Queen by Right (36 page)

And so the ducal cavalcade of packhorses, carts piled with furnishings and pulled by long-horned oxen, coffers of silverware, chests of clothes, and two wagonloads of servants followed Duchess Cecily’s personal retinue, escorted by two dozen men-at-arms, along the road, which still boasted flint paving from Roman times. At Dorking, a small but thriving market town on the River Mole, the steward called a halt to the procession to set up the overnight quarters for the duchess and her ladies in a field.

Cecily was struck by the beauty of a high chalky hill above the town and called for Piers to bring her horse so that she could ride up to the top and admire the view. Rowena pursed her lips in disapproval when she realized Cecily would go alone with Master Taggett, but he was so often in Cecily’s company that she presumed none of the other retainers would find anything untoward in it.

“’Tis as well your mother is not here to see you, your grace,” she admonished her, as she helped her mistress into her split riding skirt. She never understood why the duchess could not simply ride sidesaddle, as other ladies did, and save her the tedious work of changing Cecily’s clothes. “If the duke is displeased, I hope you will have the grace to tell him I did try to stop you.”

This made Cecily laugh, though she suffered a little pang of remorse at the mention of Joan. “No doubt all will be able to see me up there, so pray stop being a killjoy. I deserve some time to myself after this nightmarish month, do you not think?” It is true, Rowena thought. My lady has not stopped to breathe since giving birth to little Henry. “My son is in good hands,” Cecily added, turning and smiling at Constance. “I will be back before he even wakes.”

After helping Cecily into the saddle, Piers leaped on his mount, and they trotted off through beech, birch, and oak trees, with carpets of bluebells on either side of them, until the trees gave way to coarse grassland upon the steep chalk slope.

“You are happy in our service, are you not, Piers?” Cecily asked him. “His grace, the duke, is pleased with your work at the mews.”

Piers blushed a delightful pink at this praise, and Cecily hid a smile. “Aye,
your grace, I be content. Who could not be?” he said earnestly. “I did never dream of such a life as this.”

“Do you still think I am the Virgin Mary?” Cecily teased him. “Nay, that is unkind of me, Piers, for certes, you have grown out of such a childish notion.” She chuckled at his chagrin as she urged her horse upward. “Come now, who will reach the top of this hill first, do you think?”

Piers grinned and replied without losing a beat, “You, my lady.”

They allowed the horses to rest once they reached the summit. Cecily sat on an outcropping to contemplate the valley and the Surrey hills spread before them in their early May glory—yellow broom, cowslips, and primroses, pink and white hawthorn—and she felt a pang of regret that she would not see an English spring again for several years. She wondered whether Normandy had had time to recover from so much devastation, remembering well the scenes from her first time there. Her ruminations led her to wonder where Richard was at this very moment. He had promised to catch up with her as soon as he could, but she knew he had much on his mind. In only a few more days, the long procession would arrive at Portsmouth, and surely Richard would be escorting them upon the final leg. So far, they had not been attacked by any bands of vagrants, and for that Cecily was grateful to Richard for the thirty-man armed escort that he had provided.

Little Henry seemed to be enduring well the long, tedious journey, she thought tenderly, though she had complained to Richard before he left Fotheringhay that the child was rather young for such travel.

“Look at him,” Richard had answered, watching his son cry lustily and kick the end of his cradle with sturdy little legs. “He is only six weeks, Cis, but he is as strong as an ox.” And Cecily had inclined her head proudly in agreement and accepted the decision.

After swallowing a few mouthfuls of water from a leathern flask, she bent and snapped off a yellow sprig of broom to put in her green felt chaperon.

“Did you know how my ancestor, Geoffrey of Anjou, came to give the name Plantagenet to the royal dynasty, Piers?” Observing the blank look in the young falconer’s eyes, Cecily educated him. “He was often seen with just such a stalk of broom in his hat and took it for his badge. As the Latin name for the bush is
planta genista
, he was nicknamed Geoffrey Plantagenet. When he married the daughter of our first King Henry, their son—called Curtmantle—took the name, and then his son, and thus and so on until our present sovereign lord. No doubt English kings will carry the name forever.” She saw with
amusement that this was more than he wanted to know and pointed to where her horse was grazing. “Here endeth your history lesson for today, Master Taggett. See to the horses, if you please. I will join you anon.”

She walked along the edge of the escarpment and looked down on the encampment below at some servants fetching water from the river, her guards lolling on the grass, and the carters leading their oxen to drink. They look like so many insects from this height, she mused. This is what we must look like to God. How can He know each and every one of us and what we do and think? And yet we believe He watches over us all. Why, Cis, she chastised herself, are you questioning the church’s teachings? She crossed herself for good measure and idly watched the scene below.

There were few females in her train, and so when two women ran out of her murrey and blue striped tent, one carrying something—Anne perhaps—and the other waving her arms, Cecily noticed them at once. She recognized Rowena’s bright blue dress and assumed she was playing a game with little Anne. Or perhaps Henry had awakened early and was demanding his food and the wet-nurse had wandered away. She smiled when she imagined his bright red face and wide-open mouth in full voice. He was a lusty one, indeed, and even the king had complimented her on his namesake during the brief audience she had when she had stopped in London the week before.

At that meeting, she had also noticed the swarthy-faced earl of Suffolk’s false smile as he bowed to her and chucked the baby under the chin, immediately setting him to whimpering. “So his grace of York has an heir,” he had murmured to his companion as he walked away, thinking Cecily was preoccupied with paying attention to the crying child. “We must make sure the duke stays loyal to the crown.” Her ears had pricked up, and she stored the remark for a future discussion with Sir William.

’Tis no wonder your badge is the ape’s clog, Sir. You are as clumsy with your words as if you were wearing one, she mused now, kicking a stone and watching it roll down the hillside. Aye, my lord Suffolk, York does in truth have an heir, and I hope you will not forget it as you fawn on the king and whisper to my Beaufort cousins. Do not imagine I am ignorant of your power on the council. Sir William has told me of your rising star now that Uncle Beaufort is aging. She grimaced as she recalled that Suffolk was now the king’s steward but her husband was nowhere in the king’s immediate circle. And then it occurred to her that in Normandy he would be even further from the king, and she wondered if that had been Suffolk’s intent.

She sighed and made her way back to Piers. “Come, Master Taggett, let us rejoin our fellow travelers,” she said.

Wheeling her palfrey around, Cecily loosened the reins to allow the horse to extend his neck for balance and carefully controlled the descent on the crumbling hill until she reached the footpath, where she cantered along its length, loving the wind in her face, the birdsong heralding spring, and the overpowering smell of bluebells. A country girl at heart, she often chafed when confined by narrow, overcrowded streets of cities.

As they approached the camp, she was surprised to see Rowena running headlong on the path toward her, cap askew and tripping on the hem of her muddied blue gown. Cecily spurred her horse faster and reined him in so sharply that he reared up in front of Rowena, causing her to fall flat on her back on the soft ground.

“Whoa, boy!” Cecily quieted the animal and asked if Rowena was hurt.

“N-nay, your grace, only a little afraid,” she answered quickly, righting herself and straightening her clothes. “But you m-must hurry back. ’Tis the b-babe . . .”

Cecily paled. “Henry? What of him? Is he ill? Answer me, madam!” She heard her own shrill command and was immediately sorry, for it made Rowena stammer all the more.

“A—a—bee or a w-w-wasp, your gr-grace,” she managed. “His f—f—face swells like . . .” And she puffed her cheeks out to demonstrate.

Cecily did not wait to hear more but took off at a gallop, leaving Rowena staring miserably after her. Piers swung the unfortunate attendant up behind him and followed at a slower pace.

The small crowd around the ducal tent told her where Henry was, and as a groom ran to hold her horse, she slid down by herself and was at his side in an instant. The baby’s face was horribly bloated and, snatching away the blanket, she saw someone had unwound his bands, revealing the puffy arms and legs of a devastating reaction to the sting. Constance had thrown open the tent sides to let in as much light and air as possible, and she was searching among her herbs and potions for a remedy. Cecily stared in horror at the swollen, naked child struggling for every inhalation of shallow breath. Henry’s dark blue eyes conveyed desperation. She smothered a groan of anguish. Blessed Mother of God, she prayed, I beg of you, not again.

“Do something, Constance!” Cecily’s ashen face turned to find the doctor.

“I find ze barb,
madame la duchesse,
” Constance began calmly enough,
though Cecily noticed beads of sweat on her upper lip. Seeing Cecily’s impatient frown, she hurried on in her native tongue: “Some bees sting only once and then they die because they leave the barb behind. ’Tis necessary to remove it, but . . .” She hesitated and looked down at her bag.

“But what?” Cecily snapped from beside the wheezing child, a rising panic clutching at her throat as she stroked his hot little head.

“I was unable to remove it all,” Constance apologized, joining Cecily at the bedside. “You can see it there,” and she pointed to the minuscule remains of the dart at the center of a red welt on the baby’s leg.

Cecily shook her head in disbelief. “How could a bee sting him through the binding cloths, doctor?”

“We had taken them off after he soiled himself, your grace, and the nurse was preparing a clean set,” Constance replied. “We saw the bee fly in, and Rowena tried to chase it away, but it became angry, and we were all trying to kill it when it landed on Lord Henry and stung him. ’Twas nobody’s fault, madame, truly it was not.”

Cecily nodded helplessly, picking up the child and kissing his downy head. “And what will happen now, Constance? What can you give him to ease his suffering?”

Constance hung her head. She could not bear to see her mistress endure the loss of another child and was silently cursing her Maker for this extraordinary misfortune. She knew only a miracle could save the little boy now.

“I have used the juice of an onion, but it only stops the stinging. I will try applying honey, but I know not what that will serve, as it too only eases the pain. I fear Henry’s body cannot tolerate this bee’s poison, and I have no remedy for that. I cannot lie to you,
madame,
’tis in God’s hands now,” she murmured, desolate. Once again, she was convinced that immersing him in the icy river might reduce the swelling, but she did not dare to suggest it. The duchess had never accused her of causing Joan’s death with the cold-water bath. Cecily had acknowledged that they could never be certain whether it was the fever, the cold bath, or the unicorn elixir that had been the culprit.

“In God’s hands? In God’s hands?” Cecily cried, impatient with the doctor’s outward display of calm. “’Twas what you said at Joan’s deathbed. Sweet Jesu, you are the doctor—you
must
know what to do. Please, Constance, please! We cannot let him die. He is York’s heir. He is everything to us.” She laid Henry back in his bed and brushed tears from her eyes.

Constance had drawn the tent curtains closed, shooing away the gawking servants, knowing Cecily would be mortified that they should see her cry. Then she led Cecily to the traveling bed and made her lie down. “Conserve your strength, your grace. I will instruct Sir William to lead the company in prayer for Henry’s life. And I will search my receipts for any remedies I may have missed. Have no fear, Henry will rally, for he is a strong little boy.”

Cecily sighed. “Aye, mayhap if everyone prays for his recovery, God will listen.”

Cecily spent hours on her knees with her dying child clutched in her arms in Dorking’s tiny parish church hard by the camp. At midnight, in front of a rough-hewn statue of the Holy Mother and as one by one her eight candles guttered and went out—one for each week of Henry’s life—she heard the breath leave her infant son for the last time in a slow labored sigh and felt the swollen body go limp.

“Henry!” she screamed, shaking him. “Wake up! Wake up in the name of Christ Jesu, our Savior. Nay, nay, do not take him, Lord. ’Twas only a bee sting! Dear God, what have I done that you have forsaken me?” Then, addressing the wide-eyed statue, tears streaming down her face, she cried, “Ah, sweet Virgin, I must truly be cursed. Two babes have been taken—nay, three, if you count Rouen. Truly, ’tis more than I can bear! Am I such a great sinner? Is Richard? Speak to me, Holy Mother, I beg of you, tell me how I have sinned!”

She was aware of a robed figure gently prying her son from her trembling fingers so that he could bless him with holy oil.
“In nomine Patri . . .”
the priest intoned, expressing compassion for this tragic woman in his gentle voice, while his thumb made the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead.

“Richard!” Cecily moaned into the gloom, falling prostrate onto the cold flagstones and feeling her bile rising. “Why are you not here with me—again?” As she wept, she pounded the ground with her fists, astonishing the priest with the furious tirade that tumbled from her mouth. She railed against her husband, at God and at the Virgin in particular, spewing blasphemies—like any heretic, the shocked priest thought. He considered stopping her and reminding her where she was, but she was a duchess, he knew. Instead, taking one of the white linen napkins from the altar, he gently placed the dead baby upon it beneath the crucifix and quietly left Cecily to her misery.