Beaufort harrumphed. “I do not believe your daughter’s disposition has changed one whit since the first time I met her, my lady.” He glared at Cecily, who continued to keep her head lowered. “Have a care, niece. If La Pucelle is proven guilty and she recants, the beliefs of those who supported her may also be questioned.”
Joan gasped and crossed herself. “On your knees, Cecily,” she commanded. “Beg your uncle’s pardon and blessing before God and swear you have no such belief.”
But Henry Beaufort had had enough of these silly women and wanted to return to the castle for news of the latest day’s trial. “Nay, Joan, I will not force Cecily to her knees, but I would hope common sense would prevail and that my niece will put foolish notions about the Maid from her mind.” He now addressed Cecily, who was on her knees in front of him. “I shall look for you at Mass on the morrow, niece, and hope you will be guided by prayer. God give you both a good day,” he said, presenting his great bishop’s ring for both women to kiss. He smoothed out his immaculately pleated scarlet robe and walked slowly from the room.
“I hate him!” Cecily muttered miserably. “They all want Jeanne dead one way or another.” She bowed her head and wept.
Joan stared at her daughter in amazement. “What has come over you, child? Why the concern for a peasant who has caused such turmoil with her nonsense.”
“But ’tis not nonsense, Mother,” Cecily cried, and told Joan of her visit to the prison and the divine experience with Jeanne.
“Sweet Jesu, she has bewitched you,” Joan moaned, struggling out of bed and taking Cecily in her arms. “Certes, can you not see now that she must employ demons to convert the innocent, like you, to her cause.”
Through the bedgown Cecily could feel her mother’s soft belly against her cheek and gave herself up to the childish urge to wrap her arms around Joan’s waist. She did not realize she was weeping until Joan gently tipped up her face and wiped away her tears. Had she truly been bewitched? Cecily wondered, mulling Joan’s words. Perhaps she should admit that she had, and then perhaps she could let go of her obsession with the Maid. Why, Jeanne’s predicament had even clouded her happiness at carrying Richard’s child. How cruel was that? Slowly her sobs diminished and she allowed Joan to take off her slippers and her filigree cap and ease her into her mother’s bed.
“You must not think of that woman anymore, my dear child, for fear it will . . .” Joan paused, searching for the perfect phrase, “upset the balance of things inside you. Pray to St. Brigid to put her away from you. You owe that much to your husband and unborn child,” Joan declared. She was tiptoeing to the door to summon Rowena and her own tiring woman, when she heard Cecily’s whispered, “Thank you, Mother. God bless you.”
Before Joan returned to the bed, Cecily had fallen asleep. For once, her daughter’s dreams were not about the unfortunate woman chained in the castle cell but of her own childhood at Raby.
12
Rouen, May 1431
Within a fortnight, it seemed to all at Joyeux Repos that Cecily’s humors were once again aligned and her appetite had returned. She had prayed hard to the Virgin—and St. Brigid, to appease her mother—to help her concentrate her energies on bearing a healthy child, and with Joan once again restored to the household, the sunny days of May passed pleasantly enough, including a small celebration for Cecily’s sixteenth birthday. It was easier to forget the grim proceedings on the other side of the city in the pretty Chantereine gardens.
On the twenty-fourth day of the month, Cecily and Anne of Bedford were walking arm in arm along the grassy paths of the estate carpeted with violets, buttercups, celandines, and clover, when they saw a group of horsemen trot through the St. Hilaire Gate. Even from that distance Cecily recognized Edmund Beaufort, second son of the earl of Somerset, and she frowned.
“My cousin, your grace. I have no love for him, I regret to say. Not only did he mock me unmercifully for being my father’s favorite, but he was cruel to animals, so my brother Edward told me. I wonder why he comes now.”
Anne bent to pick a lily of the valley and inhale its honeyed scent. “My lord sent for him,” she replied. “He has had some success in the field, John tells me. Only his first command, I believe.”
Cecily noted the noble carriage of her tall cousin seated so naturally upon his horse and nodded. “Aye, I would expect him to be a forceful leader,” she mused. “And arrogant. Like all Beauforts, an abundance of pride is never far from the surface.”
Anne laughed, shooing away a spaniel who was wanting to play. “Va-t-en, Sami! Nay, I will not throw sticks today.” She took Cecily’s arm again, chuckling. “My dear Cecille, are you forgetting you too are a Beaufort?”
Cecily grinned. “I am not allowed to forget, your grace. My mother reminds me almost daily. But in my heart I am first and foremost a Neville,” she said. “And now I have taken Dickon’s name—Plantagenet. I am proud to bear it, in truth.” She patted her stomach. “And our son will be too.”
“Are you so sure you carry a boy?” Anne teased her.
Cecily sidled away, lifting her heavy hem off the dew-drenched grass, and twirled around and around, making Sami bark noisily. “As sure as I am Cecily Neville and Beaufort and Plantagenet,” she cried. “Today I am just happy to be alive.”
Anne hesitated but then chose her words carefully. “In that case, my dear, happy duchess, I do not think you should spoil your mood by accompanying me to St. Ouen this afternoon. It will likely dampen this new joie de vivre that we all rejoice to see.”
Cecily stopped turning and returned, anxious, to Anne’s side. “St. Ouen? What happens there today, Anne? You cannot now leave me guessing.”
“La Pucelle will be sentenced in public, but this time the citizens are encouraged to attend. I was curious to see the event,” Anne said. “But on second thoughts, I think I shall remain here with you.”
There was no stopping Cecily once the cat was out of the bag, and the group who set out on foot to walk the mile from Joyeux Repos to the cemetery of the abbey church included Anne, Joan and her three daughters, and a small escort of squires.
“Humphrey says they chose the cemetery instead of inside the church so that more people could bear witness,” Nan remarked, her pale blue eyes scanning the crowd for her husband. “There is my lord Buckingham on that platform,” she cried, pointing.
“I believe ’twas because the transept is still under construction,” Anne whispered to Cecily, “but a cemetery seems a macabre choice, in truth. Perhaps Nan is right, however, look how many are here.”
The townsfolk stood aside to let the English noblewomen pass to the front of them, although all were eager to catch a glimpse of the Maid, who had been the subject of conversation in many a citizen’s home these past three months.
“There she is!” a woman cried from the middle of the crowd as a wagon pulled by a cart horse neared one of two platforms erected for the event. The stands on the larger platform, where Nan had spotted Humphrey, were filled with other English lords, the trial assessors, and various clergy, including Cecily’s uncle and two of Normandy’s preeminent abbots. In the middle of the front row, Cecily saw Cauchon, today dressed crowlike, all in black. She craned her neck to see Richard, but as he was not as tall as Humphrey or Edmund Beaufort, she could not find him among the many-colored gowns, mantles, and chaperons clustered in the confined space. The earl of Warwick, the king’s guardian, resplendent on his caparisoned courser, patrolled the space between the platforms, while English captains and soldiers kept the throng quiet. Cecily was somewhat mollified to note the crowd was expectant but respectful. Perhaps they believed, as she did, that Jeanne would be found not guilty and would simply be taken back to the English prison for the duration of the war.
But she changed her mind when Jeanne was roughly pulled from the cart and thrust upon the empty platform, her guards pinning her between them. Where did they think she could go? Cecily asked herself, grimacing and pitying the slight figure. The crowd egged the guards on, a
nd a young man launched a clod of earth at Jeanne. One sharp bark from Warwick intimidated the culprit, who looked up sullenly at the earl.
She is still in men’s garb, Cecily noted sadly. Ah, Jeanne, where are your voices now? How ill they have advised you!
A short, fat priest ascended the steps to Jeanne’s platform. Standing a few feet from her, he held up his hand for quiet and then proceeded to bless all present.
“’Tis the preacher of the abbey church, Guillaume Erard,” Anne told Cecily.
For thirty minutes Erard enumerated Jeanne’s crimes, exhorting her to recant, repent, and be saved from excommunication. Much of the abusive sermon shocked Cecily, but Jeanne appeared impervious to his accusations and slanders. The only point she vehemently spoke out to deny was not one against herself but a condemnation of King Charles. Erard, infuriated by her interruption, cried, “Silence!”
Then he instructed Jeanne that if she did not abide by the laws of mother church she would be condemned. The crowd hushed as they waited for her answer, and Jeanne lifted her eyes to heaven as if to beg for help.
“If you do not submit, Jeanne d’Arc,” Erard told her again, pointing to a man in a black hood, “your executioner awaits to take you to the stake—now!”
“Oh, Jeanne,” Cecily whispered to herself. “Save yourself, I beg of you. Sweet Mother of God, save her.”
Some of the other priests, including Cauchon, were now clambering upon Jeanne’s platform, pressing around her and threatening her. She looked into the crowd as if to find her answer and then she saw Cecily, whose eyes implored her to save herself. A sweet smile suffused her face for a second, and Cecily gasped, her legs buckling. Anne sensed her trembling and put an arm around her friend for support.
“She will recant, Cecille,” she murmured. “You will see. The fear of fire is too great, even for a brave woman like Jeanne.”
Cauchon then gave Jeanne yet another warning. “Do as you are told! Do you want to die by fire? Change your dress and do as you are told, and you will be put under the protection of the church.” Then he pushed a piece of paper toward her and told her to sign it. But Jeanne still hesitated. Many bystanders were angry by now and hurled a few stones, missing Jeanne but causing the soldiers to push the crowd back.
“But she cannot read!” Cecily murmured indignantly. “They must know she cannot read. ’Tis unfair.”
“Hush, Cecille. People are watching us,” Anne whispered as Cauchon stepped to the edge of the platform and began slowly and deliberately to read the sentence in Jeanne’s native tongue that would give her up to her secular judges and certain death.
But the Maid herself interrupted him, muttering something only those closest could hear, and Cauchon cried out in triumph, “She has submitted! I heard her submit.” He pulled Jeanne from between her guards. “Now, sign!” he screamed, thrusting the parchment in front of her, whereby Jeanne reluctantly took the pen and made a trembling mark upon it.
The distraught young woman would have fallen had she not been supported again by her guards and surrounded by churchmen eager to keep her standing to hear her sentence. Cauchon, knowing full well Jeanne would not understand one word he would say, used Latin to enumerate her crimes against mother church and against God. Then he announced in French that as she had recanted, she would be released from excommunication. A roar of approval drowned out several gasps of disappointment from Jeanne’s sympathizers, who had fervently believed in her holy mission.
“Her crimes were great. She is sentenced to a life of imprisonment with only bread and water to nourish her, but she must repent of her sins every moment of every day and never sin again,” Cauchon pronounced.
“What prison is that, my lord bishop?” Jeanne’s voice was barely audible. “I pray you put me in the church’s prison.”
Several of the assessors and priests on the other platform nodded their assent, but Cauchon knew who his masters were. King Henry and his council wanted Jeanne kept close, and as he could not pronounce the sentence of death on her, then he knew what must be done.
“Take her back from whence she came,” he commanded, turning his back on her. The guards then dragged her down the steps and into the wagon, where the young woman, tied to the rail, had to endure taunts and insults in silence. Cecily watched in pity.
“I did not know you were coming, Cis.” Richard’s quiet voice behind her interrupted a prayer of thanks for Jeanne’s deliverance. She closed her eyes and with a sigh of gratitude leaned back against his strength. “For all it was spectacle, you must be glad of the outcome.”
Cecily nodded, unaware of the disappointment her husband and the other English lords were experiencing. She would learn much later that they felt betrayed by Cauchon, who had promised the council the stake, whereas Jeanne alive and in prison could still be a powerful symbol and rallying point for the French. The death sentence was the only way to rid themselves of a nuisance and mollify the thousands of troops angered by the Maid’s military exploits. But Richard suspected the fat Cauchon was not about to imperil his immortal soul by burning a repentant heretic. Imprisoning her to repent at her leisure for the rest of her life was a suitable punishment from the church, and Cauchon was relieved to choose it, Richard told Cecily. Only an about-face on the part of Jeanne could result in a sentence of death. This day had provided a blow to the English, and Richard felt it as keenly as the others on the council.
He cradled Cecily’s weight against him, pondering all he had witnessed and understanding one thing clearly. Cecily must not know how he felt at this moment, he decided, and certainly not while she was carrying their child. This affair of the Maid was the first dissension they had had in their young marriage, and he hoped Jeanne would disappear from their lives and Cecily’s thoughts as quickly as possible
“Aye, Richard, I am thankful she repented,” Cecily said eventually, turning and resting her cheek in the folds of his soft gown. “She does not deserve to be burned, although going back to that terrible prison will be enough of a hell for her. May God now keep her safe from those vile guards for, in truth, they will not be kind.”
Richard said nothing; he knew she was right.
“HOW DID IT come to this?” Cecily murmured to Anne as they sat side by side among the other dignitaries summoned to witness the execution of La Pucelle on a hastily built stand in the old market square. Not a week had gone by since Jeanne’s repentance at St. Ouen, and today she would be put to death as a relapsed heretic.
According to Anne’s instructions, Cecily had been assigned the last seat in the row, which was a few paces from the makeshift staircase, in case she felt unwell and needed to depart quickly. Rowena was positioned close by, ready to help her mistress. Cecily had pooh-poohed the notion, but as she had slept ill and the morning sickness had been especially violent that day, she was grateful that Anne had taken pains to provide for her well-being. Despite a cushion, the hard wooden bench was certainly not comfortable, but after a few unusually hot days, the thirtieth day of May had mercifully dawned pleasantly mild and had caused Katherine to remark earlier, “At least we shall not be overcome by the heat.” Almost immediately, she had clapped her hand over her mouth for her lack of tact.
“If my brother of Burgundy were only here,” Anne said in a hushed voice, “perhaps he could persuade John to spare her.” She sighed. “Indeed, I could not.”
“I, too, entreated Richard to reason with the duke, but I fear those pleas fell on deaf ears.” Cecily gritted her teeth, remembering that morning when she had gone down on her knees to ask her husband to save Jeanne. But he had remonstrated harshly with her for being disloyal to the English cause and had flatly refused. For the first time, Cecily’s unwavering faith in him had faltered. She had left the room with her head held high but her heart aching. Why could he not feel as I do, she asked herself. We have always agreed before.
On his way to his seat on the platform now, Richard bent to her to make sure she was well enough to endure such a hideous spectacle
. “I beg of you to leave the second you cannot,” he urged, and she nodded stiffly, sending him away.
Cecily sighed. “Once Jeanne threw off the woman’s gown she had agreed to wear and donned men’s clothes once more, she was doomed,” she said, squeezing the duchess of Bedford’s small hand. “What made her change her mind, I wonder?” She watched the king’s council mount the stairs and take their seats in front of the women. “Something must have happened to make her put them on again.”
Anne was cautious with her response and glanced around before whispering, “If I tell you, you must swear not to repeat it. ’Twill upset you, Cecille, as it did me, but”—she gave a Gallic shrug—“what can we women do? John told me ’twas Cauchon’s idea. He was not convinced of Jeanne’s abjuration, and he suggested that if the guards were to . . . to use her as they would any other woman they disrespected, that she might want to throw off the gown and resume wearing the men’s tunic and leggings.”
Cecily’s horror was about to manifest itself in a cry of disbelief when she saw Anne’s warning frown and controlled herself. “And I presume the guards made sure the men’s clothes were close at hand,” she seethed, and when she saw Anne’s nod, added, “That pig Cauchon. May he rot in hell!”
“Once Jeanne relapsed, the churchmen were free to condemn her to die,” Anne concluded.
“Thus putting her fate into our hands,” Cecily murmured, her eyes sweeping the front ranks of English lords. “Just like our Savior’s priests.” She shook her head, her heart so heavy that it made her slump forward in her seat. What a tragic end, she thought bitterly, aware of a hush settling over the swelling crowd of citizens both English and French.
As the rays of the morning sun glinted off his crown, young King Henry mounted the stairs and passed close enough to Cecily for his purple robe embroidered with the lilies of France to brush her skirts. However, she did not see the dismay in his round blue eyes when he caught sight of the stake anchored in the middle of the square, a wall of faggots piled at eye level in a circle around it. At least, he had been told, this burning would be mercifully quick, as the smoke from the wall of wood would suffocate the Maid long before the flames consumed her flesh.
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