Dickon gave Ralph a brief nod of acknowledgment. “Aye, my lord.”
Seeing the earl close his eyes, Dickon drew Cecily toward the door.
Ralph suddenly said, “Before you go, I must confess something to you, Daughter.” Cecily ran back to her father’s side. “Your mother was right to chastise me for allowing you to ride in boys’ breeches. I pray my hardheadedness has not imperiled your immortal soul.” Cecily gulped and involuntarily crossed herself as Ralph continued, “Swear to me you will never again wear them, as it offends the Lord our God.”
“Imperil my soul?” Cecily whispered, her eyes darting around looking for the Devil himself. “By wearing braies?”
Richard stepped in. “Aye, Cecily. Remember that when we first met, I told you then I believed ’twas so.”
Cecily knelt by her father’s head, her eyes brimming.
“Swear to me, Daughter,” Ralph commanded. “I have confessed my sin, as must you.”
Cecily whispered, “I swear, my lord.” Then she laid her head on his chest, her tears spilling onto his nightshirt.
Ralph closed his eyes and stroked her hair. “I thought because you were a child . . .”
“Oh, Father, dearest Father, do not fret,” Cecily implored, lifting her head and gazing at his dear, familiar face and seeing his tears on it for the first time in her life. “God will forgive us, I know He will.”
“Come, Cecily,” Richard coaxed and gentled her to her feet. “Your lord father needs to rest.”
Obediently Cecily allowed herself to be led to the door.
“By all that is holy,” Ralph muttered as he watched them go, “no man has ever been so fortunate in a child.”
ON THE TWENTY-FIRST day of October, Dickon’s fourteenth birthday and four days before the tenth anniversary of Agincourt, Ralph Neville, earl of Westmorland, lay dying in his imposing canopied bed. As many Nevilles as could fit crowded into his chamber, the attending physicians and clerics swelling their ranks. Ralph’s heir and two of his Stafford daughters and their husbands had arrived the night before from Brancepeth. Joan had sent for all her children in time for them to pay their respects to their father. Only his daughter Sister Joan had been unable to come from the convent.
Despite his loss of weight, Ralph was still an imposing figure as he lay between the white linen sheets, his torso propped up on feather pillows, a crucifix between his hands. Cecily knelt at the foot of the bed with Anne, who had not long since given birth to a daughter, and Eleanor from Northumberland. Their mother knelt at one side of the bed and young Ralph on the other. The room was stuffy. Open windows might let in the Devil, who could steal away with a dying man’s soul, and so they had been shut against the summer breezes. A priest swinging the censer, a group of chanting monks, and Father John from Staindrop were all ranged behind Ralph. The churchmen had taken over the vigil from the tired physicians, who were now relegated to the doorway.
Somewhere behind her stood Dickon, Cecily knew, and her father’s words came back to her then. Dickon would be her protector now, but as much as she cared for him, she could not envision him ever replacing her beloved father in her heart. All Ralph’s children had gone one by one to receive his blessing a few hours before, and as last and youngest of the siblings, Cecily’s few words from her father were then barely audible.
“Pray for me, my child. I shall be watching over you when I am taken into the kingdom of heaven. Never forget your faith and your family, Cecily. They will sustain you even unto death.” Then he beckoned for her to bend close. She heard Joan’s sharp intake of breath and knew her mother disapproved of this mark of favoritism. “Kiss me, Cecily, for I have loved you above any of my children.”
Cecily had let her tears bathe his ashen face as she kissed his clammy forehead. “And I love you best, too, Father.”
Then Anne found Cecily’s hand and clutched it in the folds of their black gowns. Cecily stared miserably around at her family, some weeping, some telling their rosary, and others with eyes fixed on their father. Her knees were aching, and she felt as though she had no tears left inside her to shed. Hardly masked by the sweet frankincense, an unpleasant smell lingered around the bed, which she would later learn was the usual harbinger of death. The incense and the monks’ voices lulled her into a half-meditative state, but when Ralph’s breathing became more labored and she heard the ominous words of the priest reciting, “Per istam sanctam unctionem et suampissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus . . . ,” something snapped inside her. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to climb onto the bed and stop the priest from dropping holy oil on her father.
“Nay, nay, he cannot die, he shall not die!” she cried. “Father, I shall not let them take you!” She caught sight of the stricken George, and the memory of their snowy adventure to fetch the Yule log flooded back. She pointed an accusing finger at him. “’Tis your fault. You dropped the mistletoe,” she wailed, and she threw her arms around her father’s blanketed legs.
In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Dickon alone moved to her and removed her from the inert figure, cradling her to him. Ralph’s eyes fluttered open once more, and seeing Cecily in Dickon’s arms, he smiled. “My precious child,” he whispered, and then, turning his head to the priest to indicate he was now ready to meet his Maker, he rasped in his last breath, “In Tuas manus . . .” A strange rattling noise prevented more speech, his eyes glazed over, and he moved no more.
Joan took his hand to her cheek, moaning his name. His grandson Ralph was the first to rise. He crossed himself and with his usual hauteur left the room with his new title, Brancepeth and Raby castles but very little else. Most of the largest Westmorland estates were to be left to Joan’s family.
The eldest of that family, Richard Neville, now kissed his father’s bloodless lips and gently closed his eyes. One by one the Beaufort boys, as Ralph used to call them, followed Richard in showing the love they had for their father, and Robert, when his turn came, made the sign of the cross on his father’s forehead with his thumb, tears streaming down his face.
Dickon had carried Cecily from the room as soon as he heard the death rattle, wanting her to hold in her heart the memory of her father alive and not the wasted flesh and bones of the corpse whose spirit had flown. Putting her down gently in the passage, he led her to a chair in Joan’s solar and poured her a cup of wine.
Cecily sat slumped in the chair, her hand trembling as she raised the cup to her lips and slowly drank the tawny contents. She turned her rueful gaze on Richard and murmured, “I behaved badly in there, did I not? And after I promised Father . . .” She broke off, ashamed.
Richard shook his head. “No one will blame you, in truth, though a kind word to George might be in order.” Cecily nodded sorrowfully. “I pray this is the worst pain we shall ever have to bear together, Cecily, but at least we have each other to lean on. Both of us will carry loving thoughts of Earl Ralph, I have no doubt. He was the father I never knew,” Richard told her, a lump in his throat. He had never spoken to anyone of his own father’s attainder and execution until a few weeks ago, when Ralph had mentioned it and had seen the boy’s cheeks flush and his eyes turn darkly inward.
“No one faults you for your father’s treason, Richard,” the kindly earl had said. “But ’tis best soon forgotten. You have your own life to lead.”
Richard sighed and addressed Cecily again. “Your father will always be in your heart, Cecily. He will always be with you. He was a good man. Praise God, he suffers no more.”
Suddenly a bird flew in through the open window, startling the two young people. Bewildered, it fluttered frantically around the room, searching for an exit.
Cecily smiled then, believing the snowy dove was another sign from the Blessed Virgin, and she got down on her knees, lifting her eyes heavenward. “Holy Mother, I pray you be with my father as you were with me that day with the white hind in the forest. Take his soul now and ask your Son to welcome him into Paradise,” she whispered, as the bir
d finally found its escape.
Cecily knew with certainty then that her father’s soul had flown to Heaven, and she felt at peace.
4
London, 1426
In his will, Earl Ralph had made his wife Richard’s guardian, an unusual move but one that pleased the young duke greatly. He had learned to respect Joan Beaufort, and as Cecily would also be in her mother’s care until she was at the legal age to marry, the two of them would remain in the same household. However, three months after Ralph’s death, that household was leaving Raby.
“We are going to London!” Cecily exclaimed when she spotted Richard at the well in the central courtyard. Richard was now only one of three young knights in training left at Raby, and there was no doubt who among them was the leader. Richard’s rank gave him precedence, it was true, but ever since the two Beaufort-Neville boys, George and Edward, had gone to other households, Richard had gained confidence. And when Ralph had died, many of the earl’s officers looked to the young duke of York for leadership. He was well liked, Joan told Cecily one day after a particularly trying morning with Raby’s steward, because the young duke put on no airs but had a serious, quiet way of listening and responding to problems.
“Servants respect those qualities in a master,” she told Cecily. “’Tis unnecessary to wear rank upon your sleeve if you treat all comers with fairness, and Dickon does this. Just as our servants have a duty to us, so we have a duty to support and protect them. Never neglect them, Cecily. Dickon reminds me of Thomas,” Joan continued, putting her hand on Cecily’s arm. “To be sure, you cannot remember your brother, can you? You were only four when he died. Ah, Cecily, losing a child is the hardest thing a mother can bear, and I have lost four sons, God have mercy on their souls.”
Cecily hung her head, ashamed because she did not feel any sorrow for her dead brothers. Then she brightened. “Aye, but all your daughters are alive and well, God be praised,” she declared. “My lord father taught me that behind every cloud a ray of sunshine awaits.”
Joan turned her face away at the mention of Ralph. She was finding widowhood hard, because she had truly loved her second husband.
When the summons had come for the countess of Westmorland and her daughter to join the king’s household, Joan was relieved. Young Earl Ralph had begun to take an interest in the Raby property, and as Joan knew that she did not have the right to remain, she was contemplating removing to her inherited estate at Middleham in the Yorkshire dales and away from the bitter, haughty young man. So when the invitation from the king had come, the idea of being in a more temperate climate after a cold winter in the north appealed to her. It had been some time since she had gone south and seen Shene, Windsor, and Westminster, or watched the watermen on the Thames from the parapets of the Tower. Aye, it would be invigorating and warmer, she decided, and it would keep her from melancholy. She threw herself into the arrangements with an energy the household had not seen since Ralph’s death.
“London!” Cecily cried when Richard extricated himself from his fellows and came over to her. “’Tis my first time.”
Richard grinned at her enthusiasm. “When shall we go?” He paused. “I assume I am to go too.”
Cecily nodded, her fur-lined hood swallowing up her answer. “I am sure you are.”
A week later, the countess of Westmorland bade farewell to her home of many years with a stoicism she wished her daughter might emulate. In another of Joan’s interminable lessons, Cecily had been admonished, “Curb your emotions, especially in front of the household. Showing our feelings makes us appear weak. Remaining strong and in command of ourselves and others is what sets us apart from the common folk. Hide what you feel somewhere inside you and only allow yourself to go there in private or in God’s presence. Trust me, my child, prayer will see you through the worst of tragedies.”
But despite her eager anticipation of London, Cecily found her sorrow at leaving Raby hard to bear. It was the only home she had known. She clung to her Nurse Margery, who was to return to her family in Durham, and even kissed the grizzled marshal of the stables on the cheek. He turned away so that his grooms would not see the tear that slipped down his face.
“The Rose of Raby will be sore missed by all at the castle and in the village, my lady,” he told her. “I pray you, do not be forgetting us up north, and come back soon.”
“Oh, I shall!” Cecily cried, as she hurried back to the curtained carriage, where Joan and two attendants waited. Cecily was very pleased when her mother had chosen Rowena to accompany them. Cecily had already found her a trustworthy and knowledgeable confidante.
Then began the long, arduous journey to the capital. Joan’s carriage was sturdily built, and only once did the company lose half a day while a wheel was mended. Cecily reveled in the vehicle’s luxurious cushioned interior. She spent many an hour wrapped in fur blankets, gazing out at the unfamiliar landscape along Ermine Street, the main road from York to the south, through a flap in the canvas side, with Joan’s small spaniel Jessamine curled up beside her. As they traveled south, they seemed to leave the brown winter behind and watch spring arrive miraculously in a matter of days, not weeks. The trees and bushes began to leaf, and thrushes, robins, and wrens sang merrily in the branches. Golden daffodils nodded beside ponds and streams, and, sheltered in the woods, snowdrops and violets had pushed up through the cold ground to welcome a weak March sun.
On the sixth day, as they left the town of St. Albans and climbed the hill to Barnet, the traffic on the Great North Road to London swelled and slowed them down. Peasants and farmers, peddlers and priests stood to the side to let the noble party pass with its carriages, twenty-man escort, and several carts piled high with the countess’s household belongings. More than once a carter had to lead his ox-drawn wagon off the road to make room for the entourage. In the abbeys where Joan directed her captain to find lodgings en route, and where Ralph had been a frequent guest, the countess was given a warm welcome.
The final morning dawned gray but dry. Cecily scrambled out of bed to dress, donning her riding gown and cloak and hoping her mother remembered her promise.
“If you are a good girl, I will allow you to ride pillion with Dickon into London on the last day,” Joan had told her. “The view from the carriage will not be as magnificent, I grant you. But I cannot allow you to ride alone for fear you may fall foul of cutpurses or some drunken lecher. Do you understand?” Joan spoke sternly. Cecily was a trifle disappointed but submitted, muttering, “Aye, my lady.”
Once in the inn’s stable yard, Richard led her to his horse. “God give you a good morning, Cis,” he said. “I am sorry I could not provide sunshine for your first look at London, but ’twill be impressive enough without it.”
He marveled again at the color of her eyes, now alive with the anticipation of seeing the spires and roofs of England’s largest city. He was impatient for her to grow into womanhood and for those eyes to notice him alone; she was still young enough to direct that look of joy at a puppy, a nosegay of flowers, or a new gown. Whereas he had stirrings of love and passion, as yet she appeared blissfully innocent. Reminded of his own fleeting dalliance the previous summer, he worried briefly that she might find someone else more attractive and worthy when confronted by so many young noblemen at court. But her attachment to him led him to dismiss the idea. Nay, they were made for each other, he truly believed, and he was moved to pick up her gloved hand and kiss it.
“What was that for, Dickon?” Cecily said, tilting her head to one side. “I pray you help me up.”
And so, cupping his hands and receiving her dainty foot, he did as he was bidden.
Not long after they climbed the three-hundred-foot Highgate Hill, the ground suddenly dropped away and London spread out before them. Richard pointed out the tall spire of St. Paul’s, which towered above those of other churches, and the thatched and tiled roofs of hundreds of houses, inns, and taverns. All were encircled by a high wall that meandered around the north, east, and west
of the city like a heavy white girdle. And along the southern edge flowed the gray ribbon of the Thames.
Cecily drew in a breath. “’Tis beautiful,” she said, craining her neck to see over his shoulders. “But also frightening. It is so big, I am sure to get lost. I wonder how people know where anything is. Do they even know their neighbor?”
They lingered a few more minutes, waiting for the heavy carriage to reach the top of the hill, which it did with the help of ten burly men pushing from behind. And then it was downhill the rest of the way to the city wall. Just before going through the Aldersgate, Cecily had to pinch her nose as they passed over the city ditch, the ordure in it steaming from a recently dumped cartload.
“The city is as safe with that cesspit around it as it would be with a moat, I wager,” she told Richard, but her words were lost in the din of scores of people on foot, on horseback, and in wagons trundling through the narrow fortified gate into London. She was grateful for the escorts, who sandwiched Richard’s horse between them until they emerged into busy St. Martin’s Lane, at the end of which, rising into the sky, was St. Paul’s. Cecily gazed in wonder at the spire reputed to be the highest in all of Christendom, and as if to accentuate its glory, the bells began to ring for Sext. Soon other churches in London echoed the call to prayer, and Cecily had to put her fingers in her ears against the deafening peals. The citizenry, in contrast, either hurried off to worship or went about their business, seemingly oblivious to the noise.
When the party turned into the Chepe, Cecily gasped at the wide cobblestoned street, mercers’ shops lining both sides displaying rich damasks, silks, and satins, and scores of people bustling about, crossing the street, or calling to friends at upstairs windows.
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