England, 1459.
One family united by blood.
Torn apart by war…
The Wars of the Roses storm
through the country, and Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, plots to topple the
weak-minded King Henry VI from the throne.
But when the Yorkists are
defeated at the Battle of Ludford Bridge, Cecily’s family flee and abandon her
to face a marauding Lancastrian army on her own.
Stripped of her lands and
imprisoned in Tonbridge Castle, the Duchess begins to spin a web of deceit. One
that will eventually lead to treason, to the fall of King Henry VI, and to her
eldest son being crowned King Edward IV.
Duchess Cecily
confronts the Earl of Warwick in the lodgings of the Prior of Christ Church,
Canterbury, June 1469
Did I not know exactly what it was that my powerful
nephew was devising? I saw his stark aspirations; I saw the clever plotting. I
determined that I might allow my nephew of Warwick to take the lead, but I
would not be persuaded against my will to sign my name to his strategy.
Canterbury
was ostentatiously welcoming, the journey made comfortable in every aspect by
the people of Warwick’s household, dispatched to escort me. After Edward’s
contentious treatment over the loss of Fotheringhay it was a sop to my dignity.
Luxury and comfort were the order of the day, from a welter of damask cushions to
restorative cups of ale, my small travelling household settled into the
accommodations of the Prior of Christ Church. Warwick had a gift for charm and
putting a much-desired visitor at ease. It would have been enough to rouse my
suspicions, if they needed any rousing.
‘Welcome,
my most highly valued aunt. Enter and take your ease. I am gratified that you
came at my request. I trust you journeyed well.’
He
offered me a full Court obeisance, hand on heart, elegant and controlled. Yet
his smile and the salutation on my cheek were quite genuine of his affection.
‘I
could not refuse,’ I said. ‘Such a subtle appeal to my curiosity. How could I
not be here?’
‘We
were not sure that you would come.’
While
wine was dispensed, we sat at ease in one of the spacious chambers, discussing
innocuous family affairs. The Countess and their daughters were in Calais,
awaiting Warwick’s arrival. Since there were still a good few hours of daylight
remaining, I suggested a visit to the shrine of the Blessed St Thomas where we
knelt and offered up prayers for the King, for the realm, for ourselves. For
the repose of York and Rutland. While, within the grandeur of gold and jewels
of the shrine, I prayed silently for some resolution to what, in the coming
hours, could be a difficult exchange of views.
In
the conflict of light and shadow as we walked from the shrine, when Clarence
strode ahead of me, in brief conversation with one of the priests, his figure
became blurred, the edges touched by an iridescence from the deeply hued glass.
The years passing, how tall and strong he had become. And his resemblance to
his brother Edward struck me. If he had worn a coronet on his fair hair the
priests would be falling to their knees around him.
My
thoughts slid into an uneasy channel, like the turbulence of oily water after a
storm. Would Clarence make a King? A good King?
Blessed
Virgin vouchsafe me the words to bring my son back into the royal fold.
I
decided that Clarence was on Warwick’s tight leash, like a young hunting dog,
preventing him from speaking out the moment I had stepped over the Prior’s
highly polished threshold.
Returned
to our lodging, I was the perfect guest, making no comment on the reason for my
presence. Let Warwick broach this dangerous subject, waiting until we had eaten,
I sparingly, the dishes removed, the servants dispatched. Then, as Warwick
filled the cups once more, I braced myself for a disturbing exchange.
‘Now,
we talk.’
I
allowed myself a benign smile. ‘Why am I here? Is this the point when you tell
me?’
Warwick
raised his cup in acknowledgement of my previous silence.
‘I
would like your support.’
‘For
what purpose?’
I
knew. Oh I knew. Every gossipmonger in the country knew.
‘The
marriage of your son Clarence to my daughter Isabel.’
There
it was, spoken aloud between us.
‘Do
you seek the crown for yourself?’ I asked Warwick.
‘No.’
Honesty crackled in the air between us. ‘Edward is King. I am his cousin. When
I am restored to his counsels, when I have his ear, I will be the most loyal of
subjects.’
‘But
still you will pursue this marriage.’
‘Edward
has left me with no choice. His Woodville policy has been devastating.’
‘Do
you seek the crown for yourself?’ I asked.
‘No.’
Honesty crackled in the air between us. ‘Edward is King. I am his cousin. When
I am restored to his counsels, when I have his ear, I will be the most loyal of
subjects.’
‘But
still you will pursue this marriage.’
‘Edward
has left me with no choice. His Woodville policy has been devastating.’
‘I
know how bitter you are.’
It
was as if a flame had been applied to a smouldering log.
‘How
long must I tolerate this? I made Edward King, but I can no longer control
him.’
‘You
are still powerful and handsomely rewarded. Edward still relies on you.’
‘I
see no reward. I see no reliance. My service to your son is no longer of any
account. Nor will it ever be as long as the Woodvilles surround him.’
A
judgement delivered in flat, emotionless accents at odds with the fire in his
eyes. The room was full to the brim with his bitterness. It positively dripped
from the tapestried walls, like blood from a huntsman’s knife. I stretched my
hand across the white cloth that still graced the table to touch his where it
lay flat, fingers widespread. I was not without compassion.
‘There
is no moving you, is there?’
‘No.’
‘I
am sorry for it. I see only bloodshed.’
‘I
think I am more sanguine. Edward and I can still come to terms, if he is
willing to close his ears to the Woodville bellowing.’
I
could not see it happening.
‘Why
do you need my support?’ I asked, as I had at the beginning.
‘Because
you are the only one Edward will listen to, short of facing him on a
battlefield and forcing him at the point of a sword.’
‘Once
that might have been true.’ A little sadness trickled through my veins, as I
admitted the truth. ‘But now he has a wife whose pretty fingers have tightened
on the royal reins, at the same time as they have dislodged mine.’
Which
awoke a smile in my nephew. ‘We might try together to dislodge her.’
And,
then, because there was a softening between us and because I thought that he
might be open with me, ‘What was it that you stopped Clarence from telling me
before you sent him away? What were the rumours that he was urged to tell me of
?’
The
vestige of humour promptly vanished.
‘There
are none. Just something Clarence has heard and misunderstood. Nothing that
need disturb you.’
I
angled my chin, my eyes cool on his.
‘Will
you object if I say that I do not believe you?’
He
shrugged, smiled briefly.
‘Will
you be honest with me?’ I asked.
‘If
I can.’
‘Will
this non-existent rumour that Clarence has misunderstood hurt Ned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will
it hurt me?’
‘I
think it will.’
Honesty
indeed. It hurt, but it was best to know the worst.
‘Will
you make use of this non-existent rumour?’ I asked.
‘If I have to,’
the Earl of Warwick replied without hesitation. ‘It is too good a weapon not to
bring into my armoury.’
Buy Links
Anne O’Brien
Sunday Times Bestselling author Anne O’Brien was born in West Yorkshire. After gaining a BA Honours degree in History at Manchester University and a Master’s in Education at Hull, she lived in East Yorkshire for many years as a teacher of history.
Today
she has sold over 700,000 copies of her books, medieval history novels in the UK
and internationally. She lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century
timber-framed cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches in Herefordshire. The
area provides endless inspiration for her novels which breathe life into the
forgotten women of medieval history.
Website Twitter Facebook Linked-In Pinterest Amazon Author Page Goodreads
No comments:
Post a Comment