Richard acquiesced, and she snuggled into his warm body. He had yearned for her all evening as they supped with Duke John, his duchess, and Cecily’s sisters. Joan had not been well of late, and she had spent all day in her chamber. Cecily had decided it was best not to upset her mother with the knowledge of her visit to Jeanne; she would tell Joan of it one day, she had no doubt.
Richard for his part hoped that now perhaps Cecily would forget her obsession with the Maid and would concentrate on her duty to him. But he had known Cecily long enough to recognize when her stubbornness might overrule common sense. He had long since agreed with Joan that Ralph had spoiled his daughter. Richard gave a little sigh. Aye, he loved her spirit, her intelligence, and her beauty, but not being an assertive man where women were concerned, he needed her wifely obedience. Was it not his right to expect that of her?
On her side of the bed, Cecily found her thoughts returning again and again to Jeanne’s prophecy. How did she know my name was Cecily Neville? And what did she mean that my sons would be kings? Did she mean that Richard would one day wear the crown? How could that come to pass? Henry was on the throne, he was healthy and would bear sons. Besides, Bedford and Humphrey would come before Richard in the succession, would they not? It was too fearful to contemplate, she thought. The whole order of their lives would be turned upside down. Nay, Jeanne must have misheard those voices of hers.
“Cis, stop mumbling,” Richard grumbled. “Are you not tired?”
“In truth, I am a little tired, Dickon.”
“Then God’s good night to you, madame ma duchesse,” he said, closing his eyes. “May you waken on the morrow a humble and obedient wife.”
“Oh, Richard, is that what you really want?”
“Sometimes,” he answered, yawning. “But not in bed.”
11
Rouen, Spring 1431
On the twenty-first day of a dreary February, when the snowmelt and daily drizzle had made the streets of Rouen a sea of mud, John of Bedford and his attendants accompanied Bishop Cauchon on horseback from Joyeux Repos across the city to Château Bouvreuil to begin the trial of the Maid of Orléans.
From Countess Joan’s solar window, Cecily and Katherine watched them go. Cecily’s heart was heavy. She was thinking of the conversation at dinner the day before, after Bishop Cauchon had spent the morning in the duke’s office going over the details of the first day of the tribunal.
“How long do you think the proceedings will last, my lord bishop?” Anne of Bedford had asked her guest. “And will they be held in public?”
All eyes turned to Cauchon. With his roly-poly physique and wobbling chins, he certainly fit her new name for him: “Cochon.”
“I have no doubt we shall obtain a confession from La Pucelle within a few hours once the tiresome preliminaries are over,” he said. “She has been summoned and will appear before us on the morrow. And aye, the session will be public, but I regret, madame, that ladies are not permitted.” He beamed at Anne, his watery eyes disappearing into folds of larded cheek.
“She agreed to appear—and without conditions, my lord bishop?” Anne persisted. “From what I have heard”—she purposely avoided Cecily’s eyes—“the Maid is not afraid to speak her mind. I am surprised to know she agreed to appear so meekly.”
The smile faded from Cauchon’s face, and he lifted his snowy napkin from his lap and wiped his entire face with it. Cecily noticed he was missing half an index finger on his right hand and irreverently wondered if he had bitten it off himself, mistaking it for a sausage. He avoided Anne’s gaze on his left and stared ahead as he responded, “You are correct, madame la duchesse. The heretic had the audacity to demand to hear Mass before being tried. How could I, in all godliness, allow a heretic into His holy presence? You may rest assured I refused.”
Cecily could not stifle her gasp in time to prevent Bishop Cauchon’s accusing eyes from finding her among her sisters at the ladies’ table. She pretended to choke a little and busied herself with her cup of wine, feeling the odious man’s gaze on her.
“Certes, you refused,” John of Bedford exclaimed. “Until she is proven innocent of heresy, she must be denied God’s comfort.”
Cauchon turned his attention to his host, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Just so, your grace. And what sacrilege to stand before God’s holy altar in those unwomanly garments. Indeed, the voices she hears must be from Satan, and if nothing else, that transgression will condemn her. Have no fear, Lady Anne, she shall be proven guilty—and by her own confession, I promise you.”
“It seems to me, Bishop Cauchon, that you have already made up your mind that she is guilty.” Anne’s smile was sweet, but her husband on the other side of Cauchon frowned.
“My dear, you misunderstand our guest. Indeed, we all hope the Maid will confess her sins and recant. It behooves us to rid ourselves of such a dangerous threat to King Henry’s kingdom here in Normandy, and it is the tribunal’s task to accomplish that. If she recants, she will make her French followers ashamed they listened to her, and they will soon forget her.” Bedford’s tone was, as always when addressing his wife, courteous and kind, but it contained admonishment just the same.
Anne blushed and hung her head. “I beg your pardon, my lord bishop, if I spoke too boldly. All of us hope that Jeanne will recant and be allowed to return to her family.”
Cauchon patted her hand. “I forgive you, my dear duchess.” Then he turned and arched a brow at Bedford. “Will you send Jeanne home if she recants, monseigneur?”
John of Bedford’s answer had been smothered by a mouthful of meat, and so no one heard his expostulated, “Nay!”
KATHERINE PROPELLED CECILY away from the window and back to their cushioned settle. Nan looked up from her embroidery, jealous of the friendship that had blossomed between her eldest and youngest sisters. She was, however, happier to be with the court than stifled in her Welsh castle and enjoyed her position as Humphrey Stafford’s wife. Humphrey was now Bedford’s lieutenant general in Normandy. A few months ago, when Humphrey had been created first count of Perche in Normandy for his loyal service on the king’s council and in the province, Nan had not endeared herself to her sisters with her boasting.
“She is jealous because you and I are duchesses, ’tis all, Cis. Take no notice of her,” sensible Katherine had told her passionate young sister and had chuckled at Cecily’s characteristic “Pish!” in response.
“Humphrey says Cauchon will get a confession from La Pucelle and is wagering it will happen within a week,” Nan now said loftily. “Humphrey says she does not have the intelligence to understand the inquisitor’s questions.” She paused, biting off a bright scarlet thread. “Humphrey says . . .”
“Humphrey says, Humphrey says,” Cecily mimicked her in a childish voice. “Sweet Jesu, Nan, do you not have a thought of your own?”
“Hush, Cecily.” Katherine stayed her with a finger to her lips. “You will wake Mother.”
Nan stood up stiffly and made to leave. “I see you do not like my company, Cecily. Let me tell you, the feeling is mutual, and so I shall remove myself,” she declared, and putting her sewing basket under her arm, she nodded to her attendant and they left the room.
“Good riddance,” Cecily muttered after her. “Confess you do not care for her high and mighty ways either, Kat. Ah, but you are more sanguine than I and can see the good in all. I would I could be more like you.” She sighed and took up a book of proverbs by Christine de Pisan that Anne of Bedford had lent her.
Willingly read fine books of tales
Whenever you can, for it never fails
That examples such books comprise
Can help you to become more wise.
How true, Cecily thought, turning the page to see what other words of wisdom the erudite Christine had written. She resolved to apologize to Nan before nightfall.
HUMPHREY STAFFORD WAS wrong; the trial was now in its third week, and it had moved from the public space of the castle’s g
reat hall to Bishop Cauchon’s private house. Cauchon had subjected Jeanne to all manner of examinations and deprivations and still the young woman held to her original story. Her clever replies had even impressed Duke John. Now Cauchon had been reduced to employing a canon of Rouen, Nicholas Loiseleur, to be a false friend to Jeanne in the hope that she would confess her sin to him in private. He justified his action by quoting from the Inquisition’s handbook, allowing “one or two faithful people to approach the accused and pretend pity, warning him of the fire that would be his lot if he did not confess his heresy.” And so Loiseleur, dressed as an ordinary citizen, gained access to the Maid by pretending to be someone from her own region, and Cauchon hoped she would let down her guard.
Much of this information was kept from the residents of Joyeux Repos, but one day in mid-March, when Richard found time to leave his administrative duties with Duke John for an hour to visit Cecily, he found himself bombarded with questions by his curious wife.
“’Tis monstrous!” Cecily whispered to Richard as they stretched their legs up in a gallery at the manor house. It was raining again. Cecily noticed that Richard had given up his usually fastidious attention to neatness, judging by the mud that was spattered on his hose and tunic. “You say the man blocked Jeanne’s view of the altar with his body in the royal chapel when she was passing because Cauchon forbade her to look inside? What madness is this? What harm in her wanting some comfort from the crucifix?”
“Soft, Cecily,” Richard warned her, checking up and down the paneled gallery that overlooked the hall. “Remember she is believed to be a heretic and thus banned from seeking God’s love—at least the succor one finds inside His holy house. Now, I pray you, leave the subject alone or you will make Duke John suspicious.”
Cecily nodded glumly. “Aye, Dickon, I know you are right, and yet I cannot believe that she is full of sin. If only you could have seen her . . .”
“Enough!” Dickon almost spat, making her gasp. He sat her down brusquely on a bench and gripped her shoulders so tight he made her wince. A few inches from her face, he demanded, “Do you want to be brought up in front of the Inquisitor General? Did you know that a woman who spoke out on Jeanne’s behalf last year in Paris was burned for a heretic? You must hold your tongue or I will find a way to send you home to England.”
Cecily forced herself to demur. True, she was angered by Richard’s treatment of her, but his words and concern for her finally broke down her resolve to defend Jeanne in public. Besides, Richard’s vehemence frightened her. “I am sorry,” she muttered.
He straightened and walked to the balcony rail and glanced over, making sure no one could have overheard their conversation. A few lackeys were sweeping the floor, talking among themselves, and he was satisfied. He turned back to the dejected Cecily and frowned. Was this Maid of Orléans driving a wedge between them? The witch was not worth one speck of dust upon the ground where Cecily walked.
He hurried back to her. “Forgive me if I hurt you, my dearest, but I do not believe you understand the danger you put yourself in. I implore you simply to listen when news of the trial is brought here and not betray yourself. If you will promise me that, I shall rest easy. Do you swear?”
Cecily nodded slowly, acknowledging the sense in his request and finally comprehending her peril. She bent and kissed his cheek, the late-day stubble of his heavy beard in need of a scrape. “Upon my honor, I will, Dickon.”
Knowing Richard’s anger was usually short-lived, she cocked her head, giving him a mischievous smile. “And to prove I know how to change a subject, husband, what say you to becoming a father?”
Dumbfounded, Richard stared at her, and then a grin suffused his face and he delighted her with those crinkling eyes. “By the Rood, Cis! Why did you not tell me at once? When did you know? How long has it been? When will the child be born?”
Cecily clapped her hands in delight. “So many questions, my lord. Where shall I begin?” She had not told anyone, though she was certain Rowena suspected, being responsible for preparing the monthly pile of clean rags. But when a seventh week without her courses went by, she was convinced she had conceived. “’Twas that day in your room at the castle, remember? By my reckoning, we should hold our first child close to your next birthday. I pray it is a boy for your sake, my love.”
Richard was on his feet, hardly able to keep from shouting the news over the balcony to the servants below or to anyone in earshot. “I am going to be a father,” he told Cecily with incredulity, as if she did not know. “God be praised!” he exclaimed, pulling her to him and covering her face with kisses. “He has been good to us, has He not?”
Cecily made a face. “In truth, Dickon, He has taken His time. I have prayed to so many saints, lit candles to St. Monica, and made all sorts of promises to the dear Virgin long before this, and my knees are worn out. But aye, I am grateful He has finally heard us. Let us go to St. Ouen and give thanks.”
It was Richard’s turn to grimace. “What, in this rain? We can go on the morrow. First let us go and tell your mother and sisters.”
WORD WAS LEAKED that Jeanne was to hear the articles of accusation against her two days after Palm Sunday, and if she still denied her guilt, she would be threatened with excommunication and death.
“Seventy of them?” Cecily exclaimed, between meager mouthfuls of a steaming fish pie that she and Richard were sharing for supper. If truth be told, she had little appetite these days, but she also worried the Lenten diet was not sufficient for a woman with child. “They found seventy ways to accuse her?”
Richard nodded, pouring himself some more ale. “I have heard from my lord of Bedford that the Maid’s answers to the hundreds of questions put to her by the forty judges and assessors were of astonishing intelligence, as though she were a theologian,” Richard continued. “If Cauchon was hoping to entrap her into heretical statements easily, he has been thwarted.”
Nay, Dickon, Cecily wanted to say, Jeanne answered not as a man of God but as an angel of God. Instead she shook her head in disbelief. “Day after day they have questioned her. That poor woman must be half-spent. In the prison conditions in which she is kept ’tis a wonder she has not fallen ill. Do you know if she has put off her men’s garb?”
“I understand she was asked which she would prefer: to hear Mass in female dress or wear men’s clothes and be deprived of the sacraments. She answered that if she were assured of Mass in a gown, then she would don one for it but put the breeches back on afterward immediately,” Richard said, leaving the table to warm his back by the fire. “To be sure, Cauchon refused to accept that. It seems he is most offended by the men’s clothes more than by all the other offenses.”
Cecily hardly dared ask what the next step might be, but Richard took her hand and gently told her. “They could send her to the stake if she does not recant. If she does, I believe she will be imprisoned anyway. But they are determined to make her recant, Cis, even if it means torture. The English cannot allow her to become a martyr or her very name will inflame the French into chasing us from Normandy.”
Dejected, Cecily stared at the fire. “I do not care for your choice of words, Richard.”
Richard took her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I wish I could spare you all of this, my love, but trust me, it will soon be over.” He did not voice how concerned he was about his wife’s mien. She had lost the roses in her cheeks and, considering she was with child, she looked thinner than he could remember. He hoped the trial of a heretic who seemed to have so captivated her imagination was not an ill omen for this pregnancy, and he sent a silent prayer to St. Monica to protect mother and child and to his own special saint, the soldier-martyr Maurice, for a speedy end to the Maid’s ordeal.
BUT IT SEEMED Cauchon was in no hurry, and the trial dragged on.
“The Maid was unwell lately, and the king sent his own physicians to care for her,” Cecily’s uncle Beaufort told Joan one day in early May. He had come to pay his respects to his sister,
who was recovering slowly from her winter malady. He gave a short laugh. “My lord of Warwick and I advised the king on this, and he agreed ’twould be a waste to let her die of natural causes.”
Cecily was pretending to read on the other side of her mother’s bed. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying “foul.”
“A waste, Henry?” Joan asked, searching her brother’s round, deeply lined face. “Is not her death what you wish for? What we all wish for?”
Henry patted her fidgeting fingers. “Aye, sister, you have the measure of it. But the king bought her dear, remember, and she has been a canker in our efforts to hold on to France. ’Tis why we think she needs to feel the full force of English justice to pay for her meddling. We want her to die by justice and”—he paused, glancing at Cecily, who still had her nose in the book—“by fire.”
Cecily could no longer feign indifference, and raised her startled eyes to him. “My lord uncle, do you believe in your heart that the Maid deserves to die at the stake?” she said, achieving an even tone with every ounce of self-control she could muster. She even gave him a small defiant smile as his gaze attempted to bore into her very soul.
It was too much for Joan, who suddenly sat up with far more vigor than a woman recovering from sickness. “If I were not in bed, I would box your ears. How dare you question his Eminence thus? Have you no fear for your immortal soul?” Her pale face was now blazing as she willed Cecily into submission. Beaufort had risen, scorn on his face. His sister had relieved him of an answer, for he was by no means certain of Jeanne d’Arc’s heresy yet.
“Forgive her, Henry,” Joan implored him. “Conception has addled her wits.”
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