Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  But then she spotted Richard and started to go to him but stopped short when she had seen her, Cecily recalled, conjuring up the voluptuous young woman whose face was turned from her. I suppose that if I had not felt that first flutter of love in the hermit’s cell earlier, I might have ignored her, Cecily told herself. But, oh, how jealous I was to see a strange young woman with her hand on Richard’s arm. Such boldness had rendered me speechless with disgust, Cecily admitted.

  But if she remembered aright, Richard did not appear to be at all offended by such intimacy, and she was determined to confront them both if she could only stop her legs from trembling. However, by the time the large man blocking her path had moved out of her field of vision and she had taken a first step, the lady was gone.

  When Cecily approached Richard, he was stunned by her indignation and pretended Lady Agnes meant nothing to him. She was Queen Catherine’s attendant. He claimed that he had not even noticed the lady’s hand on his arm.

  Chuckling now, Cecily mentally wagged her finger at Richard. Ah, my sweet husband, she thought ruefully, I am certain that was not the only lie you ever told me in our lives together, but in the matter of Lady Agnes, they have all been long since forgiven. She had regretted not dropping the topic then and there and winced now at the memory of her prim retort. “I cannot think this . . . whatever her name is . . . is a lady. She had her hand on your arm in a most familiar way.”

  Richard had not cared for that remark, Cecily recalled sheepishly, and so had retorted, “You are too young to understand, Cecily. I swear to you, ’twas of no importance. It is of no importance.”

  Cecily sat up in bed suddenly, a piece of a puzzle slipping into place. I do believe she had to have been important to you, Richard, she reasoned, for it was only a few days later that you presented me with a gift that was likely to assuage your guilt in the matter of Lady Agnes.

  She plumped the pillow and tried to straighten out the rumpled bed sheets before settling down to remember the details of that wonderful day when Nimuë had come into her life.

  PART TWO

  That you may be a lover tried and true,

  My wish and will are that your heart be fixed

  In one sole place whence it can not depart

  But whole and undivided there remain;

  For no halfhearted service pleases me.

  He who in many a place bestows his heart

  Has but a little part to leave in each;

  But of that man I never have a doubt

  Who his whole heart deposits in one place.

  ROMAN DE LA ROSE

  6

  Leicester, Summer 1426

  The summer passed pleasantly enough in the midlands city, though Richard spent much of his time in the duke of Bedford’s train, with his guardian’s blessing. “You are better off traveling with my learned nephew than wasting your time dancing attendance on me,” Joan said. “My husband had great respect for John, and he would have approved, I have no doubt. But I beg of you, do not forsake Cecily for too long. She needs your guidance, and I confess I weary of her robust health and unflagging curiosity.”

  “Whereas I, my lady Westmorland, find it enchanting.”

  Richard’s earnest response amused the older woman, and she arched one eyebrow. “I hope you are not dissembling, Richard. Cecily can be a trial when you are with her morning, noon, and night.”

  She dismissed him when she saw that she could not move him. “You will see, mark my words, my daughter is as busy as a bee.”

  Richard bowed and left the room in search of the subject of their conversation. He had a gift for her, and he was looking forward to witnessing her delight in it. After the incident with Lady Agnes, Richard was eager to make amends. Two days after the knighting, Queen Catherine had been advised by the council to sever the king’s leading strings and leave him to its governance. He had watched the sorrowful queen and her party disappear through the castle gate and into Church Lane and noted that Agnes had not cast a backward glance. He sighed with relief and thanked God for his escape from an embarrassing situation with Cecily. He made up his mind that he would never again dally with a woman, wanton or no, unless she was his wife.

  His mood now was greatly lightened by his talk with Joan and the increased certainty of going to France with Bedford, and he set off to find his betrothed. On such a fine afternoon, he was certain she would be outside somewhere, picking flowers or reading in the shade of a willow. He hoped she was not out riding, for he was impatient to give her his love token. Instead, he found her with a squire having a fishing lesson, and she was obviously enjoying herself, judging by the laughter and the mud on her face. When she turned upon hearing his call, he felt his heart leap in his chest and an ache in his loins. The warmth of her eyes and voice when she said his name told him she must have similar feelings for him, and he hurried forward to kiss her dirty hands.

  “Will, I thank you for entertaining my lady. How is she as a fishwife? I can see she has baited her own hook.”

  “Pish, Dickon!” Cecily answered and laughed at him. “I am not such a ninny as to be afraid of a worm. And I thought a fishwife was someone who sells fish, not catches them.”

  Richard gently pried her fingers from the pole she was holding. Giving Will a friendly slap on the back, he excused himself for stealing Cecily away and led her back to the castle’s outer bailey.

  “I have a surprise for you, Cis, but first you must wash your hands. They smell awful,” he told her, shutting the back gate and making for the well in the castle yard.

  “A surprise for me?” Cecily said, her eyes shining. No one had given her a gift since her father had died. An exchange of new year’s tokens during the mourning period would not have been seemly. She looked expectantly at the three-cornered metal bag at his waist. “Is it in there?”

  Richard drew a bucket from the well, and she let him pour the cold water over her hands while she scrubbed them with the harsh potash soap. Drying them on her apron, she pointed at the bag and repeated, “Well, is it?”

  “Nay, it is not. And you shall not make me tell you. ’Tis a surprise, after all,” he admonished her. “Follow me.”

  They skirted the stables, drawing curious looks from the grooms. Passing the smithy, they came to the dog kennels, a long, low shed built against the castle wall. Cecily clapped her hands with excitement, setting up a cacophony of yelping and yowling.

  “A puppy, you are giving me a dog of my own,” she cried, but upon seeing Richard shake his head, her face fell. “No?”

  “Nay,” Richard teased her, “’tis better than a dog.” He continued past the noisy kennel to a shed with a thatched roof. One of the king’s falconers was mending a heavy leather glove when he saw them coming toward him. He jumped to his feet and executed a low bow. “My lord of York, God’s greeting to you. My lady,” he bowed again to Cecily, impressed by the comely young girl at Richard’s side. “Wat Percival at your service. Would you like me to bring out Phoenix to you or your new hawk, your grace? She is a game one, faster than most in this mews.”

  “Then he will suit Lady Cecily very well, Master Percival, very well indeed, as it is a belated betrothal gift. I pray you, fetch her out.” Richard turned to the delighted Cecily. “I hope you will accept the token and not pine too heavily for a pup. I am told this merlin came from Turkey.”

  “My own hawk? Oh, Dickon, how can I thank you enough?” Cecily cried, and forgetting herself, kissed his cheek. She felt Richard stiffen and too late realized she committed the same impropriety as Lady Agnes. “I am sorry,” she whispered, looking behind her to where Richard’s valet and Rowena stood at a discreet distance, “but I was quite overcome by your generosity.”

  “Do not fret, Cis.” Richard tried to sound stern, but as the falconer returned, he whispered conspiratorially, “I shall not tell the countess; after all, we are betrothed. In truth, I rather enjoyed it.”

  Master Percival presented the handsome, hooded merlin for Cecily’s inspectio
n, while Richard beckoned to his valet to bring up the large bag he was carrying. Rowena sidled closer for a look at the magnificent bird perched immobile on Master Percival’s wrist. Cecily stroked the shining brown feathers, and the bird responded by scooting along Percival’s protected hand, making Cecily jump away.

  “Easy, girl,” the falconer soothed it, “Easy.”

  “Does she have a name?” Cecily asked the man, who shook his head.

  “It’d be best for you to name her, m’lady. She must learn to obey only your voice and expect food only from you.”

  Cecily studied the creature, admiring its strength and beauty, and then allowed Richard to fit a cream-colored leather glove on her hand to which was attached a small metal ring.

  “When your bird is properly trained, Lady Cecily, you will let it perch here with the leash around its leg. Now hold out your arm stiffly, please. Aye, that is good.”

  Master Percival untied the leather thong from the ring on his glove and gently transferred the bird to Cecily’s wrist. She eyed the yellow talons gripping her hand with misgiving but confessed that she could not feel anything except the bird’s weight through the finely tooled glove. Richard deftly attached the leg leash to the ring as the little bell on the bird’s leg tinkled merrily.

  “I know it is for me to know where she is in flight,” Cecily said, sticking her arm out in an exaggerated pose. If truth be told, she was a little afraid of those claws and the powerful, hooked yellow beak. But Richard assured her that with the hood on, the bird was too afraid to move but a few inches from where it stood, and she had nothing to fear. Little by little, she brought her arm and the bird closer. She could not take her eyes off the glossy plumage, the black streaks on the breast, the deep brown wing feathers, and the buff-and-brown-barred tail.

  “She is truly beautiful, Dickon,” Cecily said, her eyes shining. “Is she not, Rowena?” Then a wistful look clouded her face. “Poor thing, I am certain she would love to fly free. I know I would, if I were a bird.” She laughed off the thought and turned to her betrothed.

  “When do I begin training?”

  FOR THE REST of the summer, the duke of York and young Lady Cecily could be seen riding out of the West Gate and over the island to the countryside beyond, followed by a gentleman usher with Rowena riding pillion. Cecily had her merlin on her wrist and Richard his falcon. The two young people never tired of conversing and laughing together. Fields of corn were ripening in the August sun, and the hedgerows were full of twittering sparrows, chiffchaffs, whitethroats, wrens, and warblers flitting after winged insects or pecking at the ripening blackberries and hawthorns.

  Richard was a good teacher and Cecily a ready pupil. She had watched her father and brothers hawk for many years in her childhood and understood the rudiments of the sport, but the finer points were now being taught her and she exulted when the merlin made her first kill. This raptor, easier for a lady to handle, was a hand-bird, a hawk that came back to its owner without a lure, and Cecily loved it when the bird returned to her hand. Richard noticed her fingers were nimbler than a man’s as she hooded the bird and attached the leash, and he admired her ability to calm the bird so quickly. His respect for this half-child, half-woman was growing daily.

  She named the bird Nimuë, “because she was the enchantress who cast a spell on Merlin,” she explained to Richard, “and she has cast a spell on me.” It had taken her days to find just the right name, and now she loved the way it rolled off her tongue. She had whispered it over and over to the hawk until she was convinced the bird would react with its kee-kee-kee cry when she approached the mews and called out, “Nimuë, my beauty.”

  Richard had been patient, telling her that training a bird was not the same as training a dog. “’Tis a wild thing, Cis, and it will as lief fly away as return to be shackled. But by rewarding it with kindness, a good deal of respect, and meat from your hand alone, it will learn to do your bidding—and only your bidding.” He taught her how to put the hood upon the bird’s head in one swift motion without getting pecked, how to whistle through her teeth to recall the bird to her glove and reward it. At first, Nimuë was attached to a leash and small birds were loosed for her to attack. After many short flights, kills, and returns on a longer and longer leash, the merlin was ready to hunt with her mistress.

  Cecily had not been this happy since before her father died.

  BUT ON THE fifteenth day of September, when Richard came to fetch Cecily for their daily expedition, she immediately noticed his anxiety.

  “What is it, Dickon? Have I upset you? Your smile is not wrinkling your eyes as it usually does.”

  Richard frowned. “Not wrinkling my eyes? Whatever do you mean?”

  She told him of her decision to trust him at their first meeting because of his crinkly eyes. He burst out laughing. Cecily decided not to tell him that she preferred his smile to the neighing laugh he could not control, so she merely nodded and continued, “My father once told me that you can trust a man whose smile reaches his eyes. I have seen so many instances when he was right.” She looked right and left and then murmured, “Like my Uncle Beaufort. He smiles but his eyes do not. He frightens me.”

  Richard grimaced. “I suppose he is smiling now that he finally has his cardinal’s hat,” he said half to himself. “Pray put Henry Beaufort from your mind, Cis. I have some news that will affect us, and though ’tis everything I could have hoped for, I believe it may cause you distress.”

  Cecily drew in a breath and played with the long liripipe of her floppy felt hat. “You are going to France, are you not?” A simple question, plainly asked, and Richard could do nothing but nod. He stood by quietly, expecting a flood of tears, but instead Cecily held her head high and tried to sound grown up as she wished her betrothed God speed.

  “’Tis what you wished for, Dickon, and I shall manage, I dare say. Mother needs me, and I promised Father I would stay with her. We are to return to London for the winter—or perhaps to Windsor to be with the king. Like as not, I shall be well amused.”

  Richard was astonished. He was certain his volatile Cecily would have begged him not to go or turned on her heel and walked off in a huff. He reached for her hands and fingered the ruby betrothal ring. “I promise I will be back to wed you, but for now I need to learn to be a soldier and I cannot do it hawking in Leicester, as much as I have enjoyed our afternoons.” He looked at her impassive, lovely face and tried to read her expression, but she was giving nothing away. “We leave on the morrow,” he finished. “Early.”

  After formal farewells the next day and Richard’s pledge that he would be a better correspondent this time, Cecily tucked a silk kerchief in his tunic for luck and looked into his honest gray eyes. “I think I love you, Richard Plantagenet, if I understand what love is. I pray you, return to me safe and sound.”

  Before he could answer, and before the tears that were held back by sheer force of will overcame her, Cecily reverenced him and walked calmly away. Richard stared after her, part of him wanting to run and hold her, part of him lacking the courage.

  “I think I love you, too, Cecily Neville,” he whispered into thin air. “God keep you until we meet again.”

  7

  Windsor, Winter to Summer 1429

  Cecily sighed with frustration when drifting snow in the middle of January put a stop to her favorite activity. And so she whiled away the winter hours learning French and Latin with her tutor, working on a tapestry with Joan, learning to play the psaltery, or on her knees in the chapel at Windsor, where the king and his court had chosen to spend her thirteenth Christmas and Twelfth Night.

  Not long after, Cecily was overjoyed to receive a letter from Richard, which she opened with trembling fingers.

  Orléans, Yuletide 1428

  Right well beloved Cecily,

  It is with deep sadness that I send news of our great commander Salisbury’s death on the third day of November last. May he rest in peace. It is said that he was struck by debris from a cannon
ball that flew through the window of a tower where he was surveying the scene across the river. He did not perish instantly but was transported to a small town nearby, where he died a week later.

  I am writing from outside the walls of Orléans on the Loire, where we have been besieging the city since October. Upon learning of Salisbury’s death, our brave English soldiers appeared to lose their confidence, and the new commander, William de la Pole, earl of Suffolk, chose to withdraw most of the troops from the walls, leaving only a small garrison to guard the tower guarding the bridge over the river and into the city. Many of us who have only minor appointments thought it was foolish, but what could we do? I am happy to say that Lord Talbot, upon hearing of Suffolk’s rash decision, immediately sent us all back again.

  Do not concern yourself for my safety, Cis, because other than a few daily skirmishes here and there, most of our time is spent waiting for the city to surrender. I have become adept at chess, and before the snow came a week ago, I caught many a fish along this beautiful river. I often wondered what war was like, but I did not imagine this inaction. Other than one day when my little band was attacked for half an hour, I have not used my sword in service of the king once—but I killed a rat with it a week ago.

  But now the cold keeps me and most of my fellow captains huddled in our tents, warming our hands over braziers, praying, swapping stories of our childhood, or writing letters. The poor billmen and archers have naught but their cloaks and open fires to keep them warm. I cannot believe the people inside the walls can survive much longer, and we pray daily for a command to breach the walls and finish the job or to see the French garrison commander send out a message of surrender. I think of you in your cozy apartments, fires blazing in the hearth, shutters and arras to keep out the winter wind, and good food warming your bellies. How I wish I could be there to celebrate Christ’s birth with you and your mother.