The Red Rose of Anjou - Plaidy Jean - Страница 39
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‘Rather rejoice in it. The day will come...’
‘It may well,’ answered Cecily. ‘It is a pity that they banished you to this God-forsaken place.’
‘Knowing, of course, that we shall never have peace with the Irish. The Irish are a versatile people. They love many things but what they love beyond everything is discord. They are born with the desire to fight. You can see it in the babies even.’
‘I always thought it would be a good plan to leave them to fight among themselves.’
‘That, my love, is what I am considering doing.’
She waited. Richard always talked to her of his plans and listened to her advice. He appreciated her. She had earned the nickname of Proud Cis and she definitely deserved it. She was no brainless female fit only for the bearing of children— although she was quite good at that too. She came of a fruitful family. She was one of the Nevilles and her mother had been Joan Beaufort, daughter of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford. So she was royal—for the Beauforts had been legitimized and she could not forget it. Her mother had borne ten children of whom she was the youngest; and before he had married her mother her father had sired eight children on his first wife, the daughter of the Earl of Stafford.
We have reason to be ambitious, thought Cecily. Our children have royal blood from both parents.
Richard was steeped in royalty. He was descended from Edward the Third by both parents. His father had been the second son of Edmund of Langley who had been Edward the Third’s fifth son; and his mother was a daughter of Roger Mortimer, a grandson of Lionel Duke of Clarence, second son of Edward the Third, Lionel’s daughter Philippa having married Edmund Mortimer the third Earl of March. Lionel had been older than John of Gaunt so if Henry the Fourth had not usurped the throne from Richard the Second, Richard Duke of York would certainly have come before the present King.
It was a fact to be proud of It was something they would never forget and since this affair of Jack Cade, Richard had been thinking a great deal about it.
Clearly the people of England were not satisfied with their King and consequently the Duke of York was feared in some circles which was why he had been sent to Ireland. And what was more clear than anything was that the time might be getting ripe when something could be done about ridding the country of an incompetent ruler and replacing him by someone who could rule well and in any case had more right to.
Cecily followed his thoughts.
Richard went on: ‘It would be advisable for me to return to England to clear myself of this suspicion which Jack Cade has aroused against me.’
‘The rogue! To dare to call himself a Mortimer.’
‘Rogue indeed but a shrewd one. The name of Mortimer would bring many to his banner.’
‘Because they would think that you were behind the rising.’
‘It might well be. So you see, my dear, I must go home to face my accusers.’
Cecily nodded sagely.
‘I am of the opinion, my lady, that that will not inconvenience you greatly.’
‘I shall welcome it. I long to see the shores of England once more. It will be good for George. Poor little mite. He has never seen his native land.’
‘I doubt he will notice where he is.’
‘Even babies would detest this country.’
‘Then I am to take it that you will rejoice to return to England.’
You may indeed.’
‘There might be difficulties . . .’
‘You mean the King will be suspicious of you. Poor fool. Has he the wits to be suspicious of anyone?’
‘Don’t underrate him. He is simply not fitted to be a King. He is quite a scholar, I believe. He loves his books.’
‘Books don’t hold kingdoms together,’ said Cecily scornfully. Then she added: ‘I look forward to .seeing the children.’
They had a full nursery. There was Anne aged eleven, Edward aged eight, Edmund seven, Elizabeth six, Margaret four, and little George who had been born in Ireland. A pleasant family and what one would expect of a daughter of a very fruitful mother. There had been sorrows in the family. Three little boys Henry, William and John, had not survived their infancy. But they had three left to them which was comforting for it was good to have boys. The joy of Cecily’s life was Edward—her eldest boy since the death of little Henry; and Edward seemed to be growing into a true Plantagenet. He was going to be very tall; there were signs of that already. He had the strong blond looks of his ancestors. He was remarkably like Edward the First; and that was a good sign. He was lively, demanding his own way, excelling at outdoor exercises and charming all the servants. A worthy successor to his father—and who knows, wondered ambitious Cecily, what his father would have to leave him when the time came.
Richard nodded. He too was eager for a sight of the children. ‘So,’ said Cecily, ‘we are to return to England.’ ‘How soon can you be ready?’ asked the Duke. ‘I can be ready as soon as you give the order to leave.’ They laughed together. He could read the exhilaration in her eyes; she could see the dreams in his. Who knew, they might be going home to fight for the crown.
###
Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset was riding through the streets of London towards the palace of Westminster. He was the most unpopular man in England and he was on his way to see the most unpopular woman. He hated the mob. Unthinking idiots, he grumbled to himself. They judged a man by his victories and his defeats. It never occurred to them to consider extraneous circumstances. How could any general succeed in France at this time? Everything was against him. Charles of France—that weak and ineffectual Dauphin—had suddenly shaken himself out of his torpor and was roaring like a lion. The English had lost heart since Joan of Arc had appeared to tell them that Heaven was on the side of the French. It was all hopeless. Somerset wanted to shake the dust of France off his feet for ever.
He had returned not exactly in disgrace but somewhere near it. He had been obliged to relinquish Rouen and that was tantamount to losing Normandy. He was blamed for the disasters of the last few years. Bedford was dead; Gloucester was dead...though Gloucester had not helped them to success...but now people were talking of him as though he were a martyr. They believed he had been murdered and they accused Margaret of having a hand in that.
Margaret it seemed was his one friend, an important one it was true for Henry relied on her completely and he obeyed her wishes in every respect. So if he had only one friend yet she did happen to be the most powerful in the Kingdom.
It will blow over, he thought, unless of course this rumour about York is true.
Margaret was delighted when she heard he had come. Somerset was a true friend as the Suffolks had been. She was sad thinking of Suffolk, that dear man who had come to France and brought her to England and had been so kind to her. And Alice too...poor broken-hearted Alice. It infuriated Margaret to think of the dastardly way they had murdered Suffolk. She could grow white with anger at the thought and could only be appeased by telling herself what she would do to those who had murdered her dear friend if ever she got the chance.
Henry was so mild of course. She had had great difficulty in persuading him to allow harsh sentences to be passed on those who had been caught taking part in the Jack Cade rebellion. It was true they had been given pardons. That was the rabble, the mob, who followed blindly. It was the leaders who had to be severely punished. She was sorry Jack Cade had not been brought before his judges alive. Henry shuddered at the thought of bloodshed. He really was becoming more and more aloof from life. He wanted to be alone with his books and the time he spent on his knees made her wonder whether his brain was softening. There was one virtue in all this, it did give her a free hand. He rarely questioned anything she did but when it came to punishment he did raise a feeble voice and utter the only oath he used, which was ‘By St. John’ and if he were greatly put out he would mutter ‘Forsooth and forsooth’.
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