‘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