Thwarted Queen (12 page)

I clambered out of the pool, grabbed my chemise and threw it over my head, followed by my silk gown, which had become water-stained and ruined by my splashes. Sighing, I sat on the bench, finger-combing my hair and making a half-hearted attempt to braid it, when he returned.

“Who are you?”

“Truly I don’t want to talk about myself.” He pulled me gently to him and kissed me slowly and luxuriously on the lips.

“You are not answering the question.”

“Could it not wait?”

“I have been thinking, since last we met. I realize I have agreed to marry someone whom I know not. Isabel is right to chastise me. How can I make such a choice about one whom I know nothing?”

There was a pause.

“Let us start with your name. Is it really
Blaybourne
?”

He turned away from me and gazed into the bathing pool for a long moment. A breeze stirred faint ripples. I put my hand on his shoulder.

“You may not like what I have to say, for my family is humble. My father was a blacksmith in the village of Blay, near Bayeux in Normandy.”

The color drained from my cheeks. I was silent for several long moments. “But you do not have the manners of a blacksmith,” I stuttered.

“I was sent to the
Abbaye-aux-Hommes
in Caen as soon as I turned seven, for my parents were dead, my elder brother had a family to support, and there was no money for my keep.”

I stood silent for a long time, trying to imagine this. “Is it usual for poor children to be sent away to the monastery?”

“If they are lucky. Otherwise they have to beg at the side of the road.”

I shuddered. I had seen such children of course, many times, but had never given thought as to what their lives were like.

“I did well at the abbey, so when I turned twelve they sent me to study languages at the
Abbaye de Saint-Maurice
on Lake Geneva. I studied Italian and German as well as French, Latin, and Greek.”

There he stood, now gazing into the pool. The son of a blacksmith. I had allowed myself to be touched by a peasant. My cheeks burned with shame. But his manners were excellent, highly polished and courtly. His voice was musical and cultivated. He dressed well. He was clean.

“I know you feel betrayed,” he said, flushing and twisting the ring on his finger. It was a sapphire set in silver. His fingers were long, thin, and aristocratic-looking. They did not bear the marks of hard labor.

“You have not led the life of a peasant.”

“No. But I started out that way.”

“But you have made something of yourself. You were not born with riches as I was. You had to work to make your way in the world.”

He gazed at me. “That is a rather unusual thing for a great lady to say.”

I put my hands into his. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

His lips met mine, and we lingered together for a long moment. “Beloved,” he whispered, “I hardly dared hope—”

I stopped his mouth with my fingers. “I want to know more.”

“I spent a couple of years at the
Abbaye de Saint-Maurice
. Then I was sent to university, in Italy.”

“Where?”

He smiled and shook his head slightly.

“Are you a bachelor?”

“I’m a doctor.”

I stared. I’d never met anyone so well educated. The aristocratic men I knew lived and died in the saddle. A vision of myself with this gentleman filled my head. We would study together, have soaring conversations.

“How did you become an archer?”

“I learned various trades.”

“Is your name Blaybourne?”

“My name is Pierre de Blay, from the village in Normandy where I was born.”

“Where does ‘bourne’ come from?”

He was silent.

I frowned. “Bourne” was an old English name for stream, like the north-country “burn.” Many villages had “bourne” in their name, like Pangbourne, Fishbourne, Nutbourne. “Are you going to tell me anything else?”

“Not now.”

“But—”

“All in good time, my sweet. You need to think about what I’ve said, and if you remember, I wanted to speak with you.”

I nestled against him like a bird that has found her home. Suddenly I didn’t care where he’d come from, only what he meant to me now.

He held me close. “Would he lock you up?”

“Is that why you wanted to see me?”

He nodded. “Would he harm you?”

I froze. Richard loved me, and yet—

“I would have to hide you somewhere.”

“But I am the Duchess of York.”

“Today is the twentieth day of August. I will return on the morning of the twenty-third to await your answer. I will meet you in the great hall of the castle where you hold your public audiences.”

“But that’s too dangerous.”

“It will not be dangerous, I assure you.”

“But how?”

“You will see, my sweet. Be sure to wear your pearl dress that day.” He kissed my hand, bowed, and vanished.

Next day, I took to my bed. ”Whatever shall I do when Richard returns?” I asked Margaret, when she came to visit me with Bess.

“Perhaps he’ll not know.”

Bess kissed my cheek.

“Are you not angry?” I asked.

“Why?”

“You liked him well.”

“Indeed I did,” replied Bess.

“Why did you leave me alone with him at the abbey?”

She patted my hand and smiled. “I have never seen two people so in love as the two of you. I knew you could not have long with your husband returning. I thought such lovers deserved to have some precious moments together.”

Annette entering my chamber woke me. She carried Joan, who sobbed hard.

I cuddled her on my lap. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Madam, I know not,” replied Annette. “Lady Joan seemed in good spirits this forenoon. I put her down for a nap, as I usually do. But she awoke screaming. I can do nothing with her.”

I turned to the limp figure in my lap, gently cupping my hands around her little face. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“Mama, Mama,” sobbed Joan, her tears making a wet patch on my silken chemise.

I stroked her hair and rubbed her back. “Come now, my dearest child. Tell me what troubles you so. Mama is here. You are safe. Whatever is wrong?”

Joan lifted a tear-stained face. “Don’t leave!” She buried her face in my gown and sobbed.

I stiffened. “What is this?”

“I know not, madam,” said Annette, going pale.

“Has she talked of this before?”

“No, madam, I don’t think so.”

“Who has been talking?”

“I would not like to say—”

“Come now,” said Margaret, getting up from her place on the window seat. “Remember, your loyalty is to Duchess Cecylee. If someone has upset Lady Joan, she needs to know who.”

Annette blanched. “Lady Lisette,” she whispered. “She said she would curse me if I told anyone. She told me she would put a spell on me so that I would wither away before my time.”

“That’s nonsense,” exclaimed Margaret. “Lisette should not be saying such wicked things. I’ll find her at once and bring her here.”

Margaret returned not only with Lisette, but with all the women. Jenet was there, and Margaret’s woman, Bess’s woman, Lisette’s woman, and even Isabel’s woman. Keeping Joan on my lap, I faced them all. “For the sake of my children and for peace in my family, I ask you not to gossip.”

Lisette smiled.

I handed Joan, now quiet, to Annette and rose. “Was it you?”

Lisette remained silent.

“I find my daughter sobbing her heart out, my maid frightened out of her life—”

“That’s nothing to what you did. You broke your marriage vows. You sinned against your husband.”

I slapped her across the cheek. “You will say no more. Do you understand?”

Lisette faced me, holding her hand to her cheek. Her eyes flashed. “Why should I help you? You always get what you want.”

Margaret interrupted. “If you don’t promise,” she replied, her gentle grey eyes turned to steel, “I could go to George and hint that his wife’s behavior was not what he would have wished.”

Lisette jutted out her chin.

“You threw yourself at him every opportunity you got,” said Bess.

“He didn’t want
you
,” said Lisette, rounding on her.

The room fell silent.

Lisette looked from one to the other, her face flushed, her under lip jutting out. At last, she turned to me and made the sign of the Horned King.

“I curse you, Cecylee! May you have a long and unhappy life!”

I fell into a chair. “You couldn’t mean that.”

But Lisette had gone.

Chapter 10

Saint Bartholomew’s Eve

August 23, 1441

It was a bright hot morning. I sat on the dais in the great hall of the castle of Rouen, struggling to listen carefully to a stream of petitioners. The steward from Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire wanted to pursue a land dispute. There were several merchants from Rouen wanting to show off their wares. There were people from Normandy seeking redress from the governor’s wife over land, marriage settlements gone awry, and taxes.

I shifted in my seat. I should have sent a message to Blaybourne, telling him not to come. But I had somehow forgotten to do so. I drew a handkerchief from my sleeve and dried my moist palms.

A fanfare of trumpets sounded, and a page appeared, a boy of around nine or so, attired in a white satin tunic and hose. He wore white shoes and had a white hat on his head. He approached the dais bearing a ring on a white velvet cushion.

“My master wishes, madam, to present you with this ring.”

As he knelt, I moved forward to accept the present. The ring was magnificent. It was a deep blue sapphire, cut into a strange shape, set into silver. It radiated a deep color in the warm sunshine, matching my pearl dress perfectly.

“Shall I ask my lord to approach?”

“Indeed. I should like to thank him for his gift.”

I had entertained many diplomats and visitors from other countries arriving with costly gifts. Vague questions entered my head about this particular diplomat, but they left just as quickly. Another fanfare sounded, and this time a procession appeared. They looked like soldiers, men-at-arms, menservants and pages—the sort of people an aristocrat would have traveling with him.

The unknown personage was the last to appear. Like his entourage, he was attired in white. But his tunic came down to his ankles, the long sleeves adorned with fashionable jagged edges. He wore a stylish hat with a piece of material hanging down from it, protecting him from the dust of his journey. Altogether, he looked exotic and foreign, perhaps Italian. Perhaps from a place further to the east. I could not place him as he came closer. He exuded a scent of nutmeg and almonds, with a hint of exotic spices.

As I inhaled deeply, I remembered where I had encountered it before.

But now, the herald was announcing the aristocrat’s name:

Philippe de Savoy, Count of Geneva
.

He bowed and smiled as he held out his hand to take mine.

Then our eyes met.

Of course. His ruse was perfect, for no one would dare challenge a lord of such obvious means.

I swallowed.

The sounds in that bustling hall faded away as he straightened and we faced each other.