By now the ladies had joined the group. Standing by the stag, Ralph proudly lifted its head by the tines to show Joan.
“I won the day, my lady!” he cried. “We shall have venison to spare for the Twelfth Night feast.” Joan smiled and waved, but she was cold and, calling to Cecily to rejoin her, she and her ladies turned their horses and made their way back through the trees to Raby.
“When we are wed, Dickon,” Cecily told him in confidence, “we shall have our own hunts and shoot our own deer, shall we not? I would dearly love my own hawk when I am bigger. Might it be possible?”
Her childlike earnestness touched Richard, and he leaned across his saddle and kissed her quickly upon the cheek. “Certes, it might, Cis,” he said. “We shall have a merry time together, I promise.”
Cecily’s heart sang. “Nan cannot be right,” she thought. “It seems he likes me just as well as her.”
Though, if the truth were told, she did not feel the ache in her heart that Anne had described, nor did she feel a bit like swooning—whatever that meant. She shrugged, wheeled Tansy around, and trotted after her mother.
That night she dreamed she rode from Raby upon the white deer and, turning her head back to the square Bulmer Tower, she saw her father’s haggard gray face gazing at her from its parapet, his heart shot through with an arrow.
THE HARSH NORTHERN winter turned finally into a breathtaking spring complete with the native gentians carpeting the grassy limestone banks with their vivid blue flowers. On Cecily’s ninth birthday, the third of May, Anne was sent to her new family in Wales. Cecily was disappointed that Anne would not see her betrothal to Richard, but the Stafford family was impatient to welcome the young Neville bride.
Unable to stop herself crying, Cecily was puzzled by Anne’s calm demeanor when she first made obeisance to her father and mother and then allowed herself to be embraced by both. Cecily was accustomed to Joan’s lack of emotion and was not surprised by the countess’s stoic “God be with you on your journey, Daughter.” But she could not understand how Anne could resist throwing herself into her father’s arms, as she would have done. Instead, her sister accepted his gruff kiss and admonition to be a good girl and walked to her brothers for their farewells. Something in Anne’s serenity prevented her usually rambunctious siblings from teasing or hugging her. When she came to Richard, who stood quietly at the end of the line, she lowered her eyes and blushed.
“Farewell, Anne,” Dickon said amiably. “I am certain Cecily will miss you.”
Anne lifted her head and pouted. “And you will not, Dickon?”
Richard was taken aback, though he nodded an affirmative. “Forgive me. We shall all miss you. And I wish you all happiness with Humphrey Stafford.”
Anne sniffed, turned on her heel, and stalked toward her waiting escort. This was too much for Cecily. Believing her sister had forgotten her, she ran after Anne and caught her arm.
“Nan, do you have no words of farewell for me? You forgot about me!” she cried, her tears wetting Anne’s hand as she lifted it to her cheek. “Will you at least write to me when you get to Brecon? I promise I shall write back.”
Anne’s face softened for a moment, but, determined to show she was her mother’s daughter and soon to be a countess, she gently pulled her hand away, and kissed Cecily’s cheek lightly. “Aye, I promise I shall write, Cis. Now, I pray you, stop crying like a baby. It is not the way a duchess behaves.”
Cecily stared in dismay as Anne left the hall, her brown velvet cloak billowing behind her. Then, seeking the comfort of her father’s loving arms, she did not see the wayward tear that trickled down her mother’s plump cheek.
Perhaps ’twas as well Nan would not be here to see my betrothal, Cecily thought uncharitably. Why, her sour face might spoil the whole day.
IT HAD TAKEN a bevy of tiring women to dress Cecily for her first public occasion. First they slipped a new shift of finest silk over her golden head and tied it at the back of the neck. Then they helped her into an underdress of crimson sarcenet and fastened it down her back, its tight sleeves coming to a point over her wrists. When she had been measured for the gown, Cecily had idly wondered when her breasts might start growing, and she was torn between wanting to retain her boy’s riding garb and filling out a beautiful gown. Now she wished she was already a grown woman as she admired the exquisitely embroidered wide-sleeved houpeland draped like a coat over the sarcenet and belted above the waist, causing the satin fabric to flow in an avalanche of white around her lithe young body. The garnets that were sewn in the center of the large embroidered roses mirrored the red underdress, thus effecting a mingling of the white rose of York with the red and white Neville colors.
Joan bustled in to supervise the last details. She presented her daughter with a piece of her own jewelry: a heavy gold necklace from which hung a sapphire the color of Cecily’s eyes. Joan’s gray eyes reflected her satisfaction with her child’s appearance. She commanded one of the women to brush Cecily’s yellow mane twenty more strokes before proclaiming it ready to receive the simple coronet of white roses.
The women stood back in admiration, and Cecily grinned back at them.
Then she scrutinized her mother’s critical gaze. “Do I look like a duchess, my lady?” she asked with a hint of concern, and then an urgent, “Mam, will I do?”
“Aye, Daughter, you’ll do,” Joan said, breaking into a smile. “Richard of York is a fortunate young man.” The women looked relieved. Adding their compliments, they gave the gown a few last-minute adjustments and wished her well.
Rowena Gower had the honor of holding Cecily’s train as the women processed carefully down the newel stair to the courtyard, where Ralph, the sun shining on his white hair, waited patiently with his entourage. He was joking with two of his squires. Standing a little apart, conversing with the Neville brothers, Richard nervously fingered the jeweled hilt of his dagger. When Cecily emerged from the shadow of the staircase, the men fell silent as one.
“Cecily?” Ralph mouthed in astonishment before he found his voice and his legs and strode toward her. “Lady Cecily Neville, you do our house proud!” he cried. Reaching out his arms, he would have crushed her to him had Joan not stopped him with a warning, “My lord, the gown!” Ralph took Cecily’s hands instead and held her at arm’s length to admire the transformation. Cecily found herself uncharacteristically blushing as her father inspected her from top to toe. “Magnificent!” he declared and called to Richard to come and claim his betrothed. “Certes, the house of York has never seen a fairer addition, do you not agree, your grace?” He presented Cecily to Richard and bowed. Cecily curtsied to them both, smiling happily.
“In truth, my lord, none fairer.” Richard’s thirteen-year-old voice betrayed him, breaking on the last syllable. Furious with himself, he colored.
Ralph chortled. “I have heard of a blushing bride, my dear wife, but never a blushing bridegroom,” he said, as he took Joan’s arm and led the company through the passageway to the outer bailey and the waiting litters. Joan slapped his hand playfully.
“Hush, my lord, ’tis ordeal enough for the young people without your teasing them,” she chided, and glancing back, gave Richard a smile of encouragement.
St. Gregory’s church was decorated to the rafters with bunches of the white wildflowers of June tied with red and white ribbons: scented meadowsweet, delicate cow parsley, dog daisies, yarrow, and Cecily’s namesake, sweet cicely. In among these flowers of the Staindrop woods and hedgerows were white roses, emblem of the house of York.
Those local gentry invited to witness the betrothal of Earl Ralph’s youngest daughter and the duke of York were already kneeling on tapestry cushions when the procession of chanting monks filed in. No one could deny that St. Gregory’s was a substantial church for a small village, and this was due in part to the patronage of the lords of Raby. Its round Norman arches led to aisles on either side of the wide nave crowded with villagers eager for a glimpse of their own Rose and her you
ng duke. And today the monks, now installed in the choir behind an elegant rood screen, were glad to offer their mellifluous voices to celebrate the betrothal of their founder’s daughter. Indeed, the music made the congregation’s long wait on its knees more bearable.
Finally the earl’s party could be heard approaching, and as the organist began a reedy Introit, the congregation rose to its feet to greet the lord of Raby. First to enter behind the tonsured brother carrying a large silver crucifix were members of Ralph’s first family by Margaret Stafford, who now rested beneath her painted alabaster tomb just inside the church door. They had ridden over earlier from Brancepeth, the seat of the Westmorlands, headed by the heir to the earldom, Ralph’s nineteen-year-old grandson, who had lost his father on campaign in France two years earlier.
Young Ralph’s self-importance was written all over his long, thin face as his pale blue eyes scanned the crowd for friends and passed haughtily over the awed yeomen of Staindrop. He was followed by his uncle, yet another Ralph, and three of his seven aunts and their husbands.
But Robert alone represented Earl Ralph’s adult sons by Joan, and he now passed through the portal into the church escorting his mother. The three youngest boys, William, George, and Edward, marched down the nave behind them, very aware of their new finery and enjoying admiring looks from the members of the local gentry. Only one of Cecily’s sisters was able to be present at this important family gathering. Eleanor, countess of Northumberland, had traveled from Alnwick Castle close by the Scottish border with an impressive escort and two of her children. Also missing was Ralph and Joan’s eldest son, Richard Neville, who was occupied during these summer months as warden of the West March of Scotland.
When the music stopped, an expectant hush silenced the whisperings as heads swiveled to watch Richard walk slowly through the people and pass under the chancel arch to the altar.
“Why not just get married?” one ruddy-faced villager asked his neighbor. “It be what their ilk do, no mind the poor girl’s age.”
His friend nodded. “Aye, there be enough churchmen here to marry all of us,” he said with a chuckle.
Two trumpeters, precariously poised on stools near the font, sounded a fanfare for the entrance of the lord of Raby and the Lady Cecily. Murmurs of approval rippled around the church as the radiant girl, clinging to Ralph’s steadying arm, appeared on the threshold. She tried not to notice her father’s effigy to her left as they began the long walk to join Richard. She knew it was customary for people of rank to have their likeness made long before their death, but when she saw her beloved father’s familiar face staring hollow-eyed at the ceiling, it never failed to give her a shudder. Joan’s effigy lay on the other side of him from Margaret Stafford. Cecily had always wondered what the first wife would have said had she known that she was not going to lie alone with Ralph for all eternity.
She dismissed this train of thought as she concentrated on not tripping over her heavy gown before she reached Richard, who was waiting for her with his pleasant face wreathed in a grin. Once again she liked the way his smile reached his gray eyes and made them crinkle, and she smiled back, forgetting the hundred people watching.
The ceremony of betrothal was so quick that it hardly seemed worth all the fuss, Cecily thought, after it was over and Mass was being said. For the most part, it was signing documents between Richard and her father, and in truth, she need not have been there, except for the moment when Richard kissed her on the lips in front of everyone. She had waited to swoon away, now that Rowena had explained the word, but nothing had happened. Ah, well, she mused, perhaps ’tis only ninnies like Anne who swoon.
But when they returned down the aisle and out into the sunshine, she knew something very significant had occurred that day. She now truly belonged to Richard, duke of York, and her life would be forever changed.
2
Raby, Durham, 1424 to 1425
She was wrong—for a time.
Cecily still spent her days either in her room in the keep or in her mother’s solar under the eye of Joan and her ladies. She would lean as far out of her chamber window as she dared to catch a glimpse of her betrothed when he crossed the courtyard. It was a good day when he remembered to look up and give her a cheerful wave, but when he forgot, Cecily merely turned away from the window embrasure, muttering “A pox on all dukes” or some other petulant remark.
“How I hate being cooped up in here. I am not a child, I am betrothed,” she declared, not knowing why Rowena hid a smile.
“To be sure you are, my lady,” Rowena reassured her, “but your lady mother knows best.”
Cecily sniffed and pointed to the brightly colored bird sidestepping on its perch. “Pah! That popinjay is freer than I am,” she grumbled. “Mother tells me ’tis important that Dickon and I get to know each other better. How can we do that when I am imprisoned up here?”
Joan reiterated her advice one hot day several weeks after the betrothal and elaborated on it. “You may talk about the weather, the hunt at hand, or even a passage you may have read at your lessons. But that is all, do you understand? When you are wed and have children, then your conversations will be about household matters and your ambitions for your little ones. You must listen and support your husband in all things. Men do not approve of women who appear too learned. ’Tis unsettling for them.”
Cecily nodded dutifully, but the eyes she cast down at her embroidery were full of scorn. I am much cleverer than Edward at Latin and French, she thought. Must I hide behind a silly smile and pretend I am not? But for now she stored away Joan’s many lessons, which she knew would prove invaluable to her as wife, housekeeper, and mother. She was beginning to believe being a duchess might even be hard work. She winced when she pricked herself with her needle and sucked her bleeding finger.
With the uncanny sense only dogs seem to possess, one of the huge wolf-hounds keeping the ladies company that day suddenly lifted its head and began to thump its tail, causing a whirlwind of freshly laid rushes and dust to rise into the air. Joan looked up with a smile, expecting to see Ralph come striding in, but instead she gave an uncharacteristic squeal of pleasure when her eldest son threw open the solar door and gave his mother greeting.
“Richard!” Joan cried, pushing aside the tapestry frame upon which she was working. Out of vanity, she removed her spectacles before holding out her arms to him. “What a delightful surprise!”
Richard Neville was a younger version of his father and had always been his mother’s favorite. George had once told Cecily that being in the middle of the family did not count for anything. “Only the youngest and the oldest matter, in truth,” he had complained. “Father dotes on you and Mother on Richard. It is just not fair.”
After giving his mother reverence and an affectionate peck on the cheek, her eldest son turned his blue eyes on Cecily, who was looking shyly up at him from her stool next to Joan. She noticed that he, like Dickon, favored the ugly short hairstyle, and his thick yellow hair stood out from his forehead like a thatched roof on a cottage. He chucked his sister under the chin and gave an approving nod.
“How now, young Cecily, you are growing up, I see. How old are you now? Nine? Not yet old enough to be wed, although I regret missing your betrothal Mass,” he said. “Were you prevailed upon to wear a gown for the occasion?” he teased her.
Cecily giggled as Joan clucked her disapproval, but she proceeded to mollify her mother by gushing over the ceremony, her wardrobe, the flowers in the church, and the number of guests who attended. “There were even two trumpeters,” she finished proudly, grinning at Richard. “Father wanted to show Dickon that the Nevilles are not living in a backwater.”
“Cecily!” Joan exclaimed, exasperated, as Richard covered a laugh with a cough. “I pray you guard your tongue. Where did you learn such an expression?”
Cecily’s smile faded and she lowered her eyes to the floor. “I heard Father tell Rob before we went into St. Gregory’s,” she muttered.
Richard took the cup of wine offered by a page and gratefully slaked his thirst. He still wore his dusty riding boots, their thigh-high cuffs stained with his horse’s sweat. He smelled rather rank, Cecily thought, wondering why Joan did not admonish him to go and wash before presenting himself to ladies. Cecily could not remember the last time she had seen him, but she knew it was many months before Dickon’s arrival at Raby.
“I suppose I shall have to reverence you, little Cis, when you become her grace of York,” he said. “An outstanding match, madam, is it not?” he murmured to Joan. “Even though he is a Mortimer,” he added with chilly emphasis. “Does young Dickon know that as a descendant of Lionel of Clarence he has as good a claim or better to the throne than little Henry?”
Joan drew a sharp breath and glanced about them. “Hush, my son,” she snapped. “That is treasonous talk! I believe the boy is merely glad to have a roof over his head and a good family to help him grow up. Do not put foolish fancies into his head, will you? We are Beauforts, Richard, and our Lancaster blood is as good as any of the Yorks’. Henry is our king—and our kin. Do not forget he is my grandnephew.”
“Half grandnephew, my lady, if we must be precise. But your bishop brother is now chancellor of England,” he said, twirling the stem of his cup and watching the red contents carefully. “’Tis as well he swore to refuse the cardinal’s hat.”
Joan shrugged. She knew her brother had stained his reputation in an attempt to buy the coveted cardinal’s hat, but his charm, cleverness, and wealth—the last most welcome to the fund-strapped Crown—had put him back into favor at court and had even named him little Henry’s godfather, making him a formidable player in the game to control the boy king. Joan reached over and patted her son’s arm, signaling the end of the political discussion. If the truth were told, she was much happier talking about more mundane matters.
“What news of your Alice, Richard? Will you ever leave the borderlands and get the lady with child?”