Margaret savored her sweetmeat, her eyes staring straight ahead. Then she wiped her lips with the spotless linen cloth and turned to address Cecily.
“My dear duchess, your love and loyalty to your lord is admirable,” the queen began levelly. “And I believe you are sincere. But ’tis not my favor that Duke Richard should seek but my husband’s. I do not meddle in affairs of state and live only for the king’s comfort and to bear his heirs.” Cecily marveled at Margaret’s artfulness but was careful not to reveal her disbelief. “I am sorry, Cecily, that your husband would use you to ingratiate himself.”
Hearing her first name threw Cecily off balance, and she could not determine whether Margaret was dissembling, but she was quick to defend Richard. “My husband has no inkling I would speak to you, madame.”
“Your husband’s rebellion last year placed you and your children in grave danger. Pray God, the duke has seen reason.” The queen stared at the crucifix on the wall opposite. “’Tis my belief he is not worthy of you.”
Cecily lifted her head then and with uncharacteristic restraint replied, “Nay, your grace, if it please you, you are mistaken. ’Tis I who am not worthy of him.” She felt herself flush, however, and was dismayed to see Jacquetta of Bedford’s eyes riveted on her.
“As you wish, duchess,” the queen was saying, “I shall say again, your loyalty is admirable, and for our past friendship, I will do what I can for you.” Her expression then turned grim as she announced, “When my son is born, things will be different—for all of us.”
Later, as Cecily lay back in the merchant’s tolerably comfortable bed, Bess snuggled beside her, she pondered the inscrutable Margaret of Anjou.
THE NEXT DAY, hundreds of pilgrims ranged themselves along both sides of the narrow village street to gawk at the queen’s procession, which would soon wend its way along the road to Fakenham. Following a mass in the prior’s private chapel, Margaret had actually bidden Cecily farewell with a friendly buss to her cheek, then she had climbed into her curtained carriage and hidden herself from the common folk, which had caused some grumbling from those in the queue forming outside the abbey that morning. Cecily could have told Margaret it was a regrettable error in judgment; she knew these people would have dearly loved to see their beautiful queen and might have cheered instead of groused. These were not times to incense them further, she thought.
Cecily, dressed in her plain brown traveling gown and an appropriate veil, had eschewed an offer from the prior to forgo the muddy mile from the slipper chapel and enter the shrine from the chapter house. “I thank you, father, but I wish to worship alongside my fellow pilgrims. I am no different from them in the eyes of God. Today I am Cecily Neville, penitent. But I thank you all the same.”
Once inside the abbey church, lit by hundreds of candles, she and Bess gazed up at the brilliantly painted pillars and arches supporting the soaring roof. In a side chapel, gated from the penitents who thronged the nave, a choir of monks chanted quietly as slowly the column of pilgrims reached the wooden house in the middle of the chantry.
“This is the house the widow built, Bess,” Cecily whispered. “The Virgin told her in a vision what it looked like. When we go inside, you must be silent and pray very hard for your father and your brothers and sisters.”
Bess looked up through the gauze of her veil. “And you, Mam? What about you? And Nurse Anne, and Piers, and . . .”
Cecily smiled. “Aye, you may pray for me and the others too, child. Do not forget Doctor Constance, will you? You would not be here if she had not helped you into this world.”
They slipped into the little house and stared about them. The heat from so many candles and warm bodies mingled with the overpowering smell of incense made Cecily feel queasy. Squeezing between two large women, she and Bess knelt in front of the statue of the Virgin, a radiantly golden Virgin, holding the infant Jesus. Other brightly painted and bejeweled statues sat in niches set high in the ornately decorated walls, and Cecily wondered if this was indeed what the Virgin had directed the widow to build. She had imagined something far humbler for a poor woman’s house in Judea.
Bess was pointing to the sparkling jewels on a reliquary resting at the Virgin’s feet, and Cecily saw the vial inside containing the holy breast milk. She crossed herself again and stared at the object, truly awed for the first time since entering the stifling shrine. She had seen other relics in her life, to be sure, including a piece of the true cross and crown of thorns in the holy chapel in Paris, but to be in the presence of something as precious as the milk that sustained Our Lord touched her own motherhood deeply and brought tears to her eyes. You have been with me always on my journey through life, showing me the way, she told the Holy Mother, but never as close as you are to me now. Praise be to thee and thy beloved Son. I pray you guard my family from harm, keep my dearest husband especially in thy protection, and for myself I ask that my health may be restored to me. If it is a burden I must bear for my sins, then I ask for forbearance. If I am fortunate to grow old in your love, sweet Mary, then I shall devote that time to your service when my children have no more need of me. Lord, give me strength.
She smiled up at the shining face of the Virgin and noticed for the first time that the statue’s eyes seemed to be gazing at a point over her head. Turning to look, she followed Mary’s gaze and gasped. The lifelike figure of the saint in the niche had the face of La Pucelle. “Jeanne,” she whispered. “Is it you?” A beatific smile seemed to curve the mouth of the statue, which appeared bathed in white light, and Cecily began to feel faint as she had all those years ago in the filthy prison. She closed her eyes and crossed herself, but when she looked at the statue again, it was the perfect face of another holy woman martyred for her faith that stared back at her. What can this mean? she wondered. It was Jeanne’s face I saw. I know it was. And it was a happy, blessed face. She gazed at the Virgin again and then she knew. She knew with awe and wonder that Jeanne d’Arc had indeed been welcomed into her Savior’s company of saints. A warm glow suffused her, and she began to chant out loud, “Ave Maria, gratia plena.” Her fervor must have moved her fellow pilgrims, for soon they took up the supplication in unison, filling the shrine with prayer. When the chanting ended and Cecily took Bess’s hand to rise and let another take their place, she saw the little girl’s face was wet with tears.
22
England, Summer 1453
Despite Margaret’s offer of help to Cecily, Richard became more and more isolated in the summer of ’Fifty-three. In May he heard that his ten-year lieutenancy in Ireland had been brought to an early conclusion and the son of Richard’s old friend the White Earl was appointed in his stead. The young man had been elevated to the earldom of Wiltshire, auspiciously through his father-in-law, Edmund of Somerset.
“Somerset’s star continues to rise,” Richard complained to Cecily one day in late July as they rode out from Fotheringhay to hunt. The new merlin sat on Cecily’s wrist, but though the bird was an excellent hunter, she still missed Nimuë. “The court has moved to Clarendon and still I am not welcome on the council. It would seem my experience in Normandy counts for naught with them—especially since Dartford. I could tell them that it will not be long before Bordeaux falls and Gascony is lost, mark my words, Cis.” He gave a harsh laugh. “But who listens to me?”
Cecily watched sadly as Richard’s grim face told the story of his ill-treatment at Dartford. She had hoped that he could put his anger behind him, but instead it festered daily. He had sworn the oath never to rebel again, but Cecily feared another humiliation might lead him to break that oath. She tried to turn her mind to this day and their favorite pastime and chose to answer his rhetorical question with: “I always listen to you, Richard, and I heard you promise me a day of sport. Let us not spoil it with politics, I beg of you.” She turned her pleading eyes on him and his face softened. “That’s better,” she murmured.
The sky was cloudless and the light summer breeze fluttered the flowers of the blue-pur
ple flax in the fields. Cecily’s wide-brimmed hat kept the sun from spoiling her still porcelain skin and shaded her eyes as she scanned the blue horizon for skylarks. Cecily’s bird was trained to hunt small birds but occasionally went after a rabbit. Richard’s bigger falcon wove back and forth on its master’s glove, hearing noises from its prey in the meadow too faint for human ears. Sensing his bird was eager to fly, Richard loosed the ankle tie, expertly whipped off the embroidered hood, and flung the bird skyward, causing the ankle bell to tinkle in its wake. The riders watched the bird ride the drafts until its wings began to flutter and it hovered over a clump of gorse. A hare sprinted out of the cover, but it was not fast enough for the falcon, which dived like a bolt from a crossbow and felled the animal with its powerful talons in one deadly motion. The sight never failed to awe Cecily. Richard gave a short, sharp whistle, and the bird left the hare’s broken body where it had fallen to return to Richard’s wrist.
“That’s my proud Priam,” Richard cooed. “That is how to bring down the weak.”
Cecily wondered to whom her husband was really referring but she smiled and also praised the bird.
“Your turn, Cis,” Richard said, after securing the tie again. “What thinks Master Taggett of this new bird?”
“She is not as fast as Nimuë, in truth,” Cecily replied, stroking her merlin’s glossy feathers. “But she is young and her aim is true. Ah, now I hear a lark-song.” She saw the brown-streaked skylark soaring, hovering, and singing fifty paces from them, and just as expertly as Richard had done, she let her bird loose. “Go, brave Niniane, and find your mark.”
“Niniane?” Richard asked, watching the graceful merlin soar high above the unsuspecting trilling skylark.
“’Tis another name for Nimuë, but do not tell her so. She has a very different character,” Cecily answered, smiling across at her husband and remembering the day long ago when he had taken her to the mews at Windsor. “My sweet Nimuë was the best of all your gifts to me, Richard, save our children.”
The lark was caught and Niniane at once dropped with her prey to the ground. She was recalled by her mistress, while a huntsman ran to inspect the lark. He held it up by its tiny legs and proclaimed it masterfully killed. Cecily stroked the merlin and murmured endearments to it. “We shall need several more like that ere we can make a pie, my dearest.”
“I should like to make a pie myself—out of the vultures on the council awaiting my demise,” Richard said, and Cecily was relieved to see him neigh heartily at his own joke.
Richard was still laughing with Piers when the sound of galloping hooves caught their attention. Roger Ree came to a well-controlled halt in front of the duke. Bowing in his saddle, he thrust a letter at Richard.
“The messenger told me to deliver it without delay, my lord,” he said. “’Tis from my lord of Salisbury.”
Richard gave Piers his falcon to hold and tore open the missive.
“Christ’s nails! Gascony is lost! Aquitaine is lost! Talbot is killed, as is his son, at Castillon. Bordeaux is threatened and Charles has taken most of Aquitaine for France.”
“Talbot killed?” Cecily repeated, half to herself. “Why, the man was eighty if he was a day! ’Tis a wonder he could even carry a sword. Somerset must have sent him again. ’Tis monstrous.”
“He was one of our greatest commanders, my lady,” Richard corrected her. “If he could not hold Aquitaine, then no one could. But you are right to blame Somerset for this. Perhaps now the king will see reason and impeach him, but I doubt it. All that England has fought to win back in France for more than a hundred years is now lost. And I was powerless to prevent it. God’s nails, what a sorry day this is!”
Knowing Richard would have no heart for hunting now, Cecily sighed, turned her horse around, and headed for home. Her first thought was to ask the Virgin for help, certain this news might rouse Richard to more rebellion. She took herself straight to the ducal chapel and spent an hour on her knees thinking on England’s losses and recalling the battles her father, her siblings, and her husband had fought in her lifetime. It was all for naught, she mused sadly. All those lives lost, all that land ravaged—and for what? She profoundly regretted the loss of France, but secretly in her heart she rejoiced. Was the conflict in France finally ended? Dear God, let us hope men will see sense and there will be no more war, no more fighting, no more killing. She prayed her own sons would never have to take up arms against others but lead quiet, sober and happy lives on their estates with their families.
“Just as Richard and I can now do,” she murmured, dreaming. “With Margaret about to give Henry an heir”—she refused to think it might be a girl—“and no war to wage in France, we can live out our lives in peace.”
But she was not naive enough to believe her dream. She had lived through enough turmoil to know that men like Richard and Somerset were never content to rest idle on their estates. Ambition has its price, she thought, and I have learned that to my cost. All I can do is support my husband and protect my children. And, with God’s help, we shall prevail.
Sobered by the thought, she rose, bent her knee to the altar, and went in search of Constance.
AS CECILY HAD suspected, peace was not to be.
Less than a month later, the lookout on the castle gatehouse peered down in the gathering darkness and called, “Who goes there?”
“The lord Richard, earl of Salisbury. Open the gate!” Richard Neville’s herald shouted back.
The winch for the iron portcullis slowly raised the heavy gate, screeching loudly as the chains ground around the wooden wheel. Grooms ran alongside the horsemen ready to help the earl’s party as it entered the courtyard.
Richard and Cecily were in the gardens, enjoying a game of hoodman blind with their children in the last of the evening light, when Cecily’s brother joined them.
“God’s greeting to you all, and I apologize for the intrusion so late in the day, Sister, but I have important, troubling news.”
As Nurse Anne herded the children along the path and back to their apartments, Richard grasped Neville’s arm and drew Cecily close. “What is it, Brother?” he asked, frowning.
Richard of Salisbury took a deep breath, looking about him to make sure they were alone. “The king has been taken ill. Not of his body but of his mind. It seems Henry has lost his wits. He has succumbed to a fit of apoplexy,” he said slowly and deliberately, satisfied with the shocked reaction he was eliciting. “Aye, ’tis true,” he assured the gap-mouthed couple. “He knows no one and he says nothing. He simply sits staring vacantly at the wall. My man at court rode hard to inform me of the turn of events. It appears Henry has been this way for a fortnight already.”
A worried frown furrowing Richard’s pale face, he waved his hand toward the castle. “Come, my lord, let us go inside. The rest can wait until you have had some refreshment.”
“WHO KNOWS OF this besides the council?” Richard asked later as Salisbury downed a cup of ale and tackled a haunch of cold venison.
Spearing a choice piece of meat on his knife’s point, Salisbury answered, “Only the closest circle and, certes, the queen. Praise be, the court is at Clarendon. If this had happened in Westminster . . .”
“The whole of London would know by now,” Richard finished, nodding. “Aye, the fewer of us who are informed the better. What say the doctors? How long will this last?”
Salisbury shrugged. “They know not, Brother. It came without warning. One moment he was himself, the next his eyes fixed on the wall and his limbs would not move. They must carry him to and from his bed, to the privy—’tis as though he froze like the grasses in winter.” He savored the venison, smacking his lips and chewing noisily. “All are in shock.”
Richard shook his head, his expression grave. “What does this mean for England?” he murmured almost to himself. “That Somerset rules?”
Richard Neville almost spat his meat out in response. “Never fear, my lord, as long as I am on the council, Somerset will not r
ule. But it would be imprudent to let the people know the king is indisposed. Their anger against Somerset, whom they blame for the loss of France, would know no bounds. It would not take much to cause rioting.”
“Would they think Henry was driven to madness by the loss of France, Richard?” Cecily asked and relished a nod of approval from her elder brother. “Aye, I can see why Somerset might feel threatened now. Perhaps we should spread the word,” she said, half joking. “What would be so wrong with that?”
Richard’s response was as she expected. “’Tis treason, that is what, Cis,” Richard retorted. “Besides it would be wrong for the realm. Aye, it is right no one should know. If God is merciful, the king may recover tomorrow; one can never tell. And what of the queen? She would back Somerset if he moved to take control.”
Salisbury grunted. “’Tis as well that she must soon be confined for the birth, where she cannot be of influence. But although Somerset has her ear, he can do nothing without the council’s sanction.”
“And if this malady drags on?” Cecily asked. “Surely someone must act as regent in the king’s place.”
She saw her brother flash a surreptitious glance Richard’s way, but he said nothing. Pray God you find a voice, Brother, she wanted to remark. Are you firmly for Richard or not?
“All will come clearer when the queen is brought to bed,” her husband said. “If Henry has an heir then a regent must be named, and like as not ’twill be between me and Somerset. If it is a girl, then one of us must be made heir apparent. Cast out as I am now, I cannot know the council’s mind, Neville. But I tell you this. I will not stand by and allow Somerset to keep me from my rightful place.”
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