Queen by Right (18 page)

The mood at Henry’s court was grim. In four short months, this peasant girl from a tiny hamlet was threatening English dominance in France. At home in England, the king’s council was divided between those who favored a peaceful pullout backed by Cardinal Beaufort and his ally in France, the earl of Suffolk, and those, like John of Bedford and Humphrey of Gloucester, who could not bear to see their French lands relinquished. And it did not help that the English people were tired of being taxed to fund the never-ending campaigns in France.

One evening after the little king had retired and some at the court were taking advantage of the long July evening to stroll around the gardens at Windsor, Humphrey of Gloucester and his new wife Eleanor fell into step beside Joan and Cecily and their attendants. Joan was surprised but gracious.
It was unusual for Gloucester to single her out for conversation, and she wondered what his motive might be.

“Today I received news that the peasant girl has fulfilled another of her prophecies. Not a week ago she saw Charles anointed king at Reims, and she is now approaching Paris,” Humphrey growled.

“Sweet Mother of God, do not say so,” Joan exclaimed, her hand over her mouth. “But where is Bedford, my lord? Is he not defending Paris?”

Gloucester’s rasping voice was hard to avoid. Walking a step behind, Cecily was able to indulge herself in eavesdropping. She had become obsessed with the story of Jeanne—la Pucelle, they were calling her, which Richard told her meant the Maid—and every time she heard the name, Cecily’s ears pricked up.

She is only three years older than I, she thought for the hundredth time, and yet she has led an army, scaled a city wall, been wounded, and even crowned a king. What have I done? She could think of nothing important at all, and the notion disheartened her. She wasn’t even married or could not even boast a title. She was now, however, firmly convinced that Jeanne must have heard saintly voices. Why, had not she, Cecily Neville, been visited by the Virgin herself twice in her life: once in the forest at Raby and then by the white dove? It was probable that Jeanne was also thus visited.

“Thanks be to God that your brother the cardinal agreed to allow the troops he had raised for his crusade in Bohemia to be put under Bedford’s command, madam,” Gloucester was telling Joan. “They will reinforce Paris, I have no doubt.”

Then without even a pause, the duke came to the point of his walk with Joan. “By your leave, Lady Joan, I would know your opinion of your nephews, John and Edmund of Somerset. You must have watched them grow up.”

It was asked almost flippantly, but Joan saw through Gloucester’s guile and trod warily. In as flippant a tone, she gave an ambiguous response that told the man nothing.

“Oh, pish, Mother,” Cecily broke in, unable to resist speaking her mind. “Edmund is a bully, and I have never cared for him. He swung a cat around by its tail at Raby once and Father gave him a whipping for it, remember?”

As soon as the words had left her mouth, Cecily regretted them, for Joan slapped her roundly for eavesdropping and interrupting a royal duke, but although smarting, Cecily noticed that Humphrey was looking curiously at her, as if her words had struck a chord.

R
ICHARD RAN UP
the steps to the countess of Westmorland’s apartments a week later and asked to be announced. He found Joan standing by the window of her solar and knelt to kiss her hand. “My lady, it is good of you to see me, and I shall not keep you long,” he began, aware of others in the room but intent on speaking with the countess privately.

Joan smiled at the earnest young man and noted the broadening shoulders, wisp of a beard, and sharpening features. How old was he now, she mused, eighteen? He was a fine-looking man, if not the tallest or broadest of his fellows. He and Cecily would make beautiful children together, she thought. She glanced over his shoulder to where Cecily lay curled upon the bed, napping after the midday meal. Putting a finger to her lips, Joan nodded in Cecily’s direction.

“You look so serious, Richard. What is it?” she murmured. “Do not tell me you are returning to France. It would break Cecily’s heart.” Despite the question, Joan already knew the answer. She had persuaded her nephew Humphrey of Gloucester to find the young duke a role at court, pointing out that it might be wise to bring Richard into the family sooner rather than later by sanctioning his marriage to Cecily. She knew she did not have to spell out why; Gloucester was well aware of the implications for Lancaster of Richard’s Mortimer claim and had at once acquiesced. “But no fanfare, countess, in view of the dire news from France,” he had said.

“Is this better?” Richard answered Joan’s question, giving her his warmest smile. “Now that I have learned I will remain at court for the foreseeable future, I believe there is no reason to wait. I am here to ask you formally for permission to wed Cecily.”

Neither had noticed that Cecily had awakened and was craning her neck to hear the conversation. When she heard the word “permission” and her name, she sprang off the bed but, remembering to control herself, she walked sedately to the pair by the window.

“Good afternoon, Dickon,” she said as coolly as she could, hoping her expression did not reveal her racing pulse. “’Tis abominably hot, is it not? To what do we owe the honor of a visit?”

Richard turned abruptly when he heard her, and kneeling on the red-and-white-patterned tiles, he kissed her hand.

Joan arched a cynical eyebrow. She had not missed the flush of excitement on her daughter’s neck or the quiver in her voice. Little minx, she must have overheard, her mother guessed.

“How now, Richard, will you answer her? Why did you come a-calling?” she
teased the flustered man. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “You have my permission, my lord. Now put her out of her misery.” She rose, snapped her fingers at the two attendants, and went to the door. “Come and find me in the rose arbor, Cecily. I have no doubt you will wish to talk. God bless you both.”

Richard waited until the door clicked shut and then he clasped Cecily’s fingers and looked up into her expectant face. “I came to seek your hand, my lady,” he said simply. “I know we were promised those many years ago at Raby, but the time is . . .”

He got no further. Cecily went down on her knees to join him and took both his hands. “Then let us seal the bargain, my lord of York—with a kiss,” she said grandly, and closing her eyes and pursing her lips, she waited. His neighing laugh startled her and broke the spell. Now she frowned. “What is so amusing, Dickon? This is no laughing matter. You are supposed to kiss me. It says so in
Roman de la Rose,
or so Alice told me.”

She was about to get off her knees when Richard stayed her. “Forgive me, Cis, but you looked so comical with your puckered lips, I could not forbear to laugh,” he explained. Then, looking deep into her eyes, he spoke the words he had practiced so often in his tent outside Orléans when he thought he might never see her again. “Cecily Neville, I love you with every breath that I take. From the first day I saw you, you have been in my heart. Even before your father decided that we should be man and wife, I knew ’twas what I wanted, too. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife, my duchess, and my companion for life?”

Tears of joy filled Cecily’s eyes as she listened to the words she had been yearning to hear since his homecoming. The weeks of waiting melted away in the happiness she felt at this moment. “I will,” she whispered, “with all my heart I will.”

“Now you shall have your kiss, my dearest.” Richard took her face in his hands and their lips met first in a kiss of promise, then deepened into one of desire and wonderment.

8
England, Autumn 1429

T
he small cavalcade meandered slowly along the towpath beside the Thames on its way to Bisham twelve miles upstream from Windsor. The road was pitted by dried hoofprints made by the huge carthorses and oxen that pulled the barges along the river, and Cecily was glad that she and Joan had chosen not to take the carriage.

“It would have been a bone-shattering ride,” Joan said, traveling pillion behind Richard Neville on his bay horse. “We are so grateful to you for giving us your escort, my son. I have no doubt we would have found our way, but it gives me a chance to have you to myself.”

Neville chuckled. “Alice was insistent I fetch you, Mother. She was convinced you would prefer to ride. How could I disappoint her after she gave me a thriving son and heir last year.” He looked back at the rest of the group to make sure they were keeping up, and chuckled again. “I am astonished to see Cecily up behind Dickon. I do not believe I have ever seen her ride except on her own horse since she was in brai—I mean swaddling bands.”

“Braies is what you were about to say,” Joan finished for him. She sighed. “Sweet Jesu, how that father of yours spoiled her. But look at them, like a pair of moonstruck peasants. ’Tis unseemly how they kiss and coo.”

“Let them be, Mother. I well remember Father taking you in his arms in front of us and covering your face with kisses.”

Joan simpered like a young girl. “Aye, he had no sense of decorum whatsoever.”

“And you loved it. Confess it, my lady!” he retorted, and his mother gave him a playful thwack.

Cecily had her arms around Richard’s waist with her head resting on his back. It felt strong and hard beneath his worsted tabard. She breathed in his
musky scent. She had requested to ride pillion just to be near him. Richard guided his horse with one hand on the reins; the other had Cecily’s concealed in the folds of his tunic. He could not wipe the grin from his face, despite daily mockery from his comrades at dinner in the great hall.

In two days we shall be wed, Cecily said to herself, watching a kingfisher flash blue and orange into the water and use its daggerlike bill to spear a fish. Dear Mother of God, you will be there with me, will you not? Aye, I expect you are there for all young women at those important times in their lives. This will be my most important time, sweet Mary—except perhaps when I am giving birth. She gulped and lifted her head. In her happiness at knowing she and Richard would soon be united, she had forgotten the other part of marriage, the part that Alice had described during their secret talks at the Erber. Come now, Cecily, she told herself, be truthful. You have indeed thought of this often in the past few years. How many times have you looked at a couple and imagined them naked and fornicating? She shook her head. She did not want to imagine herself and Richard in that naked, tumbled state. She wanted him to entwine his fingers in hers, kiss her gently, and call her his love, and indeed he had done so several times since they had pledged themselves, but they had always been fully clothed.

“Is there something amiss, Cecily?” Richard asked, when he felt her move and pull away her hand. “Would you like to climb down and stretch your legs?”

Cecily thought it a very good idea, and so Richard called out to Neville to stop. Joan was pleased for the halt and after reaching the ground with her son’s help, went off to find a convenient bush to take care of her need.

The respite on the riverbank cleared Cecily’s mind of awkward thoughts, and soon the group was trotting eastward away from the river toward Bisham. It was almost dark when they arrived, but the old white stone of the centuries-old former priory, first built for two Knights Templar, glowed against the inky sky. Flambeaux and candles in the great hall welcomed the Neville party, and within a half-hour, plates of steaming pheasant pie, delicate trout, roasted capon, and goblets of good Bordeaux wine were replenishing growling bellies and soothing aching limbs.

Alice and Cecily tumbled into each other’s arms as soon as the formal greetings were over. Alice could not wait to show her sister-in-law where she would be lodged in the comfortable, rambling house. “I have set aside my mother’s favorite solar for you and Dickon,” she whispered. “You will stay in it alone until your wedding night—” she broke off, looking at Cecily’s hand
gripping her arm and then up at Cecily’s frightened face. “What is it, Cis? Surely you are not still afraid of . . . Ah, but I see that you are.”

She pushed Cecily inside the solar, shooed Rowena away, and locked the door. Within a few minutes, Alice had calmed Cecily and reminded her of the beauty of intimacy with one’s husband.

“Do we have to do it naked?” Cecily ventured. “I do not think I would like to see Dickon naked. I like him in his fine clothes.”

Alice tittered, her huge brown eyes full of merriment. “You will like him without clothes, you will see. Why, ’tis plain as a pikestaff the two of you are head over heels in love. If you are so fearful of that first time, just ask him to blow out the candles. Believe me, you goose, he will feel just as anxious,” Alice reassured her.

But Cecily was crying. Alice pulled her into her arms. “What is it, sweet Cis?”

“This will not be Richard’s first time, I am certain of it. What if I do not please him as those court ladies did?” Her voice was muffled in Alice’s damask gown as she wailed, “I fear he has already made a cuckold of me.”