Queen by Right (26 page)

Cecily started and opened her eyes. She could see nothing in the dark.

“The rats! Where are the rats?” she whimpered, still living her nightmare.

Rowena found the tinderbox and lit a taper, shielding it with her hand yet casting grotesque shadows on the wall behind her. Cecily cringed but gradually recognized her surroundings and was soothed by Rowena’s assurances about the absence of rats.

“Sweet Jesu, but the dream seemed so real,” she whispered, shivering. She took a cup of wine from Rowena’s hand and sipped carefully, comforted by the warm sensation the liquid gave her as it slipped down her throat. “I was La Pucelle and the judges were all rats. ’Twas all so strange.”

Rowena harrumphed. “You dreamed about the heretic, your grace? It must be the Devil’s work that she enters your dreams.”

“You believe that, Rowena? Why, she has not even been tried yet,” Cecily said. “You are too quick to judge.”

Rowena snorted her disapproval again.

Cecily shook her head, remembering the nightmare, and crossed herself. And then for good measure she pulled her amber rosary from under her pillow, climbed out of bed, and went to her little altar. “
Ave Maria, gratia plena
. . .” She murmured the soothing rote prayer to her benefactress, the Virgin, who smiled down at her from the delicate painting on the center panel. “Dear Mother of God, what can the dream mean?”

Rowena had crawled back under the bedclothes and had already fallen asleep. But Cecily pulled her bedrobe around her, went to the window embrasure, and pushed open the heavy wooden shutter. The sky was just lightening to the east, and silhouetted against it was the grim donjon where she knew Jeanne was held prisoner. Cecily strained to see any sign of life at the high window—perhaps Jeanne, too, could not sleep and was looking across the courtyard at her. But then she recalled Richard saying Jeanne did not have a window in her cell. “Only an arrow slit in case she thinks about jumping out again,” he had said.

Cecily went back to the altar and leaned her head against the wooden prayer rail, pondering Jeanne’s fate. I wish I could see her, she thought, but she could not imagine how this might be achieved. She quietly closed the shutter, slipped back under the covers, and finally went back to sleep.

“W
OULD YOU ACCOMPANY
me on my weekly mission of mercy at the castle prison, Cecille?” Anne of Bedford asked the young duchess of York the very next day.

Cecily could hardly contain her mounting excitement. “A mission of mercy, your grace? What does that entail?”

“I have been visiting the prisoners there—French soldiers for the most part—every week since we returned to Rouen, but”—she leaned over to whisper as far as her heavy headdress would allow—“this is the first time I shall be seeing La Pucelle. I am as curious as you to see her, and as I thought my husband would more likely allow two of us to offer a kind word and food, I asked if you might accompany me. To my surprise and delight he had no objection. She has been unwell, it seems, and my lord agreed she might be grateful for a little comfort from a woman. What say you, my dear friend, will you come?”

Cecily sent a fleeting word of thanks to the Virgin, for surely Mary had heard her prayer.

E
VEN BEFORE THEIR
escort opened the door to the guardroom the foul odor of human waste assailed Cecily’s nostrils. She pulled out a kerchief doused in rosewater for this occasion and held it over her face. It seemed Duchess Anne was used to the stench, because she walked through the doorway with her attendant and into the outer of two cells where Jeanne was held without even wrinkling her nose.

Four guards lounging on stools and the floor were throwing dice. They hurriedly rose, touched their foreheads, and flattened themselves against the wall when they recognized Bedford’s wife, and upon seeing the duchess of York as well, two of them elbowed each other, awed and hardly believing their eyes. A window set high in the wall let in enough light for them to see, and Cecily wondered if that was the window she had seen from her chamber on the night of her dream. The second room, separated from the guardroom by iron bars, had a low ceiling and only an arrow slit for a little air and light. In the gloom, Cecily could just make out a slight figure sitting still on a narrow bed attached to the wall. Two buckets of waste waiting to be emptied were ranged against the bars. Cecily’s anger overcame her misgivings.

“Can you not see the jakes are full!” she cried at the cowering men. “You are not fit to be called Englishmen. One of you take them away at once!” They all stumbled over one another in an effort to do her bidding.

Anne nodded her approval.
“Bien fait,
well done, your grace,” she murmured, and taking Cecily’s arm, she moved up to the bars of Jeanne’s cell, where Cecily could see the prisoner was cruelly chained to the poor excuse for a bed. Turning to the guard nearest the bunch of keys that hung by the door, Anne told him to unshackle the prisoner and to allow her to approach the bars. Eager to please, the guard worked quickly and then pushed Jeanne in
the direction of the two women gazing in pity at the poor creature who slowly shuffled toward them. The man relocked the grille behind him and sauntered back to his mates, who were still gawping at the visitors.

Hoping for a moment of privacy with Jeanne, Cecily snapped, “Enough of your staring, sirrahs. Go back to your game of dice. We shall not be long.” The men were happy to oblige and were soon absorbed in their sport.

“Venez là,
demoiselle.” Anne’s gentle voice caught Jeanne off guard and Cecily saw her lip quiver. “We are here to bring you comfort and a little food. I am Anne, wife of the duke of Bedford, and this is her grace the duchess of York.”

Jeanne stared through the bars at the two noblewomen with a mixture of fear and awe, rubbing her eyes as if she could not believe them. It had been some time since she had been among her own sex, let alone in the presence of women of such rank. For her part, Cecily could not help but stare back, surprised that Jeanne was nothing like the radiant, self-assured warrior of her imagination but a rather plain, frail peasant girl seemingly terrified of her and Anne.

Cecily took some bread and cheese from the basket on her arm. “Demoiselle Jeanne, do not be afraid. We are come as your friends to give you a little comfort,” she said in her best French. Still awed, Jeanne shied away when Cecily attempted to pass the food through the bars.

“Do not be afraid,” Cecily murmured. “I pray you, take the food.” She was dismayed by the haunted look in the brown eyes and gave Jeanne a reassuring smile.

Anne nodded and smiled beside Cecily, and finally Jeanne reached out and took the bread.
“Je vous remercie,
madame la duchesse,” she murmured in a deeper voice than Cecily had envisioned, and Cecily had to concentrate on the unfamiliar accent. The hand that held the bread was so small that Cecily wondered how the woman had been able to wield a sword. But it was also scratched and bruised and the nails black with dirt. There was no doubt Jeanne had not bathed for months, and Cecily longed to pull out her kerchief again but did not want to offend the quiet young woman. How had this simple peasant so galvanized one army and threatened another? Cecily pondered. Was it God’s work or—she shivered slightly—was it the Devil’s?

The visitors waited for Jeanne to take a bite from the bread and savor the good Norman cheese, and they were rewarded with a smile of pleasure. Cecily noticed Jeanne’s coarsely woven hose woefully bagged around her thin thighs
and pooled at her ankles, which were caked in blood from the open sores from the shackles. Cecily winced.

“Are you treated well, Jeanne?” Anne asked, after Jeanne had swallowed her mouthful.

Looking warily at the guards, who were paying the women no heed, she stepped closer to whisper. “The guards shout at me, madame, but I do not understand, as I cannot speak English. They beat me sometimes,” she complained.

Anne clucked her tongue. “I shall speak to my lord about this, have no fear, demoiselle.” She suddenly wanted to leave this place, and she took Cecily’s arm. She did not know what she was expecting from this heroine of the French army, but she had not thought to be confronted with such an uninspiring person, and her disappointment showed in her voice. “We shall pray for you, demoiselle, that you may see the error of your ways.”

Cecily was surprised by the dismissive tone and removed her arm from Anne’s hold. “I will follow in a minute, your grace,” she said, standing her ground and using her height to assert herself. “I should like to offer up a prayer with Jeanne before I leave, if it please you.”

“Very well, my dear duchess.” Anne inclined her head, surprised that Cecily did not feel the same desire to leave as soon as possible. “Have the guard escort you to the cell beneath us.” She eyed Rowena standing by the door as she left. “Stay with your mistress.” The attendant curtsied and murmured, “Have no fear I will, your grace.”

Now that Cecily was alone with Jeanne, she did not know what to say. Jeanne was looking at her strangely, and so she crossed herself and looked at the ground for a clean spot to kneel upon. She pulled out her kerchief and sank down on it. Jeanne lowered herself painfully, but as the young peasant raised her eyes to heaven, her face was lit with a radiant smile.

“Oui, mon Seigneur,”
she suddenly cried, startling Cecily. “I will do as you bid me.” As Cecily studied Jeanne’s rapt face, she thought a window in the ceiling must have opened to let the sunlight stream in, because she sensed a glow all around her. She was awed. Jeanne was gazing up into the light as though she could see through it into heaven beyond. Cecily wondered that the guards and Rowena did not pròstrate themselves, but it appeared they were oblivious to this heavenly sight. She crossed herself and fingered her rosary, knotted as usual on her belt, and strained to hear Jeanne’s voices as the Maid continued to address them.

Sweet Jesu, does she really hear the saints? she asked herself, a little afraid now in the bleak prison. She was just beginning to feel faint when the light faded and Jeanne turned to her, speaking in a low monotone.

“You are a good woman, madame, and I am told to thank you for your kindness. I beg of you, keep me in your prayers.” She glanced through the bars at the slovenly guards still throwing dice and sighed. “But do not fear for me, my lady. I am promised by my voices that I shall be delivered. I know not when, but I trust in Him—as you must.” She reached through the bars and touched Cecily’s hand holding the rosary, and as she did so, the amber beads grew hot as if in a flame. Cecily heard Jeanne’s words as though in a trance. “May God bless you, Cecily Neville, and your sons, who will one day wear the crown of England.”

Cecily felt the hairs on her neck prickle and she was suddenly very warm in the chill, dank cell. She closed her eyes, swaying back and forth, aware she was swooning, but instead of the usual blackness, all was infused with white light. She felt Rowena gently raise her to her feet.

“Come, your grace, we should go now,” the attendant said, glaring at Jeanne, who moved back from the bars. Rowena had been watching the exchange and was horrified when the heretic had dared to touch her mistress. “Guards, you may shackle your prisoner. Her grace is finished here.”

Still in a trance, Cecily allowed herself to be led from the room. “May God watch over you, Jeanne d’Arc,” she called over her shoulder. With deep sadness she knew that no one else would.

T
HAT NIGHT SHE
lay next to her husband for the first time in a week. She would usually have been delighted to welcome him back to her bed, but her heart was still filled with the mystical incident in the prison cell. Richard had been interested to hear of the visit and asked a few perfunctory questions about the Maid’s appearance and her behavior, but Cecily did not tell him—nor would she tell anyone yet—of her extraordinary experience that day. It would be for her, Jeanne, and God alone.

It seemed Richard was not able to discern that her mind was not on their lovemaking as he spent time with foreplay, and she aroused him to several brinks of climax with her new-learned skills. When he had finally had his fill of her, and she had masterfully pretended her own rapture, he slumped down onto the feather mattress breathing hard.

“I cannot imagine going through life a virgin,” Cecily said, then chuckled.

“Whatever made you think of that?” Richard asked.

“La Pucelle,” Cecily said simply. “She has given up all of that—and her freedom—for the love of God.”

“Aye, and so do those who take holy orders, Cis. Only they take their vows and go quietly about their business. They do not ride into battle and consort with the Devil.”

“How dare you say so,” Cecily cried, sitting up and thumping the bed. “How do you know Jeanne does not hear holy voices? Just because God has not chosen you as His messenger—”

“God’s bones, Cis, what did that little witch say to you today? I pray she has not cast her evil eye upon you. Can you not forget about her? I pray you, do not let this woman come between us,” he cajoled, stroking her back. “It was good of you and Duchess Anne to visit her, but there is an end to it. If it affects you thus, I will forbid you to go on errands of mercy like this again.”

Cecily took a deep breath. She knew Jeanne was not a subject Richard liked to discuss and she did not want a quarrel. “I have done nothing wrong, my love, and my only thought was to bring a little comfort to the poor woman. ’Tis our Christian duty to help our fellows, is it not? I pray you, turn to me. I would not have you cross with me. We have so few opportunities to be together like this, and I would feel your love for me, not your ire.”

Richard acquiesced, and she snuggled into his warm body. He had yearned for her all evening as they supped with Duke John, his duchess, and Cecily’s sisters. Joan had not been well of late, and she had spent all day in her chamber. Cecily had decided it was best not to upset her mother with the knowledge of her visit to Jeanne; she would tell Joan of it one day, she had no doubt.