Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  “How now, wife.” Richard appeared from nowhere and took Cecily’s arm. “You look good enough to kiss in that ruby gown, and if your mother does not notice, I am leading you from here to somewhere quiet where we can be alone—for once.”

  Cecily gasped at his audacity. Jeanne was forgotten as she thrilled to his suggestion. She looked around for Joan, but her mother was safely making her way with Nan and Eleanor to Cardinal Beaufort’s side, undoubtedly to hear more of the Maid’s capture. Cecily clutched Richard’s arm tightly as he negotiated their path to the stairs that led from the hall into the tower where he was housed. Richard pushed open the heavy oak door that led into a small chamber that he shared with Nan’s husband, Humphrey Stafford. A wide, simple bedstead took up the bulk of the space; armor and weapons were stacked in a corner.

  “My lord,” Cecily whispered, her eyes darting around the room, “I should not be here in the gentlemen’s quarters. What if we are discovered?”

  “Can a man not lie with his wife, my dear?” Richard grinned at her. “God’s bones, Cis, where is that fearless spirit I remember so well at Raby? Soon the bell will call us to a special service of thanksgiving, but that is not for another half-hour. We have time to dally, do we not? Besides, sweetheart, I have locked the door.” He began untying the neck of her underdress and bent to kiss the hollow of her neck. Cecily sighed and stroked his dark hair, pulling him lower and giving in to her desire. Soon they stood naked facing each other, and Richard reverently ran his hands down her sides and over her narrow hips, marveling at the silken skin and curve of her.

  Cecily shyly touched his erection. “The skin is as soft as silk,” she murmured, fascinated. Then she looked up at him and dared to ask, “Can we come together standing, do you suppose?”

  Aroused by his adventurous wife, Richard asked, “Is that what you would like?” And when he saw her mischievous dimple, he laughed and kissed her waiting mouth. Pulling her to the wall, he positioned himself against it so that he could gently guide her to him. Their coupling was so intense that their thrusts were almost desperate. Cecily was vaguely aware that they were both wet with perspiration. Suddenly an exquisite sensation flooded her and made her cry out in surprised ecstasy. Within seconds Richard gave in to his passion and clutched Cecily’s buttocks hard against him as he grunted his own satisfaction. Slithering to the floor, they were speechless with wonder until Cecily leaned toward him, whispering, “I love you, Richard of York. I swear, I could never have dreamed of such pleasure.” She kissed him, tasting the salt on his perspiring upper lip, and was gratified that he was still breathing heavily.

  A slow smile spread over Richard’s face and he flicked his tongue over her lips. “Such a hussy I have wed,” he teased her, cradling her to him. “I warrant we must have made a child this day.”

  A WEEK LATER Cecily knew it was not so. Not only were her pains worse this month, but also her disappointment made her melancholy. She had prayed to St. Monica three times daily following the tryst in the tower room, to no avail. What use are saints, she groused to herself as she lounged hour after hour alone on her bed during her week of forced retirement. She did not know when her next chance of conceiving might come now that Richard had ridden off with his contingent to give aid to Bedford.

  Cecily tried to read, but she could not focus on the words that afternoon and began to imagine the scene of Jeanne d’Arc’s capture instead. Part of her had wanted to cry, “Nay, say ’tis not so!” when Bedford had made his pronouncement. Now that she was on French soil, she had fancied that she might witness for herself the young woman at the head of her troops, but she knew that was only in the realm of dreams. Her mother had relayed the manner of the capture later that day when she had sought out Cecily following the special Mass.

  “The woman had led the army out of Compiègne to attack the Burgundians, but when her troops fled back there, she was now at their rear and easily caught.”

  “How brave she must be,” Cecily interrupted, her eyes shining.

  “Brave?” Joan retorted. “She was rash—nay, downright foolish—for she is lost to her countrymen and is now Philip of Burgundy’s captive.”

  “What will they do to her, Mother?” Cecily asked.

  “Let her rot in prison, for all I care,” Nan had suddenly said from her perch on the window seat. “Humphrey says Bedford believes she is a witch and a heretic. They burn such people, do they not?”

  Cecily gasped in horror. “Burn her? For trying to save her country? Certes, she is not a criminal. She should be treated the same as other prisoners of war.”

  “I am afraid she will not be,” Joan answered. “’Tis said she heard the voices of saints who told her to dress like a man, crown the dauphin, and take France back from the English.” She crossed herself. “If she speaks the truth, then she is a most holy woman. But if she gives false witness, then I have no sympathy.”

  “My lord is convinced she must be done away with,” Katherine joined in. “He thinks that as long as she is alive, the French will believe she can work miracles.”

  The conversation ended with the bell for compline, but Cecily prayed for Jeanne locked away in her prison, even though she, as all good English people concerned for their own men, should have been glad of the Maid’s capture.

  IT WAS NOT until July that John of Bedford declared it safe for Henry and his entourage to venture out of Calais. But even then, the road to Paris was not cleared of danger from the French, and so the king was to move to Rouen, the largest city in Normandy and the seat of English governance, which was surrounded by a formidable wall with the Seine along one edge.

  “Rouen will please you,” Anne of Bedford told Joan. They had left the Lancaster Tower far behind and were traveling toward their first stop, St. Omer. She did not speak English, and Joan enjoyed revisiting the language of her childhood spent at Chateau Beaufort when she conversed with the duchess.

  Cecily had willingly ceded her place in the carriage to the duchess, preferring to ride in the fresh air and take in her surroundings. Bedford’s chamberlain had been selected to keep her company. Sir Richard Woodville was ten years Cecily’s senior and the handsomest of knights, Cecily admitted. The chestnut hair framed his good looks with almost girlish curls, but there was nothing girlish about the six-foot athletic man who had been knighted for bravery after Agincourt. Cecily glanced sideways at the strong figure sitting his horse so naturally, and she wondered why he had not yet found a wife.

  “May I be so bold as to point out the road to Agincourt, your grace,” Woodville said, indicating a path leading off the main road to the left. He shook his head sadly. “So many Frenchmen dead in the sea of mud. The Lord God shone his light upon us that day, my lady. I remember it as though ’twere yesterday and not so many years ago.”

  “A splendid victory indeed, Sir Richard,” Cecily replied, scanning the landscape and conjuring up battalions marching over the rise. “It must have been inspiring to be led by good King Harry.”

  Woodville nodded. “Aye, he was a very great commander, hard yet fair,” he replied. “If his son has half his valor and leadership, we shall hold on here. It must be daunting for a boy to look upon this French land and know he rules it by right just as he does England.”

  Cecily murmured an assent, although her thoughts were not with Henry but with the poor, ragged peasants they passed in villages or along the road, foraging for food in a landscape that was so desolate Cecily felt like weeping. Many armies had tramped up and down the Normandy fields for nigh on a hundred years, and now nothing could or would grow in the lifeless furrows. Trees had been felled for firewood for so many camp fires that forests were naught but stumps. The once fertile Norman landscape was now a barren wasteland. She thought of the green English countryside, the rich farmland ripe with corn, and the lush hillsides feeding flocks of fat sheep or herds of cows, and she was almost ashamed. Was ruling France worth this cost? She wanted to turn back and gallop for Calais, the sea, and home.

 
She lapsed into silence and concentrated her gaze on the colorful cavalcade ahead of her to avoid the depressing scenes that flanked the road.

  “I see you are contemplating the devastation, Lady Cecily,” Woodville interrupted her reverie, and, as though he had read her thoughts, he continued, “Let me assure you, King Harry—and now his brother of Bedford—did not treat these lands or their people in the destructive ways of the French armies. ’Tis why I pride myself on being English and not French.” He added with disdain, “The French are savages.”

  Although she murmured some response to him, Cecily could not help but think that were it not for the English here in France, there would be no need to ravish the land.

  HER MOOD HAD lightened by the time they approached Rouen. Richard had joined her several times on the journey and fallen into conversation with Woodville, who either did not take the hint and leave the young couple to ride alone or had been given instructions not to leave Cecily’s side. However, as he had lived in Rouen for some time, he was able to educate them about the city.

  To welcome the king, the people of Rouen had been encouraged to line the streets that led to the Chateau Bouvreuil, an imposing castle set in the western city wall. Compared with the reception that the king had enjoyed from the Kentish folk throughout his progress to Dover, the mood here was more subdued, and Cecily noticed more than one citizen staring sullenly after the royal party, while English men and women, standing separate from the natives, cheered wildly and flung flowers.

  Under the high walls of the castle, Cecily shivered. There was something sinister about the place, she decided, and resolved to escape from it when she could and explore the jumble of streets and squares with their half-timbered houses and pleasant greens. Anne of Bedford had proudly pointed out her three-story manor house named Joyeux Repos hard by the St. Hilaire Gate. It was surrounded by the tranquil, verdant estate of La Chantereine with its gardens and apple orchard. The manor was a welcome sight after the desolation on the road, and Cecily decided that she would visit her grace of Bedford often if she had permission.

  The castle had been readied for the king, but workmen were still making hurried repairs to the two-hundred-year-old building, which had fallen into disuse because the English governor had preferred La Chantereine as a residence.

  And so, as the matriarch of two duchesses and a countess, Joan was immediately welcomed at Joyeux Repos with her daughters instead. The overflow of the king’s three-hundred-strong entourage had to find accommodation in the town.

  WITHIN A FEW days, Cecily had explored the Chantereine property and found a favorite exedra to sit on and read, embroider, or simply enjoy listening to the birds. She was joined by her sisters on occasion, but mostly her companion became the twenty-six-year-old Duchess Anne. Cecily worked hard to improve her French, engendering merry laughter in the garden when she mispronounced a word. The summer days lingered long into the evening, and she had to remind herself that war was being waged not far from the peaceful manor. Richard was a frequent visitor, and if the squirrels had been able to talk, they could have told of surreptitious skirt rustling, rapturous kisses, and whisperings of love under the apple trees. But much of Richard’s time was spent in attendance on the king or learning from Bedford how to govern and command.

  “My respect for his grace the duke grows daily,” Richard told Cecily during one of their meetings in the orchard, where the rosy apples were ripe for picking. “The king should be grateful for Bedford’s wise governance. To be sure, Henry listens to that uncle, but he hangs far more on Cardinal Beaufort’s opinions than I am comfortable with. I pray you, take no offense, Cis, I know he is your uncle, but I fear he hates his half nephew Gloucester, and I cannot blame him for that. The man is a hothead sometimes, but he and Bedford have always upheld the honor of their late brother King Harry and done their duty by him as regents to young Henry.” He paused after this long and slightly awkward speech, stroking Cecily’s hand and twisting the wedding band. “I do not find myself aligned with the cardinal’s thinking, ’tis all, and fear that one day I may be tested where he is concerned. For no good reason he likes me not, although he outwardly shows civility. I have shown myself loyal to Henry, but I am wary.”

  “Perhaps you dwell too much upon which way the wind blows with my uncle,” Cecily remarked. “As far as I can remember, he has said nothing untoward about you.” She paused, suddenly reminded of the conversation she had overheard at Raby about Richard’s lineage. Her mother and uncle had been concerned by his closeness to the throne, she remembered. But that had been years ago. “Aye, you are thinking on this too much, Richard,” she continued, sounding older than her fifteen years. “What have you ever done to cause his dislike? Not a thing, I warrant. You discharged your duty well overseeing that duel last year, when you took the absent Bedford’s place as constable. And you were wounded in the service of your king at Orléans. You are not puffed up like Nan’s husband, Stafford, but are quiet, dignified, and not easily angered. Nay, my dearest, ’tis your imagination that betrays you.”

  “You may be right, Cis, but still . . .” He paused, searching her face, and then decided to trust her with what had lurked in a dark place in his heart since he was four. “I am the son of an attainted traitor,” he began huskily. “I must live with that knowledge all my life. My father had his head hewn from his body for trying to win the crown he thought rightfully his family’s. But his action was treasonous. Each time I walk into council meetings, into the great hall, into a room that at once goes silent, I believe I am being judged as his son. I believe they think I may repeat my father’s folly.” He put his head in his hands. “You are the first person I have ever confided in—although your father tried once to talk to me of it. Oft-times it consumes me so, I think I shall be swallowed up.”

  Cecily gently pulled his hands from his face and made him look at her. “Ah, Dickon. Such pain you have held inside you these fifteen years, ’tis no wonder it consumes you. Forgive me, my love, I childishly never thought of your suffering, of your fear. You always appear so sure, so strong, and yet so very amiable.”

  He smiled at her. “Is that how I am perceived? Then I have succeeded in my intent.” He paused, weighing his words carefully, hoping she would not find them childish. “I made a pact with God many years ago that if I conducted myself with civility to all men, He would protect me from their suspicion. I confess it has been hard at times to hold my peace. There is another side of me that is aching to emerge.”

  Cecily frowned. “Another side? Do not tell me the Richard I love has treasonous thoughts?”

  “Nay, I know my duty to my king. But I want to be recognized as being as high born as the king himself, even though I have no intention of challenging him for his crown. I am content to be his liegeman . . . but I am also his royal cousin. Do you understand, Cis?” He had paced away during this declaration and now swung around to face her, his anguish evident.

  “With all my heart, Dickon,” she replied, rising. Wrapping her arms around him, she snuggled into the soft folds of his worsted tunic, breathing in his familiar smell. “If there is anything I can do to help you achieve this balance, you know I will. Did we, too, not have a pact to share our dreams and aspirations?” She fingered the ruby ring. “Remember, your hopes and ambitions are mine, my love.”

  Richard squeezed her tightly, struck by his wife’s sudden maturity. Somewhere along the road to Rouen, he thought, Cecily had left her childhood behind.

  “I pray you will say nothing of this to your mother or your sisters. Especially the thoughts I have of your uncle the cardinal.”

  “Why would I?” Cecily replied, indignant. “I am your wife and confidante, and you can trust me with your secrets. Besides, I do not like my uncle Beaufort either.”

  Richard laughed then, his burden lighter, and he kissed her tenderly. “Never forget how to make me laugh, my dearest, and love me always as I shall love you.”

  He picked up his bonnet and crammed it on his head,
the ostrich feather fluttering in the late-afternoon breeze. A look of tenderness suffused his face as he told her, “’Twas providence made me your father’s ward. I cherish your devotion.” Then he bent down to kiss her and whispered, “No sign of a child yet, Cis? Nay? Then we shall simply have to try harder.” He kissed her again and made his way back to his horse, which was champing on the orchard grass, and rode off with a wave of his blue bonnet.

  Cecily sank down on the grassy exedra, suddenly feeling tired. Taking on another’s suffering was new to her, and she could hardly bear the weight of it. And yet there was a singing in her heart that her husband trusted her so completely.

  She rose from the grassy seat pondering Richard’s last question and resolved to visit the abbey church of St. Ouen the next day to ask the Virgin to intercede with her Son for the gift of a child. Perhaps fatherhood might ease Richard’s troubled thoughts of his own father’s betrayal.

  “I WAS TOLD I could find the two most beautiful ladies in Rouen here.” John of Bedford’s voice startled Cecily and Duchess Anne not long after Martinmas. They made quite a picture, he mused: tiny French Anne with her creamy skin, dark hair and eyes, and the tall, lithe English rose whose fair beauty was the talk of Rouen. “What are you gossiping about today, your graces?” he teased as he kissed his wife’s upturned face. It did not seem to matter to the duke that Anne had remained barren. The love he bore her was evident every time he looked at her.

  “Monseigneur, fais attention, je t’empris! Do not creep up on us thus,” Anne chastised him, petting the exuberant wolf-hound that never left John’s side. Then she fluttered her long lashes at him. “It may be one day you will hear something that does not flatter you.”

  “Tiens, Anne, you flatter him by even suggesting he was the subject of our conversation,” Cecily ventured, her boldness surprising even herself: Duke John’s presence often awed her. “Today it so happens that we were talking of Anne’s wish to go hunting, n’est-ce pas, madame?”