Queen by Right (6 page)

“Cecily?” Ralph mouthed in astonishment before he found his voice and his legs and strode toward her. “Lady Cecily Neville, you do our house proud!” he cried. Reaching out his arms, he would have crushed her to him had Joan not stopped him with a warning, “My lord, the gown!” Ralph took Cecily’s hands instead and held her at arm’s length to admire the transformation. Cecily found herself uncharacteristically blushing as her father inspected her from top to toe. “Magnificent!” he declared and called to Richard to come and claim his betrothed. “Certes, the house of York has never seen a fairer addition, do you not agree, your grace?” He presented Cecily to Richard and bowed. Cecily curtsied to them both, smiling happily.

“In truth, my lord, none fairer.” Richard’s thirteen-year-old voice betrayed him, breaking on the last syllable. Furious with himself, he colored.

Ralph chortled. “I have heard of a blushing bride, my dear wife, but never a blushing bridegroom,” he said, as he took Joan’s arm and led the company through the passageway to the outer bailey and the waiting litters. Joan slapped his hand playfully.

“Hush, my lord, ’tis ordeal enough for the young people without your teasing them,” she chided, and glancing back, gave Richard a smile of encouragement.

St. Gregory’s church was decorated to the rafters with bunches of the white wildflowers of June tied with red and white ribbons: scented meadowsweet, delicate cow parsley, dog daisies, yarrow, and Cecily’s namesake, sweet cicely. In among these flowers of the Staindrop woods and hedgerows were white roses, emblem of the house of York.

Those local gentry invited to witness the betrothal of Earl Ralph’s youngest daughter and the duke of York were already kneeling on tapestry cushions
when the procession of chanting monks filed in. No one could deny that St. Gregory’s was a substantial church for a small village, and this was due in part to the patronage of the lords of Raby. Its round Norman arches led to aisles on either side of the wide nave crowded with villagers eager for a glimpse of their own Rose and her young duke. And today the monks, now installed in the choir behind an elegant rood screen, were glad to offer their mellifluous voices to celebrate the betrothal of their founder’s daughter. Indeed, the music made the congregation’s long wait on its knees more bearable.

Finally the earl’s party could be heard approaching, and as the organist began a reedy Introit, the congregation rose to its feet to greet the lord of Raby. First to enter behind the tonsured brother carrying a large silver crucifix were members of Ralph’s first family by Margaret Stafford, who now rested beneath her painted alabaster tomb just inside the church door. They had ridden over earlier from Brancepeth, the seat of the Westmorlands, headed by the heir to the earldom, Ralph’s nineteen-year-old grandson, who had lost his father on campaign in France two years earlier.

Young Ralph’s self-importance was written all over his long, thin face as his pale blue eyes scanned the crowd for friends and passed haughtily over the awed yeomen of Staindrop. He was followed by his uncle, yet another Ralph, and three of his seven aunts and their husbands.

But Robert alone represented Earl Ralph’s adult sons by Joan, and he now passed through the portal into the church escorting his mother. The three youngest boys, William, George, and Edward, marched down the nave behind them, very aware of their new finery and enjoying admiring looks from the members of the local gentry. Only one of Cecily’s sisters was able to be present at this important family gathering. Eleanor, countess of Northumberland, had traveled from Alnwick Castle close by the Scottish border with an impressive escort and two of her children. Also missing was Ralph and Joan’s eldest son, Richard Neville, who was occupied during these summer months as warden of the West March of Scotland.

When the music stopped, an expectant hush silenced the whisperings as heads swiveled to watch Richard walk slowly through the people and pass under the chancel arch to the altar.

“Why not just get married?” one ruddy-faced villager asked his neighbor. “It be what their ilk do, no mind the poor girl’s age.”

His friend nodded. “Aye, there be enough churchmen here to marry all of us,” he said with a chuckle.

Two trumpeters, precariously poised on stools near the font, sounded a fanfare for the entrance of the lord of Raby and the Lady Cecily. Murmurs of approval rippled around the church as the radiant girl, clinging to Ralph’s steadying arm, appeared on the threshold. She tried not to notice her father’s effigy to her left as they began the long walk to join Richard. She knew it was customary for people of rank to have their likeness made long before their death, but when she saw her beloved father’s familiar face staring hollow-eyed at the ceiling, it never failed to give her a shudder. Joan’s effigy lay on the other side of him from Margaret Stafford. Cecily had always wondered what the first wife would have said had she known that she was not going to lie alone with Ralph for all eternity.

She dismissed this train of thought as she concentrated on not tripping over her heavy gown before she reached Richard, who was waiting for her with his pleasant face wreathed in a grin. Once again she liked the way his smile reached his gray eyes and made them crinkle, and she smiled back, forgetting the hundred people watching.

The ceremony of betrothal was so quick that it hardly seemed worth all the fuss, Cecily thought, after it was over and Mass was being said. For the most part, it was signing documents between Richard and her father, and in truth, she need not have been there, except for the moment when Richard kissed her on the lips in front of everyone. She had waited to swoon away, now that Rowena had explained the word, but nothing had happened. Ah, well, she mused, perhaps ’tis only ninnies like Anne who swoon.

But when they returned down the aisle and out into the sunshine, she knew something very significant had occurred that day. She now truly belonged to Richard, duke of York, and her life would be forever changed.

2
Raby, Durham, 1424 to 1425

S
he was wrong—for a time.

Cecily still spent her days either in her room in the keep or in her mother’s solar under the eye of Joan and her ladies. She would lean as far out of her chamber window as she dared to catch a glimpse of her betrothed when he crossed the courtyard. It was a good day when he remembered to look up and give her a cheerful wave, but when he forgot, Cecily merely turned away from the window embrasure, muttering “A pox on all dukes” or some other petulant remark.

“How I hate being cooped up in here. I am not a child, I am betrothed,” she declared, not knowing why Rowena hid a smile.

“To be sure you are, my lady,” Rowena reassured her, “but your lady mother knows best.”

Cecily sniffed and pointed to the brightly colored bird sidestepping on its perch. “Pah! That popinjay is freer than I am,” she grumbled. “Mother tells me ’tis important that Dickon and I get to know each other better. How can we do that when I am imprisoned up here?”

Joan reiterated her advice one hot day several weeks after the betrothal and elaborated on it. “You may talk about the weather, the hunt at hand, or even a passage you may have read at your lessons. But that is all, do you understand? When you are wed and have children, then your conversations will be about household matters and your ambitions for your little ones. You must listen and support your husband in all things. Men do not approve of women who appear too learned. ’Tis unsettling for them.”

Cecily nodded dutifully, but the eyes she cast down at her embroidery were full of scorn. I am much cleverer than Edward at Latin and French, she thought. Must I hide behind a silly smile and pretend I am not? But for now
she stored away Joan’s many lessons, which she knew would prove invaluable to her as wife, housekeeper, and mother. She was beginning to believe being a duchess might even be hard work. She winced when she pricked herself with her needle and sucked her bleeding finger.

With the uncanny sense only dogs seem to possess, one of the huge wolf-hounds keeping the ladies company that day suddenly lifted its head and began to thump its tail, causing a whirlwind of freshly laid rushes and dust to rise into the air. Joan looked up with a smile, expecting to see Ralph come striding in, but instead she gave an uncharacteristic squeal of pleasure when her eldest son threw open the solar door and gave his mother greeting.

“Richard!” Joan cried, pushing aside the tapestry frame upon which she was working. Out of vanity, she removed her spectacles before holding out her arms to him. “What a delightful surprise!”

Richard Neville was a younger version of his father and had always been his mother’s favorite. George had once told Cecily that being in the middle of the family did not count for anything. “Only the youngest and the oldest matter, in truth,” he had complained. “Father dotes on you and Mother on Richard. It is just not fair.”

After giving his mother reverence and an affectionate peck on the cheek, her eldest son turned his blue eyes on Cecily, who was looking shyly up at him from her stool next to Joan. She noticed that he, like Dickon, favored the ugly short hairstyle, and his thick yellow hair stood out from his forehead like a thatched roof on a cottage. He chucked his sister under the chin and gave an approving nod.

“How now, young Cecily, you are growing up, I see. How old are you now? Nine? Not yet old enough to be wed, although I regret missing your betrothal Mass,” he said. “Were you prevailed upon to wear a gown for the occasion?” he teased her.

Cecily giggled as Joan clucked her disapproval, but she proceeded to mollify her mother by gushing over the ceremony, her wardrobe, the flowers in the church, and the number of guests who attended. “There were even two trumpeters,” she finished proudly, grinning at Richard. “Father wanted to show Dickon that the Nevilles are not living in a backwater.”

“Cecily!” Joan exclaimed, exasperated, as Richard covered a laugh with a cough. “I pray you guard your tongue. Where did you learn such an expression?”

Cecily’s smile faded and she lowered her eyes to the floor. “I heard Father tell Rob before we went into St. Gregory’s,” she muttered.

Richard took the cup of wine offered by a page and gratefully slaked his thirst. He still wore his dusty riding boots, their thigh-high cuffs stained with his horse’s sweat. He smelled rather rank, Cecily thought, wondering why Joan did not admonish him to go and wash before presenting himself to ladies. Cecily could not remember the last time she had seen him, but she knew it was many months before Dickon’s arrival at Raby.

“I suppose I shall have to reverence you, little Cis, when you become her grace of York,” he said. “An outstanding match, madam, is it not?” he murmured to Joan. “Even though he is a Mortimer,” he added with chilly emphasis. “Does young Dickon know that as a descendant of Lionel of Clarence he has as good a claim or better to the throne than little Henry?”

Joan drew a sharp breath and glanced about them. “Hush, my son,” she snapped. “That is treasonous talk! I believe the boy is merely glad to have a roof over his head and a good family to help him grow up. Do not put foolish fancies into his head, will you? We are Beauforts, Richard, and our Lancaster blood is as good as any of the Yorks’. Henry is our king—and our kin. Do not forget he is my grandnephew.”

“
Half
grandnephew, my lady, if we must be precise. But your bishop brother is now chancellor of England,” he said, twirling the stem of his cup and watching the red contents carefully. “’Tis as well he swore to refuse the cardinal’s hat.”

Joan shrugged. She knew her brother had stained his reputation in an attempt to buy the coveted cardinal’s hat, but his charm, cleverness, and wealth—the last most welcome to the fund-strapped Crown—had put him back into favor at court and had even named him little Henry’s godfather, making him a formidable player in the game to control the boy king. Joan reached over and patted her son’s arm, signaling the end of the political discussion. If the truth were told, she was much happier talking about more mundane matters.

“What news of your Alice, Richard? Will you ever leave the borderlands and get the lady with child?”

Richard’s expression softened. He had married Alice Montagu when she was fourteen, several years before. Her father, the earl of Salisbury, one of England’s finest commanders in France, doted on his only child.

“It is my dearest wish, madam, but my duties keep me in the north, and as Salisbury requested that Alice keep her mother company in his absence, ’tis in God’s hands.”

He finished his wine and rose. “I must find Father before he is offended because I came to you first,” he said, smiling down at Joan. She was growing old, he thought, noting the deep lines at the corners of her mouth and on her brow. Several of her teeth were missing, her energy was much diminished, and she had a slight tremor in her right hand. At forty-five, and after birthing fourteen children, she had a right to slow down, he mused. He picked up her hand and kissed it reverently. “Until later, my dear lady. You, too, Cecily. I want to meet this Dickon of yours.”