Constance, a woman of few words, nodded, the look in her keen brown eyes telling Cecily what she wanted to hear. “Six or seven weeks, your grace,” the doctor answered, rearranging Cecily’s skirts over her legs after the examination.
I must have conceived the child on the night of the Epiphany, Cecily mused, returning to the evening of merriment that had culminated in Richard’s carrying her up the stairs to her chamber, nuzzling her ear, and whispering of his plans for the rest of their evening. She smiled and told herself this child must surely be a happy soul born of a night of much joy and laughter.
She watched Constance carefully wash her hands in hot water poured into the pewter bowl from the pot hanging over the fire. How many prayers of thanks had she sent to the Virgin for the gift of this wise woman, Cecily thought, standing up and smoothing out the many folds of the russet velvet of her gown. The doctor’s serene, gentle manner belied the wealth of knowledge hidden in her head. In truth, Cecily had been startled when Anne of Bedford had first suggested that thirty-year-old Constance might nurse her friend those first dark days after losing the child, as doctoring was a male bastion, and women practicing medicine were few and often vilified. But not long afterward, Cecily would have no other physician attend her and was not content until Richard had agreed to employ the woman as her personal physician, even though his traditional beliefs made him more than a little skeptical.
“It goes against all the laws of God for a woman to take on such a role, does it not?” Richard had asked Duke John, who had stopped in to visit the patient. “How can a woman know as much as a man of medical matters? ’Tis well known their brains are smaller.”
Cecily stopped herself retorting that she was every bit as clever as he—indeed, had he not said so many times? Instead, she chewed on her lip.
“My dear York, I must tell you that your wife is in good company. Not only does Anne prefer Constance to my own learned doctor, but you may be interested to know that my great-grandmother, Queen Philippa, was attended by a female physician.”
Joan looked up from her embroidery. “My nephew is quite correct, Dickon. Cecilia of Oxford was a court surgeon and much respected, so my mother told me. I see nothing wrong with Constance attending Cecily. Do you?”
Richard had hurriedly backed down when his mother-in-law had lowered her finely plucked eyebrows at him, and within a few weeks he had begged Anne of Bedford to make arrangements for the brilliant young woman to join his household.
Constance had been born in Rouen, the only child of a member of the University of Paris medical faculty, who had taken his wife with him when he entered the university. When her mother had died in childbirth and Constance was ten, she had been educated by her widower father and encouraged to seek work as a physician. He had even sent her to Salerno, the acknowledged center of medical learning at that time. And then had come the summons from the duchess of Bedford, and now from her grace, the duchess of York.
If Constance was surprised by this new turn in her fortune, no one would have guessed it. Being a pragmatic soul, she took the exchange of one noble patron for another with equanimity. After all, she had no family to speak of. “Therefore, dear Constance,” Cecily had said, “you are free to go wherever fate takes you, are you not? Why not go with me?”
Constance had inclined her head, but if Cecily had pushed her, she would have admitted she was not anxious to experience the famously cold English winters, that she respected Anne of Bedford immensely, or that she was loath to leave Normandy. But the young duchess of York had a way with her, Constance had noticed, and as Anne had proved to be barren all these years with Duke John, her physician’s curiosity saw the potential of using her considerable childbirthing skills for Cecily. And so she accepted gratefully. Cecily had been ecstatic, though when she heard of Anne’s death in childbirth a little more than a year later, she felt a pang of remorse.
Watching Constance dry her large, capable hands now, Cecily longed to take this intelligent woman into her confidence. How could Constance possibly know how lonely I am too most of the time? She must see me as the head of a large household—indeed, I now have more than forty servants; the wife of an adoring husband; a woman with a busy daily routine that includes an hour to dress, then discussions with the chamberlain, the steward, the cook, and the pantler; a devout woman who attends Mass as well as my own devotions at my beautiful little altar for which Richard received the indulgence; the judge who hears petitions from servants and villagers; and the woman who also finds time to ride, play her psaltery, ply her needle, or read. No, my loneliness would not be obvious to Constance.
The doctor turned back to Cecily and advised her mistress, “Take as much rest as you can in the coming weeks. I shall not forbid you to ride, as I am certain you will disobey me.” She arched an eyebrow, a small smile twitching her lips. She had a deep, resonant voice that matched her somewhat masculine features. Constance was no beauty, but her serenity made her beautiful to Cecily. “I will allow you to ride to the hunt but only in the usual manner of ladies.”
Constance’s confirmation of her being with child had made Cecily so happy that she acquiesced without a murmur and, thanking her physician, hurried off to find Richard.
Fotheringhay was a large motte and bailey castle on the edge of the fenlands and had been the York family seat from the time it was given to Edmund of Langley, first duke of York and Richard’s grandfather, who had designed the imposing keep in the shape of the family’s fetterlock emblem. Round towers punctuated the corners of the outer crenellated walls, which enclosed the keep, ducal apartments, great hall, kitchens, household lodgings, and a central courtyard.
Since leaving Raby, Cecily had felt more at home there than anywhere else and loved watching the changing seasons along the riverbanks and across the flat fenlands to the distant hills. Sometimes Cecily would climb the spiral staircase to the ramparts of the keep and wait for Richard to return from the king’s business in London or from one of his other vast estates. She could watch her husband and his retinue, their murrey and blue tabards standing out against the bright green grasslands, crossing the wooden causeway that spanned the floodplain and bridged the Nene. She would then see him disappear through the adjoining college buildings and into the large collegiate church of St. Mary, with its two-tiered tower and delicate flying buttresses, where he would kneel for a moment to give thanks for his return. Duke Edmund was entombed in the choir of the church, and Richard had told Cecily that there, they too, would one day rest in peace. Cecily had been elated to learn the church was dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and she had spent many hours on her knees in a private chapel near the tower, begging the saint to protect her unborn child.
After visiting St. Mary’s, Richard would remount and lead his men to the castle. Once inside the castle yard, Richard could see Cecily waving to him from her perch, and he would canter alone over the inner moat bridge and through the fortified gatehouse to the steps of the great hall. By then she would have flown down the stone stairs through the armory and into the courtyard in time to be swept up in Richard’s embrace. It had become a ritual they both looked forward to. “I am almost glad when you are away, my dearest, for our reunion gives me the sweetest pleasure,” she told him once.
Today she was not surprised when she found Richard ensconced in his privy chamber with his new councillor, Sir William Oldhall, a portly middle-aged man with a red face and crown of wispy white hair. Since his unexpected return from France the previous summer, Richard was often found in the company of this experienced soldier, a trusted former member of Bedford’s staff in France. Originally appointed for one year as lieutenant governor and Bedford’s successor, Richard had agreed to serve provided he and his retinue were paid in advance. When the money had not appeared after a year in Normandy, Richard asked to be recalled. All the council could offer him was payment for his own pawned jewels, and Richard, infuriated, had stormed back to Fotheringhay. Cecily, however, had been delighted as, against her will, she
had been left behind in England.
“Aye, Gloucester’s power is much abated with the council, your grace,” Oldhall was saying as Cecily motioned to the servant outside the room to announce her. “He alone seeks to prolong the war with France, it seems, while the Beaufort band works for peace and the surrender of our lands there.” Oldhall’s bitterness toward the peace-brokers was evident in his voice, Cecily noted. However, she understood how the loyal fifty-year-old veteran of so many French battles must loathe those at home who merely sought to line their pockets by eliminating the expensive war-chest. Humphrey of Gloucester, for all his bull-headedness and thirst for power, was indeed the only strong voice left for fighting off the French.
“Gloucester knows I am somewhere in the middle, I presume,” Richard remarked quietly as Cecily was announced.
He at once went to Cecily, taking her hand to his lips, while Oldhall got painfully to his feet and bowed.
“My dear, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? Will you not take my chair and join us in some wine?”
“If it please you, my lord—and I trust I do not interrupt,” Cecily replied, hoping Sir William would take the hint, “but this news cannot wait.”
“News!” Richard exclaimed. “What news, my lady? Tell us quickly, I beg of you. Is that cousin of yours, Edmund Beaufort, struck down? Or better still, your uncle the cardinal gone off on a pilgrimage to Rome?” He winked at Oldhall, who smirked.
Cecily tugged at his arm, too excited to be peeved by these slights to her family. “’Tis of a private nature, my lord,” she murmured, and Richard at once nodded to Oldhall, who acquiesced and shuffled out painfully on his gouty leg.
“We shall welcome a child at the end of the year, my love!” Cecily exclaimed, as soon as she heard the latch click shut. “Constance has examined me and confirms my suspicion.”
“God be praised, Cis, I am indeed glad to hear it,” Richard cried, picking her up and swinging her around, almost knocking over a pile of new parchments and an inkhorn in his exuberance. “After all these years a child will complete our happiness, in truth. My prayers to St. Monica at Ely last month must have borne fruit.” He kissed her laughing mouth, and her carefully pinned headdress fell to the floor.
“No more nightmares?” he asked, his gray eyes searching her face anxiously. Cecily had written to him often in France of the dreams she had concerning the accident in Rouen: terrible scenes of flames, rats, a staircase to Hell, and a bloodied, accusing infant. She had never told him of the visions of Jeanne she had had and that the martyred woman’s face often penetrated her quiet moments at prayer. Her attendants knew that merely hearing Jeanne’s name would distress their mistress in the first years following the execution and were careful to avoid the subject.
Cecily shook her head as he put her back on her feet. “I have not dreamed of Rouen since your return. ’Tis only when you are not with me that I am afraid of the dark and my dreams. I never want to be separated from you again, except, certes, when military affairs interfere. I feel like half a person when you are gone. Promise me from now on you will take me with you.”
Her arms were around his waist, her face a few inches from his, and her eyes pleading. He could smell the rosemary oil in her hair, feel her breathing against his chest, and already he sensed the fullness of her maternity, all of which made him pull her closer, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, and finally her mouth, his desire mounting.
“Richard!” Cecily wriggled from his embrace, giggling. “Sir William is just outside the door. We cannot do anything now—in here.” Then she laughed at Richard’s disappointment. “Later, my lord, later,” she promised with a seductive smile.
Retrieving her headdress and brushing off some dust, she handed it to him to reposition. “Besides which, my dearest husband, you have avoided answering my question.”
“Aye, you wanton woman, I promise to take you with me wherever I have to go—provided there is no danger,” he told her while replacing the headdress. He stood back to study his handiwork and chuckled. “I think it is on backwards, but as ’tis a truly ridiculous piece of fashion, I do not think anyone will notice.”
“Richard!” admonished his vain wife, anxiously putting up her hand to feel the heart-shaped roll. “Can I be seen or not?”
“Aye, you’ll do. Now get you gone and leave us men to our work.” He grinned and went to hold the door for her. “Did I tell you how happy I am you are with child? I cannot remember, but if I did, I tell you again—with all my heart I am.”
A SUMMER WITHOUT riding hard to the hunt was torture for Cecily, but she kept her word to Constance and instead rode sidesaddle sedately around the gentle Northamptonshire countryside with her attendants and Piers Taggett, who had spent the two years Cecily had been in Rouen learning to care for the York falcons and who was proving a good student and loyal servant. It amused Richard that Piers still worshipped any ground that Cecily’s hem brushed, but he had the peace of mind that no harm would befall his wife while Piers escorted her. He had left the man behind at Fotheringhay during his second foray into France, and it seemed Cecily’s hawking had improved even further with Piers’s newly learned skills.
It had not been a good harvest, as England had undergone one of the worst droughts in memory that summer, but nevertheless, Richard believed the inhabitants of Fotheringhay should give thanks at Michaelmas as usual.
“We can be grateful we do not have to live in London, my dear. It is said many have starved there this summer,” Richard told her. “There have even been riots.”
And so he, with Cecily in an open litter, processed slowly from the castle to St. Mary’s, with the merchants, farmers, yeomen and elders of the village greeting their lord along the short route. As many as could do so crammed into the church, which was decorated with sheaves of wheat, baskets of apples, nuts and berries, vegetables, and bunches of autumnal wildflowers. Heavily pregnant, Cecily had bloomed like a late summer rose, and her shimmering pink gown of silk damask, embroidered with white roses, trailed behind her in graceful folds. Richard helped her to a seat in the choir in the larger part of the church, which was usually reserved for the collegiate body. This chancel was separated from the parishioners by a filigreed stone screen, so that all might hear the Mass and give thanks for God’s bounty, meager though it was that year.
Later, as guests of the duke and duchess, the villagers feasted and danced on the grounds of the castle farm. Cecily was given the seat of honor on a throne woven of rushes, its legs studded with apples, and a canopy of blue Michaelmas daisies above her. The young girls of the village had made her a crown of sweet honeysuckle. Glowing from the affection shown her in her full pregnancy, Cecily nearly rivaled Mother Nature that day.
Richard’s face shone with pride for his lovely wife. He caught her eye several times and grinned as yeomen and their wives curtseyed to her as they presented gifts of honey, fruit, and nuts. How he wished Cecily’s mother might see her now as she graciously accepted the presents and bestowed a kind word on everyone, even knowing many by name. She had never failed to send a small token at the birth of a child, an infusion or a salve upon hearing of sickness or hurt among the servants, and Richard could see that his people loved her. He marveled that in only a few years she had changed from the impetuous, outspoken, and spoiled daughter he had first met to a dignified, dutiful duchess—although, he had to admit, he was secretly pleased that she had never lost her adventurous spirit, especially in the bedchamber. He had felt relieved and grateful when, after all this time, she had conceived again, afraid that her fall down the stairs at Rouen might have left her barren.
Richard watched Cecily on her rush throne with concern as the afternoon wore on. He needed an heir—he was the last male York descendant of the Plantagenet line—and Cecily was well aware of it. He did not want her to become overtired, he told her while accompanying her litter back to the castle. Cecily laughed at him and scoffed at his worried frown, and he took heart.
&nb
sp; But one night when Richard was away, Cecily awakened drenched in sweat. The flames had enveloped her once more, she whispered to Rowena, and she was much afraid. Constance came as soon as Rowena sent for her, and with her calm voice and sensible explanations soon alleviated Cecily’s fear of devils ready to set her on fire from under the bed. Sending Rowena back to her truckle, Constance drew the tester curtains around her mistress and fixed the candle in its sconce on the bedpost. Then she knelt beside the bed and took Cecily’s hand, anxiously noting her pallor.
“Are you well now, your grace?” She saw Cecily nod and continued, “Do you have any pains in your belly? Any bleeding?”
“Nay, Constance, all is well.” Cecily eased herself up on her pillow and patted the murrey and blue tapestry counterpane. “I pray you, sit up here with me. I would ask you something.”
Unaccustomed to any such intimacy with her mistress, Constance perched herself as far to the edge of the bed as was comfortable. She worried that should Richard suddenly appear, her position in the household could be in jeopardy. After all, she was merely a servant in the ducal house and a foreign one at that. Duke Richard’s own physician, an elderly Englishman with, in Constance’s opinion, decidedly outdated ideas, avoided her. She had been dismissed as a charlatan on several occasions and had learned quickly that men did not believe women had intelligence to match theirs. Thus, during her training, she had set about proving she was better than any of them. Rowena was in awe of her, and the language barrier kept them distant.
“It has not gone unnoticed that you are isolated here, Demoiselle Constance,” Cecily began, “and I am grateful to you for your considerable skill both in helping me and my mother, who asks after you in every letter she writes. Aye, I do not dissemble,” she assured Constance when she saw disbelief in the physician’s eyes. “She does.”
Constance was moved. “I pray you, thank the countess on my behalf, your grace.”
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