I believe you will need to comfort your sister-in-law, Alice, in her loss. She was Salisbury’s only child, I seem to remember. I expect she may have received word before this. Now the only consolation is that it will not be long before her husband has the Salisbury earldom awarded him through her. Your brother is a good man and will wear the rank nobly.
May the Blessed Virgin have you in her keeping each and every day. I shall count the days until I have news from you. Your letters brighten my days and oft-times make me laugh. Pray also remember me dutifully to your mother and my guardian, the countess.
Your devoted Richard.
Cecily refolded the letter tenderly and stared at the falcon and fetterlock seal of the house of York. She had sometimes been curious as to why an instrument of imprisonment had been chosen as a badge. The falcon was perched, wings open and ready for flight, and yet it was clearly manacled to the fetterlock. The meaning was lost on her.
Cecily shivered as she imagined Richard huddled in his tent, blinding snow whirling around outside and howling winds penetrating the canvas. She tucked up her feet under her warm velvet skirts and gazed into the bright flames of the fire in Joan’s spacious solar. She liked Windsor, its round keep upon the motte high in the center of the extensive castle walls giving one a view of the Thames flowing through its wide valley on its way to London and the sea. True, the countryside here was also mantled by snow, but it was a peaceful, bucolic scene unlike that under the walls of a besieged city, where at any moment boiling oil, arrows, stones, and cannon balls might rain down upon the attackers.
“Mother, does Alice know her father is dead?” she asked Joan, who was peering at Christine de Pisan’s book City of Ladies through her gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Aye, poor lamb,” she said, sighing. “I thank God your brother was home from the borderlands when the news reached them at Bisham Manor. I did not think to mention it to you, Daughter. You did not know the man, but he was England’s best general. God rest his soul. ’Tis said Suffolk took his place, but we have heard no more.”
Cecily rose from her window seat and grandly gave her mother and the other ladies Richard’s news, proud to be more informed than they. Joan was plainly astonished that Richard would entrust such important information to his young bride-to-be. Such indelicacy, she thought. She resolved to talk to him of it as soon as he returned to England. She entreated St. Brigid to return him soon from this dangerous adventure to which she had agreed far too readily. Cecily did not need to be widowed before she was even properly wed, Joan thought. If he came within the next few months, she would insist on the formalizing of the marriage, and she would ask Duke Humphrey of Gloucester to find a place at court for Richard that would preclude his running back to the French war. She well remembered consoling Cecily when the girl’s twelfth birthday—the time when she might legally be wed—came and went without a sign from the young duke.
“I thought he would surely return as soon as it was legal for us to be married, Mother,” Cecily wailed a month after her birthday while staying with Alice at Bisham. “He promised!”
“Hush, Daughter,” Joan had snapped, turning her irritation at Richard’s silence on Cecily. “There is naught you can do, so resign yourself and learn a little patience. Our lives as wives and mothers are all about waiting—waiting for our husbands to return from somewhere else, then awaiting their pleasure, or waiting for the next babe to come. You must learn how to fill your days so that you do not notice the waiting. ’Tis the best advice I can give you.”
Joan smiled to herself now as she recalled Cecily’s uncharacteristic acceptance of the little homily with a demure, “Aye, my lady.” She wished for the thousandth time that Ralph could see how Cecily was growing—nay, blossoming—from cygnet to swan. She was tall for her almost fourteen years, and the gawkiness of pubescence was disappearing. Her waist was tiny and her breasts, although not yet fully formed, filled the bodice of her gown with a promise of the voluptuousness that was fashionable in this time of low-cut gowns, their generous collars plunging from the tips of the shoulders to a wide V at the cinched high waist. Perhaps her neck was a little too long, but the eye was quickly drawn to a perfectly oval face, cherubic mouth, and those glorious gentian-colored eyes. How fortunate that Cecily had inherited the shapely Neville nose and not the Beaufort beak, Joan mused. Aye, it was time York claimed his young bride or she would have trouble keeping her daughter’s virginity intact, she chuckled to herself.
JOAN HAD CAUSE to worry, for Cecily had had several opportunities to explore her sensual side since feeling the first flutters in the hermit’s cell at Leicester. There were many eligible young squires who made sheeps’ eyes at the youngest Neville daughter, and Cecily was becoming increasingly aware of her own beauty and its effect on the opposite sex. She was attracting their attention. But her fear of betraying Richard’s trust—not to mention her fear of being branded a harlot—had so far kept the young men at bay. Her height, regal posture, and direct gaze made Cecily’s admirers afraid of approaching her. She was, however, never at a loss for a dance partner.
In truth, one seventeen-year-old tow-headed squire—the same Will who had taught her to fish—had appeared in some of Cecily’s dreams of late and flustered her when he smiled across the room at her. She did not know quite how to respond to a lightly pressed hand, a murmured compliment, or over-long kiss on her fingers. Soon Richard’s teasing nickname, proud Cis, was being bandied about the squires’ hall and dormitory in quite another context, for all the young men were of the same mind: to break down her reserve and steal the first kiss.
As the winter turned to spring, Cecily practiced waiting. It was time to take Nimuë out of the mews to exercise her beautiful wings as well as to let her jennet stretch his legs across the fields. The hours following Mass and before the main meal of the day were Cecily’s favorites. Then she joined young squires and other ladies in riding to the hunt, accompanied by fewterers handling lithe greyhounds, and falconers. It was on these rides that those same squires who so admired Cecily’s beauty saw the young woman shed her aloofness and handle a horse and hunt as well as any man.
One particularly successful late-May morning, Cecily murmured farewell to her merlin, making sure that the bird had received the choicest of meat tidbits from the two hares she had caught, and hurried back to her apartments to change her habit for a more suitable gown for dinner. She arrived breathless at the top of the spiral stair and stepped into her mother’s solar just in time to see Joan react to a piece of gossip that had been passed on by one of her ladies.
“Scandalous!” Countess Joan declared. “Sweet Jesu, but Queen Catherine must indeed be her wanton mother’s daughter. Such disregard for her rank, for her son, and indeed all of us.”
“What has the queen done, Mother?” Cecily cried, removing her green felt bonnet and pushing a wayward strand of hair from her face. Jessamine waddled toward her to be patted, and Cecily bent down to make a fuss over the old dog.
“She has given birth to a bastard,” Joan answered, fairly spitting out the distasteful word. Cecily hid a quick smile in Jessie’s brown and white fur. But Mother, she wanted to say, you were a Beaufort bastard once. Instead, she lifted her head, eyes wide with surprise. “A bastard? Do you know who the father is?”
Joan’s companions all swiveled their heads from daughter to mother, agog to know the answer. The gossipmonger had not been given that information. Joan lowered her voice, and four necks craned to hear who might have sired a child on the king’s mother.
“I cannot know for certain, but before she left court,” Joan told them, “it was apparent that she was enamored of a servant of her late husband, King Henry, one Owen ap Tudor—a Welshman and a most handsome gentleman, but . . . a servant!” Two of the women nodded, snickering. “He became her own keeper of the wardrobe, if you remember.”
Cecily stood up and faced her mother. “I remember she was kind to me. I feel sorry for her. She was so young when King Henry died, and
then she was sent from her little son’s court. She must have been very unhappy, and I am glad she has someone to love her.”
The ladies sat stock-still and watched Joan’s face harden. “It is not our place to love wherever we will, Daughter, and we in turn cannot expect to know romantic love. All of us are bound to do our duty according to our family’s wishes. You find respect and love when you find a husband. Anything else is harlotry. Any more talk like that, young lady, and we shall remove you from court and keep you close until York comes calling for you.”
Cecily’s face fell at such a public upbraiding, and tears were close. But heeding the lesson to show no emotion, she curtsied to the countess, murmured an apology, and fled from the room as the bell rang for dinner. She flung herself on her bed and pounded the pillow with her fists. I hate being a woman, she thought vehemently. No one thinks ill of a man who takes his pleasure where he may. How dreadful to fall in love with someone you should not be with, she mused, turning over and lying on her back, imagining the queen with her servant-lover. As it often did, her daydreaming returned to Richard and what it might be like to have him touch her.
“Lady Cecily.” Rowena’s voice pierced her thoughts and she sat up with a guilty start. “You must ready yourself for dinner. The bell has sounded, and your lady mother will be angry with you again.”
“Oh, Rowena! I pray you make my excuses. Say I have a headache, I beg of you. I cannot face my mother and her ladies now.” She lay down on the feather bed and stared at the canopy above her. “Please go quickly and, if you can, bring us some food for, in truth, I am ravenous.”
Rowena returned as quickly as she could after informing the countess of Cecily’s headache, and then slipped down the great hall staircase to the kitchens below and wheedled food from a grumpy cook. The two young women set about devouring half a fish pie, two custards, some roasted rabbit, and a bowl of dried plums and nuts.
Cecily looked at Rowena curiously as the older girl bit into a filbert. “Why are you not married, Rowena? You are eighteen now, are you not?”
A sudden sadness suffused Rowena’s broad face: “My father is unwell, my lady. He must first find good positions for my younger brothers, and as I am the last of three girls, I am less important. He was pleased when your lady mother took me in to attend you.” She sighed. “I shall probably end up an old maid.”
“Nonsense!” Cecily cried, moved by Rowena’s plight. “I shall set about finding you a husband, never you fear.” She chewed her bottom lip, a childhood habit that helped her think.
Rowena dropped a little curtsey. “You must not bother yourself on my account. I am perfectly content here with you. Look at how I am living,” she said, spreading her arms and taking in the elegant tester bed with its heavy tapestried curtains, rich turkey carpets on the polished tiled floor, two huge chests, a finely carved high-back chair, and a small cushioned settle all gracing the large room.
Cecily wandered to the window, its horn panes almost transparent but not clear enough to give anything but a blurred impression of the crenellated roof of St. George’s Hall on the other side of the small courtyard, where the king’s household would be at table. Why am I fretting about Rowena’s lack of a husband when my own betrothed has not even written to me for two months? She grimaced. ’Tis certain he has forgotten me, she thought, then immediately felt guilt for her unkindness, for word had come to the council that the English army was plagued by sickness and deserters and was sadly depleted, allowing new French soldiers and supplies to sneak into Orléans. But this news had not concerned Cecily. Perhaps Richard, God forbid, had been wounded or even worse, but Joan had assured her daughter that if such a noble as York had been killed, the king would have been apprised. But Cecily fretted. He could still be too ill to write.
Cecily sighed. Dear Mother of God, do not desert me now, she begged silently. I promise I have discouraged all those other young men and kept myself for Richard.
So deeply was she in thought on the window seat, watching a flock of starlings lift from the great hall roof, that she did not hear a knock on the door and turned only when a man’s voice softly spoke her name.
“God’s greeting, Cecily. I trust I find you well.”
Leaping down from her perch, she squealed with joy and flung herself into Richard’s arms. Rowena had taken up a discreet post by the door and watched the happy reunion with pleasure. Richard was unprepared for such a reception and, as gently as he could, extricated himself from his betrothed’s embrace, using his left hand to protect his right bicep.
“Sweet Jesu, but you are grown even lovelier,” he murmured, scrutinizing her for many seconds with his gray gaze. “Do I gather from your welcome that you are glad to see me, Cis? I feared a rebuke for my dismal lack of correspondence, but I do have an excuse.” He tapped his arm gently.
“Oh, you are hurt, dearest Dickon. Forgive me. Were you wounded?” She hung her head. “I was just thinking how cross I am with you because you had not written. But be sure I am glad to see you. Is the siege over? Why are you here? Tell me what happened to your arm.”
Richard had forgotten Cecily was capable of so many questions at once and chuckled. “An arrow found me as I hurried back to my tent one day with only my breastplate and helmet on.” He fingered his arm gingerly. “’Twas my own fault, I confess, and I cursed my bad luck, and although the wound is healing, my lord of Suffolk decided I was of more use to him as an envoy and sent me home.” His derisive inflection of the word envoy told Cecily that he felt himself demoted. “I had been giving the council the latest news until dinner was announced. When I did not see you in the hall, I came to find you. Are you unwell? Your mother’s attendant mentioned a headache.”
“Pish! I do not have a headache. Mother and I quarreled, ’tis all, and I did not feel like getting another homily at dinner.” She hung her head sheepishly. “I fear I am still not the lady Mother would wish for. But no matter, tell me your news. Is the siege over? Did those Frenchmen surrender?”
Richard went quiet. He had been sequestered with the council for more than an hour, recounting the sorry story of the siege and answering endless questions. He was tired of the subject, but Cecily deserved a response to her eagerness to know the outcome of the siege, and he could spare her the details. Besides, he wanted time to drink in the beauty of her. Twisting the large signet ring on his first finger, he took a deep breath and began.
“You may be surprised to know that the French themselves raised the siege, Cis.” He smiled at her slack-jawed face. “Aye, ’tis hard to conceive. They must have been starving in the city after the long winter. But in truth, something happened that will puzzle Englishmen for years to come, and only we who witnessed it could believe it.” He shook his head and crossed himself.
Cecily held her breath for a second before blurting out, “What? What happened?”
“On the twenty-fifth of last month, Duke Philip ordered his men to leave Orléans, and that left only the English surrounding the city, our numbers much cut by sickness, death, and desertions. We were daily expecting the white flag of surrender—surely they could not hold out any longer. Four days later, we did see a white flag, but it was decorated with a portrait of Jesus and two angels and was carried by a youthful French soldier who seemed to have God on her side.”
“Her side? You mean his side, my dear Dickon,” Cecily teased.
But Richard was not joking. “Nay, I mean her,” he said firmly. “Her name was Jeanne—Jeanne d’Arc,” he told a now-rapt Cecily. “We heard that she had traveled from her village in eastern France at the command of heavenly voices to seek the Dauphin Charles and affirm that he was indeed the true French king.” Cecily stared openmouthed and fascinated as Richard quietly continued: “It is said she journeyed to Chinon, where the dauphin was awaiting the fate of Orléans—and indeed of France. It seems that Charles’s father, our king’s grandfather, had so many bouts of insanity that people believed he could not have sired this young dauphin. Charles should h
ave been proclaimed king as successor to his father, but he has never been crowned because the people believe he is a bastard. Anyway, we heard this Jeanne—she is naught but a peasant’s daughter, mind you, and only seventeen—was able to have an audience with the dauphin—I mean king.”
“Seventeen?” Cecily’s imagination was afire. She is but three years older than I, she surmised, a mere peasant girl, and she leads an army? “How can this be, Dickon?”
“I swear I am telling the truth,” Richard replied. “Do you want to hear more or not?”
Cecily nodded. “Forgive me, I am dumbfounded, ’tis all. But I wish you would hurry up and tell me how she became a soldier—you mean in armor and carrying a sword?”
Richard nodded. “Just so—and she was not afraid to wield it. I have not told you the most important part of the story, but if you would stop interrupting, I will.”
Cecily glared at him. Gripping her hands together in her lap, she sat silent.
“That’s better,” he said, though it was all he could do not to laugh. “It is said Jeanne has been hearing heavenly voices—St. Michael, St. Catherine and St. Margaret, they say—telling her to find the dauphin and announce to the court that he is indeed his father’s son and has every right to wear the crown.” He paused. “To test her powers, Charles stood among his nobles to see if she would know him, a man she had never seen before.”
“Sweet Jesu, she must have been brave,” Cecily breathed, admiring the intrepid Jeanne more by the second. “And did she know him?”
“Without faltering, so we were told. She then asked to be allowed to join the army, which is what her voices told her she should do, and help free Orléans. It is hard to believe, but after the priests were satisfied that she was not a witch—and it was confirmed she was still a virgin—she was allowed to arm and go to the Orléanists’ aid.”
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