Queen By Right

  “So soon,” Cecily remarked, frowning. “Is there trouble brewing in the province? I thought we still had a truce with France while the marriage negotiations with Margaret are going on. Has the king changed his mind again?” She was remembering Richard’s disappointment when the proposed alliance with Armagnac’s daughter was abandoned.

  Sir William smiled and took a sip of his wine, wincing as he burned his tongue. “Nay. The marriage is going forward, though they have kept Suffolk kicking his heels longer than we had hoped. But now Lord Richard must prepare to meet King Henry’s queen in a fortnight at Pontoise and escort her to the coast. We believe the queen and her party plan to spend Easter here before sailing to England from Harfleur.”

  Cecily made a mental note to talk with her steward about the arrangements she would have to make for the royal visit, but then her thoughts turned to Richard. I wonder if he will want me to go with him, Cecily thought, tapping her finger on the arm of the chair and staring into the flames. She had to confess that she was consumed with curiosity about Margaret of Anjou. She hated the idea of leaving the children. Their well-being consumed most of her time these days, and as soon as her administrative duties of the day were done, she would hurry to the nursery to cuddle Bess, help Edward build something with his colorful blocks of wood—a sweet gift from Piers Taggett, and then watch as Edmund invariably crawled over to knock them down. Edward never cried. He simply balled his fists and shouted, “Bad boy, Eddom,” and Edmund would grin and gurgle and knock more down, much to Cecily’s amusement. She never tired of watching her brood, as she called them, grow and blossom. Cecily wondered how the news had been received in London that Richard was in communication with King Charles proposing marriage between Edward and one of the French king’s two younger daughters.

  “Someone has to wed her,” Richard had said, when he told her he had approached Charles and that he was entertaining the idea. “It is propitious for us that the girls are too young for Henry. He cannot afford to wait to produce an heir.”

  Cecily returned her thoughts to Sir William, who was noisily sipping his wine. “Then we must prepare for my husband’s return and make everything ready for his speedy departure for Pontoise. I shall prepare to go with him, should he so desire. And you and I must plan for the queen’s visit, Sir William.” She steepled her fingers and tapped them together lightly. I pray this marriage leads to lasting peace, she mused, but there is bound to be a price.

  MAINE AND ANJOU were the price England had to pay for Margaret’s hand. Richard’s disgust at Suffolk’s capitulation in the marriage negotiations manifested itself in a rigorous practice session with short swords with his brother-in-law, Richard Neville, earl of Salisbury, in the martial yard of Pontoise castle in March.

  Alice, countess of Salisbury, and Jacquetta Woodville, former duchess of Bedford, were among the noblewomen chosen to accompany Suffolk from England to escort the young queen from Tours to Pontoise. Cecily and Alice were joyfully reunited when the Yorks arrived a day later.

  The two sisters-in-law watched the younger, faster Richard thrust and lunge at the older Salisbury, who seemed more amused than assertive in his defensive parries, allowing York to vent his frustration.

  “Easy, boy, easy,” the veteran soldier advised Richard at one point, putting up his sword and falling back. “Take your time. You are rushing at me like a barbarian. It was not your fault we lost Maine and Anjou. You have done your duty. You still hold Normandy.”

  Richard scowled under his sallet and ignored Salisbury’s counsel. He took up a threatening stance and began to weave around again. “Aye, brother, but for how long?” he growled. “Mark my words, Suffolk will pay dearly for this. Charles has made an excellent bargain and he must be guffawing in his cup of Rhenish. He gave up an insignificant princess with little dowry, agreed to only a temporary peace, and won Maine and Anjou. ’Tis hardly a fair exchange!” In his ranting, he failed to notice Salisbury’s move sideways and the next thing he knew, he had Salisbury’s blunted sword tip pointing at his heart. “Christ’s nails, Neville, how did you manage that?”

  Salisbury lifted off his helmet and grinned. “Were you not taught by John Beckwith at Raby never to talk while you are fighting? You took your inner eye off me to focus on your words and the rest was easy.”

  WHEN CECILY WENT forward to kneel before Margaret of Anjou, she had to admit that the marchioness of Suffolk was right. The fifteen-year-old Frenchwoman was dazzling indeed. Her ripples of golden-red hair were crowned simply with a gold coronet in which were set three large sapphires with intervening diamonds. Droplets of pearls the size of pigeon eggs fell from her ears, and the neck, sleeves, and hem of her azure velvet gown were trimmed with ermine. An aggressive energy radiated from the young woman with her pert nose, full mouth, perfect complexion, and purple eyes. Nay, they cannot be purple, Cecily thought, kissing Margaret’s outstretched hand, but looking again, she decided they were. She wondered how quiet, saintly Henry would handle his passionate bride.

  “Madame la duchesse, je suis contente de vous connaître enfin,” Margaret said, raising Cecily to her feet and kissing her on both cheeks. “Your sister-in-law has told me much of you—as has Duchess Jacquetta—and I know you and I will be friends.”

  Cecily wondered what Jacquetta might have told the queen, but she smiled and assured the young woman of her duty and her friendship. “The duke and I are looking forward to welcoming you to Rouen, your grace, as are the citizens,” Cecily replied, aware of many pairs of curious eyes watching them.

  THE RIVERBANKS WERE lined with cheering spectators as the flotilla of brightly canopied barges wended their way downstream toward Rouen. Within an hour of leaving Pontoise, Margaret had complained of stomach pains and retired to the only section of the boat that could be called a cabin, attended by Alice of Suffolk.

  “Poor little thing,” Jacquetta sympathized. “What a time to have mal demer.” She was seated in the stern next to Lady Scales and opposite Cecily and Talbot’s wife, Eleanor, all wrapped in furs against the chilly March wind. Huddled for warmth in the bow, Alice of Salisbury conversed with Lady Beatrice Talbot and Lady Grey. Cecily was not convinced Margaret’s exit had anything to do with seasickness. The Seine is not a roiling ocean, she thought. Alice had told her that Margaret had been distraught upon leaving her family at Nancy and had wept for two days, when she was not snapping at her attendants or demanding attention. Cecily well remembered her own temperament at fifteen and deduced some sulking taking place in the cabin. Aye, it is cold, she thought, and when a drizzle began on the second day as they passed the Lionheart’s Rock of Andely, Cecily admitted she, too, would have been happy to spend time in the cabin; nonetheless, the woman was queen and should behave more like one.

  Before the voyagers reached Rouen on the third day, they had pulled to shore to take some exercise, and Richard came to see why Margaret was invisible. Suffolk’s wife had tried to persuade her mistress to don a more lavish gown for the entry into the city and Margaret had refused, declaring she would not even appear in public.

  “What shall we do, Cis?” Richard muttered, hugging his cloak around him. “The people have planned to fete her arrival with a flotilla of dozens of decorated boats and pageants, not to mention she would disappoint hundreds of spectators on the shore. She simply must show herself to them.”

  Cecily clucked her tongue, frustrated too, but she patted his hand. “You can count on me to think of something to rouse her. She has been friendly toward us all, and I can only think she is homesick, but she must understand her duty as queen.”

  “Not crowned, my dear. Not yet.” And he walked off to some bushes.

  As Cecily hurried back to the boat, she pondered how she might have coped with being queen at fifteen. I believe I knew my duty to my family and my servants by then, she told herself, because Mother taught me well. She could recall a few instances of rebellion when in private at that age, but Joan’s lessons had been learned. “Never appear weak in public, C
ecily, and never forget who you are. Carry your Neville name and Beaufort heritage proudly and let them see it,” her mother had told her time and time again. Either Queen Margaret was too stubborn to heed any counsel she may have had or she had received none at all, Cecily decided, and set her jaw in a firm line. Then someone must teach her, she determined.

  Alice de la Pole was grateful to be relieved of her vigil when Cecily went aboard. Cecily could tell the marchioness’s patience had been tried by the young woman, and she assumed charge of the queen while Alice went ashore.

  Cecily knocked on the cabin door. Hearing “Venez” from within, she entered, being careful not to knock off her cumbersome headdress on the low doorway. Margaret was reclining on a pile of velvet cushions, stroking a tiny white terrier, which was now baring its teeth at the intruder. Her young maidservant did her best to curtsey to the duchess in the cramped space and then gladly retreated to the deck.

  Cecily was dismayed to see the state of Margaret’s lovely face, blotched and reddened from crying, her eyelids swollen almost shut. Half a dozen soggy white lawn kerchiefs were scattered around her, and her tangle of red-gold hair had obviously not been brushed that day.

  “Your grace, it pains me to see you so unhappy,” Cecily began, going down on her knees. “Is there aught I can do to help?”

  Margaret’s mouth began to tremble and tears welled again. Aye, she is like me, Cecily empathized. It is almost better for someone not to be kind to me when I am upset. For some reason, kindness makes me weepier, and so I must be sympathetic yet stern.

  “My mother taught me never to cry in front of our servants, your grace,” Cecily said in a gentle tone, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She said it made them question our authority. How can they serve you if they think you are weak? It was a hard lesson to learn, for I was prone to weeping as a child,” she lied, hoping God would forgive this small sin in a good cause. “Has one of the English ladies been unkind, madame? You must tell me and I shall speak to her.”

  Margaret shook her head, plucking at the silky hair on her dog’s ears. “Nay, Duchess Cecily, everyone has been very good to me. ’Tis simply . . . simply . . .” and the chin began to quiver again. Cecily patted her hand, urging her to continue. “I have never been away from home before, and I miss my family,” Margaret said. “Yolande . . . my sister . . . will wed our cousin of Lorraine in a few months and stay in France, close by our mother and father. Why do I have to go so far away?” And the tears flowed again, along with a heaving sob.

  “Your grace, stop this!” Cecily snapped, surprising the spoiled young woman into sitting up and snatching a kerchief to blow her nose. “You must learn to behave like a queen. You are no longer just your father’s daughter, but a king’s wife.” Cecily watched Margaret’s reaction to these admonitions all the while holding Margaret’s hand tight. More gently she said, “I must tell you that King Henry is the kindest of men and speaks beautiful French. He is handsome, too”—to a point, Cecily admitted to herself, adding to the list of little white lies—“and deeply religious. He will count himself fortunate to win a bride as beautiful and intelligent as you are.” Careful, Cis, do not condescend, she told herself, but she was pleased with the effect her words were having on the young queen. “I was terrified about wedding—and even more than that,” Cecily confided, “of bedding my husband, but I was fraught for no reason, and soon I was laughing at my foolishness. All will be well, I assure you.”

  Margaret let out a surprised giggle at this shared confidence and gazed at Cecily with gratitude. “Did you like the Lord Richard? Or did it take many years for you to learn to look with love at each other, as I have seen you do?”

  Now Cecily was startled. Was it so obvious that she and Richard were so much in love? Joan Beaufort would not have approved, she knew, and the thought made her smile back at the queen.

  “I have to confess to you, your grace, that I was more fortunate than you are. I was told Duke Richard would be my husband when I was nine, and as he lived in my father’s house as his ward, we became friends before we fell in love. We have loved each other for a long, long time. But love can happen to anyone at any time.” Seeing Margaret greatly cheered, she added mischievously, “But you hope it will be with your husband.”

  Alice of Suffolk was astonished to hear merry laughter emanating from the cabin when she came back. A raised eyebrow at Cecily as they passed was met with a finger to Cecily’s lips. “I do not think she is ready to receive Rouen, but her mal de mer is passing, my dear marchioness. If the king can have a stand-in for his wedding ceremony, then the queen can surely have one for her joyeuse entrée!”

  “I COULD NOT possibly do it,” the countess of Shrewsbury cried. “Certes, everyone will know. Besides, ’tis disrespectful and I dare say treasonous to impersonate the queen.”

  Cecily drew herself up to her full height and glowered at Margaret Talbot. “Her grace will show nothing but gratitude, I can assure you, my lady. We cannot disappoint the people of Rouen. They want to welcome the queen. Certes, they want to greet Margaret of Anjou, but how many of them do you suppose have ever laid eyes on her?” She held up her thumb and forefinger in a circle. “Not one! I am begging you, Lady Margaret, do this for England. You are the only one who has the same hair color.”

  True, Margaret Talbot was certainly no fifteen-year-old, but she was still pretty and owned a magnificent head of golden hair. With Margaret’s azure gown, she would look regal enough, Cecily believed, and the voluminous fur hood of her cloak would conceal some of her face.

  And so Margaret, countess of Shrewsbury and daughter of the great Richard Beauchamp, earl of Warwick, played queen on the twenty-second day of March, fooling all but a few witnesses in Rouen that day as she processed in a litter, surrounded by her retinue of English noblewomen. Meanwhile the real queen was smuggled into Bouvreuil and went back to bed.

  “You are prodigious, my dearest wife,” Richard declared late that night, slipping his hand under Cecily’s tight bodice. “If Margaret of Anjou proves to be as difficult as this going forward, I do not envy our sovereign lord. Sweet Jesu, she may turn out to be quite a handful.” He grinned. “But I am more interested in this handful,” he murmured as he leaned forward to kiss her breast.

  Baynard’s Castle, London

  FEBRUARY 9, 1461

  Somewhere near the castle, Cecily heard a cock crow.

  Sweet Jesu, have I lain awake all night? I will look like something the dog dragged around all day, she thought, gentling her puffy face and damp hair with her fingers. She gave a little snort of derision. Who cares about my looks anymore? Richard is dead these five weeks, and I am getting old, she thought.

  But then she chuckled. Well, Cis, it always used to matter, just as it has mattered to the queen these fifteen years. Margaret has always been the more beautiful, she admitted, although I have been the better wife.

  Were we always in competition? Were we always enemies? she wondered. Not always, she mused. Her thoughts flew back to Rouen and the day after the new queen and her train of noble men and women had processed to the cathedral to celebrate Christ’s resurrection. Margaret had asked Cecily to show her the spot where Jeanne d’Arc had been burned. Dear God, Cecily thought, I remember feeling all the blood drain from my face. Since arriving back in Rouen four years earlier, I had avoided ever setting foot in the marketplace. But I could not refuse the queen, could I? She remembered that she and the queen, accompanied by a contingent of guards in ceremonial livery, had ridden in a canopied litter through the streets and into the market square. Once there, the guards cleared a path for the queen, and vendors, farmers, merchants, and their wives stood respectfully aside as Cecily walked with Margaret to the blackened stake, still rooted in the ground, with its heavy dangling chains awaiting another victim. Cecily was relieved that her emotions stayed in check.

  Suddenly the smell of burning wood from a brazier wafted over the gorgeously arrayed women gathered around the queen. They say I screamed, Cec
ily thought to herself, shuddering, but I do not recall. All she remembered was reliving Jeanne’s courageous walk to the stake and the deeply pious young woman’s refusal to give up her faith in God. He took her to be with the angels.

  Ah, Jeanne, you are with me still, Cecily thought now, and I carry your courage as my inspiration when I am in need.

  Did I swoon? Nay, now I remember. Piers Taggett scooped me up just in time and laid me on the cushions in the litter. She recalled his anxious face watching her. She could not forbear to put out her hand and touch his cheek to reassure him. How foolish you were, Cecily, she berated herself now. One never touches a servant, and certainly not a manservant’s face. Piers had started, unsure how to react to the unusual gesture from his noble mistress, and Cecily was grateful he had thought quickly and had removed her hand and kissed it. At the time Cecily wondered vaguely if Jacquetta Woodville had noticed. She smiled at her anxiety now, but back then she sent up a prayer to her friend the Virgin to keep Jacquetta focused on the queen.

  To give the queen her due, Margaret was aghast when she heard why Cecily had been so affected by the visit to the marketplace, and just as Piers let go of Cecily’s hand, the queen hurried to the duchess of York’s side. “Ma très chère duchesse, I am so sorry. No one told me of your terrible ordeal. Why did you not tell me yourself? I would have excused you with all my heart. You should not have had to endure this. Forgive me.”

  Cecily thought back on the sincerity of the queen’s little speech and the sweetness with which the teenage Margaret treated her for the rest of her Rouen stay. Nay, we were not enemies then.

  Nor when Richard was summoned to Parliament in the autumn of ’Forty-five and we returned to England. The queen greeted me warmly enough and even called me her friend. I was carrying Meg, Cecily recalled, sighing now as she thought of her daughter, who she hoped was sleeping more soundly in her chamber after her nightmare.