Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  Zigzagging her way through the smaller trees at the edge of the wood, she was forced to slow her excited jennet down to dodge overhanging branches. She let the horse find its path while she kept a lookout for any leafy hazards at eye level, muttering oaths under her breath as the men pulled further ahead. They think I am back there with Alice, she decided, or surely they would have waited for me.

  Being alone in the forest always took her back to the scene with the white hind. A noise to her right made her look eagerly in that direction, too late to see the vagrant wielding a stave who stepped from behind a tree. She flung up her hands to protect her face and screamed before she felt the blow. A white light blinded her as she tumbled like a stone onto the mossy ground. The man only had a few moments to pull off her betrothal ring and cut the leather purse from her belt before he heard shouts of alarm from Alice and her escort. He clambered clumsily onto Cecily’s horse and clung to its mane, urging it forward in a westerly direction. By the time Alice and the squire arrived on the scene, the thief had disappeared into the forest.

  “Christ’s nails! Is she dead?” the squire exclaimed, sliding from the saddle. Gingerly he picked up her hand to feel a pulse. “Lady Cecily, can you hear me?”

  “Dear God, she cannot be dead,” Alice cried. “I knew when I saw that lone magpie from my window this morning that something might go amiss. Get me down from here, Jack, I beg of you.”

  While the squire attended to Alice, two other gentlemen and their grooms cantered onto the scene and stared aghast at the limp young woman on the ground. A groom blew an alarm on his horn to alert the two Richards, and Jack, giving his friends instructions to stay with the ladies, leaped on his horse and rode after the vagrant.

  Alice cradled Cecily’s head in her lap, pulled off the restrictive headdress, and stroked her forehead, urging her to open her eyes. “She is breathing,” she murmured. “Thanks be to St. Hubert.”

  “Who is St. Hubert?” Cecily’s whisper startled Alice.

  “Bye the rood, Cecily! You have frightened us half to death. Are you all right?” Alice turned her head on hearing hoofs, and relief spread over her face. “Thank heaven, here are Dickon and Richard. Oh, I am so happy you are alive, my dearest Cis.”

  “I am, too,” muttered Cecily, putting up her hand to feel the enormous lump on her temple that was now oozing blood. “What happened?”

  Alice motioned for Dickon to dismount. “I think you were struck by a lout with a stick, but we were too late, and he got away on your horse. My squire has gone after him.”

  Dickon was now on Cecily’s other side and took her gently from Alice, his anxious gray eyes searching her face as questions tumbled from his lips. “What?” “How?” “Why were you alone?” and “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  Cecily smiled, reveling in his concern, and snuggled closer to him. “I thought I could catch you and Richard, and I foolishly left the others behind,” she confessed. “Other than in my pride, I do not think I am badly hurt.” When she lifted her hand to stroke his face she noticed the ring was missing and moaned. “My ring, Dickon, he took your ring. Is it an omen, do you think?” Could this be a sign from the Virgin? Surely not, she hoped, and crossed herself.

  “An omen? Foolish girl, certes it is nothing more than an unfortunate robbery—all too common, I fear,” he assured her, laying her head back onto the moss. “The ring is not important compared with your life, dear Cis. Some water, I pray you, Neville.”

  Richard Neville pulled a leather flask from his saddlebag and took it to Dickon. As Dickon held it to Cecily’s lips, he pondered how many such violent encounters occurred in the forests of England these days, and in broad daylight, too. Englishmen were taxed to the hilt to raise money to defend the garrisons in France, and many men were forced to flee into the forests to forage for food or rob innocent travelers. The young duke had always privately thought that holding on to Normandy was worth the few extra pennies of tax each man must pay, but now reality had handed him a new perspective.

  In his few weeks back at court and in council meetings Dickon had seen that even among the nobles there was dissension over which was the better path for England: keeping a stronghold in France at the expense of English manpower and crippling taxes or making a peaceful and conciliatory end to English rule in Normandy, Maine, and Anjou. Despite the disappointment of Orléans—his only foray into military life—Dickon’s views had aligned more closely with those of Bedford and Gloucester in the name of a strong English France. However, having seen Cecily thus attacked, presumably by a disaffected peasant, and knowing she might have suffered far worse than a bump on the head, Dickon now wondered if he was right.

  “Look! ’Tis Jack returned,” Alice cried, jumping up and pointing to where the squire was threading his way through the trees, leading the robber upon Cecily’s horse. A coarse brown hood concealed the man’s face. “Thanks be to St. Hubert! He has caught the whey-faced measle.”

  Cecily’s head pounded, her neck was stiff, and she still felt lightheaded, but she kept her eye on the outlaw as Jack pulled him from the saddle and threw him to the ground.

  “Filthy thief!” Jack cried, giving the man an extra kick in the kidneys for good measure and laughing at his cry of pain. He took a leather thong from his belt and threatened the man with it. “Cowardly maggot! I should hang you here and now, but the sheriff will deal with you later. Now answer me. Where have you concealed your booty?”

  The hood had fallen back from the face, revealing a terrified young man not much older than fifteen. Cecily drew in a sharp breath of surprise. “Sweet Jesu, he is but a boy,” she murmured.

  “Enough, Jack,” Richard Neville commanded, stepping between the angry squire and his captive. “I thank you for your trouble and commend you for catching the varlet. Now, I pray you, take charge of Lady Cecily’s horse and escort Lady Neville home.” He turned to his wife. “My dear, I trust you will make ready for Cecily. We shall follow later.”

  “Can you stand, Cis?” Dickon asked. “I could take you up in front of me or I can stay with you while we await a litter.”

  “Pah! I do not ever want to be seen returning from the hunt on a litter. I can perfectly well sit pillion,” Cecily retorted, struggling to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled and would have fallen had Dickon not steadied her. She gave him a rueful grin. “Perhaps you are right. I suppose I shall have to be carried home like a child. How humiliating.” She winced as she tried to turn her head.

  Dickon chuckled. “Ah, proud Cis. For once, ’tis not a weakness to admit you need help.”

  “We must send for the sheriff,” Neville called to them. “My groom can put the thief behind him and lock him up in the root cellar until Sheriff Gossage arrives.” He bellowed at the prone figure on the ground, “What is your name, peasant? Your name?”

  “P . . . Piers, m’lord. Piers T . . . Taggett,” the lanky youth stammered, getting to his knees. He was unshaven, but his beard was soft and he had several pimples on his face typical of his age. “Have m . . . mercy on me, I b . . . beg in the name of the Blessed Virgin.” He looked up at Neville’s stern face, hoping for some sign of sympathy, but there was none. “Me mother and sisters have no food. Me dad went to France with m’lord Salisbury and never came back. I had to rob so’s the family could eat,” he jabbered. “I am sorry, my lord.”

  Neville held up his hand. “I am sorry for you, but you have done wrong and you must be punished. You almost killed my sister.”

  “I d . . . did not m . . . mean to harm her, sir, I swear. But I was d . . . desperate.” Despite his size, Piers was trembling, and the boyish voice wrung Cecily’s heart.

  “Soft, Richard,” she said, hobbling to her brother while holding fast to Dickon’s arm. “If he gives me back my ring, can we not let him go to his family? I am not so badly hurt.”

  Neville’s eyebrows shot heavenward. “What? Allow a thief to go unpunished? What would that serve, Cecily? ’Tis my belief he should hang not only for h
is act of thievery but for assaulting a noblewoman. This sort of conduct needs a lesson in English justice, and I intend this outlaw shall receive it. Now enough of your mawkish nonsense.”

  Dickon felt Cecily’s hand grip his arm as she straightened herself to her not inconsiderable height and faced her eldest brother. “I am the person wronged here, my lord, not you,” she said steadily, though her legs quaked. She had never asserted herself with her sibling before because of the fifteen-year difference between them—not to mention his gender. “You can see I am not badly hurt, except for this wound on my head.” She fingered it tenderly. “How can you not be moved by the lad’s story, Richard? And his father died for England under your father-in-law’s banner. ’Tis not his fault he was too young to look after his mother and sisters and has resorted to crime in order to eat. ’Tis a cruel land we live in where we will not tend our own neighbors who have naught to live by.” She held her chin high and stared Richard down. “Can you not have pity on him?”

  She glanced now at Piers, who was looking in adoration at this angel of mercy with her porcelain skin, blue eyes, and sweet voice. The sun glinted through the leaves and into her waist-length fair hair, making her appear ethereal. He thought her a vision, for she was the way he had always pictured the Virgin Mary when he prayed to her each night. He crossed himself reverently.

  “Mother of God, help me,” he begged her. “They will brand me or even hang me.”

  Cecily touched the lad’s tousled head. “God have mercy,” she murmured. “Perhaps the Holy Mother will hear your plea.” She was taken aback when he prostrated himself mumbling an Ave Maria. Staring at his quivering body, she was aware for the first time of her power, and it made her brave. Suddenly she imagined La Pucelle facing the Dauphin Charles and all his court, and she was inspired. She turned back to her brother and tried again. “Richard, I beg of you, have mercy and give him another chance.”

  Dickon could see tears in her eyes, and he wondered briefly if they were conjured up to soften her brother’s heart or if they were genuine. Whichever way, he was impressed.

  For a moment, Cecily thought her brother would not bend, but all of a sudden, his face softened and he chucked her under the chin. “Certes, Cis. How can I resist such a supplication?” He turned back to Piers and told him to rise. “You owe your freedom to the lady Cecily. I hope you will not make me search you for the treasure you took from her. Return it immediately before I change my mind.”

  Dickon was amazed at the change of heart in this stiff-necked knight. He was also struck by Cecily’s charity for this sniveling peasant. It made him think.

  Piers rummaged around in his tattered tunic and produced Cecily’s small purse. “I be sorry m’lady. Truly sorry. This be what I took.” He handed the booty to Cecily with an awkward little bow. “Pray for me, a sinner,” he murmured and straightened up, looking at Richard Neville for dismissal.

  Dickon was observing the boy, who was tall, obviously malnourished but with a promise of strength, and he suddenly spoke. “I need a man I can trust to care for my falcons and my lady’s hawk. I have a mind to apprentice you to the king’s own falconer. I will pay you when you are properly trained. What say you?”

  Neville and Cecily stared open-mouthed at Dickon, but Piers was once more on his knees and kissing his savior’s boot. “Grew up in these woods, so I did. Know something of hunting, m’lord,” he said, sheepishly. “More than I should, mayhap.”

  Neville harrumphed. “Poaches as well as robs, no doubt,” he said with a snort. “Dickon, have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “Come to Bisham Manor on the morrow, after informing your family of your new employment,” Dickon told the young man, ignoring Neville’s derision. “Now get up and go and tell your mother the duke of York is grateful for your father’s service.”

  Piers’s eyes widened in shock. “The duke of York? God’s truth!” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

  Cecily’s eyes were now shining with pride for her betrothed. “What a splendid idea,” she cried, digging in the purse and pressing two angels into the hand of the astonished Piers. “This will help your family until you are able to send more. Tell your mother that the lady Cecily Neville is grateful to her for letting you leave.” She could no longer ignore her throbbing head. She leaned into Richard as Piers bowed his way backward, turned, and raced through the wood. “I should like to go home now,” she said.

  As she dozed happily in Dickon’s arms, rocking gently with the horse’s gait, she remembered the ring. She took it from the pouch, slipped it back on her forefinger, and sent a prayer to the Virgin. You were with me today, Holy Mother, were you not? The poor man thought ’twas you and not me who saved him. She marveled at God’s work; out of possible disaster had come triumph. If I had not been alone in the wood, she mused, events would not have taken the path they did to save a young man from a life of crime and a family from starvation. It was God’s will, she believed with all her heart.

  “Thank you for helping the boy, Dickon,” she murmured. She held up her hand, the ruby glinting in its golden setting on her finger. Her father had once told her that to give was infinitely more rewarding than to take, and she hoped she would always remember the glow of satisfaction that filled her now. “This ring will always remind me of this day and how you and I saved a soul.”

  Dickon took her hand and kissed the ring. “Let us never forget in future to be more compassionate to those less fortunate.” He chuckled. “Remember the day when I told you I wanted nothing more than to be a soldier and you, I believe, wanted to be a queen? Here we are again, in a forest, sharing another intention.”

  “I love you, Richard Plantagenet, and I would not care if you wanted to be naught but a gong farmer.”

  Richard Neville turned back to see what had caused the now familiar neigh of laughter.

  JOAN TOLD HER daughter that she was not to leave her bed the next day. With her head still hurting and the effect of ground valerian root taking its time to wear off, Cecily had agreed to a postponement of the wedding for a spell. “I have waited for six years. I can wait a few more days,” she told Alice. Alice was sponging Cecily’s head wound. “I do not want to get married with a black eye,” Cecily said, chuckling.

  So for four more days, the men hunted or competed with bow and arrow at the butts, and Alice and Cecily played with the older children while baby Richard—at ten months already a force to be reckoned with—struggled with his swaddling bands and babbled nonsense.

  From her window Cecily saw Piers Taggett arrive on foot from the nearby village of Marlow. His hair was cut and combed, and he walked with purpose toward the stables. Alice had been astonished when Cecily had described the scene in the woods. She had crossed herself upon hearing Cecily’s belief that the Virgin herself had sent Piers to teach her a lesson in mercy.

  “I should have known some joy would come from the incident,” Alice said, clapping her hands. “On my way back to the manor I saw two magpies fly across our path.”

  “One for sorrow, two for joy,” Cecily intoned, nodding. “Let us hope Piers rises to his reward.”

  THE WALLS OF the private chapel at Bisham reflected the silver and scarlet colors of the Salisbury coat of arms, with its green spread eagles decorating the door columns. Today a Neville and a York banner had been hung for the occasion of Cecily’s marriage. The tiny space could accommodate only a dozen people, but as the event was private, all the guests of honor were able to kneel in comfort upon the tapestried cushions and watch the young bride wed her duke.

  Cecily wore a gown of palest blue cloth of silver. Joan had commissioned it for this occasion more than a year ago, and the bodice was too tight when Cecily had tried it on at Windsor a month before. With much blushing she had allowed the seamstress to measure her chest. Several inches of white satin were inserted into the front of the bodice to allow for her blossoming. When the dress was finished and Cecily tried it on, Joan nodded in satisfaction, but Cecily had grimaced in
the polished brass mirror.

  “It has spoiled the line of the gown, in truth,” she complained, and the seamstress rolled her eyes behind Cecily’s back as she worked on the silversable hem. “The satin should have been put in at the sides or in the back. It will cry out that the gown is old and we had to alter it.”

  Joan had had enough. “Hold your tongue, young lady,” she snapped. “Mistress Roberts has performed a miracle, and you should be thanking her instead of upbraiding her. Rowena, take the gown off your mistress, wrap it in linen, and lay it safely in the oaken chest. She does not deserve to wear it.”

  Joan smiled to herself now as she bent her head over her polished amber rosary and waited for Mass to begin. Cecily looked magnificent in the gown, her sapphire necklace a startling blue against the inserted white satin. Even Cecily had admitted that she was pleased with her wedding attire once she was dressed, and she had spun round and round, letting the yards of shimmering fabric billow out like a bellflower. Her hair was undressed, falling in straight rivers of gold down her back and over her shoulders, a simple circlet of flowers crowning its glory.

  When Richard saw her enter the chapel on her eldest brother’s arm, he felt his knees go weak. Steeped in the romance he had read of in books of chivalry, Richard desired Cecily, but he cherished her virtue first. They had been promised to each other for so long that he had almost forgotten a time when he had not known she would be his. She had become first his little sister and then his friend, but in the few months since his return from France, a tender love had grown. When he thought of Cecily, he had fleeting visions of her naked body next to his, but they seemed almost disrespectful, and he would chase them from his head. Last night he had chosen a verse from his favorite Roman de la Rose to read before he fell asleep, and now he remembered these few lines: