Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  We are making progress against Charles, and I believe we may relieve Pontoise in a very short time. I long for news of you and our little Anne. I was touched by her weeping on my leaving her. She is a dear child, and I pray that you will find time to let her know a mother’s love.

  Cecily looked up from the letter guiltily. Was her indifference still that obvious to others—to Richard? She believed she had tried of late. Across the room, her daughter was playing pat-a-cake with Rowena on the turkey carpet. A wave of guilt suffused her, and she chewed on her lower lip as she contemplated her child. How foolish I have been, she thought, staring at Richard’s words. They had the desired effect, however, for she suddenly called out to her daughter. Anne turned anxious gray eyes to her mother, but when she saw Cecily’s smile and outstretched arms, she gave a cry of joy and ran into them, flinging her arms about her mother’s neck as if greeting her for the first time after a very long separation. Cecily gasped. What had she been missing all this time? she admonished herself. Why she had denied herself the innocent love of this child, she could not imagine. She gently released Anne’s hold and held the girl at arm’s length on her lap.

  “You are a good girl, Nan, and your mama loves you very much.” Then she whispered, “Do you love me too?” and held her breath.

  Anne’s vigorously nodding curls gave Cecily her answer. The child put her thumb in her mouth and contemplated her beautiful mother. “Pretty,” she lisped. “Mama pretty.” Then as if at two she had already learned the art of diplomacy, she slipped off Cecily’s knee and ran back to Rowena. “Weena pretty, too,” she cried, making everyone laugh.

  Although she took the time to write to Richard to let him know their night together had not yielded the result they had hoped for, Cecily’s disappointment in not having conceived was eased as she rejoiced in getting to know her daughter and learning to be a mother. She even forgot to miss Richard until she received his next letter two weeks after the first. This time the messenger had arrived with some urgency.

  For some reason the French are quiet, and we believe they are contemplating pulling back. Therefore I am keeping my promise to see you but can leave for no more than two days, and our meeting must be kept secret in case spies let the French know I am no longer at the head of the army. I will have my squire and a groom with me, but no one will know who we are. May I suggest that you tell Sir William you are going on a pilgrimage to Les Andelys, not far from Rouen, to take the water at St. Clothilde’s holy spring. The nuns at the abbey will welcome us as pilgrims and perhaps the sacred place will help us conceive a son. Bring Constance or Rowena with you and arrange for John Blaybourne to accompany you but no one else. I will trust you to invent a reason why you do not want a whole retinue of people, but you may inform Sir William that it is upon my orders.

  Cecily frowned. Certes, people will be suspicious if I go with only an attendant and one escort, she thought. However, I can understand why Richard does not want to be observed. She shrugged and read on.

  Meet me on the twentieth day of the month at the abbey and come clothed as a simple pilgrim, as will I. My dearest love, I can already feel your sweet body in my arms.

  CECILY HOPED THE dawn departure of a trio of riders from the castle would go unnoticed by those whose apartments overlooked the courtyard. She glanced up at the windows of the second floor, where many of the nobles and their ladies lodged, and was certain she saw a face at one of the windows. Was it the Woodvilles’ chamber? she wondered, trying to remember the position of their apartment. She would have been dismayed to know that Jacquetta had spent a restless night and was indeed watching the riders leave that morning. Cecily was glad of her simple gown and her cloak with its voluminous hood and naively thought that she would be unrecognizable. But she forgot to mask the legendary ease with which she handled a skittering stallion, and the giant Blaybourne, who had helped Cecily up onto it, was unmistakable. Blaybourne then effortlessly swept Constance up behind him, leaving Jacquetta in no doubt that Cecily of York was attempting to leave Rouen in secret.

  A few moments later, the riders passed the royal mews, where Piers Taggett had spent the night tending to the broken wing of one of his charges. Hearing the muffled hooves on the dirt path that skirted the outside of the eastern castle wall, he stooped to avoid the low doorway and stood in the shadows of the mews house to see who was leaving the castle so early. He would have known Cecily on horseback anywhere and at any time, and his eyes widened in surprise. Then he saw John Blaybourne’s substantial figure on the second horse, and not wanting to be seen himself, Piers ducked back into the mews. In his haste he had not seen Constance riding pillion.

  A puzzled Piers sat down heavily on a barrel to ponder Cecily’s departure. He could not believe his goddess would choose to ride off alone with as lowly a fellow as John Blaybourne. Then he remembered how many times he himself had ridden alone with Cecily. But that was different, he argued, as his anger grew, for, on Christ’s holy cross, nothing untoward would ever have occurred with him. Her grace was the purest, kindest, most honorable woman in the world, and he could not imagine himself laying a finger on her noble person. He went with Duke Richard’s blessing—indeed, at his bidding, the falconer told himself. There was nothing secret about their rides to the hunt or his lessons in hawking. The whole household knew of them. Sweet Mother of God, what did Blaybourne have in mind? he thought fearfully. Was the duchess in danger? It did seem to Piers that she was riding freely of her own accord, but it was too dark for him to see if the man was holding her rein. Mayhap—he recoiled in horror—Blaybourne had abducted her! Now he was pacing uncomfortably in the low-ceilinged barn, and the birds under his care were beginning to be restless.

  “Hush, my beauties. Stay still,” he cajoled. “You will break your fast soon enough. But now I needs must think.”

  BY MIDMORNING, THE riders had reached the eastern bank of the Seine after cantering cross-country from Rouen. Following a tow path flanked by stands of comfrey, campion, and marguerites, they rounded a wide turn in the river affording them a view that took Cecily’s breath away. Facing them on another sharp bend a mile away and dominating the spectacular landscape was Château Gaillard. Constance told her mistress that the extraordinary white fortress, whose many towers were lacking slate in their pointed turrets and whose walls were crumbling, had been Richard the Lionheart’s pride and joy two centuries earlier.

  “In Normandy,” she explained in her accented English for the benefit of Blaybourne, “it is known as Coeur de Lion’s one-year-old daughter. It has taken six milles—how you say? ah, yes—six thousand building-men only one year for finishing. But the English king died the next year, and soon Philip of France he captured it and then he . . . nom de Dieu, how you say abandonné?”

  John let out a slow whistle of awe, but then frowned. “It commands the river from both directions. Why is it still not a stronghold?” he wondered aloud.

  Constance chuckled. “I do not understand the ways of men thinking,” she replied. “I know only the story.”

  The little village of Petit Andely hugged the riverbank in the shadow of Gaillard, the ubiquitous chalk cliffs of the Seine rising behind. The travelers were soon walking their horses along the main street leading to the magnificent but not yet completed church of Our Lady with its extensive abbey behind.

  Blaybourne used the butt of his dagger to knock on the door of the hostel where pilgrims could lodge, which was run by a small order of Benedictines. They were all that was left of the first Christian convent in France, founded by the sainted Queen Clothilde. A grille in the door snapped open and a white-wimpled, bewhiskered nun peered out.

  “We are pilgrims,” Blaybourne had been instructed to say in French, and showed his scallop-shell badge. “Anglais,” he added, as if the accent had not already given him away.

  Constance spoke up. “Ma maîtresse a besoin de logement, ma soeur,” she told the woman. “We need lodging for two or three nights, if you would be so kind. My mistress,
who is a noble English lady, would like to take the waters and seek help from St. Clothilde.”

  Hearing her native tongue spoken so fluently, the sister opened the door and beamed at Cecily and Constance. “Entrez, entrez, mesdames,” she welcomed them, her smile revealing three missing teeth. “God’s greeting to you. Follow me.” Blaybourne, leading the two horses, was pointed the way to the stables, where, Cecily had no doubt, he would be sleeping.

  Once it was known that Cecily was a noblewoman, she and Constance were ushered into a private room, sparsely furnished, with a small arched window open to the elements and overlooking a cloistered garden, where Cecily could see the object of her pilgrimage. The fountain could be approached by two paths, one for men and one for women, and several of both were slowly making their way toward the bubbling water caught in a room-sized stone basin.

  As soon as their guestmistress had left them, informing Cecily that she was invited to the mother superior’s table for supper, Cecily asked Constance to do a little exploring while she rested.

  “I do not suppose one may request a bath,” Cecily remarked, taking in the simple room and laughing. “But in case my husband does arrive early, I will lie down and nap so I do not look so travel-worn.”

  “I will return in an hour and help you dress for supper, madame,” Constance said, hanging a russet wool overgown on a peg. Cecily stepped out of her heavy riding skirt, which Constance shook and slapped to get rid of the dried mud.

  Digging into the leather saddlebag, Constance brought out an ivory comb and laid it on the table. “I can at least find rosemary, lemon juice, and a bowl of water in the infirmary with which to cleanse the dust from your hair, your grace. The lemon does lighten it and give it luster.”

  When Constance had gone, Cecily knelt before the large wooden figure of Christ upon the cross that dominated one wall, the agony carved in excruciating detail upon the crucified man’s face. She still could not bring herself to address the Father, Son, or Holy Ghost directly and so squeezed her eyes shut and thought of the Virgin, beseeching her to bless her and Richard’s efforts to have a second son. She doubted anyone was heeding her. She suspected her lapse of faith had turned even the Blessed Mother from her. But she persisted, telling her beads and reciting the rote prayers diligently, and she hoped that the visit to the shrine would go a long way to restoring her faith.

  As she reached the end of the rosary, something brushed her cheek, startling her, and her eyes instinctively opened. The room was empty. Puzzled, she glanced down at the floor and was astonished to see a white feather at her feet. Then she heard cooing and saw a dove preening upon the windowsill. She gasped, crossing herself.

  “You are still with me, Virgin Mother,” she whispered, awed. “I promise I shall not stray again.”

  AS SOON AS she and Constance had attended Mass the next morning, Cecily made her way to the fountain with its statue of a stern Clothilde looking down on the pilgrims as they stepped into the cool water. In front of her a woman held a child with a withered arm, and behind her another woman, whose haggard face betrayed her pain, was quietly praying and clutching her stomach. When it was her turn, Cecily knelt on the grass, her peasant gown giving her freedom of movement, and, cupping her hands, she washed her face in the clear water and let it run down in rivulets between her breasts. She felt it trickle down over her belly and between her legs, and as she gazed intently at the saint’s image, she begged Clothilde to make her fertile.

  She backed away from the shrine and crossed herself. Glancing idly at the men on the other side, her heart leaped. Richard was in the middle of the queue, barefoot and dressed in a drab green tunic such as an archer might wear. His head was uncovered. He flashed a quick grin before concentrating on his own supplication to the saint. Cecily waited and watched as he immersed himself in the fountain to his knees, cupping his hands and drinking the sacred water.

  In a very few minutes they were arm in arm, climbing the chalky footpath to the castle. Cecily could not stop talking. She was too excited to be with Richard on this adventure, where no one knew who they were and thus they were free to act as if they were simply townsfolk from somewhere else come to seek succor from Clothilde.

  “And that is why this is called the Lionheart’s one-year-old daughter,” she finished explaining, as they gazed up at the hulk of white rock that seemed to scrape the clouds. Cecily added to Constance’s story only slightly with a fact given her by Mother Agnes at supper. “The English king used to call it his Rock of Andely,” the elderly nun had told Cecily.

  “I have much admiration for Coeur de Lion, but I could wish I had this fortress at my disposal now,” Richard grumbled, “or at least the money it must have taken to build. The council still pinches pennies when it comes to funding my work here, in truth.”

  Cecily slid her hand through the wide sleeve of his gown and tickled his ribs. “No talk of politics, no talk of war, no talk of money I beg of you, my love. We have more important business to attend to in these two days, do we not?” she teased, loving the surprised gurgle he always emitted when he was tickled. “We have all day to ourselves and no one will know to seek us here.”

  Unable to break the habit of checking over his shoulder for an attack, Richard had to make sure no one had followed them before he could relinquish himself to Cecily’s advances. After walking a few paces back the way they had come and satisfying himself they were indeed alone, he turned around to find that she had disappeared.

  “Cis? Cecily, where are you?” he called. She had never ceased to amaze him with her antics, he thought, ever since she was a little girl. “Are you expecting me to search for you?” he said. He was approaching a large unruly bush covered in wild white roses when suddenly Cecily popped up from behind it. He gasped. She was naked, her skin alabaster in the sunlight and her rosy nipples hardened by the cool breeze high above the river. She struck a pose for him. She had let down her glorious tresses and they fell to the curve of her hips. He was reminded of an ancient statue of the goddess Venus he had seen once, but when she stretched out her arms to him, he knew she was no goddess but a nymph, a siren, a naiad, or something so ethereal and yet so alive that he could only throw himself on her mercy and into her seductive embrace.

  As though their experience at the fountain had somehow made their coupling sacred, each pleasured the other separately and in silence before they came together many times during that balmy afternoon with only the great white walls of the Rock of Andely as a towering witness.

  Pleasantly spent, Richard rolled onto his back and gazed again at the moldering bastion of stone nearby, clasping Cecily’s hand between their perspiring bodies. “’Tis strange, Cis, but I feel my ancestors all around me in this place, built as it was by another Richard Plantagenet. A good omen, I believe, for the begetting of another son of our royal house, do you not think?” he asked, turning to nuzzle her cheek.

  “Aye, Richard,” she agreed, squeezing his hand. She sat up to retrieve her gown and cover them both when a noise high up on the castle ramparts attracted their attention. As if to underscore Richard’s pronouncement, one of the huge stones that had come loose over two centuries of neglect toppled at that moment and fell crashing onto the cliff below. Richard chuckled, but Cecily felt a frisson of fear. How odd that they should witness the event, she thought, her mind busy with the coincidence. What if it had a larger and more ominous meaning. What if it were a sign that the house of Plantagenet was crumbling. God’s bones, Cis, she asked herself, why so maudlin after such ecstasy? She quickly crossed herself and chose not to bother Richard with her foolish fancy. Snuggling up to him, she closed her eyes and dozed.

  ONLY LATER WOULD Cecily receive news from England that made the portent seem not as fanciful. Eleanor Cobham, duchess of Gloucester, long rumored to have dabbled in the dark arts, was denounced on the self-same day at St. Paul’s Cross by an astronomer, who, together with a co-conspirator, had been arrested for making a waxen image of King Henry, with Eleanor’s conse
nt, and subjecting it to a slow flame. They had all believed that as the wax figure melted, so would Henry’s health, and thus Humphrey of Gloucester would become king and Eleanor his queen. Her cohorts were charged with treason, and Eleanor, as an accessory, would have to be tried. The scandal damaged an already diminishing affection between Gloucester and the king, and the duke’s influence and power was all but snuffed out like the candle that had melted the little wax doll.

  THE TWO-DAY TRYST was over all too soon, and the journey back to Rouen was taken at a slower pace on Cecily’s instructions. She wanted to savor every second of those idyllic days and was in no hurry to return to her routine in Rouen. Her horse found its own path as she sat in the saddle and daydreamed of the secret sojourn. With no one to disturb Richard with affairs of war or state and only Constance to flit silently about the chamber, dressing and undressing her mistress and then disappearing at all the right moments, the duke and duchess of York had known a freedom and tranquility they could not have dreamed possible. If Cecily conceived, she had told Richard upon parting, then she would know they were truly blessed. She determined the nuns of the abbey of St. Clothilde would receive benefices that would astonish them if a child was born of the Yorks’ time there.

  A loud cry of alarm jolted Cecily from her reverie, causing her horse to rear in fright. Cecily’s expert horsemanship prevented her from being thrown, and she calmed the beast quickly. She had fallen behind John and Constance a little way, and now she saw John already on the ground, helping Constance down from their horse. Then Constance was clutching his arm and pointing to a clump of trees off to the left of the path. “Là bas, monsieur!” she cried. “I see something moving in the trees there.”

  “What is it, Master Blaybourne, are you hurt?” Cecily urged her horse alongside him. Then she saw what had startled them and looked about her in fear. An arrow was still quivering in the ground a few feet in front of Blaybourne’s mount. “Your grace, you should make for the trees,” Blaybourne replied, pointing to two oaks a few paces to their left. His tone was respectful but insistent. “And dismount if you can.”