“Your Elizabeth is the most beautiful child I have ever laid eyes on,” Cecily had told Jacquetta when they were both in the castle nursery, admiring their respective sons. “And little Anthony here is a bonny boy, as well. But then they have very handsome parents.”
Jacquetta had smiled beatifically and in turn had praised Edward’s lustiness. “He does not have the look of his father, does he?” she had said, all innocence. “He has the look of a Norseman about him. Was your father a large man?”
Cecily feigned amusement. Lowering her voice, she said conspiratorially, “My dear duchess, if ’twere not such a high-flown idea, I might think you were implying my husband is not Edward’s father!” Jacquetta laughed merrily too. “But to answer your question. Aye, my father was broad-shouldered. But you must not forget, madam, that my husband is a Plantagenet. His grandsire King Edward was a giant of a man.”
Afterward they had conversed pleasantly of this and that, but deep in her heart Cecily still distrusted the beautiful Jacquetta.
“I AM REGENT of France by their appointment,” Richard railed at Cecily not long after the birth of their second living son, Edmund. He had entered the sunny solar waving a letter and slapped at it every time he made a point. “Now they are sending Somerset, that braggart who claims to be a military genius, to defend Guyenne behind my back. Somerset!”
Cecily looked up from her needlework. “Soft, my lord,” she said sternly, frowning a reminder that they were not alone. Isabel and her attendant, Margaret Oldhall, Rowena, and Constance were all plying their needles diligently, and in a corner Anne was playing quietly with Edward while the nurse looked on. When Anne heard her father’s voice, she squealed and ran headlong to embrace his knees. He picked her up and gave her a noisy kiss on the mouth, making the little girl wipe her face and giggle.
“Forgive me, ladies, my temper ran away with me,” he apologized with a sheepish grin. “Pay me no heed. I thank you for not repeating my words.” He swung his daughter round and round, making her laugh with delight, and the toddler Edward began to take a few halting steps toward them, determined to join in the sport. “Tiens! Ned is walking well,” Richard cried proudly. “And pray look at that strength of will. He has his mother’s stubborn streak, I warrant. Good boy, Ned. You want your turn, eh?”
When he had thrown the delighted Edward up in the air a few times, he carried him back to the nurse, with Anne holding his other hand. “Madame, je vous rends vos charges,” he told the plump young woman, who took Edward back onto her lap and gave him a smacking kiss.
“Gramerci, milord,” she responded, as little Nan clasped her arms about Nurse Anne’s neck.
Richard nodded, satisfied to see how much his children approved of Cecily’s choice of nursery attendant. He returned to Cecily. “May we walk together, my lady?”
Cecily put down her sewing and rose. “Constance, pray accompany me.” She was pleased at how quickly she had regained her energy since Edmund’s birth, and with the salves Constance had prepared, her belly had returned to its smooth flatness albeit with a few more stretch marks. She had been touched by her husband’s unbridled pleasure at fathering another son. He had already bestowed his lands in Normandy on the baby and had had him baptized in Rouen’s Notre Dame cathedral with great pomp in order to show his goodwill to the English Normans. “He will be a great Norman landowner, while Edward will inherit my lands in England,” he explained. “So, it seems wise for us to have him christened in Normandy’s most important church.”
They descended the newell stair and walked across the courtyard, under the gatehouse, and into the city. It was late in the afternoon, and the farmers were taking their unsold wares back to their fields and farms. Two pikemen followed behind Constance as the duke and duchess made their way down the dirt road between the small houses and garden plots toward the river.
“Now, Richard, tell me why you are so angry,” Cecily said, savoring the smell of roasted larks from a cookshop. She was used to Richard’s outbursts, but while they never lasted long, they were sometimes ill timed and could be followed by rash deeds.
Richard told her that John Beaufort, duke of Somerset, had been given the title lieutenant and captain-general of Aquitaine and France and put in command of an expedition to secure Gascony. Richard was glowering when he added that the council considered John of Somerset’s expedition more worthy of financing than paying Richard’s wages or sending more troops for Normandy. “And,” he continued, gesticulating wildly with his free arm, “and he has been made a duke with precedence over all other dukes save Gloucester and me.” He had forgotten where he was for a moment and had raised his voice noticeably. People were stopping to stare at the unusual sight of the Yorks strolling down the street like any other citizens.
“Forgive me, Cis,” he said, lowering his voice when he caught her worried look. “But did I not finally gain a truce with Duchess Isabella as desired by the council? Aye, I did. And here I am performing my duty to the king to keep Normandy safe for him to the best of my ability, even though I lack the promised funds to do so. And the council sees fit to send Somerset with that money and those troops I have been requesting all these many months to defend Gascony instead. ’Tis no wonder I am angry. I sent Talbot to put my position to the council earlier this year, as you know.” His voice rose again. “This is their response, and it is insufferable!”
“Richard, control yourself,” Cecily admonished him. “People are watching.” More gently, she said, “It is insufferable that they have placed Somerset above you. I would dearly love to know what he is planning. He cannot be over you here in France. You are regent. And I wonder if Edmund knew of any such plan when he traveled with you?”
Richard turned with Cecily into a church, and Cecily, seeing that being in private would be best, motioned to Constance to wait outside. He pulled a letter out of his belt and began to read: “ ‘All the defenses of Normandy must be on high alert and York must, in addition, give all possible help and comfort to Somerset,’ so says Garter Herald. And Somerset will have authority over all English lands in France ‘where York comes not’ is what is writ. By granting Somerset authority in Maine and Anjou, as well as Gascony, it leaves me only Normandy.” Richard put his head in his hands. “I cannot hold Normandy without reinforcements, Cis. Talbot at Dieppe is failing to keep the dauphin at bay, and little by little all that was won by King Harry at Agincourt will be lost.”
Cecily chewed on her lip. It was not fair, she thought. Richard had proved to be a good and fair governor, so she had gleaned from Constance, who often brought back tidbits of information from her French friends and relatives. True, other than at Pontoise, he had not shown himself to be a military man though she knew he would hate to hear such criticism, but he was not receiving promised support from England, so how could he prove otherwise, in truth? But to send Somerset! Why, the man had been taken prisoner in Anjou at seventeen and had spent as many years captive of the French, and now, four years later, he is thought to have the military experience to command this expedition. Such lack of wisdom! What power the Beauforts must wield. They have hoodwinked the king, Suffolk, and the council. No wonder Richard lost his temper, she mused.
“Oh, I forgot the amusing part of this story,” Richard said, with a harsh laugh, glancing down at the letter. “Somerset took an oath he would do nothing to ‘York’s dis-worship.’ “ He slapped at the paper again. “Ha! By accepting this command, he has already broken that vow.” He reminded her that he had sworn an oath of fealty to King Henry and had a contract with the council to govern English France. To resign that commission would be foolhardy, but to break that oath was treason. “And I have no intention of reminding those already wary of me on account of my past,” he declared. “I owe a debt to Henry’s father that I was not attainted along with mine.” He grimaced. “What can I do, Cis? My hands are tied.”
Cecily had no answer, but she was frustrated by her husband’s inaction. “Complaining will get us nowhere, my dear.
Surely there is someone on the council you can trust to ask for help. Now is the time to assert yourself. You dreamed of being a great commander. Show them that you can be.” She sighed, once more wishing she were a man, and then tempered her advice. “But perhaps you could start by asking God’s help while we are in His house?” Feeling guilty for her impatience, she resorted to humor. “I, for one, will be on my knees every day praying for Somerset to fall on his bony arse. Come,” she said, pulling him toward a colorful statue of the Virgin holding a rather plump Infant Jesus, “let us not waste any time.”
A priest poked his head out of a confessional when he heard the unexpected and unusual braying laughter disturbing the quiet sanctity of his church. The priest’s presence curtailed Richard’s amusement, and taking his wife’s hand, he knelt with her on the stone floor.
“Hear me, O Lord, in my quest for patience in my duty to the king,” he murmured, “and may my worthiness over my rival not go unnoticed.” The rest of his prayer was silent.
Cecily prayed only that her husband might heed her advice and do more to help himself to fulfill his dreams.
RICHARD’S PRAYERS WERE answered in the space of a twelvemonth.
John, duke of Somerset, landed in Cherbourg late in the summer and immediately dealt a crippling blow to relations between the English in Normandy and their allies the Bretons by ransacking La Guerche, a town in Brittany, for no reason other than to get the elders to bribe him to leave. Infuriated, the Bretons joined with the French that autumn in attacking English shipping along the Norman coast. After these embarrassments and a stern reprimand from the council, Somerset then failed to meet any of the council’s goals with regard to confronting the French and defending Gascony. He was immediately recalled for squandering English money and troops, fell into a decline, and died—some said by his own hand—on the twenty-seventh of May, 1444, leaving only a baby girl, Margaret, as his heir.
This might have been better news, Richard told Cecily, if his place—though with the lesser title of earl—had not been taken by his brother and, Richard feared, his enemy Edmund Beaufort.
“We have simply changed one Beaufort brother named Somerset for another,” Richard said. “And this Somerset has the brains the other did not. Edmund is a far more dangerous proposition.”
“Pish,” replied Cecily airily to hide her misgivings.
18
France, 1444 to 1446
Three days before John of Somerset’s death, Henry the Sixth of England and France was formally betrothed, with Suffolk standing as proxy, to Margaret, the fourteen-year-old daughter of René, duke of Lorraine, count of Anjou, king of Naples and Sicily. More significantly, Margaret’s aunt was queen of France.
Richard and Cecily, who had recently added a daughter, Elizabeth, to their growing family, were surprised by the match. Isolated as they were from the English court, they were not privy to the reasons behind the choice, though they recognized it was surely time for twenty-three-year-old Henry to take a bride.
“I understand why Armagnac’s daughter was eventually abandoned,” Richard murmured during one of his visits to Cecily and their new baby. “But René of Anjou’s daughter? She is not even the elder of his girls and she can have very little in the way of a dowry. What was Suffolk thinking?”
“As part of the terms of his release from the Tower, did not the duc d’Orléans give his word to Suffolk to negotiate a peace between us and France?” Cecily asked, watching while Richard rocked baby Bess in the crook of his arm. “Perhaps he thought this would please the French enough to come to terms, so maybe it was not Suffolk’s idea.”
Richard grunted. “He backs it, I am certain, because Gloucester opposes it. It still persists—the Gloucester faction against the Beaufort faction. And the king is in the middle.”
“Which side would you come down on if you were there?”
“Neither—or the king’s, I suppose.” Richard kissed the baby’s cheek. “We shall find out soon enough why the choice was made. Suffolk will be here anon.”
“MY DEAR YORK, his grace the king is in need of an heir, and we cannot wait until one of King Charles’s daughters is of an age to bear a child,” William de la Pole, earl of Suffolk, explained. “Aye, a royal French bride would have been desirable, but I regret to say we are not in a good negotiating position. René d’Anjou is Charles’s brother-in-law and so Margaret is close enough to be of use, we hope. Before I left, I told Parliament I was merely the messenger doing the council’s bidding. ’Twill not be my fault if the arrangement fails.”
Richard caught Cecily’s fleeting look of surprise. They had both presumed Suffolk was squarely behind the match.
“And peace?” Richard arched an eyebrow. “Is it possible after almost a hundred years of war?”
Suffolk was chagrined. “A truce of twenty-three months was all the French offered.” But then he looked Richard straight in the eye and declared, “But the first true one since King Harry died, and I am proud of it. The citizens of Tours themselves were enthusiastic. It was amusing but moving to hear them cry in English, ‘Peas, peas’ upon the conclusion of the betrothal. And, if you noticed, your people here in Rouen cheered me when I entered the city.” He resented having to defend himself to the duke of York, and it showed, Cecily noted.
“But my lord,” interjected Cecily, cheerfully intent on lightening the mood, “you must indulge the ladies here who wish to know about our new queen. Is she beautiful?”
“She is perhaps the only woman I have met who might hold a candle to you, your grace,” Suffolk said. Then he felt his wife’s presence beside him. “I beg your pardon, I forgot to preface that with: besides my wife, Lady Alice, to be sure.”
Alice de la Pole smiled, amused. “No need to dissemble, my lord, I know where I stand in your eyes.” Suffolk drew her hand to his lips, and Cecily was surprised to see the spark between husband and wife.
Alice’s brown eyes swept over Cecily, from the sable-fur-trimmed hem of her blue cloth of silver gown to the translucent gauze floating from her jeweled headdress, and she added sweetly, “Margaret of Anjou is of astonishing beauty, wit, and intelligence, duchess. We all pale beside her.” A few quiet gasps could be heard from the assembled company at the slight, and all waited for Proud Cis’s response.
Cecily regarded Alice de la Pole, Chaucer’s granddaughter, with interest. So this is the awful stepmother my dear sister-in-law was saddled with once, she mused. She inclined her head imperceptibly. “Is that so, my lady?” she said haughtily. “Then . . .” Richard’s elbow pressed hard into her side. “Then I for one cannot wait to be presented,” she finished, ruefully resisting a more caustic comment.
Before Suffolk left for England, he had a private word with Richard that was passed along to Cecily in pillow talk.
“What would you think of our proposing to the French king that our Ned be betrothed to one of his daughters? Aye, that was my reaction,” he admitted, feeling her turn abruptly in his arms. “’Twas Suffolk’s own suggestion, believe it or not. He thinks it might shore up goodwill for a peace.”
“A king’s daughter for Ned?” Cecily could hardly keep the excitement from her voice. “Do not delay, my love, for fear she is claimed elsewhere first.”
WHEN THE EARL of Suffolk left Rouen a week later, he took Sir Richard Woodville and his family with him. Jacquetta had now produced five children, the latest born not long before the Yorks’ Elizabeth. With the truce there was little for a soldier of Woodville’s experience to do. As well, not being a great lord like Richard, the knight did not have retainers to take care of his estate and business, and he had asked permission of Richard to return to England with Suffolk.
Cecily had come to terms with her unexplained dislike of Jacquetta, and she took the news now with a measure of regret. A bond had formed among all the English ladies, and, as the York and Woodville children grew up side by side in the castle nursery, the two mothers had tried to rub along. Indeed, in April, before Bessie’s birth, Richa
rd told Cecily that he would have to ask the widow of his mentor Bedford to stand as godparent to the baby with Lord Talbot, “for we are running out of English noblewomen here in Rouen,” he teased. Then more seriously, he said, “I would have you obey me in this, Cecily.” He was relieved when she had voiced no objection.
SNOW WAS FALLING lightly on a late February evening the following year when a horseman cantered through the castle gate with a message from the duke of York that he would be returning from his progress to Lisieux in western Normandy earlier than expected.
Sir William brought the message along the dark passageway between his chambers and the duchess’s, a page holding a torch to light their way. Christ on his Cross, but it was cold in this castle, he thought for the hundredth time since coming here four years ago with the duke. At least the many towers of the extensive castle were connected by these covered passageways. Going out into the snow with his gouty foot wrapped so heavily was less attractive. The guard outside Cecily’s chamber scrambled to his feet and stood to attention when he saw Oldhall coming.
Cecily welcomed him warmly when he was announced. “Sir William, pray come in and enjoy the fire. Rowena, pour us some mulled wine.” She plucked Anne from the other chair and waved him to it. “Demoiselle de Caux, if you would be so kind, Nan should go to bed. We shall finish our game in the morning, sweeting,” she reassured the disappointed child, moving the draughts board out of harm’s way. “Now, come kiss me goodnight.”
Rowena handed Oldhall a hanap of spiced wine from a pot suspended over the fire. He cupped his cold hands around it and savored the spicy steam before it cooled enough for him to drink.
“’Tis good of you to see me so late, your grace. But I have received word within the hour that the duke will be returning on the morrow. I thought you should know.”