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.