The Diary of Cecily Neville

My cousin’s wife has recommended unto me that I keep a journal: she says that my grief has become so terrible that she fears for my health. And so, I shall keep record of my personal thoughts, at the very least for my sake, and for the most: my children.


My name is Cecily: I am to be 45 years old come this year’s nameday. I have a number of children, all whom I dearly love, and I have recently been widowed. I was once the Duchess of York, yet three months have passed since I’ve used that moniker.

My husband and son died fighting in the Battle of St. Albans.

Edmund: my poor, sweet Edmund: he was only 17 when he was executed. I can still remember holding him in my arms when he was small. I can still remember his big blue eyes staring up at me. All my years, I never thought that this would be how he met his end: I guess all mothers believe (foolishly) that their children will die old in their beds, from some illness. I should’ve known better: I’ve lost so many in the cradle. I could see that Richard, my husband, was on his way to a warrior’s death, but not Edmund. Not my child.

I don’t know who I blame: whether it be Margaret of Anjou, or the Duke of Somerset…or even my late husband. The blame shifts like a shadow in my head: he who killed my husband and my son contorting into different people. I daresay that oftentimes, the blame falls on Richard: had he not taken my son into battle, had he not left him at Sandal, Edmund would not have died. Why did he have to take my son from me? The rage I have towards my late husband is much. Yet, I know my feelings are inappropriate: my husband was a victim, too.

And that is why we are here.

I am staying with a relative. I have brought my two boys and my daughter with me: George is 12, Richard is 8, and Margaret is creeping towards 14. We are living in charity: our things have been seized by the crown, and my son, Edward (18) is fighting the Lancastrians in order to become king. I didn’t want him to leave: I didn’t want him to die like his brother had. I don’t want to suffer Edmund’s death in any of my other children, but he insisted.

I haven’t seen him for months.

And so I am stuck: a widow, a grieving mother, a worried parent…the world is uncertain, and I do not know how to protect my boys from danger. I feel lost, with no way to turn.

And so I write this diary.

-Cecily

Dear Diary,

Today was an ordinary day: I attended mass, sat with my sons all the day, and ate my meals. I did have an odd thought today: as I watched Richard sit on the floor and play with his uncle's dog, I wondered if he understood that his father was dead...if he even knew that he was dead. He seemed so leisurely, one would assume he didn't. I have not the heart to tell him: he is fine it seems, and I do not wish to distress him. Afterall, he is seven. I'll tell him when he is older.

George, however, knows: he has night terrors, and is quite anxious. I shall not have my youngest tormented like his brother is.

I will write again later.

Sincerely,
Cecily

Dear diary,

Today, Richard was sick abed with a spring cold. You know how little boys get at the slightest illness; he mewed at me while I had to hold a cold compress to his forehead. Sometimes I wonder what ails this child, beyond his cold; why he makes such small noises in his fever, or why he chooses to sit on the floor and play with the dogs, rather than play with his brother. I don’t remember Edward being like this, nor George. I wonder if it’s due to him being my youngest, if there is just something that makes youngest children ever so odd.

George stayed close by as I dealt with Richard; he wanted to be helpful, but there wasn’t much that I could allow for him to do. He tried to read to his brother while the younger napped, but the most he did today was worry. I think the death of my husband and son have weighed heavily on us all: we are overly cautious with Richard, even if this is just a touch of a chill. It has passed my mind that I could not cope with the death of another child, and so I’ve sat at Richard’s bedside since he fell ill.

Sincerely,
Cecily