“Sweet Jesu, Cis,” he said, amused. “You almost bowled me over.” He carried her hand to his cheek. “Never fear, I shall write to you, and you will promise to write to me, will you not? I shall be back before you know it, I promise. Now farewell, and God keep you.”
Miserably Cecily watched as he was helped into his saddle while his servant mounted a sturdy rouncy and settled the baggage.
Ralph gave the signal to walk off. Cecily darted past the kitchen tower and along the length of the low curtain wall to see the meinie trot down the road to Staindrop. Infuriatingly, the men failed to notice her as she frantically brandished her colored kerchief, but she dared not cry out like a peasant to attract the attention of the two men she loved most in all the world lest Joan be watching. She kept on running and waving. Then just before the party disappeared down the hill and over the stream, she tripped on a large stone in her path, and the next thing she knew she was flat on her face in the coarse grass under the wall.
“Cock’s bones!” she exclaimed, much to the amusement of a mason nearby, who was patching a hole in the Bulmer tower. Her tears now unchecked—whether because her hands were grazed or because of frustration that Dickon had not seen her—she thumped the ground with her fist. “I wish I were a boy!” she complained. “I am left out of everything!”
3
Raby, Durham, 1425
The weeks came and went, and Yuletide was a less festive affair in the absence of the lord of the castle. On a snowy day during Advent, Cecily, George, and Edward accompanied some of the gardeners and woodsmen into the park to gather holly, ivy, and the mystical mistletoe and to cut down a tree for the traditional Yule log. Their horses slowed by the drifts to a walk, they made for the woods, and the servants, pulling sleds, tramped through the ankle-deep snow, trying to keep up. Bunches of mistletoe clung to the oaks’ bare brown branches, the poisonous white berries glistening among the yellow-green leaves. By standing in his stirrups, George was able to reach and cut down several sprigs of it.
“Have a care not to drop any, George!” Cecily cried anxiously. “’Twill bring bad luck to our house if it touches the ground before Candlemas.”
“Pah!” retorted George. “’Tis naught but an old wives’ tale,” he told her. Nevertheless he crossed himself for good measure. “For my part, I intend to hang some close by the buttery. There is a dairymaid . . .”
Edward moved forward and gave his brother a swift kick, making George’s horse skitter and George drop some of the mistletoe. Cecily gasped in horror, and all three siblings stared at the unmistakable green lodged in the snow. A nimble woodsman snatched up the sprig and added it to the boughs of pine on his sled before others saw.
Cecily gave George a withering look. “How foolish of you, brother,” she snapped. “I think I shall return to the castle, for now I am certain we shall have ill luck for the next twelvemonth. You see if we don’t.”
George leaned over and patted her hand. “Dearest Cis, I am heartily sorry for spoiling the day for you, but ’twas I who dropped the plant, and I shall be the only one to pay, in truth. Now, I pray you, let me see a smile again on that sour face.”
Cecily sat unmoved, but George could always coax her out of a mood, he knew, and when he lifted her hand to his lips and winked at her, he was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.
“I will make it up to you if aught ill befalls the family,” he promised. “Now, come with us. We have yet to find a suitable Yule log.”
BEFORE THE END of January and a few days before Candlemas, it seemed that Cecily’s superstitious fears were unfounded. News came that Richard Neville had been made constable of Pontefract Castle, one of the crown’s important northern strongholds. And, more relevant to Cecily, word was sent to Raby that Dickon’s maternal uncle, Edmund Mortimer, earl of March and descendant of Lionel of Clarence, had died of plague in Ireland, leaving no children and thus bequeathing to the young duke of York vast tracts of land in England, Ireland, and Wales, as well as the Mortimer claim to the throne.
“This is excellent news, Cecily. Your betrothed will be one of the wealthiest men in England when he comes of age,” Joan exulted. “But for now, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester and my brother John have charge of his estates.”
Cecily tried to look pleased, but then she asked, “When will Dickon and my lord father come back to Raby?”
“While Duke Humphrey is selfishly blundering into his wife’s disputed lands in Burgundy and Bedford is succeeding in holding France for England, the regency council must keep close watch on King Henry’s interests. My two brothers and your father are well placed to guide and govern. Be patient with a noble’s obligations, Daughter, and proud of your family always.”
Joan saw Cecily stifle a yawn and paused. Aye, she is still only a girl of ten, despite her intelligence, Joan thought. She will have to learn the intricacies of politics soon enough. Why not let her enjoy this quiet life for a little longer? And in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, she pulled Cecily into her arms and stroked the lovely blond head, just as she remembered her mother doing with her so many years ago.
Joan sighed. “The year has begun well for the house of Neville, my dear,” she murmured. “Be proud and pray for it to last.”
CECILY’S HEART NEARLY stopped when she first saw her father again several months later. She came into her mother’s solar, situated on the second floor of Joan’s new tower, just as Ralph was being helped into a high-backed chair by two sturdy squires. She flew to his side and knelt before him, her eyes anxiously taking in the pasty face and dark circles under his eyes.
“My lord father,” she began. “Are you unwell?”
“Certes he is unwell, Cecily,” Joan snapped, as worried as her daughter. “You do not need to remind him with your tactless question. Now fetch a stool, sit down, and hold that runaway tongue of yours.” Her tone softened as she regarded her husband. “Would you prefer wine or ale, my dear lord?”
“Hell’s bells, ladies!” Ralph exclaimed. “I am not at death’s door. The heat and the journey have wearied me, ’tis all, and the many hours of wrangling at the council table. I am, after all, more than sixty years of age. My body may be weak, but my mind is still strong. Cease your fussing, I beg of you! Or I shall return to plague-ridden London.”
“Nay, you jest, husband.” Joan smiled and caressed his hand. “You would not return home carrying a pestilence. In truth, we are impatient to hear the news from London, but only when you are rested.”
Ralph regarded his wife with affection. “I have much to thank God for, my lady,” he said. “But most of all I thank Him every day for bringing you into my life. Never was a man more pleased with his wife.” Catching a glimpse of Cecily’s upturned face at his knee, he hastily added, “And his daughter. I trust you have been a good companion to your mother while I have been away.”
Cecily nodded vigorously. “I have done my best, truly I have,” she replied, looking to her mother for assurance, but Joan chose the moment to fetch ale for her husband. She did not believe in swelling a child’s head with praise. “I pray you, my lord, what word of Dickon?” Cecily asked.
“Has that boy not written to you, child? He swore to me that he had,” he growled, lowering his eyebrows again. “He is well and makes an impression at court with his courtesy and intelligence, but he is no popinjay, nor does he prate or swagger like some of the young lords.” He leaned over to Cecily and whispered, “Like Anne’s Humphrey Stafford.” Cecily giggled, reveling in her father’s closeness and his conspiratorial tone.
Joan handed her husband a cup of ale and sat down again. “How is the little king faring, husband? Do you see him at all, or does he spend all his time in the nursery?”
Ralph harrumphed. “As a result of the bad blood between your brother Bishop Henry and Duke Humphrey, the council saw fit to insist the infant be present at all council meetings and even to set the Great Seal between his knees. In truth, I thought ’twas ridiculous. What did they expect? That the ki
ng would give his opinion on matters of state? He gave his opinion often, but it was more in the fashion of a loud yawn of boredom or, worse, a nap!”
Joan shook her head in disbelief. “What were they thinking? The boy is only four. And my brother sanctioned this addle-pated nonsense?”
“Aye. Bishop Beaufort is Chancellor—for now—my dear. Because Duke Humphrey, the derelict Regent, has returned ruined both in body and in purse from his reckless campaigning on behalf of his foreign wife, and we, the other councillors, have forbidden him to fight more with Burgundy.” He sighed. “How I wish Bedford could leave France. He is the only one to help us steer this difficult regency. He is the best of us. When I left, things were coming to a head between your brother and Humphrey. I was glad this little bout of sickness allowed me to come home.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Cecily, my child, I am weary. Pray leave your mother and me for now. Be a good girl and summon my valet in my office. You will find something there for you I carried with me from London.”
Cecily jumped up and clapped her hands, earning a disapproving frown from her mother. She hurriedly curtseyed to them both. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, scurrying away before she could receive another rebuke.
“She is impossible,” she heard Joan say wearily.
“She will keep us young, Joanie,” Ralph replied. “Cecily is a clever girl, and your fine example will hold her steady throughout her life, I have no doubt.”
Elated, Cecily ran along the dark passageway to her father’s office. Knocking, she pushed open the door and then stopped short on the threshold. Seated at the tapestry-covered table, his head bent over a quill and parchment, was Richard.
“Dickon!” she cried. As soon as he saw her at the door, Richard pushed himself back from the table and hurried forward, his hands outstretched, and Cecily suddenly felt shy. He had grown an inch or so in the nine months he had been gone, and his fashionable blue-pleated tunic and hat with its upturned brim all served to give him a maturity she was not prepared for.
“My dear Cecily,” he said, looking her up and down and grinning. “I do believe you are prettier than ever.”
Much to her annoyance, she blushed. She had always sworn she would never be like Anne, who had reddened every time Richard had glanced her way. And now she could feel her skin on fire as he held her hands. She dropped a little curtsey, hoping to recover her composure in that simple, reassuring act, but she did not have the chance, for he picked her up and swung her around before planting a kiss on her open mouth.
“Aye, very pretty indeed,” he reiterated sincerely. “Those simpering ladies in London will be put to shame when the Rose of Raby is finally presented there. What? Has the cat pounced on your tongue? Or were you expecting me to talk only about the weather?”
Cecily finally closed her mouth and fixed her eyes upon her betrothed. “But Father never said you were with him. He told me to come and find the gift he had brought me from London. I never thought ’twould be you, Dickon. ’Tis the best present I have ever had. Welcome home, my lord,” she said grandly and swept him a deep reverence. “It seems the saints do listen to my prayers,” she added, with a smug smile. “Only last night I asked St. Jude for news of you.”
Richard was amused. “Ah, you believe I am a lost cause?”
“Aye,” Cecily retorted. “Two letters in nine months. And those were about the weather and your new horse. ’Twas unkind, my lord.”
Richard was contrite at once, stammering an excuse about not knowing what to tell her and that London had really been quite dull.
“Pah!” Cecily muttered. “You just forgot us here in the wilderness—forgot me.”
Richard turned away and went to the window. Had word reached Raby about his flirtation with the Lady Agnes, one of Queen Catherine’s ladies? A few years older than he, she had given him his first taste of the delights of the bedchamber, but he had admitted his lust in the confessional after each encounter, and eventually the young lady had tired of his clumsy attempts at wooing and reminded him of his betrothed far away in the north. Now Richard felt an uncomfortable prickling around the neck of his chemise and attempted to loosen it with nervous fingers.
“How could I forget you, Cecily? You wrote to me every week,” he told her, hoping his guilty conscience was not obvious. “I confess your letters kept me laughing. You write well, sweet lady.” He turned when he felt her close behind him and gently took her in his arms. “Truly, I missed you. I promise I shall be better when we return to court, ma mie.” She is only ten years old, he told himself again, and yet it is as though my body knows hers already.
Cecily plucked at a loose thread in his sleeve and sighed happily. “I hope that will not be for a long, long time, Dickon. I am all alone now that George has his lordship of Latimer and Edward has been made Lord Bergavenny. They have been sent to other houses, and I miss them.”
“Then let us make the best of these days, dearest Cis. Shall we hunt on the morrow?”
RALPH SPENT MOST of his waking hours either reclining on a settle in Joan’s solar, listening to her read to him, or walking in the park, leaning heavily on a stick, with Cecily skipping beside him, chattering away and amusing him. Joan was most concerned that he showed no desire to sit his horse and ride to the hunt, which was, in his healthier years, his dearest occupation. He groaned when he stood, even louder when he sat down, and he could barely walk without a shoulder or a stick to lean on.
One day late in October, Joan read a passage from the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight to Ralph and Cecily: “Then came together all the noblest knights, Ywain and Erec, and many another. Sir Dodinel le Sauvage, the duke of Clarence, Launcelot and Lionel, and Lucan the Good, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere—”
Ralph held up his hand for her to pause, muttering, “Lionel and Clarence—that reminds me . . .” He lifted his head and spoke to his daughter. “Cecily, have a page fetch York here, I beg of you,” he said without explanation, giving her a weary smile. “He should be at the butts at this hour.” He watched her hurry to the door. “I beg your pardon, my dear Joan. Please continue.”
When Dickon knocked and entered fifteen minutes later, Cecily was with him, and Ralph motioned for both to approach the cushioned settle. Joan rose and excused herself, knowing with sorrow why Ralph wanted to speak to the young couple.
His thin gray hair had been combed carefully by Joan, and he had made an effort to prop himself up on several velvet cushions. Cecily took Joan’s seat. Dickon stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. Ralph smiled at the picture they made, the dark-haired, gray-eyed young lord and his own beautiful fair-haired daughter.
“I expect you to have handsome, intelligent children,” he began, amused by Dickon’s nervous, lopsided smile. “But that is not why I summoned you here.” He paused, turning a large gold ring on his thumb, unsure of his next words. “It seems I have little time left here on earth. Nay, sweet child, I am at peace with it,” he soothed Cecily when her sharp intake of breath interrupted him. “The physician has turned up his hands and has no more knowledge of what ails me or how to treat me. If God in his mercy sees fit to take me on the morrow, I am ready.” Cecily leaned forward and took his big hand in hers, covering it with kisses. “I would be even happier to know that I leave you contented with each other. York, you must have noticed that this willful child is the apple of my eye. I cannot go to my Maker without her assurance that she is pleased with my choice for her and that you will cherish her even more than I have.”
Cecily’s tears dripped on her wool gown, leaving dark spots in the green fabric. “Cer—certes, I am contented with D—Dickon, my lord,” she faltered. “But I refuse to believe that you are . . . you are dying. You are merely weary, ’tis all. Mother and I shall soon have you up and well again, trust me.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve.
“Most unbecoming, young lady,” Ralph said, chuckling, and then he began to wheeze and gasp for breath. He waved his hands
, signifying the fit would pass, which it did, and he pushed himself up further into a sitting position. “That’s better. At times it feels as though I am drowning,” he said, patting his chest. “Now where was I?”
“You asked if Cecily and I were contented with each other, my lord,” Dickon prompted. He reached down and took Cecily’s hand. “I cannot imagine a more suitable bride, and I shall be proud to have her to wife.”
“Swear to me you will never betray her trust in you,” Ralph commanded. “She is a loyal, good girl.”
Dickon squeezed Cecily’s hand, his gaze never wavering from Ralph’s face. “I owe you all duty for your kindness to me these past two years, my lord, and I swear to you on my mother’s grave I shall not betray your daughter—or your trust in me,” he said. “You need not fear. I shall care for her all the days of our lives together and”—he paused and smiled over Cecily’s head at his father-in-law—“if I can curb her importunity, then our union may well be close to perfect.” He was rewarded by a laugh, albeit feeble, from the earl.
Cecily’s eyes widened, and she tilted her head to look up at Dickon. “What is importunity, Dickon?”
“It means you do not always behave the way your mother has taught you,” Ralph answered before Dickon could find a simpler word. “I fear I have overindulged you, and now that you are ten, you must change your childish ways and behave as befits the consort of a duke.” His voice was tiring, and he stopped to catch his breath.
“Mind your mother, Cecily,” he admonished her when he continued. “She is a great lady, and one day you will have to teach your own children what she is teaching you now.” He fixed his eyes on Dickon. “Be not hasty to have the child to wife, your grace.” He paused, watching closely for a reaction. When he saw genuine concern and agreement, he continued, “Countess Joan will have need of Cecily after I am gone, and I pray you allow Cecily to remain close to her mother until such time as you are both ready to take on the responsibilities of your office—and of a family.”
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