Thwarted Queen Part 1

THWARTED QUEEN.

A Novel of Cecily "Cecylee" Neville (1415-1495).

Wife of the White Rose of York.

Mother of Richard III.

Grandmother of the Little Princes in the Tower.

Cynthia Sally Haggard.

For my dear friend Beth Gessert Franks.

for all her endurance of Cecylee.

PROLOGUE.

She useth to arise at seven of the clocke, and hath readye her chapleyne to saye with her mattins of the daye, and mattins of our lady; FROM ORDERS AND RULES OF THE PRINCESS CECILL.

QUOTED BY JOHN WOLSTENHOLME COBB (1883).

HISTORY & ANTIQUITIES OF BERKHAMSTED.

Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfords.h.i.+re.

Feast of Saint Joseph.

March 19, 1495.

Now I am ready to speak, for death will be with me by year's end.

The House of Tudor shall declare this tale a lie. They will say I'm an impostor. Let there be no mistake about my ident.i.ty. As proof, I lay forth my name in its true construction: CECYLEE.

Queen by Right.

d.u.c.h.ess of York.

Abbess.

I am Cecylee-not Cecily or Cicely. My name has been corrupted by those who claim to have the ear of the present King of England, one Harry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a self-styled King Henry VII. Let those who seek to dismiss my testament compare this sign with the many doc.u.ments signed as d.u.c.h.ess of York and Queen by Right.

I have had other names. I was born Lady Cecylee de Neville, in May 1415. In the year 1424, I became d.u.c.h.ess of York. Admirers called me the Rose of Raby. Enemies called me Proud Cis. I am the mother of Kings Edward IV and Richard III. I have seen my sons kill their opponents, and even their kin.

Folk think me saintly, for I hear Ma.s.s several times a day. I hear religious texts while I dine, I spend hours on my knees in prayer. This causes them to disbelieve some of the unflattering stories whispered about me. Folk are too kind if they imagine that a pious old woman couldn't have sinned. It grieves me greatly to say this, but late in life, while I was living in the countryside as Abbess of a Benedictine Order, I was responsible for the murder of two of my grandsons.

In these pages, I make confession, using my voice and the voices of others important to its weaving.

BOOK I: THE BRIDE PRICE.

"A gracious lady!

What is her name, I thee pray tell me?"

"Dame Cecille, sir."

"Whose daughter was she?"

"Of the Earl of Westmorland, I trowe the youngest, And yet grace fortuned her to be the highest."

FROM A FIFTEENTH-CENTURY BALLAD,.

ANONYMOUS.

Chapter 1.

Castle Raby, Scottish Marches.

The Feast of Saint John.

June 24, 1424.

Today they tell me I must behave.

I'm not allowed to laugh loudly, stare, or make remarks.

I must put on my best gown, the pink silk damascene with the long train, balance my heavy headdress on my head, and play my psaltery. The king's uncles are coming to visit.

Today, they decide if I'm suitable enough to be made d.u.c.h.ess of York, and maybe queen. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, the boy I'm supposed to marry, is only thirteen, but they say he will be the richest peer in the kingdom when he reaches the age of twenty-one.

"But that's not for years," I point out. "I'm only nine years old. Why do I have to do this now?"

"Richard is the king's cousin," Audrey, my mother's maid, tells me. "If the king were to die, Richard would be king. Your father wants to secure your future now."

I sigh. Sitting in stuffy rooms listening to Mama and Papa and all those important people they know wearies me. If you are the Earl of Westmorland, like Papa, and the king has given you the task of guarding the English border against the heathenish Scots, then you must want to know many such people. But I prefer to frolic under one of the huge trees that surround the castle.

I turn my head slightly, and Audrey mutters as she stuffs my thick blond hair into the netting under the headdress. Sliding my eyes to the right, I can just make out the shapes of the trees through the newly glazed windows of our rooms in Bulmer's Tower. Bulmer's Tower is a five-sided tower shaped like an arrowhead that stands apart from the rest of the towers comprising Castle Raby. It can be easily defended from a sudden raid on the castle, so Papa decreed that all of us should live here. The trees seem small and very faraway.

Mama enters my chamber, carrying my psaltery. Her eyes look pink. Silently, she scrutinizes me, her lips pinched, as Audrey curtsies and steps aside. Then she takes my hand and leads me up the steep spiral stairs to the solar.

"How much are you willing to pay for her?" says a deep voice.

Mama clenches my fingers so tightly I yelp.

"That is John Plantagenet, Duke of Bedford, the senior uncle to the king." Mama, Joan de Beaufort, Countess of Westmorland, turns me around so that I have to look into her eyes. "He's just been made regent of France, and rarely comes to England. It is a high honor for him to visit us, Cecylee."

"But you don't seem happy," I remark as we peek through the arras.

Mama shakes her head and puts her finger to her lips.

"Two thousand marks," replies Papa.

Through an opening in the richly woven tapestry, I find Richard standing in one corner, his hand running through his hair. For the past six months, he's been living at Castle Raby. When I asked why, Papa pinched my cheek and said it would be well if we got acquainted. I try hard to be pleasant, but he is so serious. He's dressed in black. Couldn't he think of some other color?

Duke John looks around the solar, his sharp eyes taking in Papa's glazed windows, the newly installed hooded fireplace on the north wall, and the rich hangings. He reminds me of a merchant at a fair.

"Four thousand?" he says.

Papa stares at his lap as if he's just discovered something fascinating, perhaps a pulled thread, on his silver and blue robe. Ralph de Neville, Earl of Westmorland, must never be too quick to compromise.

A cough erupts as a gentleman enters from the door opposite and bows. I turn to Mama.

"That is Duke John's younger brother, Humphrey Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. He lives in England and acts as regent for the king."

"How old is the king?"

"Three years old."

"He's ten years younger than Richard then."

Mama quietly shushes me.

Duke Humphrey smiles at Richard. Perhaps they are friends. I did hear someone say that Richard always stays with him when he visits London.

Duke Humphrey shakes his head.

Richard smiles faintly.

Duke John sighs. "Three thousand?"

"'Tis a goodly sum," says Duke Humphrey. "Three is the sign of the Trinity. 'Tis the perfect number."

Papa strokes his white beard. The corner of his mouth quirks. Then he roars with laughter. "Done. Let us drink to it."

Mama gives me a look, which means to stay here behind the arras and be quiet. She goes to Papa. "You know I am not happy with this."

"Cecylee needs to marry," replies Papa. "This betrothal will make her d.u.c.h.ess of York, and you know where that might lead."

A d.u.c.h.ess! I wiggle with excitement. That would make me more important than Mama! She says softly, "I care little for that kind of future. I want my Cecylee happy in her life."

"Don't be ridiculous," snaps Papa.

Duke John looks surprised. He holds his wine cup high in the air and stares at Mama. To my surprise, she kneels.

"She is my youngest daughter, and only nine years old. Do you have to do this now?"

Papa bangs his cup on the arm of his chair, ruby-red liquid slos.h.i.+ng to the floor. "Mind yourself, my lady," he hisses, wagging his finger, as Jenkin rushes to clean it up. "Never contradict your lord in public."

Drawing a handkerchief from her long triangular sleeve, she dabs her eyes.

Papa helps her up, leads her to her seat, and signals for wine.

Mama looks straight at me and nods.

I run into the room. Suddenly all eyes are upon me. I dip a deep curtsey, rising smoothly and without wobbling, the way Mama taught.

Richard bows and smiles, then frowns. I smile back, trying to coax that frown away, and when his features smooth out, I turn to Mama. "What shall I play for the company? Shall I do I Cannot Help It If I Rarely Sing?"

Papa slaps his thigh and bellows with laughter.

Mama smiles: "Why not sing This Lovely Star Of The Sea?"

Settling onto the window seat beside Richard, I nestle the psaltery in the crook of my elbow, pluck it, and began to sing. I love to sing, it's so good for the spirits.

"This Rose of Raby has spirit as well as beauty," says Duke Humphrey after listening for a few moments.

"She's not shy," replies Papa, smiling.

Duke John winks at Richard. "I know you must be eager to wed."

Richard colors a fiery red, making the gentlemen laugh heartily. I sigh.

"When is the ceremony to take place?" asks Duke Humphrey.

"I wonder if it could be this year," says Papa, "in October, on the Feast of Saint Luke."

I strum my psaltery with a flourish and finish the song.

"What are you going to sing now?" whispers Richard.

"Wait and see." I glance at the adults, who are busy talking, and play softly I Cannot Help It If I Rarely Sing.