Queen by Right (11 page)

Eventually, the Raby party entered the walled courtyard of the Erber, the Nevilles’ London townhouse by Dowgate, and Cecily was delighted by its size and grandeur. She had imagined a townhouse would resemble the wool merchant’s house her father had taken her to in York, which he had described as a townhouse. The Erber was three stories high. Sections of the rambling building were of ivy-covered stone with a central tower, and others were of wattle and daub between heavy black beams. Joan exclaimed at the ample light that filtered into the solar through the new and thinnest of horn panes. She spent a pleasant hour going from room to room admiring the changes Ralph had made.

“My lady, Sir Richard Neville is anxious to see you,” Ralph’s London steward announced from the doorway of the solar once Joan was seated by a newly laid fire.

“My son is here in London?” Joan was surprised and elated. “Does he stay here, Sir Edward?”

“Aye, madam. He lodges in the west wing, but he is this minute come from the king’s business at the Tower,” the steward replied. “The lady Alice is with him.”

Cecily clapped her hands, frightening Jessamine, who was sniffing every
corner of the new room. “Alice is here? She is with child, is she not? I wonder if little Joan is here, too? Oh, do send for them,” she begged.

A look of annoyance flitted over Joan’s face, but she gave her assent to the steward and asked that he arrange for refreshment. Bowing, he disappeared.

“When will you learn to curb your tongue in public, Cecily?” Joan scolded her. “One does not mention Alice’s delicate condition in front of a servant.”

“Aye, Mother,” she answered, nodding gravely. “I should know better. I beg your pardon.”

Joan looked askance at her daughter. This was not the first time that she had noticed Cecily’s more circumspect attitude toward her admonishments and wondered what had changed her, not being present for the promise Cecily had made her dying father. She grunted, a pleased half smile curling her mouth. Perhaps the child is finally growing up, she thought.

Richard Neville was ushered into the solar accompanied by—except for her enormous waist—the tiniest woman Cecily had ever known. Childbearing was still a mystery to Cecily, but she noticed a radiance about Alice’s birdlike features that had not been present the last time she had seen her sister-in-law. Alice curtsied demurely to Joan and greeted her as “my dearest lady mother,” and her husband gave his mother a smacking kiss on her cheek.

“I am astonished to see you here, my lady,” he said. “I thought you would join the king’s household in Leicester.”

“Leicester!” Joan groaned, sagging back in her seat. “How could we know? Your father always preferred the road through Lincoln, and so we never passed through Leicester. Sweet Jesu, I do not believe I could spend one more day on those lumpy cushions.”

Neville hurriedly reassured her that he would ride himself to make her excuses to the council. “’Tis propitious you should come, I have to confess,” he said, grinning. “The physicians did not want Alice to travel until her time, and I was languishing in London attending to minor matters on behalf of the crown while we waited—such as seeing that Monsieur le duc d’Orléans behaves himself in the Tower. Aye,” he nodded, “he is still England’s prisoner. There is no doubt you will be excused from attending the king if you are overseeing your daughter-in-law’s lying-in. What say you?”

Joan’s face was a picture of relief, and Neville laughed. “That is easily settled, then. For certain dear Alice is missing her own mother at this time, are you not, my love?” he said. Eleanor Holland had died two years ago and Alice had been heartbroken.

“Aye, my lord, I am right glad to see your mother here—and young Cecily.” Alice held her hands out to Cecily, who, afraid to hurt the baby, gingerly put her arms around her sister-in-law’s neck and pecked her cheek. “God’s greeting, my lady,” Cecily said shyly.

Alice held Cecily’s face between her hands and gave her a smacking kiss. “’Tis ‘Alice,’ not ‘my lady’ when we are together, Cecily. And may I say how pretty you have become in the two years since I saw you? Quite the young lady. Being betrothed suits you.”

Cecily giggled. “Pish! ’Tis only a piece of paper that says I am betrothed. Dickon and I must wait a few years, I suppose, until . . .” She eyed the belly in front of her and did not finish the thought. It was too terrifying to contemplate. Alice laughed and led her to a window seat that looked out onto a pleasant garden brightened by dancing daffodils.

“What news of the king? Of Bedford and Humphrey of Gloucester?” Joan asked her son, patting the chair next to her.

Richard Neville eased himself into it and put his feet up on a footstool. Instantly Jessamine spotted a new lap and leapt onto it in a flash. She was not disappointed. Neville fondled her ears and head exactly as she had hoped he would.

“One of the reasons I will be glad to ride to Leicester is to witness a reconciliation between Uncle Henry Beaufort and Duke Humphrey,” he said. “After Humphrey and his wife were beaten by Burgundy in January, they returned and begged for more aid from the council. Beaufort refused, and the tension between the two men caused Parliament to beg Bedford to come home from France and mend their fences. He did, and his presence is greatly respected by all. However, he will no doubt need to stay a goodly while to see this through.”

Joan shook her head. “I am sure King Harry is turning over in his grave. Thinking he had done the right thing by his infant son, he could not have foreseen the turmoil the kingdom would be in less than five years later.” She paused. “And how is the little king? Is he healthy? Handsome? Does he have his father’s fiery temperament or his gift for leadership?”

Neville laughed. “He is somewhat young to show leadership, madam. But he is healthy and has a pleasing enough countenance.” He paused, steepling his fingers and staring at the fire. “But he shows no hint of his father’s spirit. He merely sits there and watches, with large, passive blue eyes. I grant you, he is only five years old, but in my experience most boys want to run, throw a ball, or play soldier at that age. Sadly, he has no playmates, mostly because of his mother, who clings to him yet, not letting him out of her sight except in
council meetings, when she must. She is withdrawn and still has not mastered the language.” He looked over at his wife and Cecily, happily conversing in their nook, and suddenly snapped his fingers. “Od’s pitikins,” he remarked, remembering to soften his oath in front of his mother, “I forgot to mention. Cecily, are you listening?” he called. “York is to be knighted with the king in May. Does he know?”

Cecily at once asked leave to tell Richard, and Joan waved her off, instructing her to find the steward and see to the long-awaited supper. As her daughter made a reverence to both her and Neville, Joan said under her breath, “The child has finally learned some manners, thanks be to Our Lady. In truth, ’twas beginning to worry me.”

Cecily knew she would find Richard either in the great hall or seeing to his horse. She wagered on the horse, and she was right. After finding her way to the stables, she passed several grooms, who touched their foreheads or snatched off their hats as she skipped in. She spotted Richard, currying his own horse.

“Why do you not leave that work for the grooms? ’Tis servants’ work,” she suggested, sitting on a three-legged stool and watching him. “I have some important news to give you, but it smells in here, and I’d rather be in the garden.”

Richard stopped and stared at her, puzzled. “Since when have you become so high and mighty, Cis? You have always loved horses and the stables—at least you did at Raby.”

Cecily lowered her eyes to the straw. “’Tis hard keeping my promise to my father, Dickon. But he wanted me to stop being so childish and be a lady, and I am trying.”

“Ah, I see,” Richard responded, relieved. “I thought I was losing the friend I have known these three years. I applaud your efforts, but I like you the way you are.”

Cecily jumped to her feet. “Do you, Dickon? Then for you I shall never change! For Mother and my brother and—” She clapped her hand over her mouth as Neville’s face flashed into her mind. “Brother Richard! Sweet Jesu, I am forgetting why I came.” She snatched the currycomb out of his hand, set it on a stool, and pulled him to the door. “Hurry up, this is important.”

“Soft, little one,” he said, laughing at her. “Whatever it is, it can wait until I have washed my hands.”

He went to the pump, rubbed his hands under the frigid water, and then wiped them on his tunic.

“You are going to be knighted with the king!” Cecily cried, without waiting another moment. “Do you think I can be there to watch?”

Richard stood stock-still, his eyes wide. “Are you sure? To be thus honored is beyond words. Perhaps I was more noticeable during my months at court than I thought.”

“Pish, Dickon. You are the duke of York, and from what I have heard, you are just as close to the crown as any man in England.”

Richard clamped his hand over her mouth and looked around the stable yard. “Where is the garden, you silly goose? You cannot say such things in the middle of London or you will bring trouble for both of us,” he said gruffly. But upon seeing her chastened eyes, he sought to soothe her. “Forgive me, Cis, but you must learn to guard your tongue. I know who I am, but Henry is the Lord’s anointed and I am the king’s sworn servant—as are you. We must never forget our place. I learned from Sir Robert Waterton that ambition can undo a man and bring him naught but ill, and I have no need of it.” He let go of her, and they followed the path around the house to the garden, now dusk-dark.

“I am tr-truly s-sorry,” Cecily stammered. “God’s bones, but why must I watch my tongue when I speak only the truth? You have more right than Henry to be king, do you not?”

“Hush, Cecily!” Richard rounded on her. “Never say so. Who told you that?”

Looking sheepish, she admitted she had overheard her uncle Beaufort telling Joan. “There I am prattling on again. God’s bones!”

“Cecily!” Richard expostulated. “Where did you learn that? ’Tis not the language of a lady.”

Proudly Cecily told him her father had used it in her presence on several occasions. “He said a lot of things that he ought not when we went hunting.” She giggled. “He even tried to tell me about . . . um . . . well . . . where . . . how . . . babes are made,” she finished, using the knife from her belt to cut a daffodil to give to him. “He did not succeed,” she admitted, “and so I still do not know.”

Richard was now embarrassed. “By my troth,
I
shall not tell you. ’Tis for the countess to inform you. Or you could ask Rowena—she seems nice.” Hurrying her back to the door that led into the hall, he abruptly dropped the subject.

Not wanting to let him off the hook that easily, Cecily plucked up her courage and asked, “Do you know, Dickon?”

She was rewarded with a young duke’s open-mouthed and reddened face, and she laughed delightedly at him. “Nay, you do not, do you?”

Richard hastily hailed a comrade looking for a seat and quickly invited him to join them, thus ending the awkward topic. The very next day, he and Richard Neville left London for Leicester, gratefully relinquishing the business of birthing to the women.

I
T WAS
A
LICE
, not her mother or Rowena, who instructed Cecily about carnal knowledge. For the three weeks leading up to the birth of her second child, Alice was sequestered in her shuttered room, as was customary. The young woman, who was as industrious as she was intelligent, chafed at her lying-in, and her favorite companion became the inquisitive Cecily. Merry laughter and confidential whisperings marked Cecily’s long visits to the wood-paneled chamber in the west wing of the house.

After a visit from the nursery by the Nevilles’ first-born—named Joan for her grandmother and nicknamed Jane—the two would snuggle up together to read Geoffrey Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales,
a book Cecily had smuggled in to Alice at the older girl’s request.

Cecily’s eyes widened as Alice, reciting with relish, came to the advice of the Wife of Bath on marriage:

Tell me to what conclusion or in aid
Of what were generative organs made?
And for what profit were those creatures wrought?
Trust me, they cannot have been made for naught.
Argue as you will and plead the explanation
That they were only made for the purgation
Of urine, little things of no avail
Except to know a female from a male,
And nothing else. Did somebody say no?
Experience knows well it isn’t so.
The learned may rebuke me, or be loath
To think it so, but they were made for both,
That is to say both use and pleasure in
Engendering, except in case of sin—

Before she could finish, the curtains were flung aside by Joan, who snatched the book away, with several stern admonishments to the elder girl about immorality and being a bad influence. “He may have been my uncle by marriage
and your step-grandfather,” Joan had exclaimed, “but that does not mean I must approve of Master Chaucer’s words.”

Alice and Cecily had collapsed into quiet laughter after Joan left the room, and Alice whispered, “I wonder if Countess Joan has read his
Troilus and Criseyde?
Now
there
is a piquant piece about love.”

An only child lacking companionship, Alice now loved having a sister, despite Cecily’s youth. Cecily’s lack of shyness and brimming confidence made her seem far older than her years, Alice thought, and she soon was treating the younger girl as a peer. And after closing the bed curtains, Alice decided to educate the curious Cecily as to what happens when a man takes a woman between the sheets. Cecily, rendered speechless for several seconds when her sister-in-law had finished, soon let fly with questions.

“Do you enjoy the act?” she demanded in an urgent whisper. Rowena Gower and Alice’s tiring women were always present in the room, but Cecily hoped that as they had their own conversation to accompany the never-ending embroidery, they would pay no heed to what went on behind the velvet bed hangings.