There were few females in her train, and so when two women ran out of her murrey and blue striped tent, one carrying something—Anne perhaps—and the other waving her arms, Cecily noticed them at once. She recognized Rowena’s bright blue dress and assumed she was playing a game with little Anne. Or perhaps Henry had awakened early and was demanding his food and the wet-nurse had wandered away. She smiled when she imagined his bright red face and wide-open mouth in full voice. He was a lusty one, indeed, and even the king had complimented her on his namesake during the brief audience she had when she had stopped in London the week before.
At that meeting, she had also noticed the swarthy-faced earl of Suffolk’s false smile as he bowed to her and chucked the baby under the chin, immediately setting him to whimpering. “So his grace of York has an heir,” he had murmured to his companion as he walked away, thinking Cecily was preoccupied with paying attention to the crying child. “We must make sure the duke stays loyal to the crown.” Her ears had pricked up, and she stored the remark for a future discussion with Sir William.
’Tis no wonder your badge is the ape’s clog, Sir. You are as clumsy with your words as if you were wearing one, she mused now, kicking a stone and watching it roll down the hillside. Aye, my lord Suffolk, York does in truth have an heir, and I hope you will not forget it as you fawn on the king and whisper to my Beaufort cousins. Do not imagine I am ignorant of your power on the council. Sir William has told me of your rising star now that Uncle Beaufort is aging. She grimaced as she recalled that Suffolk was now the king’s steward but her husband was nowhere in the king’s immediate circle. And then it occurred to her that in Normandy he would be even further from the king, and she wondered if that had been Suffolk’s intent.
She sighed and made her way back to Piers. “Come, Master Taggett, let us rejoin our fellow travelers,” she said.
Wheeling her palfrey around, Cecily loosened the reins to allow the horse to extend his neck for balance and carefully controlled the descent on the crumbling hill until she reached the footpath, where she cantered along its length, loving the wind in her face, the birdsong heralding spring, and the overpowering smell of bluebells. A country girl at heart, she often chafed when confined by narrow, overcrowded streets of cities.
As they approached the camp, she was surprised to see Rowena running headlong on the path toward her, cap askew and tripping on the hem of her muddied blue gown. Cecily spurred her horse faster and reined him in so sharply that he reared up in front of Rowena, causing her to fall flat on her back on the soft ground.
“Whoa, boy!” Cecily quieted the animal and asked if Rowena was hurt.
“N-nay, your grace, only a little afraid,” she answered quickly, righting herself and straightening her clothes. “But you m-must hurry back. ’Tis the b-babe . . .”
Cecily paled. “Henry? What of him? Is he ill? Answer me, madam!” She heard her own shrill command and was immediately sorry, for it made Rowena stammer all the more.
“A—a—bee or a w-w-wasp, your gr-grace,” she managed. “His f—f—face swells like . . .” And she puffed her cheeks out to demonstrate.
Cecily did not wait to hear more but took off at a gallop, leaving Rowena staring miserably after her. Piers swung the unfortunate attendant up behind him and followed at a slower pace.
The small crowd around the ducal tent told her where Henry was, and as a groom ran to hold her horse, she slid down by herself and was at his side in an instant. The baby’s face was horribly bloated and, snatching away the blanket, she saw someone had unwound his bands, revealing the puffy arms and legs of a devastating reaction to the sting. Constance had thrown open the tent sides to let in as much light and air as possible, and she was searching among her herbs and potions for a remedy. Cecily stared in horror at the swollen, naked child struggling for every inhalation of shallow breath. Henry’s dark blue eyes conveyed desperation. She smothered a groan of anguish. Blessed Mother of God, she prayed, I beg of you, not again.
“Do something, Constance!” Cecily’s ashen face turned to find the doctor.
“I find ze barb, madame la duchesse,” Constance began calmly enough, though Cecily noticed beads of sweat on her upper lip. Seeing Cecily’s impatient frown, she hurried on in her native tongue: “Some bees sting only once and then they die because they leave the barb behind. ’Tis necessary to remove it, but . . .” She hesitated and looked down at her bag.
“But what?” Cecily snapped from beside the wheezing child, a rising panic clutching at her throat as she stroked his hot little head.
“I was unable to remove it all,” Constance apologized, joining Cecily at the bedside. “You can see it there,” and she pointed to the minuscule remains of the dart at the center of a red welt on the baby’s leg.
Cecily shook her head in disbelief. “How could a bee sting him through the binding cloths, doctor?”
“We had taken them off after he soiled himself, your grace, and the nurse was preparing a clean set,” Constance replied. “We saw the bee fly in, and Rowena tried to chase it away, but it became angry, and we were all trying to kill it when it landed on Lord Henry and stung him. ’Twas nobody’s fault, madame, truly it was not.”
Cecily nodded helplessly, picking up the child and kissing his downy head. “And what will happen now, Constance? What can you give him to ease his suffering?”
Constance hung her head. She could not bear to see her mistress endure the loss of another child and was silently cursing her Maker for this extraordinary misfortune. She knew only a miracle could save the little boy now.
“I have used the juice of an onion, but it only stops the stinging. I will try applying honey, but I know not what that will serve, as it too only eases the pain. I fear Henry’s body cannot tolerate this bee’s poison, and I have no remedy for that. I cannot lie to you, madame, ’tis in God’s hands now,” she murmured, desolate. Once again, she was convinced that immersing him in the icy river might reduce the swelling, but she did not dare to suggest it. The duchess had never accused her of causing Joan’s death with the cold-water bath. Cecily had acknowledged that they could never be certain whether it was the fever, the cold bath, or the unicorn elixir that had been the culprit.
“In God’s hands? In God’s hands?” Cecily cried, impatient with the doctor’s outward display of calm. “’Twas what you said at Joan’s deathbed. Sweet Jesu, you are the doctor—you must know what to do. Please, Constance, please! We cannot let him die. He is York’s heir. He is everything to us.” She laid Henry back in his bed and brushed tears from her eyes.
Constance had drawn the tent curtains closed, shooing away the gawking servants, knowing Cecily would be mortified that they should see her cry. Then she led Cecily to the traveling bed and made her lie down. “Conserve your strength, your grace. I will instruct Sir William to lead the company in prayer for Henry’s life. And I will search my receipts for any remedies I may have missed. Have no fear, Henry will rally, for he is a strong little boy.”
Cecily sighed. “Aye, mayhap if everyone prays for his recovery, God will listen.”
Cecily spent hours on her knees with her dying child clutched in her arms in Dorking’s tiny parish church hard by the camp. At midnight, in front of a rough-hewn statue of the Holy Mother and as one by one her eight candles guttered and went out—one for each week of Henry’s life—she heard the breath leave her infant son for the last time in a slow labored sigh and felt the swollen body go limp.
“Henry!” she screamed, shaking him. “Wake up! Wake up in the name of Christ Jesu, our Savior. Nay, nay, do not take him, Lord. ’Twas only a bee sting! Dear God, what have I done that you have forsaken me?” Then, addressing the wide-eyed statue, tears streaming down her face, she cried, “Ah, sweet Virgin, I must truly be cursed. Two babes have been taken—nay, three, if you count Rouen. Truly, ’tis more than I can bear! Am I such a great sinner? Is Richard? Speak to me, Holy Mother, I beg of you, tell me how I have sinned!”
She was aware of
a robed figure gently prying her son from her trembling fingers so that he could bless him with holy oil. “In nomine Patri . . .” the priest intoned, expressing compassion for this tragic woman in his gentle voice, while his thumb made the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead.
“Richard!” Cecily moaned into the gloom, falling prostrate onto the cold flagstones and feeling her bile rising. “Why are you not here with me—again?” As she wept, she pounded the ground with her fists, astonishing the priest with the furious tirade that tumbled from her mouth. She railed against her husband, at God and at the Virgin in particular, spewing blasphemies—like any heretic, the shocked priest thought. He considered stopping her and reminding her where she was, but she was a duchess, he knew. Instead, taking one of the white linen napkins from the altar, he gently placed the dead baby upon it beneath the crucifix and quietly left Cecily to her misery.
In the darkened unfamiliar church, her body spent and racked with grief, Cecily’s faith in God and her husband faltered for the second time.
AFTER A CONSULTATION with Constance, Sir Henry Heydon elected to delay the departure of the duchess’s retinue for a few days, and Piers was once again dispatched with a message to Richard, though the duke’s whereabouts was a matter of conjecture. On Constance’s advice, a second messenger was sent east to Reigate Priory to request a temporary lodging for her grace the duchess of York, who was indisposed. The prior of the Austin Friars would no doubt rub his hands with glee in the hope of an ample reward for his hospitality, Sir Henry whispered to his clerk as he sealed the letter.
Little Henry Plantagenet was placed in a lead coffin and escorted away in all haste to be buried at Fotheringhay. In a daze Cecily had agreed to the plan, though she was distraught as she watched the somber little party leave the camp, believing she ought to be with them. But not only was she too exhausted to travel; she knew in her more lucid moments that the king’s business would not stop for tragic events such as this, and that Richard’s timely departure for France must take precedence over the death of a child. In her heart, however, she protested such an unnatural course, and her anger grew.
She allowed herself, therefore, to be drawn in a litter the six miles to the priory, which was nestled under a hill with a splendid view of the distant South Downs. Cecily was given the prior’s house for her use, and Constance and Rowena set about making the rather drab surroundings into a haven for the mourning mother.
In the meantime, the rest of the duchess’s household continued west toward Guildford before turning south.
CECILY SAT BY the open casement of her chamber and watched Rowena pick daisies with Anne on the grassy slope beneath her. Her tears were spent, but her heart was still heavy after a week at the priory. Every day that passed without word from Richard found her deeper in a hole of self-pity and resentment. Worse, she could not even bear to have Anne in her presence, and so Rowena smothered the little girl with love to make up for her mother’s lack.
For the first time in Cecily’s service, Rowena was heard criticizing her mistress in front of the other attendants, and Constance gently tried to talk to her about the imprudence of this. But Rowena was stung that Cecily sought Constance’s presence over hers, and she bristled at the doctor’s homily. She began to prattle about the doctor behind her back, and soon it was whispered that Constance had been the cause of baby Henry’s death. Only one word remained unspoken: witchcraft. Rowena knew that if Cecily ever suspected her of spreading the rumor out of wounded pride, she would lose her position.
Seated by the window, Cecily gazed out with indifferent eyes at her only child, who was dutifully holding Rowena’s hand and stopping to pick a flower to add to her posy. Why could it not have been Anne whom the bee chose to sting? Cecily’s question came from the darkest part of her heart, and she gasped at the wickedness of it. Nay, you do not mean it, her goodness whispered back. Anne is a beautiful child, so like Richard with her dark curls and solemn eyes. I should be grateful I have one healthy child, she mused, but the thought gave her no comfort. She glanced back into the room and watched Constance quietly measuring more poppy juice into a vial. The medicine had given Cecily some respite from sleeplessness. Dear Constance. Their friendship had grown through the years, and Cecily cherished it daily. How could she blame Constance for the death of her babes? In her heart, she knew the doctor had done all she could do, given Cecily’s sometimes unreasonable conditions.
All at once, the clatter of hooves on the stone path broke upon the quiet afternoon, and Cecily leaned out to see who the visitors were. She saw the falcon and the fetterlock badge on the three men-at-arms and then recognized Richard’s oversized murrey and blue chaperon and his black courser, Geraint. She wanted to call out to him but instead his name stuck in her throat. A rush of unexpected emotions overcame her: fear, sorrow, shame, anger, and self-pity. But where was love? She sat down on her stool with her hand over her mouth, tasting bile. So she did not see him spring down from his saddle and scoop the excited Anne into his arms and cover the little girl’s face with kisses. Instead, she sat fighting an urge to hide so that she need not face him.
She had willed him to come to her every waking moment since watching Henry’s coffin disappear from view. She had thought she could not suffer this loss without Richard’s strength to support her. She thought his arms about her would take the grief away. But for a week she had grieved alone, and so she had realized she did not need Richard to help her survive a tragedy. This had been a sobering discovery at first, and she had never felt so alone. In their whole life together she had never questioned her love or need for him until now.
All this she had confided earlier to Constance, who had sat quietly and listened before offering her advice. “I pray you, forgive me for being blunt, but I would tell you the truth. I am not married, madame, and neither have I ever loved a man. But in watching you and the duke, I have regretted that such love may never be mine. It is a gift from God when two people who are forced, as you are, to spend their lives as husband and wife can find such a meeting of the heart and soul. There is not a person in this household who does not see the duke’s desire for you, and I see the same desire in your eyes whenever you look at him. Certes, you are angry with him for what you perceive is his abandonment of you at a tragic time, but I assure you, anger will fade while love will endure, as our Savior taught us.”
Cecily had wept when Constance left the room, asking herself over and over why God had forsaken her. Had she been too consumed by her love for Richard, she asked herself, craving his touch, aching for him to bring her to ecstasy? She thought of the wild nights of lovemaking, the passionate kisses, the pleasurable positions they had devised, and she guiltily wondered if they had sinned.
As she pondered how to greet her husband, turning her ruby betrothal ring on her finger, Cecily thought on Constance’s words, and they calmed her. It would not be like the joyous reunions of old, she resolved. She needed to find the part of her heart that loved him, and she must also give Richard time to express his grief.
“Pull the veil over my face, I pray you, Constance,” she said, rising and smoothing her skirts. “My husband has arrived, and I must greet him, but I would not have him see me like this.”
Richard stopped in the doorway when he saw Cecily, framed by the window casement and veiled. “Cecily? My love, my dearest wife.” His voice was hoarse and his eyes full of compassion. “Why the veil, Cis?”
Cecily gazed at him through the translucent fabric as though she were seeing him for the first time. He had been wearing his hair in the longer fashion since returning from France, but he was now sprouting a curly beard. His face was tanned from so much time on horseback, and he had lost weight, which he could ill afford. Was this the man she had loved for so long? The man she had given her heart and her body to? She no longer knew.
He approached her with his hands outstretched, but she took a step back, and for the first time in their lives together he felt rebuffed. He took in a sharp breath
and spoke again, this time with authority. “What is this manner of greeting, my lady? What have I done to deserve your distance—your coldness?”
Cecily stiffened. “Coldness?” she echoed scornfully. “Nay, my lord, ’tis grief that consumes me, and I am dismayed you do not recognize it. But perhaps you do not because you have not known it.” Her voice did not seem to belong to her but to some hard-hearted harpy. “I have had to suffer it alone while I waited here at your convenience.”
Richard snorted his disbelief, and Cecily flinched. “At my convenience? At my convenience?” he snapped. “Christ’s nails, Cis, I am at the king’s convenience. Believe me when I say I came as soon as I could—”
“Not even a letter, not even one word,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “I felt abandoned. Your heir is dead—our little son—and I feared from your silence you blamed me.” She was faltering now. “I thought you’d stopped caring.”
Richard was on his knees, pressing her unresponsive hand to his lips. “Not care? What have I ever done that made you believe I would not care that our precious son is taken from us? And how could I blame you for such a tragic accident? You cannot think I am so unreasonable. Do we not know each other well enough after all this time? Ah, Cis, do not be so proud now. I have ridden without sleep for three days to be with you here—to share my grief with yours. With every league I have begged God to show you that I have had you in my thoughts ever since Piers Taggett gave me the terrible news. Have you not felt my love around you all these hours since Henry’s death? It has been with you, I swear, and I cursed the council for holding me to the contract to muster more men that kept me from coming immediately.” As his speech gathered speed, Cecily felt his tears on her hand, and something in her heart finally moved.
“Then I am comforted somewhat,” she murmured. “But I did not know until I saw you arrive how great my hurt was—aye, I was bitter that you were not with me when I lost another child. Until you know the anguish of being alone as you helplessly watch your child die, I warrant you will not understand my agony.” She sat down on the window seat behind her, Richard’s hand still in hers. “I cannot deny that I felt abandoned by you—and by God.”
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