Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  Alice patted Cecily’s hand and counseled her to push her worries aside while she was in London. “We shall ride about together, visit the shops in the Chepe and sail on the river with the children. Parliament will prevail upon the king to include Richard on the council, you shall see. My Richard wants it done, as do many others. The king can dissemble no longer.”

  Cecily smiled, not wanting to dampen her new-found merriment. She reached out her arms to Dickon and cuddled him against her breast. Bessie was there in a trice, tickling the baby and making him laugh. Odd how the older girl had taken to him like a little mother, whereas Meggie had eyes only for George. Her beautiful children! Her heart lifted, and she found the courage to ask, “What news from court, Alice?”

  The only gossip Alice thought worth passing on was that little Margaret Beaufort, Somerset’s orphaned niece, had been betrothed to the king’s half brother Edmund Tudor, son of the late Queen Catherine, and newly created earl of Richmond. I do not care a fig about Margaret Beaufort, Cecily mused, although she smiled and nodded at Alice. And even less about a Tudor.

  IF CECILY AND Alice had waited a month, they would have had a much more important piece of news to gossip about. Queen Margaret was finally with child.

  “Thanks be to God,” Richard said, after bringing Cecily the news at Fotheringhay in April. “Let us pray the queen’s grace is brought to bed of a healthy boy and heir apparent. We need not worry then about Somerset usurping my rightful claim as heir presumptive. Perhaps—only perhaps—Somerset’s ambitions will finally be quashed.”

  “And yours, my lord?” Cecily wanted to ask but chose not to. Instead she pretended to search for exactly the right color of thread in her needlework basket. Her heart had soared when Richard had made the astonishing pronouncement. After eight years of marriage, many had posited that Margaret was barren, and a few brave souls even whispered that perhaps weak-minded Henry was impotent. Indeed, the few times Cecily had seen the couple, there appeared to be little or no affection between them. And yet she knew Margaret was desperate to bear a son and had said as much to Cecily the year before when Cecily was heavy with Dickon.

  Margaret had greeted her cordially at Westminster, despite the tension between their husbands. “My dear duchess, it has been an age since I saw you. How I envy you your beautiful burden,” she murmured, as she eyed Cecily’s swollen belly after Cecily had risen awkwardly from her knees. “You cannot know how often I take heart when I think of you and the many years it took for you to conceive. You never despaired, not even after the hideous event in Rouen. Our Lady must truly love you,” the queen decided. Then she chuckled. “And now I believe you may soon equal your mother in births. Am I not correct?”

  “I am flattered you have uncovered that little-known fact, your grace,” Cecily had replied, curtseying again. “And indeed, I am carrying our twelfth child.”

  “Twelve?” Margaret frowned. “I thought eleven. Or do you count the one you lost in Rouen.”

  “If I do, then this child is my thirteenth, your grace.” She had paused then. It had been a long time since she had thought about little Joan, preferring to have buried the memory in the vault with the infant. She looked Margaret straight in the eye and admitted to herself she could not find the Gorgon there that Margaret had become to her. Why, there is affection for me in her expression, she thought, once again admiring the Frenchwoman’s beauty. Surely Richard is wrong about her dislike of him. “I shall pray daily to St. Monica for your own desire to be fulfilled, your grace.”

  “Still beautiful, I see, cousin.” Edmund Beaufort’s lazy drawl had interrupted the women’s tête-à-tête, and Cecily found herself suppressing a shiver as his sharp features, now stretched into a forced smile, hove into her view. He bowed low to Margaret, taking her ringed fingers to his lips and lingering on them with familiarity. Cecily noticed the genuine pleasure with which the queen gave him a “God’s good day, my lord Somerset.”

  “Good day, my lord,” Cecily had responded civilly, giving him her hand to kiss also. His hair was now more silver than fair, and a scar she had not seen before stood out dark on his pale cheek. His eagle eyes alighted on her bulging stomach and he raised one bushy brow.

  “Another York seems ready to make an entrance I see, my lady. It would appear his grace, your husband, must spend much of his time at home,” he taunted her.

  It had taken all Cecily’s self-control to keep from telling the arrogant duke exactly what she thought of his despicable treatment of her husband. Instead she had inclined her head and murmured, “Why, Edmund, I do believe you are jealous of Richard.” It was a remark full of meaning and yet so flippantly spoken that Somerset could not be certain that she had meant anything more than the simplest jest.

  Cecily well remembered Margaret’s intense gaze following each speaker as if eagerly anticipating a fight. She was disappointed. Without waiting for a response from her cousin, Cecily had dropped into a low curtsey in front of Margaret and begged to be excused. “The babe weighs heavily on me, your grace,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I beg you to allow me to find my husband and retire.”

  With uncanny timing Richard had appeared at her side. “Your grace,” he greeted the queen, bowing graciously. Then he turned to Somerset and barely inclined his head. “My lord,” he said curtly.

  “Your grace,” Somerset replied. “How propitious. I believe Duchess Cecily wishes to retire and thus you must deprive the court of your company.”

  “You snake,” Cecily could not forbear to hiss as she had passed by him, a sweet smile masking her scorn.

  “Cis, you have not heard anything I have said, have you?” Richard’s voice now broke in on her reverie. He looked anxiously at her scowling face. “Is your pain bad today, my love?”

  CECILY AND HER favorite attendant wandered through the fragrant herb garden at Fotheringhay one day in April after a brief shower had left the burgeoning plants sparkling in the intermittent sunshine.

  “I am determined to go to Walsingham and seek Our Lady’s help to cure whatever this pain may be, Constance.” Her hand went instinctively to her lower belly. “I fear it has settled in my womb, but I still have a few good child-bearing years left to me and do not want to disappoint Richard. He would dearly love another daughter,” Cecily said, unburdening herself as usual to the sympathetic physician.

  Constance said nothing. She too had been concerned about Cecily’s health since little Dickon’s birth, and privately thought twelve births were quite enough for any woman to bear. It seemed that the discomfort became more intense during Cecily’s monthly course, but as Constance’s skilled fingers could feel no unusual growth in her mistress’s belly, she thought seeking a cure at Walsingham a reasonable next step.

  “Richard has given me leave to go at the end of the month. We shall take Bess with us. She is old enough for a pilgrimage. Tell me, are you curious to see the shrine?”

  Constance nodded. “Aye, your grace. Gresilde has been there and she has told me of the Widow Faverches’s vision of the Virgin. I shall be glad to accompany you and the lady Elizabeth. I believe it will be beneficial for her to be away from the nursery. She is an angel and will give you no trouble.”

  And so, a few days later it was a very excited but dignified Bess who climbed into Cecily’s chariot, sat proudly by her mother, and waved farewell to Margaret and George standing either side of Nurse Anne on the steps outside the great hall.

  THE GREAT BELL at the Benedictine priory in Walsingham was ringing for nones when Cecily’s little retinue reached its destination. Scores of pilgrims straggled along the wide main street, which was flanked by the half-timbered houses of enterprising merchants who had prospered from the influx of visitors to the shrine over the past century. Along the way, Cecily had explained what a pilgrimage was to Bess and why the penitent would trudge the highways and byways and even cross the sea to seek help from Our Lady of Walsingham in the county of Norfolk. Bess’s eyes had grown wide with awe when she learned of the vi
sion of the Virgin that had led the Widow Faverches to build a replica of the house in which Mary was visited by the Angel Gabriel.

  “’Tis said a little bottle containing drops of the Holy Mother’s milk lies within the shrine,” Cecily told her daughter. “It is a very sacred place, Bess, and when we begin our walk to it from the little chapel I pointed out to you just now, we must leave our slippers there and go barefoot to the shrine for the last mile to show our penitence.”

  Bess pondered this last piece of information as the clumsy carriage rolled toward the village, and she eyed the muddy road with misgiving. Piers Taggett helped the ladies from the vehicle and escorted Cecily to the prior’s house abutting the impressive abbey, where she hoped to lodge.

  A peddler walked boldly to the noblewoman’s party and thrust his basket of pilgrims’ badges at Constance. “Only a farthing, my lady,” he whined, and then caught sight of Bess. “And this ’ere is made specially for a child.” Cecily gave Piers leave to buy one for each of her party, and she pinned the tin scallop brooch to Bess’s bodice. “There now, Bessie, you are a proper pilgrim,” she said, kissing the ecstatic child on the forehead.

  The elderly prior greeted her warmly, but he was clearly nervous, wringing his hands within the folds of the voluminous sleeves of his black cassock.

  “Your grace, I cannot express my gratitude enough for your visit, and my lord of York has been more than generous, but my poor lodging cannot accommodate both you and our sovereign lady, Queen Margaret, at the same time. I know not—”

  “The queen is here? Now?” Cecily broke in, frustration and a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “What should we do? Where can we go?” She saw the fear cross the old man’s face and immediately softened her tone. “In truth, ’tis not your fault, father,” she reassured him. “But it is late and I have a tired nine-year-old with me as well as several in my retinue who need housing. There must be other suitable lodging.”

  “Certes, there is, your grace.” The prior beamed, mollified by Cecily’s kinder tone, and continued, “I have prevailed upon one of our merchant families humbly to honor you with the use of their house in the market square but a stone’s throw from here. And the inn is overjoyed to receive your servants and horses.” Cecily was amused at his effusive language. “We have never been graced before by two such eminent patrons at the same time. Indeed, her royal majesty was pleased to know that your grace would be here. She graciously begs me to tell you that she will be delighted to grant you an audience at your convenience, and I am bidden to tell her royal majesty if you would be so gracious as to accept.”

  Cecily bit her lip trying not to chuckle at his pomposity. She smiled at him and accepted the queen’s invitation willingly. “You may tell the queen I shall attend her grace as soon as I am refreshed, father.” She watched him bow his way from her and then turned to Piers. “Come, Master Taggett, lead the way to our host’s house. We should walk, as good pilgrims must.”

  Despite the lateness of the afternoon, the line of solemn men and veiled women filing into the abbey church housing the shrine still stretched around the priory garden. “We shall join them on the morrow, sweeting,” Cecily told Bess. Then she turned to Constance. “If it please God and the Virgin I hope our hosts can arrange a bath for us. I cannot possibly converse with the queen covered as I am with grime.”

  Bess made a face. “Do I have to as well, Mother?”

  “Aye, my girl, you most certainly do.”

  RELIEVED THAT SHE had insisted Gresilde pack a change of gown, Cecily stepped into the priory’s high-ceilinged chapter house feeling refreshed. A dais had been hurriedly erected for the queen’s throne, and four of Margaret’s gentlemen held a baldachin bearing the royal arms of England and France high above the queen’s head. Her retinue stood aside to let the duchess pass, and it was then that Cecily was aware of a familiar pair of eyes on her. As her most trusted attendant, Jacquetta Woodville stood closest to the queen, and Cecily met Jacquetta’s cat eyes with her steely blue ones until Jacquetta looked down to curtsey as Cecily passed. Aye, my lady, Cecily thought, you may still be addressed as duchess of Bedford, but now you are a mere baron’s wife and no longer above me. She dismissed the woman from her mind as she reached the dais. She took Bess’s hand. Mother and daughter humbly knelt.

  “God’s good evening to you, madame la duchesse,” Margaret greeted her cordially from her cushioned throne. “This meeting is a coincidence, is it not? And a welcome one, I may say, after so long. I pray you, rise. Tell me, is this your daughter?”

  In one practiced, graceful movement, Cecily rocked back on her heels and stood tall in front of the throne, regal in her blue silk brocade. Helping Bess up, she put her arm protectively about the girl’s shoulders and replied, “Aye, your grace, I thank you. This is Elizabeth, my second daughter, but we call her Bess, do we not, child?”

  Speechless, Bess nodded, her yellow curls dancing up and down and her blue eyes riveted on Margaret’s golden majesty. Margaret’s early pregnancy was apparent in her radiance, adding to her beauty.

  “Forgive her, she is my quiet child,” Cecily said, venturing a smile.

  “You will share my table, duchess,” Margaret announced, and Cecily could only acquiesce with a murmur of thanks. As she walked up the steps and waited for a bench to be set for her and Bess, Cecily caught the look of jealous resentment on Jacquetta’s fair face as she turned to whisper something to the ravishing young woman at her side. Cecily recognized the girl who had come to wish Edward well just after his birth in Rouen. Aye, she must be fifteen or sixteen now, she deduced. Such pale loveliness will be bound to attract male attention. Jacquetta would be wise to marry her daughter off as soon as possible.

  “Your grace, pray remind me of the dowager duchess’s daughter’s name,” Cecily murmured to Margaret, nodding in Jacquetta’s direction. “I met her as a child in Rouen.”

  Margaret’s mouth twitched. “For two ladies who do not see eye to eye, so I have heard, it seems both you and Jacquetta have similar taste in names, duchess.” She paused to watch Cecily’s consternation. “She is another Elizabeth, and we are pleased to have her at court now that she is wife to Lord Ferrers’ heir, Sir John Grey. I have watched many a young man in my household blush and swoon when she comes near. Ah, here is Prior John to give the blessing,” she said abruptly as the abbot bustled onto the steps. “I am ready to break my day-long fast.”

  Jacquetta had obviously spoken enough of Cecily to the queen for Margaret to know there was rivalry between them. Cecily’s dislike of the dowager duchess deepened. And she was perplexed. Why, then, was Margaret being so pleasant to her?

  Mouth-watering aromas wafted from the fine food the monks placed before the royal party, and Margaret ate heartily. Cecily dearly wished she could comment on the queen’s condition, but as it was indelicate to raise the subject before the queen herself did, Cecily picked at her food, wishing the pain in her side would subside.

  “You do not eat much, my lady,” Margaret noted. “Perhaps the journey has tired you. I made my pilgrimage today and fasted until now, and so, I confess, I am ravenous. Bien sûr, I must eat for two,” she said coyly, casting her eyes down at her plate.

  “May I offer my heartfelt congratulations, your grace. It seems the prayers we offered at our last meeting were heard. Our sovereign lord Henry must be so thankful. May I ask when you expect your child?”

  “’Tis thought October, duchess,” Margaret said sweetly. Then she looked sideways at Cecily, who was taking a sip of wine, and suddenly, without warning and speaking in French, her voice took on a hard edge. “I will tell you this. My son’s birth will put an end to any ambitions others may have of succeeding Henry.”

  Cecily was forced to use her napkin to cover her surprise. However, without missing a beat, Margaret continued in English with restored childlike innocence and Cecily wondered if she had imagined the extraordinary moment. “You have such a beautiful daughter, my dear duchess, with such pretty manners. Is s
he yet contracted?”

  Margaret’s expression was guileless.

  Taking a moment to recover, Cecily replied, “’Tis kind of you to ask, your grace, but as yet we have not promised Bess to anyone. I am foolishly attached to my children, I dare say, but they will leave me soon enough.”

  “I have no doubt I shall be as fiercely possessive of my children. Perhaps because we had to wait for so long for them, duchess,” was the queen’s benign reply. Her smile showed a genuine warmth again, and she surprised Cecily even more by disclosing, “I came to Walsingham to give thanks for God’s gift to Henry and me and to pray for a houseful of babes. What is the purpose of your pilgrimage, if I may ask?”

  Having told no one but Constance of her ailment, Cecily was reluctant to reveal to this enigmatic woman the purpose of her journey to the shrine. However, the friendly way with which Margaret tilted her head and searched Cecily’s face, waiting to know, unlocked Cecily’s tongue. “In truth, I have not felt well since the birth of my little Dickon, your grace. I shall pray the Blessed Virgin will relieve my pain.” And her hand found the spot that was now throbbing.

  “Then I am sorry for you, my dear duchess, and I shall pray for your comfort on the morrow at mass.”

  “You are too kind, your grace.” Cecily paused. Did she dare speak of Richard, she wondered. Margaret appeared congenial once again, and, despite the veiled threat earlier, she had given Cecily every reason to feel at ease. As if to reinforce this sentiment, Margaret broke a piece of marchpane in two and passed it across Cecily to Bess with a wink and a smile. Aye, I believe she harbors no ill will toward us, Cecily thought, and took a deep breath.

  “Much of my pain, I confess, is in my heart, your grace. It comes from knowing that our most noble sovereign lord, your husband, may not hold my dear lord high in his favor of late,” she began and saw Margaret’s hand freeze for a second before carrying a piece of marchpane to her mouth. “If it please your royal grace, Lord Richard has only had the good of the kingdom and his loyalty to the king in all his thoughts and deeds these past years. I swear to your noble highness on the graves of my dead children, he is the king’s loyal liegeman.” She knew her cheeks were flushed, and she put her hand up to cool them. Her fingers were trembling. She could see Richard’s face in her mind’s eye, and it was not smiling. Dear God, she thought, as the silence persisted, have I ventured too far? Did I use too much unction? Or not enough? She lowered her eyes to her plate.