Queen By Right

  So I have noticed, Cecily wanted to say, but she inclined her head and mouthed “oh” instead.

  A cry of glee came from the chess table. “Checkmate! See, Dame Alice, I have won,” Henry exclaimed, reaching over to grasp Richard’s outstretched hand. “It was a challenging game, was it not, my lord duke?”

  Richard grinned and wiped his brow. “One of the hardest I can remember,” he said, and Cecily knew he was not merely flattering this boy king but speaking the truth. “I have a boon to ask of you, your grace. May I have a rematch soon?”

  “Bien sûr, monseigneur,” Henry said in his perfect French. “I shall look forward to it. And now, forgive me, I feel a little tired. I thank you and Duchess Cecily for your company. It has been a pleasant change, has it not, Dame Alice?”

  “Indeed it has, your grace, a most pleasant change.” She and Cecily rose in unison as the older woman whispered, “He tells me he thinks you are the comeliest woman at court, madam,” and gave Cecily a knowing wink.

  Cecily and Richard knelt, heads bowed, in front of Henry. When he put his hand out for them to kiss, Cecily could not help noticing how cold the fingers were. Richard rose and was about to help Cecily up when Henry stayed him. Leaning over Cecily, the young king had one more thing to say to her. “I shall not forget your kindness this afternoon, your grace. If ever I can repay it, you have but to ask.”

  Cecily flushed with happiness. “You are gracious, my liege.” Then she gave a conspiratorial smile. “Perhaps you might let Lord Richard win the next game of chess.”

  Catching them all off guard, Henry laughed. The forced, harsh laugh reminded Cecily of a poor madman she had heard once at Raby, and she stared at the floor to avoid showing her dismay. It was as though the boy had no control over the unpleasant sound and that it came from the throat of a much older person. It caused Dame Alice to hurry to him and pat his arm, which gesture the king shook off.

  “Leave me be, madam,” he snapped at the unfortunate governess. The others in the solar stiffened. “I am the king, and if I wish to laugh, I shall do so whenever I want.” Dame Alice fell back and curtsied. Then, as if nothing had happened, his young face softened and he turned back to Cecily. “Forgive me, your grace. I am not certain I shall grant you that wish, because I do not know how to lose, but anything else in my power is yours for the asking.”

  The duke and duchess bowed their way from his presence. When the door closed behind them, Richard gripped Cecily’s arm and hurried her down the staircase and out into the cold air. His face was tense when he told her, “I have seen him laugh like that once before, Cis. It is a devilish sound, and I fear for his mind.”

  Cecily crossed herself and then nodded slowly. “Yet in all other ways he appears to be an intelligent, caring boy, if a trifle grave.” She gave a little smile. “Not unlike you, my love.”

  Richard ignored the last remark but said in a low voice, “I have heard his grandfather, Queen Catherine’s father, was known by his own countrymen as Charles le Fou—the Mad. Do you think ’tis possible . . .”

  “Pish, Dickon, your imagination runs amok. Now, let us think no more on it or it will spoil the memory of the afternoon and how I won a favor from the king.”

  “God’s bones.” Richard had to laugh. “I do believe you have bewitched the king as surely as you bewitched me.”

  THE YOUNG WOMAN sat on a stool in the middle of a stuffy chamber holding a lily, her shoulders drooped too low for her lank yellow hair to reach. Encircling her, their malicious black eyes staring and their whiskers twitching, a dozen black-hooded rats standing on their hind legs waited for her to speak.

  “Confess!” the biggest rat snarled, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger at the girl. “You bewitched the king?”

  “God made me do it, I swear,” the woman cried, raising her fearful eyes to him. The rats squeaked among themselves, shaking their heads and shuffling ever closer.

  “Do you know the difference between witchcraft and heresy?” their leader shouted. “Well, do you?”

  “Who do you think you are? The Inquisitor General?” asked the woman, a little more bravely. “How dare you treat me thus. I am a lady. I am a duchess. You are only a rat.”

  “I am your judge. I am Cochon,” the rat replied, snorting for effect.

  She stood and thrust the lily at him. “This is my symbol, my banner, my sword. God gave it to me because I am his messenger. Now let me go.”

  The room erupted in laughter, the harsh uncontrolled laughter of the insane that made the woman flinch, and the rats moved in closer and closer until she could not breathe.

  “Help me!” she cried. “Save me, Dickon!”

  “Your grace! Madam!” Rowena interrupted Cecily’s dream, shaking her mistress awake. “You are safe, here in your bed. Here with me—Rowena.”

  Cecily started and opened her eyes. She could see nothing in the dark.

  “The rats! Where are the rats?” she whimpered, still living her nightmare.

  Rowena found the tinderbox and lit a taper, shielding it with her hand yet casting grotesque shadows on the wall behind her. Cecily cringed but gradually recognized her surroundings and was soothed by Rowena’s assurances about the absence of rats.

  “Sweet Jesu, but the dream seemed so real,” she whispered, shivering. She took a cup of wine from Rowena’s hand and sipped carefully, comforted by the warm sensation the liquid gave her as it slipped down her throat. “I was La Pucelle and the judges were all rats. ’Twas all so strange.”

  Rowena harrumphed. “You dreamed about the heretic, your grace? It must be the Devil’s work that she enters your dreams.”

  “You believe that, Rowena? Why, she has not even been tried yet,” Cecily said. “You are too quick to judge.”

  Rowena snorted her disapproval again.

  Cecily shook her head, remembering the nightmare, and crossed herself. And then for good measure she pulled her amber rosary from under her pillow, climbed out of bed, and went to her little altar. “Ave Maria, gratia plena . . .” She murmured the soothing rote prayer to her benefactress, the Virgin, who smiled down at her from the delicate painting on the center panel. “Dear Mother of God, what can the dream mean?”

  Rowena had crawled back under the bedclothes and had already fallen asleep. But Cecily pulled her bedrobe around her, went to the window embrasure, and pushed open the heavy wooden shutter. The sky was just lightening to the east, and silhouetted against it was the grim donjon where she knew Jeanne was held prisoner. Cecily strained to see any sign of life at the high window—perhaps Jeanne, too, could not sleep and was looking across the courtyard at her. But then she recalled Richard saying Jeanne did not have a window in her cell. “Only an arrow slit in case she thinks about jumping out again,” he had said.

  Cecily went back to the altar and leaned her head against the wooden prayer rail, pondering Jeanne’s fate. I wish I could see her, she thought, but she could not imagine how this might be achieved. She quietly closed the shutter, slipped back under the covers, and finally went back to sleep.

  “WOULD YOU ACCOMPANY me on my weekly mission of mercy at the castle prison, Cecille?” Anne of Bedford asked the young duchess of York the very next day.

  Cecily could hardly contain her mounting excitement. “A mission of mercy, your grace? What does that entail?”

  “I have been visiting the prisoners there—French soldiers for the most part—every week since we returned to Rouen, but”—she leaned over to whisper as far as her heavy headdress would allow—“this is the first time I shall be seeing La Pucelle. I am as curious as you to see her, and as I thought my husband would more likely allow two of us to offer a kind word and food, I asked if you might accompany me. To my surprise and delight he had no objection. She has been unwell, it seems, and my lord agreed she might be grateful for a little comfort from a woman. What say you, my dear friend, will you come?”

  Cecily sent a fleeting word of thanks to the Virgin, for surely Mary had heard her p
rayer.

  EVEN BEFORE THEIR escort opened the door to the guardroom the foul odor of human waste assailed Cecily’s nostrils. She pulled out a kerchief doused in rosewater for this occasion and held it over her face. It seemed Duchess Anne was used to the stench, because she walked through the doorway with her attendant and into the outer of two cells where Jeanne was held without even wrinkling her nose.

  Four guards lounging on stools and the floor were throwing dice. They hurriedly rose, touched their foreheads, and flattened themselves against the wall when they recognized Bedford’s wife, and upon seeing the duchess of York as well, two of them elbowed each other, awed and hardly believing their eyes. A window set high in the wall let in enough light for them to see, and Cecily wondered if that was the window she had seen from her chamber on the night of her dream. The second room, separated from the guardroom by iron bars, had a low ceiling and only an arrow slit for a little air and light. In the gloom, Cecily could just make out a slight figure sitting still on a narrow bed attached to the wall. Two buckets of waste waiting to be emptied were ranged against the bars. Cecily’s anger overcame her misgivings.

  “Can you not see the jakes are full!” she cried at the cowering men. “You are not fit to be called Englishmen. One of you take them away at once!” They all stumbled over one another in an effort to do her bidding.

  Anne nodded her approval. “Bien fait, well done, your grace,” she murmured, and taking Cecily’s arm, she moved up to the bars of Jeanne’s cell, where Cecily could see the prisoner was cruelly chained to the poor excuse for a bed. Turning to the guard nearest the bunch of keys that hung by the door, Anne told him to unshackle the prisoner and to allow her to approach the bars. Eager to please, the guard worked quickly and then pushed Jeanne in the direction of the two women gazing in pity at the poor creature who slowly shuffled toward them. The man relocked the grille behind him and sauntered back to his mates, who were still gawping at the visitors.

  Hoping for a moment of privacy with Jeanne, Cecily snapped, “Enough of your staring, sirrahs. Go back to your game of dice. We shall not be long.” The men were happy to oblige and were soon absorbed in their sport.

  “Venez là, demoiselle.” Anne’s gentle voice caught Jeanne off guard and Cecily saw her lip quiver. “We are here to bring you comfort and a little food. I am Anne, wife of the duke of Bedford, and this is her grace the duchess of York.”

  Jeanne stared through the bars at the two noblewomen with a mixture of fear and awe, rubbing her eyes as if she could not believe them. It had been some time since she had been among her own sex, let alone in the presence of women of such rank. For her part, Cecily could not help but stare back, surprised that Jeanne was nothing like the radiant, self-assured warrior of her imagination but a rather plain, frail peasant girl seemingly terrified of her and Anne.

  Cecily took some bread and cheese from the basket on her arm. “Demoiselle Jeanne, do not be afraid. We are come as your friends to give you a little comfort,” she said in her best French. Still awed, Jeanne shied away when Cecily attempted to pass the food through the bars.

  “Do not be afraid,” Cecily murmured. “I pray you, take the food.” She was dismayed by the haunted look in the brown eyes and gave Jeanne a reassuring smile.

  Anne nodded and smiled beside Cecily, and finally Jeanne reached out and took the bread. “Je vous remercie, madame la duchesse,” she murmured in a deeper voice than Cecily had envisioned, and Cecily had to concentrate on the unfamiliar accent. The hand that held the bread was so small that Cecily wondered how the woman had been able to wield a sword. But it was also scratched and bruised and the nails black with dirt. There was no doubt Jeanne had not bathed for months, and Cecily longed to pull out her kerchief again but did not want to offend the quiet young woman. How had this simple peasant so galvanized one army and threatened another? Cecily pondered. Was it God’s work or—she shivered slightly—was it the Devil’s?

  The visitors waited for Jeanne to take a bite from the bread and savor the good Norman cheese, and they were rewarded with a smile of pleasure. Cecily noticed Jeanne’s coarsely woven hose woefully bagged around her thin thighs and pooled at her ankles, which were caked in blood from the open sores from the shackles. Cecily winced.

  “Are you treated well, Jeanne?” Anne asked, after Jeanne had swallowed her mouthful.

  Looking warily at the guards, who were paying the women no heed, she stepped closer to whisper. “The guards shout at me, madame, but I do not understand, as I cannot speak English. They beat me sometimes,” she complained.

  Anne clucked her tongue. “I shall speak to my lord about this, have no fear, demoiselle.” She suddenly wanted to leave this place, and she took Cecily’s arm. She did not know what she was expecting from this heroine of the French army, but she had not thought to be confronted with such an uninspiring person, and her disappointment showed in her voice. “We shall pray for you, demoiselle, that you may see the error of your ways.”

  Cecily was surprised by the dismissive tone and removed her arm from Anne’s hold. “I will follow in a minute, your grace,” she said, standing her ground and using her height to assert herself. “I should like to offer up a prayer with Jeanne before I leave, if it please you.”

  “Very well, my dear duchess.” Anne inclined her head, surprised that Cecily did not feel the same desire to leave as soon as possible. “Have the guard escort you to the cell beneath us.” She eyed Rowena standing by the door as she left. “Stay with your mistress.” The attendant curtsied and murmured, “Have no fear I will, your grace.”

  Now that Cecily was alone with Jeanne, she did not know what to say. Jeanne was looking at her strangely, and so she crossed herself and looked at the ground for a clean spot to kneel upon. She pulled out her kerchief and sank down on it. Jeanne lowered herself painfully, but as the young peasant raised her eyes to heaven, her face was lit with a radiant smile.

  “Oui, mon Seigneur,” she suddenly cried, startling Cecily. “I will do as you bid me.” As Cecily studied Jeanne’s rapt face, she thought a window in the ceiling must have opened to let the sunlight stream in, because she sensed a glow all around her. She was awed. Jeanne was gazing up into the light as though she could see through it into heaven beyond. Cecily wondered that the guards and Rowena did not pròstrate themselves, but it appeared they were oblivious to this heavenly sight. She crossed herself and fingered her rosary, knotted as usual on her belt, and strained to hear Jeanne’s voices as the Maid continued to address them.

  Sweet Jesu, does she really hear the saints? she asked herself, a little afraid now in the bleak prison. She was just beginning to feel faint when the light faded and Jeanne turned to her, speaking in a low monotone.

  “You are a good woman, madame, and I am told to thank you for your kindness. I beg of you, keep me in your prayers.” She glanced through the bars at the slovenly guards still throwing dice and sighed. “But do not fear for me, my lady. I am promised by my voices that I shall be delivered. I know not when, but I trust in Him—as you must.” She reached through the bars and touched Cecily’s hand holding the rosary, and as she did so, the amber beads grew hot as if in a flame. Cecily heard Jeanne’s words as though in a trance. “May God bless you, Cecily Neville, and your sons, who will one day wear the crown of England.”

  Cecily felt the hairs on her neck prickle and she was suddenly very warm in the chill, dank cell. She closed her eyes, swaying back and forth, aware she was swooning, but instead of the usual blackness, all was infused with white light. She felt Rowena gently raise her to her feet.

  “Come, your grace, we should go now,” the attendant said, glaring at Jeanne, who moved back from the bars. Rowena had been watching the exchange and was horrified when the heretic had dared to touch her mistress. “Guards, you may shackle your prisoner. Her grace is finished here.”

  Still in a trance, Cecily allowed herself to be led from the room. “May God watch over you, Jeanne d’Arc,” she called over her shoulder. With
deep sadness she knew that no one else would.

  THAT NIGHT SHE lay next to her husband for the first time in a week. She would usually have been delighted to welcome him back to her bed, but her heart was still filled with the mystical incident in the prison cell. Richard had been interested to hear of the visit and asked a few perfunctory questions about the Maid’s appearance and her behavior, but Cecily did not tell him—nor would she tell anyone yet—of her extraordinary experience that day. It would be for her, Jeanne, and God alone.

  It seemed Richard was not able to discern that her mind was not on their lovemaking as he spent time with foreplay, and she aroused him to several brinks of climax with her new-learned skills. When he had finally had his fill of her, and she had masterfully pretended her own rapture, he slumped down onto the feather mattress breathing hard.

  “I cannot imagine going through life a virgin,” Cecily said, then chuckled.

  “Whatever made you think of that?” Richard asked.

  “La Pucelle,” Cecily said simply. “She has given up all of that—and her freedom—for the love of God.”

  “Aye, and so do those who take holy orders, Cis. Only they take their vows and go quietly about their business. They do not ride into battle and consort with the Devil.”

  “How dare you say so,” Cecily cried, sitting up and thumping the bed. “How do you know Jeanne does not hear holy voices? Just because God has not chosen you as His messenger—”

  “God’s bones, Cis, what did that little witch say to you today? I pray she has not cast her evil eye upon you. Can you not forget about her? I pray you, do not let this woman come between us,” he cajoled, stroking her back. “It was good of you and Duchess Anne to visit her, but there is an end to it. If it affects you thus, I will forbid you to go on errands of mercy like this again.”

  Cecily took a deep breath. She knew Jeanne was not a subject Richard liked to discuss and she did not want a quarrel. “I have done nothing wrong, my love, and my only thought was to bring a little comfort to the poor woman. ’Tis our Christian duty to help our fellows, is it not? I pray you, turn to me. I would not have you cross with me. We have so few opportunities to be together like this, and I would feel your love for me, not your ire.”