Cecily Neville Intro

My name is Cecily Neville: I was once the Duchess of York, nearly Queen of England, and yet in the end, I was mother to two kings and the grandmother of many kings and queens. I was born May 3rd, 1415 to Ralph Neville and his wife, Joan Beaufort. 1415 would forever be remembered in the annals of British History, although not for my birth: it was the same year as the Battle of Agincourt. I was the youngest of 22 children: an impressive number, even for the time period.

I ended up growing up alongside my future husband, Richard, Duke of York. We were engaged when I was 8 and he 13. Shortly after our marriage, we moved to Rouen, where I became pregnant and gave birth to an ill fated son named Henry. Yet, a year later I gave birth to a better fated child: Edward. Many children followed him, some hale, others not. There was Edmund, Anne, Elizabeth, Margaret, George, Richard, and my poor Ursula. Ursula died as a child, when Richard was 2.

My husband, during the madness of King Henry VI, served as royal protector, yet things were not easy: Richard had a strong claim to the English Throne, and began demanding that it be returned to him. This was incredibly unpopular, and caused the Wars of The Roses, also known as The Cousins’ War. Richard and my brother and nephew were at one point sent to Ireland in exile, before returning to England.

This, however, would prove to be a horrible choice.

In 1460, my husband and son, Edmund, were murdered at the Battle of Wakefield. This was a crushing blow to me, and I ended up living with my brother for a time. I sent my two youngest sons into exile for fear that they, too, would be killed. However, my son Edward went on crusade against the Lancastrians, and eventually won the throne for himself. Edward became King Edward IV in 1461.

My other two sons became the Duke of Clarence and the Duke of Gloucester. My daughters were given auspicious marriages, and lived in wealth. However, this peace would not last: Edward married two low-born women secretly: first, Nell Butler, and then Elizabeth Woodville. This in itself caused a rift in the aristocracy, and caused my nephew, The Kingmaker, to defect. My son, George, would later join his cousin in Calais. Yet, whether that was due to his brother’s choice or true love is contested by historians: he did, after all, love Isabel very much.

All of this fighting culminated in 1470, when Henry VI was restored to the throne, and my two Yorkist sons were forced to flee to Burgundy in order to survive. I stayed behind with my pregnant daughter-in-law, who that November delivered my first grandson: Edward. Edward the elder and Richard returned to England via Ravenspur in Spring 1471, and prepared to see their cousin and brother in battle. At Barnet, my nephew died, and at Tewksbury, Margaret of Anjou was defeated, her own son dead. It felt as if a divine karma had elevated us, although my son and husband would not return.

In the years that followed, Richard married my great-niece, Anne, and I was blessed with many more grandchildren from all three sons and two of my three daughters. In 1476, my son and husband were re-interred at our old home of Fotheringay, many years after they were murdered. Things felt wonderful…until 1477, when my son George was imprisoned on numerous counts of treason. He was executed in 1478 after a mockery of a trial.

This harkened the downfall of the House of York.

In 1483, my son Edward died suddenly of unknown causes. He left behind an heir who was not of age, my grandson Edward. Richard was to be his protector, yet he was too cocky and took the throne for himself. My grandsons disappeared, and although I know Richard would not have harmed them, my doubt disturbs my sleep.

Richard did not have an easy reign: in 1484, his son died, and in 1485 Anne followed suit. These deaths destroyed Richard, and he became severely ill. Although I tried to comfort my son, nothing could ease the grief he felt.

In 1485, the last of my sons was murdered by the last of the Lancastrians. Richard was hacked to pieces, dragged into Leicester, and buried in Greyfriars after being displayed naked for three days. The dishonour shown to my son was sickening, and I shall never forget.

My granddaughter, Elizabeth of York, is now queen of England, consort to the monster who murdered my son. But I am too old to fight him: I can only accept that my boys are dead.

I died in 1495, at the age of eighty. I had made my will prior, and was buried at Fotheringhay with my husband, a papal indulgence wrapped around my neck.

I was the queen who never was: wife to the rightful heir, mother of kings and queens, grandmother to such as well. I lived a long and storied life, and was granted the ability to die in my own bed: a luxury only one of my sons was able to have.

May God have mercy on my soul, and the souls of my children and husband.