“Aye, your grace,” Cecily answered, relieved that her wild apology had been accepted. “I am betrothed to my lord of York, but we cannot wed until I am twelve—which will be in May of next year,” she added for their edification. “I am counting the days, in truth. My dear father, Earl Ralph—God rest his soul—told me Duke Richard is a perfect match for me, and I believe he was right.” Again, a smothered guffaw, but this time Joan realized it was from her half brother, John of Bedford.
“I think milord of York is fortunate to have you, milady,” the queen commented evenly. “I can see you will be much help for him.” Then she leaned forward and whispered so that only Cecily could hear. “A soupçon of advice. It is better to use your cleverness in private, ma chère fille. Men only care for ladies with wool in the head, you understand?” Cecily nodded, thinking that if the queen believes this too, then Mother must be right.
Queen Catherine gave Cecily her hand to kiss, signaling that the audience was ended. As Cecily again made a reverence to the little king, who was yawning and absently kicking his leg against the chair, the queen told Joan: “You have a beautiful daughter, madame. I anticipate to see her at court souvent—often.”
Joan was so grateful for Catherine’s graciousness in the face of Cecily’s outspokenness that she backed out of the royal presence, bowing all the way, to the middle of the hall. Cecily copied her, a picture of proud contentment. The queen had singled her out, and she was sure Henry would remember her—and thus Richard. Aye, her first audience had been a success, she thought—until later in their chambers, when Joan unleashed her displeasure on her daughter.
“I thought you had turned a corner. I thought I could trust you to behave like a duchess, and a duchess should be stately and silent. Sweet Mother of God, I despair of you,” she groaned, wringing her hands. “I only hope you did not offend the king with your foolish chatter. Lot’s wife, indeed! Her grace was kindness itself, and ’twas as well the king did not understand you. Sweet Jesu, where do you learn to prattle so?” She sank down in her chair and shook her head.
Cecily’s eyes filled with tears, and she ran to Joan’s side. “I do not mean to be bad, Mother, truly I do not.”
Her contrition was so sincere that Joan relented, stroking the now unbound hair. In truth, Joan believed the girl had tried to say the right thing, but nevertheless a boundary had been crossed that was hard to explain to her daughter. Perhaps Cecily was too young to have been presented, Joan mused, but she could not undo what had been done.
She sighed, blaming Ralph for the thousandth time for spoiling the child. “The sooner you marry York, the better,” she muttered instead. “Then you will have to answer to him and not to me.”
Joan did not really mean to be so harsh. Cecily was all the comfort she had at this lonely time in her life. But she was tired of raising children. While an element of truth was in her words, she regretted having to chastise this innocent child.
HENRY BEAUFORT, BISHOP of Winchester, sat stiffly on Ralph’s old chair opposite Joan in the countess’s wood-paneled chamber in a wing of Leicester Castle.
“I am this close to a red hat, Joan,” Beaufort told his sister quietly, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “But I dare not hope that the pope will be any more successful this time than last, if Gloucester has ought to say in the matter. The man hates me, that much is certain.”
Joan glanced across the room at her ladies, Cecily among them, and knew their loyalty to her was strong, but she kept her voice low. “Why, Henry?”
“Upon Christ’s Cross, he is a menace!” Beaufort hissed, and Joan blanched at her bishop brother’s blasphemy. “The truth is that he is as popular in London as I am unpopular. I have oft-times felt myself in danger, and indeed a threat came to my ear that the commoners were ready to drown me in the Thames.”
Joan’s barely perceptible eyebrows shot up. “Surely not,” she exclaimed. He nodded, flicking a flea from his scarlet gown.
Beaufort swilled his wine and swallowed a mouthful. “Humphrey is not fit to govern, that is certain. He is rash and favors conflict.”
Cecily found her uncle’s permanent sneer and piercing eyes frightening at the best of times, but now that he was scowling, his eyebrows meeting in the middle over his long, hooked nose, she hoped that she would never be the cause of his ire.
Joan shook her head sympathetically. “I shall pray you receive your red hat, Henry. You deserve it above all men.”
Beaufort’s intense gaze now turned on Cecily. She carelessly pricked herself with her needle and winced. Pretending to concentrate on her sewing, she kept listening. This is how one learns what is happening in the outside world, she told herself. I need to know things like this when I am Dickon’s wife. Then, in a panic, she realized that her uncle was now speaking of her, and she prayed that her heated skin did not mean that she was blushing.
“The child understands the stakes in all of this, does she not, sister?” he said to Joan, his eyes never leaving Cecily. “We cannot have York believing he has a right to the throne, and she must discourage him when they are wed. We must make sure the crown stays with Lancaster.”
“Certes, she knows her place in our family and that Lancaster must endure. She is as sharp as flint, that one,” Joan murmured, as Cecily strained to hear. “I shall keep her close and impress upon her where her loyalties lie. And ’tis my belief York is fond of her already, so she is likely to have influence with him.” She grunted. “God knows, she asserts her will . . .”
Cecily was perplexed yet again. Had Joan not insisted that a wife must be loyal to her husband’s house and to his ambitions above all? Dear God, will I ever learn to be a duchess?
A FEW DAYS later the castle was abuzz with the news that Beaufort had been nominated cardinal-priest by the pope. Richard told Cecily that speculation was the council might refuse him the right to accept it again. When Cecily looked confused, he enlightened her.
“He will be the pope’s puppet here in England, some say. Englishmen have been suspicious of the pope’s influence ever since Thomas Becket’s time. Trust me, ’twill make the bishop more unpopular here at home if he wears the red hat. ’Tis no wonder he wants to leave on a lengthy pilgrimage,” Richard explained.
Cecily leveled her blue eyes at him. “You do not like my uncle, do you, Dickon?”
Richard shrugged. “What I feel is of no import, Cis. I have no influence with anyone, young as I am. But I am learning that what the people of England think of you is very important—especially when our sovereign lord is only six years old.” He pulled her arm through his and led her into the great hall for the noonday dinner. “And that is why I would like to go France and make my name as a soldier, as my lord of Bedford has done. Victories in France win Englishmen’s hearts.”
“But you have influence with me, Dickon. Does that count for naught? What will I do without you when you are gone to Normandy? Besides, I want to share in your victories. Can I not go with you as soon as we are married?”
Richard shook his head. “I will have been and come back long before we are married. Also we should not forget your father’s wish that you be patient and see reason. Nay, do not turn down your mouth like that,” he said, chuckling. “Never fear, I shall be back to wed you properly when the time is right, my rose of Raby.”
“Then I may not be waiting, my lord. I may take the veil instead,” Cecily retorted, and left him braying with laughter.
CECILY WAS IN another sulk when she learned that ladies were not permitted to witness knighting ceremonies, and Joan became impatient.
“I blame your father for ever putting you in boy’s braies,” she complained and crossed herself for mentioning it. “I suppose you will learn the hard way that women will never be a man’s equal in this world. We may lend an ear, we may even counsel our husbands when asked, but we are a man’s property from one end of our lives to the other. First ’tis our fathers who own and use us to profit from a marriage contract, and then we must honor
and obey any husband thrust upon us. You would be well advised to learn obedience to your husband’s wishes, Cecily, for to disobey is unforgivable in a wife and is a reminder of Eve and her first sin: that of listening to Satan.”
Joan paused, hearing herself preach. Cecily needed sermons if Joan was ever going to teach her headstrong daughter the ways of good Christian women. “And you will obey your husband, Daughter,” she added with finality.
Cecily sighed and stroked Jessamine’s silky coat. “I know you are right, Mother, but it does not seem fair, ’tis all. But”—she brightened—“I am not yet married and my father is dead, thus I have no man to obey.” She saw her mother cover a smile and forged on. “How I long to witness Dickon’s knighting, Mam, and I do not see why ladies must be excluded. Why? Do men have to take off all their clothes?” This made Joan chuckle, and Cecily was moved to laugh, too. “Nay, I don’t suppose they do.”
Joan leaned into her on the window seat, where they were enjoying some fresh air. “Mayhap I can find a way to smuggle you into the old anchorite’s cell behind the chapel, where you can use the squint. Let me see what I can do.”
Cecily jumped up, sending the dog flying, and clapped her hands with delight. “Thanks be to St. Jude! And thanks be to you, dearest Mother. I promise to be as quiet as a mouse—a church mouse,” she cried, pleased with her wit, and they both laughed. It was the first time Cecily had heard her mother laugh out loud since Ralph had died, and her heart was lifted too by the unexpected joy of it.
CECILY TRIED TO get comfortable in the cramped, dark space behind the west wall of St. Mary de Castro church, where the squint had given a long-ago anchorite access to the Mass from his cell. Rowena had procured a plain woolen gown for her, so she had been unremarked as she had slipped into the windowless room, clutching a tinderbox and candle.
Terrified she might be attacked by a rat, she sat down on an upturned barrel and drew up her legs as high off the dirt floor as she could. She lit the candle and settled down to wait, pulling a book from its protective pouch at her waist. When she recognized that it was the musings of her mother’s favorite saint, Brigid of Sweden, she groaned. And Joan had even marked a particular passage she meant her daughter to read.
Her Latin was rudimentary at best, Cecily admitted to herself, but she applied herself to the text partly in gratitude for her mother’s clever plan and partly to ward off boredom. She sighed and began a rough translation.
“I saw a throne in heaven on which sat the Lord Jesus Christ as Judge. At his feet sat the Virgin Mary. Surrounding the throne was a host of angels and a countless multitude of saints.”
Cecily yawned and skipped down to St. Brigid’s first question.
“O Judge, I ask you: You gave me a mouth. May I not say what I please?”
Aye, Mother. Cecily smiled into the gloom. I now know exactly why you chose this text. She read the answer aloud in an imitation of her uncle the bishop: “Friend, I gave you a mouth in order rationally to speak words beneficial to your soul and body as well as words for my glory.”
“God’s bones!” she expostulated and threw the book down. “I need read no more.”
Just then she heard the fanfare, and she swiveled around to peer through the squint. Soon three dozen chosen young men processed up the aisle in pairs. Each wore a tunic of chain mail over a short white robe, with an empty scabbard by his side. They carried their sword upright by the point, their new golden spurs hanging from the hilt.
When the candidates for knighthood were ranged in two columns facing each other, Cecily heard a rousing “God save the king” from outside the church, and upon another fanfare, young Henry, under his royal canopy, passed by the others and to the choir. How small he looks, she thought, as he received his spurs. Bedford grasped the boy’s sword and cried, “Avaunces!” Henry knelt and was dubbed knight by his uncle. “Arise, sir knight. Soit chevalier,” the duke cried.
Poor Henry, Cecily thought, watching the skinny boy rise and grasp the heavy sword offered by his uncle. It seemed that it was now his duty to dub the rest of the lads with it, but by the time the fifth boy was told to rise and receive his spurs, Henry was so tired that he relinquished his duty to Bedford, and Cecily was barely able to hear the rest of the names the king then called. She began to feel sorry for him.
But then it was Richard’s turn. As he stepped forward, his head held high and his eyes shining with pride, something strange was happening to Cecily as she gazed at her betrothed, and she pulled back her head in surprise. A tingling, which had begun in her heart, she surmised, was now traveling to her lower belly, making her breathless for a few seconds. She thought she would faint. What is it? she wondered, hoping she was not ill. She returned to the squint in time to see Richard walk toward her back to his place, his face radiant, and she felt the warm sensation all over again. Can this be what Rowena meant by swooning? Could I possibly be in love? And she hugged herself.
The ceremony moved into the Mass. Cecily thought she had better return to dress for the banquet. Retrieving St. Brigid’s writings, she snuffed the candle and slipped out of the cell, pondering the odd sensation she had felt.
Later, upon entering the great hall, the first person she encountered was her sister, Anne. Glad to see someone she knew at last, Cecily went forward eagerly to greet her. Nan reacted to her name being called from halfway across the room with a disdainful frown that stopped Cecily in her tracks.
“Really, Cecily,” Anne murmured, casting a critical look at Cecily’s clothes, “have you still not learned to behave like a lady?”
“I am happy to see you too, Nan,” Cecily retorted, and went to find her place at one of the long tables.
Course after delectable course was brought out for the hundreds of richly garbed guests. The little king presided over the feast, his golden spurs on a red satin cushion by his side. The noonday sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, the dust from all the comings and goings on the rush-strewn floor making heavenly pathways in its rays.
After Nan’s chilly reception, Cecily looked around for Richard to cheer her. Hearing his unmistakable laugh ringing out from a group across the hall, her heart lifted and the infectious sound made her laugh too.
Baynard’s Castle, London
FEBRUARY 8, 1461
Cecily realized she was laughing out loud behind her heavy tester curtains and hoped she had not awakened her attendants. Dear Richard, I did so love your laugh, she thought.
Now the rest of the evening at Leicester came flooding back to her, a celebration of the knighting of their king. What promise the boy held then with his good looks, model behavior, and mingled blood of the great Henry the Fifth and the French princess Catherine of Valois.
Cecily harrumphed as she lay contemplating the weakling who still sat on the throne. How wrong we all were. It is not that he is a bad man, she thought, because in fact he is too good, too kind, but out of the goodness and piety has emerged an ineffectual king. She began to wonder what was it that made a good king, one like Henry’s warrior father? Was it only power and prowess in battle? She dismissed the thought, knowing, after many conversations with Richard, that good governance of the people was the key, which meant taking and holding the reins. Shaking her head, she had to admit that this Henry had never had a chance to take them, surrounding himself as he had with unscrupulous sycophants. Poor Henry. He had inherited the crown as a babe simply through his right as a first-born son, and from that moment he had been manipulated by stronger men.
Aye, there is no doubt, she admitted, Henry is a weak man. But is his weakness the fault of his piety and goodness or is it because he has a weak mind? She could not decide. However, this jumble of musings about Henry and kingship led Cecily back to the knighthood feast in Leicester and to the first time she noticed any odd behavior in the king.
Henry had been seated under a canopy that night, his oversized sword by his side, and the poor boy did his best not to fall asleep as dish after dish of rich food was plac
ed before him. Cecily remembered that Richard was one of the new knights honored to be chosen to serve the king on their knees. It was after several courses had been consumed greedily that Cecily had chanced to look up at the king, curious to know if he was enjoying himself. It was as though he had been in a trance or as if Jack Frost had run icy fingers over him and frozen him in place, she thought now. Henry’s light eyes stared into space, his hand poised halfway between his platter and his mouth. What was wrong with the boy, she had wondered, and why was no one else noticing? But Henry just went on staring until Uncle Beaufort sidled up to him and gently moved the king’s hand back to his plate. Henry had started, and it was clear that he was puzzled by the bishop’s intervention. Cecily remembered looking around at her neighbors and wondering if others had pretended not to notice.
She stared into the darkness of her curtained bed, seeing again the magnificent hall and reliving that special day in her life. All her senses were satiated that night by the delicious taste of delicate dishes, the pungent aromas of roasted meat mingled with the heavy scents liberally applied to the throats and wrists of the ladies, the myriad colors of silks, satins, damasks, and velvets adorned with every precious gem known to man, the sweet sounds of gems-horns, viols, lutes, and recorders. And then there was the touch of Richard’s hand as he led her out to dance.
Cecily gave a smothered snort of laughter as she recalled the other memorable event that night: her first stab of jealousy. Aye, Cis, you can laugh now, but at the time you believed the heavens had fallen about you.
It was after the tables were cleared and the dancing began that she tried to find Richard in the melee, she recalled. As she made her way to him, eager to share her secret viewing of the knighting, she had almost tripped over a small dog camouflaged in the rushes, trodden on the long points of several shoes, and felt a flea take a bite out of her ankle. She could not quite remember what oath she had uttered, but she would never forget the shock on the face of the man near her.
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