’

‘And my children?’

‘They will stay with you, of course, under your guidance. Have we not offered you mercy with a lavish hand? I would be the last woman to separate a mother from her children of such tender years. You will merely live quietly in retirement until better days.’

So that was what she had planned. As long as I was quiet and biddable and my family remained in powerless exile, I would be punished no further. In that moment I wished that I had fled to join Richard in Ireland.

‘I have arranged your travel in one of my own equipages, madam. All that remains is for me to wish you farewell and a safe journey.’

Her expression held the hardness of granite as, at the last, she offered me her hand to salute, whereupon I responded as Court manners demanded. The Queen had deliberately, acrimoniously, thwarted Henry’s infinite mercy. I was aflame with rage, but at least she could not reach the exiles, wherever they might be.

‘Once,’ I said, releasing her cold fingers, ‘we would have found a better spirit of conciliation. We would not have parted on these terms. I was a friend to you when you were in need.’

‘Now I have no need of your friendship. I do not believe it exists. There will be no conciliation, now or ever. Godspeed to Tonbridge Castle, madam.’

From Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, to Cecily, one-time Duchess of York

Written from Tonbridge Castle

Cecily,

It seems, my sister, that I can no longer address you as Duchess. What a humiliation for you, Cis! You have my sympathy. Marguerite is a vengeful woman, brimful of bile. My advice is not to tread further on her delicate toes.

I am informed that you are to be a long-term guest.

I will give you accommodation because I have been commanded to do so. I expect that you will be bringing your children with you. I trust that they will settle in quietly. I would not want them to disturb the running of the household or to have an adverse influence over my grandsons who are both young enough to be swayed by strong or wayward characters. I remember George being a wilful child, reluctant to accept admonishment. There was the incident of a dead chicken, as I recall, and a broken window on your last visit.

There must be no plotting on behalf of your treacherous husband under my roof.

Do not expect a friendly greeting. You should have known better than to support your husband in his stand against our rightful King.

Your aggrieved sister,

Anne

Cecily Neville to Anne, Duchess of Buckingham

From St Mary’s Priory, Coventry

I am coming to you because I have been ordered to do so and for no other reason. I have been given an escort by the Queen in case I am tempted to flee the country.

My children are always well mannered. They will be no burden on you. I recall nothing about a chicken, dead or alive.

I will be with you soon. I am ordered to travel without heraldic achievements. Nothing to denote my connection to the Duke of York or my own Neville forebears. Anonymity, it seems, is to be the order of the day. I am sure that you will work hard to achieve the same within your household. Have you decided how they will address me? Am I to play the role of a poor relation? My new income will certainly match such a role.

You will be relieved at my anonymity so that your Lancastrian neighbours do not associate your visitors with the traitors of York. It would not do for the Duchess of Buckingham to come under suspicion of conspiring with the enemy, would it?

Your sister,

Cecily

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk

Written from St Mary’s Priory, Coventry

My dearest daughter,

I write to you with regret. Your connection with your father’s so-called treachery has cost you dear. I am told that your husband John de la Pole has been demoted from Duke to Earl of Suffolk, merely because he is wed to you, even though he has kept clear of the military disturbances of past years. This is not a reproof of his reluctance to declare for York on the battlefield. I know that his heart is with us in our fight to remove the hostile counsellors from Henry’s Court.

You will have to become used to being a Countess rather than a Duchess. It is not too difficult. I am stripped of all titles and must not bemoan the fact.

I will be ensconced in Tonbridge Castle with your Aunt Anne for the foreseeable future. I trust that we will be kept from each other’s throats.

If you could perhaps encourage your husband John to declare for York with fire and sword rather than with mild promises, I would be very grateful. A woman has many skills, in bed and at board. Have I not taught you that, from the days of your childhood? If you are your mother’s daughter, drop wisdom in his ear and get him to do something. I know that he avoids a battle like the plague. Tell him that when York returns to England, and takes his rightful place in government, he will find the opportunity to restore the dukedom to him. There might also be financial remuneration. That might persuade him, if nothing else does! I have never known a man complain so often or so loudly of his poverty as John de la Pole. How do you tolerate it?

Your loving mother,

Cecily

Anne, Duchess of Exeter, to her mother, Cecily, Duchess of York

Written from Dartington, Devon

My dearest mother,

I have heard the news from my husband Exeter who is rejoicing at the defeat of York and Salisbury, and particularly Warwick with whom he enjoys a great enmity. This is in the manner of a warning that Exeter has been granted a commission of array to raise a force to put down my father’s rebellion. He is also smugly delighted to be appointed Constable of your much-loved castle at Fotheringhay.

I can only imagine your fury.

Is there no end to my misery in this marriage? There are some days, when he is at his most disparaging against my family, that I consider the benefit of adding the berries of Atropa Belladonna to his morning bowl of frumenty. They grow profusely in Devon.

I have not yet done so. You would be proud of the depth of patience that I have developed. I despise him, however illustrious his Holland name and forebears.

I pray for you and my father, of course. I am not as self-centred as I might appear.

Your unhappy, but resilient daughter,

Anne

England’s Chronicle, November 1459

Do our readers recall the Love Day, that marvellous celebration of reconciliation, held in London a mere year ago? When all bad blood was put to rest? When the Duke of York and his supporters made reparation for the bloody events at the Battle of St Albans? It was a momentous coup on behalf of King Henry who had visions of a heavenly peace descending on the realm.

It was the procession through the streets to St Paul’s that drew the eye.

King Henry walking alone, urbane and beaming, richly robed and crowned, jewels shining in the sun, led the way.

Behind him – can anyone forget the sight? – two by two, hand in hand, arm in arm, walked the previous foresworn enemies, smiling in complete amity. The most bitter enemies in the land forced to clasp hands in false friendship.

Such pairings! Men who would rather stick a dagger into the other’s ribs.

Somerset and Salisbury.

Exeter and Warwick.

And then, most astonishing of all, the Queen and the Duke of York, stepped formally together, hand in hand, as if in some formal Court dance.

All pomp and glamour. All lies.

Do we readily give credence to the belief that the Duke of York and his Neville allies will accept their banishment, the dread attainder? Do we think that Duchess Cecily will live comfortably without making any attempt to restore her husband to his rightful place in the realm, at King Henry’s side?

We offer you a wager if you are of a mind to take it.

Chapter Five

Nevilles Were Not Born to Surrender

Duchess Cecily settles into her imprisonment in Tonbridge Castle, December 1459

‘Take the boys to the kitchens. Feed them and escort them to their chambers.’ And then to me: ‘You must be fatigued from travel, Cecily. We will talk privately.’

My sister Anne, come to issue orders and welcome me.

Subdued by the journey and the overpowering stonework of the high walls and barbican towers, George and Diccon followed the servant without question, while I assessed our reception. It was a welcome of sorts, I supposed, but an icy one. I should have been grateful that my sister had condescended to appear in her inner bailey for the event, rather than leave it to her Steward.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ I said.

Anne’s expression remained unresponsively bleak. She made no move to approach me; I was stiff and weary, hungry and thirsty, but I could afford no weakness, and thus I waited, unmoving, a reluctant guest. There was a vast gulf between us, and no accord.

‘Follow me,’ she commanded.

And so I did, drawing Meg with me, an encouraging smile in her direction.

Tonbridge Castle, a fortress in Kent, was to be my future home. It was not my first visit, but it struck me anew that it was a castle that demanded respect, with a strength as great if not greater than any in England. Had that been in Marguerite’s mind when she sent me here? There would be no escape, no rescue attempt. I was destined to remain at Tonbridge until Marguerite decided otherwise, hemmed in by the great towers at four corners connected by a formidable structure of high curtain walls. A massive keep on a motte where I would be given rooms. A double gatehouse, the walls thick and menacing. Despite the evening glow of the sandstone facings, it did not welcome me. The gates had closed behind me, making it a true imprisonment.

‘Don’t tarry. It grows cold.’ Anne marched ahead of me with her head high and her velvet skirts swishing against the painted tiles.

Thus the chasm between us gleamed as darkly as the approaching night-clouds. Since that terrible day that Richard left me in Ludlow, I had never felt so isolated, not even when I stood alone in the midst of Henry’s lawless troops. Not even when I had knelt before the King. Hiding my sense of hopelessness, I followed Anne into the keep, my head as high as hers, and a sharp glance at Meg to do the same.

My sister escorted me up to her solar where candles had been lit, dismissing her women after ale had been brought. I drank. I needed to quench my thirst but even more I needed the strength from its bitter taste, as Anne deliberately occupied the chair with arms and a carved back. For Meg and I, meagre stools were provided.

‘I should thank you for receiving me,’ I said, to interrupt what was becoming a heavy silence.

‘I was given little choice in the matter.’

‘Yet still it is good to see you.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

Meg sat silently.

‘Is Humphrey with the King?’ I asked.

‘Of course he is. What would you expect? But then I no longer understand your ambition-driven motives. What does Richard want? The crown for himself? Do you see yourself at his side, wearing a crown?’

I inhaled slowly, taking another sip of ale. ‘He does not. I do not. You know that Richard wishes merely to take his rightful role as Henry’s counsellor.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Anne’s fingers were tightly woven together in her lap, when they were not picking at the soft nap of the velvet. ‘York raised an army against the King. Our brother Salisbury fought against the King’s forces at Blore Heath and killed his commander. With such a history of rebellion, why should I not believe that you are the most disloyal of subjects?’

I held her stare.

‘I was never a liar.’

‘You could reject him now and regain your freedom. Divorce is possible with support in the right circles.’

‘Give me one good reason why I would not remain shackled to him? His ambitions are mine too. I have no love for Somerset and his friends.’

‘York has treated you wickedly enough. Why would this not drive you back to where you and all Nevilles belong? Back to Lancaster.’

‘What do you mean?’

My weariness had drained away under so personal an attack, against Richard more than against me.

‘Everyone has heard the tale of what happened in Ludlow.’

‘Then you must tell me.’

‘Don’t be naive, Cis.’ The use of my shortened name was not friendly. ‘It has all been repeated delectably in Lancastrian circles – embroidered to make the worst of the Duke of York, I accept, but I would wager there is more than a kernel of truth in it. How he relinquished his wife, abandoning her to face the enemy on her own, allowing her to stand at the market cross, with three small children weeping and clutching at her skirts.’ The long-pent-up bitterness flowed on and on. ‘Oh, I’ll not dispute that the Lancastrian forces behaved like drunken sots, but for York to leave you unprotected, not knowing if they would kill you in drink-fuelled retribution, is too much to tolerate.’

A brief silence fell, as I absorbed the accurate depth of rumour. And how could I put it right?

‘But that is not true.’ My loyal daughter Meg had found her voice under the onslaught. I had my champion after all.

With a ghost of a smile, I put out my hand to Meg’s. ‘Your aunt does not mean to place the blame on your father.’

‘Yes, she does. It is false.’

‘Yes, the tale is false,’ I agreed, holding my daughter’s infuriated gaze. ‘We were not abandoned at the market cross. We were safe in the castle. Except that…’

‘Except what?’ Anne demanded.

‘Except that someone opened the gates,’ I admitted.

‘Is that any better? That some of your own people betrayed you?’

‘Only one disgruntled guard,’ Meg said, astonishing me at her summing up of that terrifying event. Until now she had been reticent; in the face of her aunt’s attack, she was not. ‘No one subjected us to disrespect or lack of care. We did go down into Ludlow, to see what had been done for our people. It was not my father’s fault that the royal troops ruined the town. We stood by our duty to him.’

‘A brave speech indeed.’ Anne’s lips twisted in disbelief, dismissing the whole subject. ‘What cannot be remedied, Cecily, is that there is no longer a future in England for Richard or for your sons. Accept it. Meanwhile you are to live under my jurisdiction. I do not enjoy this, but it is all your own fault.’

Swift anger swept away my determination to be compliant. I stood, drawing Meg with me, conscious that my brave daughter was wan with fatigue. ‘Then since we are here only under sufferance, and to be kept under lock and key, I would be grateful if you would direct me to our chambers. You may then lock the doors after us. Do you release us for meals?’

‘There is no call to be frivolous, Cecily. We must strive to not prey on each other’s patience.’

‘I think you have done quite enough to my patience already.’

When I stood by the door, I turned my head and asked, because I must, for I had still received no firm news of Richard and Edmund, or of Ned and my brother, even after all this time.

‘Have you received news of my family?’

‘Yes. If you mean the traitors. I know of their whereabouts.’

Did she hesitate deliberately? How vicious political conflict could make us. I turned foursquare, her closed expression a fist below my heart, making me dread her news.

‘Will you have me beg for you to tell me? I will kneel at your feet if I must.’

It heightened the colour in her cheeks, I hoped from shame. ‘They are all safe and well.’

‘Where?’

‘Our brother Salisbury, nephew Warwick and Edward in Calais as you would expect. York and Edmund are in Dublin, so I am told.’

I had not realised what a weight this had been on my mind.

‘May the Blessed Virgin be praised.’

‘Since they are traitors, I doubt the Blessed Virgin is particularly pleased. I imagine She would rather they paid dearly for their sins against an anointed King.’

I was not listening. All my senses were trained on that one surge of utter relief. They were safe. They were alive. Better days would surely come when they returned to England. I even felt more kindly towards my sister who had given me this hope, however small a seed it might be, however reluctantly on her part.

‘I advise you not to pray for their return, Cis. The best they can do is to make a life for themselves overseas. If they set foot in England again they will face execution. And you might not come off so lightly if you continue in your loyalty to them.’

‘You were not used to be so critical.’

‘You were not used to be a traitor.’

‘I swear I am not—’

‘I do not wish to speak of it. The conspiracy of my brother, my nephew and your husband is not fit conversation for my home. I forbid you to talk of it. I will never be persuaded that what you did was right.’

Which depressed any sentiment I might have had towards reconciliation.

‘Furthermore,’ Anne continued, ‘you will resign yourself to having no communication with the outside world. You are not to be trusted, thus you will receive neither visitors nor correspondence.’

I inclined my head and awarded my sister the victory of a brief curtsey. ‘I will live here on your terms, because I must. I apologise for the necessity.’

As I walked before her from the room, I thought for a brief moment that I felt the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder. Turning quickly, I realised I had been mistaken; she was gesturing for Meg to follow.

‘Do we speak with no one?’ Meg asked in weary horror, when the door to our interconnecting chambers was locked.

‘Wait and see,’ was all I could say, but I held her close within the circle of my arm, noting that she had grown almost as tall as I.

I had no intention of being separated from the world of Richard and my sons. My sister would not find me a willing captive, however compliant my outward demeanour.

It was dark now beyond the windows so that I could not see the defences that hemmed us in. It was dark within my soul also.

Cecily, one-time Duchess of York, to her grace the Queen, Marguerite of Anjou

Written from Tonbridge Castle

Your grace,

I have a boon to beg of your endless compassion.

You have seen fit to put me into the custody of my sister who is keen to keep me enclosed and unable to send either help or moneys to my treasonous husband. You will be gratified to know that she is pursuing your orders to the letter. And indeed beyond. My correspondence and my visitors have been strictly curtailed.

The Duchess of Buckingham sees it as her duty to lecture me on my sins, also as you would wish, but is not willing to hear my confession of them. Yet, in my acknowledgement of my lord’s mistake in raising a force against the King, I am in need of a confidante to point my wayward thoughts in the right direction. That is forbidden me in this household.

I write to ask permission to correspond with my sister in Epworth.

I can think of no better recipient of my burden of regret and failure than Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. I ask, gracious lady, your permission to do so, since my sister Anne refuses to allow it. Katherine is no traitor. You will agree that her husband John, Viscount Beaumont, is the most loyal of your subjects. He has already proved that he will do nothing to further the House of York, and I know that my sister Katherine is a most obedient wife.

If you, in your mercy, would allow my sister the Duchess of Buckingham to grant her permission for me to correspond, I would be grateful.

Cecily Neville

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

Written from Tonbridge Castle

Dear Kat,

I am out of all patience.

She has not been here more than a se’enight and she is already engaged in mischief. Our misguided sister Cecily, balking at the restriction put on her, has requested the Queen’s permission to write to you, against my better judgement. She wrote to the Queen behind my back, bribing one of my ostlers, which is certainly in character.

Cecily claims a need to make a confession and receive counsel. Why not confess to my priest? She says that she finds him an intolerant ear. Why would he be tolerant of a woman who came close to being attainted?

I even understand that she signed the letter Cecily Neville, as if she would distance herself from York. I don’t believe it for one moment.

However, with the Queen’s permission, I now cannot prevent her writing to you. I trust you will reply with admirable stiff-necked advice to lower her pretensions. Don’t encourage her in any acts of rebellion. Your husband would certainly not wish it, and neither would I. She sits in her chamber spinning a web like some small malevolent spider, smiling all the while.

It has to be said that she has not changed, despite her recent experiences. No one would think that she had to fend off a violent and carousing mob in Ludlow. I don’t know how much she suffered because not one word of it has crossed her lips, but her will is so strong. If she mourns the loss of York, I see no trace of it. Cecily may be clad as if in mourning in black damask, but her veils are miraculously embroidered, transparent as the finest gauze, supported by fine wires into airy confections. And I covet them. Which is of course a sin.

Cecily continues to pluck her brows with marvellous precision.

I will not suggest to her that to care so much for appearance is the sin of pride.

It might be better if you refuse all correspondence; however, since I cannot prevent it, it must be your decision. I threatened to read every letter myself before allowing it beyond my walls. Cis said she could not believe I would be so petty. Would it not be beneath my dignity to treat a sister with such disdain and lack of trust?

I admit to a wave of guilt. I cannot do it, even when I suspect that same sister of arch dissembling. Marks of sleeplessness and anxiety mar her handsome features, blemishes that I have never seen before.

What I can prevent is any communication between Cecily and our neighbours. The less local gossip the better.

I am in need of a recipe for a dish of eels I think you might recall, one that our mother enjoyed. My cook is unable to produce anything edible. I would be grateful if you would send any recipe you have.

Your sister,

Anne

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

Written from Epworth

My dear Cis,

How should I address you? Dame Cecily?

Reading between Anne’s caustic lines, it seems that I am chosen by you to be a conduit for treasonable communication. Have I read it correctly? I doubt you would need my counsel. Even if I gave it, you would probably ignore it.

Should I agree to be part of your conspiracy? Anne has warned me off any attempt to help you reach out to York or our family in Calais. Did you know they are all safe? Our brother and nephew and of course Ned slipped happily into Calais through an unguarded postern gate, where, as Captain of Calais, Warwick was made very welcome. Richard and Edmund are now safe in Dublin.

Beaumont is furious that the Queen’s party cannot get their hands on them. I have commiserated with him, of course. He makes no concession that it is my brother he is condemning. Beaumont is a man without sensitivity.

I await your letters with eager anticipation, even if I have still not decided what I will do about them. My husband would deny me the freedom to comply with any of your wishes. How exciting! How tempting! I rarely refuse an opportunity to put a spoke in Beaumont’s wheel. His stand against the House of York at Coventry was deplorably self-interested. But then, are we not all so motivated?

Not least you, Cis.

Please pass the enclosed to Anne. She was desirous of receiving it. I do not recall eating it with any pleasure, but then I am not fond of eels. Nor can I recall our mother the Countess of Westmorland ever being ecstatic when they appeared on the table during Lent.

Anne says that your face is acquiring the prints of old age and worry. I don’t believe her, but try a daily decoction of ground lily-root mixed with egg and vinegar to hold the ravages at bay. Let me know if it is efficacious. I may make use of it.

Your loving sister,

Katherine

A Recipe of Joan, Countess of Westmorland, for Eels in Gauncelye (Garlic Sauce)

Take eels and skin them and simmer them in water with a little salt.

Take scalded bread, grind it and add it to the broth with a measure of ale.

Take pepper and ginger and saffron and grind together.

Boil onions and parsley together.

Mix altogether and serve it forth.

Do not expect much enjoyment from this. I eat it as infrequently as I can.

Chapter Six

A Soft Imprisonment

Duchess Cecily’s intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary

Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee.

Blessed Virgin, I kneel in utmost gratitude. They are safe. All of them. Alive and far from retribution. I bend my head in thanks. I weep at your feet.

Holy Mother, sustain them.

Do I fear or rejoice? I know they will not be content to remain in exile.

Grant me the patience to live with my sister without recourse to temper when she lectures me on my refusal to see the good qualities in our Beaufort cousin, the Duke of Somerset.

Grant me tolerance of my sister’s priest who is a dyed-in-thewool Lancastrian.

Grant me the imagination to be crafty-clever in my gleaning of information.

Grant me the fortitude to eat my sister Kat’s recipe for eels in gauncelye.

Grant me acceptance of the marks of time and anxiety, in spite of my liberal use of Kat’s ill-smelling remedy. Forgive the vanity of a woman who dares no longer glance in her looking-glass.

Amen

Cecily, Duchess of York, to her daughter Anne, Duchess of Exeter

Written from Tonbridge Castle

To my dear Anne,

I am allowed to write to you, through the kind permission of your aunt Buckingham (although I begrudge her the right to give me such permission), since Exeter is well known to be hand in glove with the House of Lancaster. There is no hope of aid for York in your household.

What should I write to you, my daughter? Be brave. There is no blame on you for Exeter’s deeds. Nor can his commission of array have any effect on those we love. They are all safe, beyond the sea.

Pray for your father and brothers. There is no need for Exeter to know what is said between you and the Blessed Virgin. As your mother I absolve you from total obedience to him. He is a fool and a treacherous one at that. If you should find a need for consolation outside marriage, I cannot blame you. All I would say is, be discreet.

You may consider this to be strange and sinful advice from a mother to her daughter, but life can be very long and lonely without affection in it.

Your loving mother,

Cecily, Duchess of York

You will notice that I retain my title. In my own mind, with my own pen, I refute the right of Queen Marguerite’s law to remove it from me.

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

Written from Tonbridge Castle, January 1460

My dearest sister,

You may continue to address me as Duchess of York, if you were under any misunderstanding of the situation.

I enclose a letter. Can you see your way to delivering it to Dublin? And to sending his reply to me, when he writes one, with a covering letter? I know that it may tip you into a confrontation with your husband, but I think you will not greatly care. I doubt that Beaumont reads the letters that you receive. Tell him that it is a dispute over rents and he’ll gladly assign it to you.

You might even enjoy playing him as a cat plays with a mouse. Although he is a most important mouse, as he will never allow us to forget.

Here’s the situation at Tonbridge, enough to drive any woman of intelligence and ambition to tearing her veils. All those great towers connected by a formidable structure of high curtain walls. I feel as enclosed as a hen being fattened in a coop before the Christmas festivities.

Life here is as dull as your taste in antique houppelandes. I am superfluous; the events of the castle flow smoothly around me, like a fast-flowing river around a small stone in its path. I am not necessary. Even where I see possibilities for improvement and itch to apply my fingers to the issue, it is not my problem to alleviate. All I can do is keep my own counsel and wonder that Anne should not take better care of her household. I suspect that her Steward has his busy fingers in the ducal coffers. Anne spends far too much time with a book in her hands. This week it is Legenda Sanctorum, Jacobus de Varagine’s lives of the saints. I have not noticed any increased saintliness in her approach to my predicament.

Diccon and George are given into the keeping of the priest and the sergeant at arms to practise with pen and sword. I think young Henry, Anne’s grandson, enjoys their company. Meg spends time with Anne’s books and the experienced mistress of the still room. Anne is intent on destroying my influence over them in case I turn them into traitors.

For me, my life is bound around and narrowed to the female pursuits of reading, stitching altar cloths and lute playing. The chains, although invisible, are securely in place. My only freedom is in my prayers. Anne will never know the fervency of my pleas for my husband and sons. Will they ever be able to return?

Even my freedom to walk is restricted to the wall-walk and Anne’s small garden within the castle, a pleasant plot that has no need of my care. Anne employs servants to prune and plant and gather. All I can do is look out over the crenellations to the south, to the west, hoping for good news. Yet I know that to hear of their return could be the worst possible happening. To return could well mean death.

We celebrated the Feast of the Birth of the Christ Child, swiftly followed by the New Year, but there was no celebration in my heart. So much hostility simmering beneath the false mirth of the mummers and minstrels. It was not a happy time. What would we be without our marriages, Kat? Would we still be the same sisters who enjoyed each other’s company, who played and sang and rejoiced together at New Year as children, although you were so much older than I? Not one of us Nevilles chose the husband we would wed. We must live with the life we were assigned by our ambitious parents.

I am desolate, Kat.

Do write to me, even if you have nothing to send me from Richard. I need your encouragement in this house of rancour. You would be astonished at how polite and amenable I am become.

Your loving sister,

Cis

Do send a different recipe for the preparation of eels. Anything to give Anne’s cook an idea beyond the use of Lenten fare. What about something to enliven carp? Anne’s fishponds have a surfeit of them.

Cecily, Duchess of York, to Richard, Duke of York, by the hand of Katherine, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk

Written from Tonbridge Castle

My most well-beloved Richard,

How difficult it is to begin this letter.

So much to say – the words clamour in my mind and in my heart – but so little to say of value. I am a prisoner at Tonbridge Castle under my sister Anne’s aegis. I expect that you can imagine the strained atmosphere. Humphrey is away from home so not available to keep the peace between us with his good sense.

You are safe in Dublin, I know. You are alive. There had always been that fear that your ship had foundered in the waters off Ireland. Better days will surely come when you return to England. I anticipate it with a fervour that you cannot imagine.

As you see, I have already circumvented the curtailment imposed by Anne with the aid of Katherine. I have arranged that through my letters to her – with royal permission due to Beaumont’s excellence in licking the royal boots – I will write to you, and you can return them using the same route. A convoluted arrangement but the best I can do. Katherine has decided that she will enjoy thwarting her husband.

Here is what you should know, my dear Richard, if it has not reached you by other means. Following hard on the attainder, our lands have been split and apportioned to friends of the King. We are truly landless. Exeter has got Fotheringhay in his tight fist. All those who have danced attendance on Henry have been rewarded with gifts of great value.

Thus by a stroke of a pen you have been stripped of land, title, power, and made a penniless outlaw. It is too vast to contemplate. Every title, every castle, every piece of land that you owned, all part of your proud inheritance, all gone.

You would not believe the accusations made against you at Coventry. All Marguerite’s doing. She sees you as her most bitter enemy, believing that your whole life has been spent in wretched manoeuvrings to take the throne from Henry. She will blacken your name beyond salvation.

I cannot bear to contemplate the destruction of your heritage and the inheritance of our sons. You, I trust, will be more stalwart. Meanwhile, I am learning to guard my tongue for the first time in my life.

Living at Tonbridge, despite all the comfort, drives home for me just what it is that I have lost. Not to any casual observer, of course. If such an unbiased creature existed in this turbulent time, they would say that I am leniently served in the light of my family’s clear-cut treason. I might be dispossessed of lands and title, but I am still Duchess of York to my sister’s household, treated with every respect. I am not penniless and my sister, with the air of a martyr, is unstinting in her physical care of me and my children.

But that is merely the pretty pattern of shadows on the surface of the pool. Below it is a maelstrom of great loss. Anne’s household might be respectful but only within what I might ask or require.

Beyond that I am closely guarded, with a subtlety that sets my teeth on edge. It is rare that there is no guard to accompany me whenever I step beyond my chamber or the solar. What if I order a horse and an escort to ride into freedom beyond the gates? Will they be so accommodating? They would refuse me. I am forbidden to receive private visitors. Marguerite fears that if I am allowed freedom I will work to bring your return. Of course she knows me well. I will do it, if and when I can. You know that your reinstatement at the King’s side occupies my thoughts every day.

Tell Edmund that I think of him. Ensure that he continues to apply himself to his reading and writing. Perhaps you should find him a tutor. He will neglect such skills if you do not watch him. Here at Tonbridge Meg continues to be a solemn witness of events in this world. George is noisy and Richard contemplative. They are children of whom you should be proud. Did I not instil them with honour and pride and a duty to the noble cause of York, that terrible day in Ludlow? I swear that their royal blood will shine through whatever trials we are called upon to face.

I have told Anne that I am considering repentance, of making a confession of my sins. She does not believe me.

Here I make my oath, my dear love.

I will never turn from you. I will never abandon what we have worked for. Our love will last for all time. I pray for your safekeeping and your swift return when affairs are more stable. Commissions of array have been given, to prevent any further rebellion by you or your allies. I doubt you will be surprised that our son by marriage, the diabolical Exeter, is one of those so blessed.

You know my love for you. I cannot write it here.

I would ask you to rescue me, but I know that I must withstand the storms and torrents of our ill fortune. When will you find the need to write to me, to tell me of how you go on? By the Blessed Virgin, Richard. Surely you can employ a clerk if your energies are demanded elsewhere. Do you not have a dozen scribes at your command? I dislike being encumbered by this abhorrent silence.

Your most loving wife,

Cecily

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

Written from Dublin Castle

My most-beloved wife,

I read your anger between the words – indeed you have not exactly made an attempt to mask it, which tells me that you are still in good heart and very much the woman I admire. I acknowledge my fault in this, that I have been lax in sending word to you. It has been too dangerous to commit my plans to pen and ink. I accept your reprimand. It is good to know that you have retained your spirit despite the attack on your dignity and your skirmishes with your sister. It means everything to me when the world I knew is shaking on its foundations.

I have little news for you, except that we are alive and safe in Dublin where I am made most welcome as Lord Lieutenant. It is a relief not to have every action and thought picked over for hidden motives. The Irish will never hand me over to the enemy. It is my intention to summon a parliament in Dublin in early February. I am promised that if we work together to allow Ireland autonomy from England, I will receive finance, protection and an army of archers. All I could hope for. My allies from the days when we lived here have proved most generous and accommodating.

I know it will be high in your mind, but I must not yet speak of the future. Nothing is written clearly, nor would I wish for any plans to fall into the wrong hands. I accept your advice and agree that all is not advantageous for my return. I must rely on your patience and good sense to keep your faith strong. Our history, my dearest Cis, is not yet complete. One day we will be together again. One day our inheritance will be returned to us, I swear it.

I cannot write what is in my heart, but I know that I do not need to do so. You are aware of all I am, all I have ever been, and all I hope to be.

Hoping this reaches you safely through Katherine’s kindness. When secrecy no longer matters, I will write more.

You may take satisfaction from the castle here in Dublin being as inconvenient and draughty as it was when we were in residence. The walls still drip with damp and every wooden panel grows its own species of mould. It will be my punishment, while you are in luxury in Tonbridge.

Your most loving husband, in spite of all appearances to the contrary,

Richard

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

Written from Dublin Castle

To my most revered Mother,

My father says that I must write and tell you how I spend my days, to set your mind at ease. I am in good health now that we are settled in Dublin. I did not enjoy the sea crossing.

It will please you to know that I have at last been installed as Chancellor of Ireland, a position that has been mine since I was eight years old.

Do not expect me to write too often. The hunting here is very good, with fast runs after the deer. I have received a gift of my own wolfhound, called Cuchulain after the Hound of Ulster, the proud Irish hero. I have read about him. I do not have time for much reading.

I do not know when we will return to England.

Your affectionate and obedient son,

Edmund

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

Written from Tonbridge Castle

My dear Kat,

Here you have a letter from an aggrieved wife.

I am not sure what I expected from Richard. A plan of action? A letter expressing his undying love? Even the briefest comment to relieve my concerns over his good health? I received none of those. I know no more than before his letter arrived. For all the personal touches it could have been written by his clerk. I would say it had been, if it were not for Richard’s instantly recognisable scrawl.

Richard seems comfortable taking up the reins of Lieutenant. Edmund has been confirmed as Chancellor. Shall I say what worries me? That my husband might be tempted to remain there and carve out a new realm for himself. Do you suppose that he sees himself as King of Ireland?

Meanwhile, I live in hope of better things. The temperature here is as cold inside as it is out. My sister Anne has handed the Legenda Sanctorum to me. She has taken up a French translation of Lucan’s epic poem Bellum Civile. In the circumstances I would much rather enjoy the warlike exploits of Julius Caesar and Pompey than the endless prosing of saints but Anne thinks Caesar and Pompey unsuitable for calming my mind.

My embroidery is improving, Anne tells me.

Diccon wishes to write to Edmund, so I have included this. George has no inclination to write to anyone. Please send it on when you are next in communication.

What is Beaumont doing? Still working hard to remain a recipient of Queen Marguerite’s smiles?

To do justice to Richard, he left me in no doubt of his affections, and his desire to be reunited with me. It’s just that I cannot see when it can ever happen.

Your affectionate but thwarted sister,

Cecily

Richard, youngest son of the Duke of York, to Edmund, Earl of Rutland

Written from Tonbridge Castle

Brother!

I wish I were there in Dublin with you. We are at Tonbridge Castle which is all very well but we are kept closely confined.

I would like a wolfhound. Could you send me one? I don’t suppose that would be possible.

If I cannot be with you in Dublin, I would wish to be with our cousin of Warwick. His fleet is raiding along the south coast of England, stealing ships and ravaging towns. It sounds like a pirate’s life and very exciting.

Our Lady Mother has helped me to write this. She says that my hand with a pen is lamentable. She hopes I will be better with a sword.

Your envious brother,

Diccon

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

Written from Tonbridge Castle

Sister,

I mislike that Cecily writes to you so frequently. I do not approve of the tally of correspondence and I have threatened to read the contents. Cecily challenged me to do it, but I could not, in the face of her utter disgust.

I could shake Cecily! Does she not realise that York’s bid for power is well and truly dead? Her temper grows shorter by the day.

By the by. Do you have our mother’s remedy for the ague? I am suffering.

Your affectionate sister,

Anne

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

Written from Folkingham Castle

Sister,

Do you accuse me of deceit? Of collaboration with my sister for the good of the Yorkist cause? Save your ink and your parchment. We agreed that I would not encourage Cecily in her passions. I have not done so. If she wishes to write to me because she finds me a more sympathetic ear than any to be found in Tonbridge Castle, then that is entirely your own doing.

In God’s name, give Cecily something cheerful to read. Something that is not sermons and saintly encouragement. The never-ending virtues of the Saints can be quite overpowering, not to say lowering to the spirits. And something other than in Latin. It was never her strong point. She is very anxious, as you would be if you lost your husband. She worries that Richard might not return. Cecily will soon come round to the reality of life.

I have no remedy against the ague. Our mother never suffered an ague in her life. With ten children to raise to adulthood she had no time for agues. Neither have I suffered such an inconvenience.

As always, your affectionate and always honourable sister.

I still resent your accusations.

Katherine

Cecily says that you are in need of a method of making carp interesting. My cook says to try this. Substitute carp for tench if you have a taste for it. It is not one of my favourite recipes.

A Recipe of Joan, Countess of Westmorland, for Tench in Sauce

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

Written from Tonbridge Castle

My dear long-suffering sister,

I have seen Ned. I have spoken with him. I have held him in my arms.

Such a change in him. He has become as impressive as one of the old Plantagenets, burnished with a gloss of knightly glamour.

Perhaps now Richard will come home.

Suddenly all is falling back into place, but we may not come out of this unharmed. It is so easy to forget that the evil counsellors are our own cousins. The lines of family through Neville blood and marriage are very tight, yet we would sever them without compunction. Sometimes it worries me that we can be so unthinkingly zealous. Blood will assuredly be shed.

And then I recall that we are fighting for our own survival and our rightful place in this realm, which they would deny us.

Your sister, renewed by hope,

Cecily

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