“Your husband remains a faithful servant of the king, your grace,” Oldhall answered her. “He is viewed by the Beaufort band as a possible spoiler in their power game. They can never forget that when Gloucester dies, and it does not seem likely that Eleanor will bear him a child now, his grace of York is closer to the throne than any of them, save perhaps Exeter. Duke Richard is wise to keep his own counsel and simply serve the king.”
Cecily nodded. “Ah, aye, Exeter. I had forgotten about Exeter. But if Exeter can claim he is next in line after Gloucester through his female ancestor, then is it not true that my husband’s similar claim from Lionel of Clarence would supersede any of John of Gaunt’s descendants? He was younger than Lionel.”
Sir William glanced over her shoulder at the closed door and put a gnarled finger to his lips. “I beg of you, your grace, do not say such a thing to anyone else. ’Tis treason, you see, and why Duke Richard’s father was executed and attainted.”
Cecily murmured, “I know,” and she too glanced back at the door. “I quite understand.” Then, in a loud, cheerful voice, she brought the conversation to a close. “I thank you for your patience, Sir William. I fear I take too much of your time with idle questions, and I beg your pardon.” Cecily wondered if she had actually seen the look of admiration in his eyes or if it had merely been a trick of the light.
But the information she had gleaned had made her even more determined to bear York a son.
HENRY’S BIRTH HAD been easier than the other two, Cecily admitted three days afterward, which allowed her to enjoy the triumph of giving Richard an heir.
She lay quietly in the early morning watching Rowena tie up the shabby bed curtains, letting in the light. She missed the luxury of Fotheringhay here at Hunsdon, another of Richard’s many properties, but one that had been sadly neglected. He had promised that he would carry out renovations to the lodgings as soon as he was reimbursed for the money he had had to spend on the crown’s behalf in France.
“I am only keeping my promise to you, Cis,” he told her, grinning at her disdain. “You said you wanted always to be close to me, and this is only an hour or two away from London. The Erber is no longer at your disposal now that Salisbury has inherited your mother’s estates, so until I find us a suitable town house, this is where we can be together.”
Cecily sighed as she looked around at the dingy walls, the horn-paned windows without shutters, the faded arras covering a hole in the wall facing her rickety bed, and the poor excuse for a garderobe. Little Henry had yet to see his father, and Cecily wondered what could be keeping Richard. It must have something to do with his new appointment, and she grimaced, as she did whenever she thought of it. Surely whatever it was Parliament needed from him could wait so the duke of York could greet his heir? After all, what could be more important? But she had given up trying to understand the ways of men.
Her eyes went to the fireplace, where Rowena and Mistress Lawler, Henry’s nurse, were bent over an elegantly carved cradle, cooing at the baby, who was whimpering for a feeding, and her frown turned to a smile.
“Bring him to me, Nurse, and pray send for the wet-nurse,” she said, holding out her arms. “Who is a greedy boy?” she teased, as the baby’s eyes turned to the window, seeking the source of light. He recognized her voice and began a sucking reflex, making Cecily’s breasts ache for him through the tight bands about her chest. “So you know me already, do you, my sweeting? Aye,” she whispered, stroking the barely visible wisps of snowy hair. She inhaled the sweet baby scent of him and knew she would never tire of it. “I am your mother and so love you the most dearly, no matter what your nurse may tell you.”
When the wet-nurse arrived and took charge of the now-wailing infant, Cecily lay back on her goose down pillow, a favorite household item without which she refused to travel, and absentmindedly wound a strand of her yellow hair around her finger. Richard had ridden off a week before after being summoned to report to the council. Again she scowled at the thought of his appointment and recalled the day he had ridden hard to Fotheringhay the previous summer to tell her of it.
“I have been appointed to succeed Warwick as governor of France for a term of five years,” he had exulted, as he took her in his arms in the privacy of their chamber after their ritual reunion on the great hall steps. “They almost begged me to go, after the mess John of Somerset is making of it over there as temporary governor. And this time, my love, you shall go with me. What say you? We shall hold our own court in Rouen just as Bedford and his duchess did.”
He was unprepared for Cecily’s reaction. Her body sagged against him as she muttered, “Oh, no, not Rouen.”
“By Christ! I am the right man for the post, my lady,” he cried, pushing her away. Cecily cringed at his harsh tone. “I have the experience. I am a good commander. And I have royal blood. I am the natural choice. With all my heart I told them Aye, I am your man! I thought you would be pleased. It means I have been noticed. Tell me, madam, why would you not wish me to go?”
Cecily lifted her head and glared at him: She hated him calling her “madam”—such a cold, unfeeling word from a husband and lover. “In case you have forgotten, sirrah”—she rolled the r’s for emphasis—“I lost our first child in Rouen in the most tragic of circumstances. ’Tis a scene that haunts my dreams even today, and I thought never to return,” she said, turning away so he could not see her tears.
At once he was contrite, gentling her back to him and taking her face in his hands. “Ah, sweet Cecily,” he said, “no tears, I beg of you. I cannot bear it when you cry. Where is my fierce Cis?” he cajoled, kissing her downturned mouth. “Is she there?”
He felt her lips curve into a wobbly smile, and he sighed with relief. “Forgive me, my love,” he murmured, drawing her to the windowseat. “I confess I was only thinking of my own selfish pride at being selected for this duty. It is a singular honor, you understand, and a dream come true. As I wanted to share it with you so dearly, I rode here in all haste. How foolish of me to forget the dark time you had there all those years ago.”
“Nine years and one month ago, Dickon,” Cecily whispered, holding tightly to his hand. “Sometimes it seems like yesterday.” Then she straightened and tried to put the memory from her mind. “But let not my ill humor spoil your important news, my love. Felicitations on the appointment! I am so proud of you. Aye, your dream of being a general is coming to pass.” She smiled at him from under her lashes. “Come, kiss me, Dickon.”
“Why Cecily Neville, I do believe you are flirting with me,” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling, but he obeyed without hestitation. She answered by fumbling in the folds of his short worsted gown for a sign he was ready to pleasure her. Despite the efforts of a thrush trilling outside the window of her solar and the sounds of a castle thrumming with activity floating upward on the summer breeze, the two lovers remained intent upon their pleasurable path of passion.
“AH, HENRY,” CECILY murmured, smiling now at the memory of Henry’s conception as she watched the wet-nurse tie up her bodice and Mistress Lawler take the sleeping child to change his swaddling bands. “You were indeed born of love that day and . . .”
She got no further, for suddenly the door flew wide and Richard strode in, his face creased in a grin. “Where is he?” he demanded, and seeing the astonished Mistress Lawler tying the final bands about Henry, he whisked his son from her grasp and held him aloft as a champion might hold a trophy. Not heeding the tut-tutting from the nursemaid, he took the child to Cecily, who held out her arms to him. After he gentled the baby into them, he embraced them both.
“You have made me the happiest man in the kingdom, Cis,” he whispered, as both now looked down on the still-sleeping infant. “We must christen him at once. What shall we call him, do you think?”
Cecily looked at him meaningfully. “I think we should call him Henry.”
NOT LONG AFTER Henry’s simple baptism at Hunsdon, the Yorks returned to Fotheringhay to prepare for the long sojourn i
n France. After an exhausting day of making sure every piece of furniture, arras, carpet, and bed linen had been inspected and accepted or rejected and listed on the household roll, Cecily confided to Constance that the move was proving to be her most daunting task to date as duchess. Three times she and Steward Heydon had gone over the roster of servants who would be traveling with the duke and duchess and those who would be left behind to maintain the castle. Richard had ridden all over the country, ordering men from his estates to muster at Portsmouth, Southampton, and Poole and await the ships to take them to Normandy. The council chafed at this lengthy process and grumbled that Richard was dallying.
Richard harrumphed when he had received an impatient letter from the earl of Suffolk and the council, who were expecting York to set sail with his family at the end of April.
“Have they forgotten that I have estates in eighteen counties, and so it takes time to muster troops from so many places? They will simply have to wait until I am ready.” Then he had chuckled. “Perhaps, also, they do not know how long it takes to pack up my wife’s vast wardrobe and furnishings for a sojourn abroad.” Before Cecily had had time to retort, he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Let me finish, my dearest. I would remind the council that any delay is worth enduring for England to be so regally represented in Rouen by its beautiful duchess of York.”
AFTER A WEEK on the old Roman road, the ducal party reached London, and Cecily asked to rest. There she took leave of her brother Richard and her dear sister-in-law, Alice, who felt guilty showing Cecily her four youngest children, two boys and two girls. Cecily hardly recognized her godson, another Richard, who was now a strapping lad of twelve, boasting his father’s yellow hair and his mother’s intelligent eyes and sharp features. Alice had delayed her departure for Middleham to see her sister-in-law and meet Anne and baby Henry.
“Middleham is so far away, and I confess I find it too vast to be a cozy home,” Alice confided. “But Richard is afraid to leave the castle for too long for fear Earl Ralph will take it into his head to try and capture it. He still believes all of Westmorland’s estates should be his, despite your father’s will. ’Tis not a pleasant state of affairs. And when your brother William returned from France in ’thirty-seven, he and some of Ralph’s followers came to blows. You must know that Dickon asked Richard to go to France with him, but my Richard understandably declined.”
“More’s the pity, dearest Alice,” Cecily replied. “What a delight it would have been to have you in Rouen.” She glanced around to make sure they were not being overheard. “It will be interesting to meet Jacquetta Woodville, Bedford’s young widow, remember? Dickon tells me she will be accompanying her new husband to France with us. The king must hold Woodville in high regard to have forgiven the couple their secret marriage. Aye, I heard they were levied a hefty fine for not asking permission to wed, but Dickon tells me they are so much in love that they paid without a murmur. ’Tis also said Jacquetta dabbles in witchcraft,” Cecily whispered. They both quickly crossed themselves and then giggled like girls. “She boasts she is descended from the water-witch Melusine, the half-woman half-fish who seduced Raymond of Poitiers. Certes, I would not claim it even if it were true. I have seen what they do to witches,” she murmured, thinking of Jeanne. “I have heard she is very beautiful, but I confess I cannot like anyone who has taken sweet Anne of Bedford’s place.”
Cecily thought back fondly to her few days with Alice as she and her retinue crossed over London Bridge into Surrey. At every stop the duchess and her immediate household were housed in tents, while the rest found hedges to sleep under. They built fires in the fields during the chilly spring evenings. Barrels of salt pork fed everyone, though enterprising young pages would trap rabbits and shoot fowl. Along the route, yeomen and their families would peddle cheeses, bread, and vegetables. Richard had spent a few days riding along at first, but then he went back to London to argue over the finances for his five-year appointment. He was still stinging from the lack of payment for his first term in France, but this time, the council assured him, money and supplies would be forthcoming regularly to pay his entourage.
And so the ducal cavalcade of packhorses, carts piled with furnishings and pulled by long-horned oxen, coffers of silverware, chests of clothes, and two wagonloads of servants followed Duchess Cecily’s personal retinue, escorted by two dozen men-at-arms, along the road, which still boasted flint paving from Roman times. At Dorking, a small but thriving market town on the River Mole, the steward called a halt to the procession to set up the overnight quarters for the duchess and her ladies in a field.
Cecily was struck by the beauty of a high chalky hill above the town and called for Piers to bring her horse so that she could ride up to the top and admire the view. Rowena pursed her lips in disapproval when she realized Cecily would go alone with Master Taggett, but he was so often in Cecily’s company that she presumed none of the other retainers would find anything untoward in it.
“’Tis as well your mother is not here to see you, your grace,” she admonished her, as she helped her mistress into her split riding skirt. She never understood why the duchess could not simply ride sidesaddle, as other ladies did, and save her the tedious work of changing Cecily’s clothes. “If the duke is displeased, I hope you will have the grace to tell him I did try to stop you.”
This made Cecily laugh, though she suffered a little pang of remorse at the mention of Joan. “No doubt all will be able to see me up there, so pray stop being a killjoy. I deserve some time to myself after this nightmarish month, do you not think?” It is true, Rowena thought. My lady has not stopped to breathe since giving birth to little Henry. “My son is in good hands,” Cecily added, turning and smiling at Constance. “I will be back before he even wakes.”
After helping Cecily into the saddle, Piers leaped on his mount, and they trotted off through beech, birch, and oak trees, with carpets of bluebells on either side of them, until the trees gave way to coarse grassland upon the steep chalk slope.
“You are happy in our service, are you not, Piers?” Cecily asked him. “His grace, the duke, is pleased with your work at the mews.”
Piers blushed a delightful pink at this praise, and Cecily hid a smile. “Aye, your grace, I be content. Who could not be?” he said earnestly. “I did never dream of such a life as this.”
“Do you still think I am the Virgin Mary?” Cecily teased him. “Nay, that is unkind of me, Piers, for certes, you have grown out of such a childish notion.” She chuckled at his chagrin as she urged her horse upward. “Come now, who will reach the top of this hill first, do you think?”
Piers grinned and replied without losing a beat, “You, my lady.”
They allowed the horses to rest once they reached the summit. Cecily sat on an outcropping to contemplate the valley and the Surrey hills spread before them in their early May glory—yellow broom, cowslips, and primroses, pink and white hawthorn—and she felt a pang of regret that she would not see an English spring again for several years. She wondered whether Normandy had had time to recover from so much devastation, remembering well the scenes from her first time there. Her ruminations led her to wonder where Richard was at this very moment. He had promised to catch up with her as soon as he could, but she knew he had much on his mind. In only a few more days, the long procession would arrive at Portsmouth, and surely Richard would be escorting them upon the final leg. So far, they had not been attacked by any bands of vagrants, and for that Cecily was grateful to Richard for the thirty-man armed escort that he had provided.
Little Henry seemed to be enduring well the long, tedious journey, she thought tenderly, though she had complained to Richard before he left Fotheringhay that the child was rather young for such travel.
“Look at him,” Richard had answered, watching his son cry lustily and kick the end of his cradle with sturdy little legs. “He is only six weeks, Cis, but he is as strong as an ox.” And Cecily had inclined her head proudly in agreement and accepte
d the decision.
After swallowing a few mouthfuls of water from a leathern flask, she bent and snapped off a yellow sprig of broom to put in her green felt chaperon.
“Did you know how my ancestor, Geoffrey of Anjou, came to give the name Plantagenet to the royal dynasty, Piers?” Observing the blank look in the young falconer’s eyes, Cecily educated him. “He was often seen with just such a stalk of broom in his hat and took it for his badge. As the Latin name for the bush is planta genista, he was nicknamed Geoffrey Plantagenet. When he married the daughter of our first King Henry, their son—called Curtmantle—took the name, and then his son, and thus and so on until our present sovereign lord. No doubt English kings will carry the name forever.” She saw with amusement that this was more than he wanted to know and pointed to where her horse was grazing. “Here endeth your history lesson for today, Master Taggett. See to the horses, if you please. I will join you anon.”
She walked along the edge of the escarpment and looked down on the encampment below at some servants fetching water from the river, her guards lolling on the grass, and the carters leading their oxen to drink. They look like so many insects from this height, she mused. This is what we must look like to God. How can He know each and every one of us and what we do and think? And yet we believe He watches over us all. Why, Cis, she chastised herself, are you questioning the church’s teachings? She crossed herself for good measure and idly watched the scene below.