Queen by Right (40 page)

Those first few days had been busy for the York household, arranging who would take which of the newly renovated apartments, finding other lodgings for those retainers not among the immediate ducal staff, and Cecily working tirelessly in tandem with Sir William and Sir Henry, chamberlain and steward respectively, to settle the new lieutenant governor into the castle.

Upon the second night’s retiring, Richard had sidled into her chamber, hoping that her desire for him might be as great as his for her, but finding her fast asleep curled up in a ball with her hand tucked under her cheek like a child, he had crept away again. And so Richard had bided his time, but now his urge to bed her was a matter of physical torment.

“Would you do me the honor of lying with me tonight, my dear wife?” he finally asked, respectful but desperate. “I yearn to feel you next to me again.”

His face was so open and honest and his eyes so full of pleading that Cecily could not forbear to smile and nod. “I fear I have punished you too long, Dickon,” she said, and his spirits lifted at the use of his old nickname. “I too have missed you next to me, and I suppose we cannot produce an heir without”—she hesitated—“without intimacy.”

Richard was serious for a moment. “Have you reconciled those misgivings that you had at Reigate Priory?”

She took a deep breath and nodded once. Taking his hand and carrying it to her breast, she told him, “I am ready—to put it delicately—to resume our relations, my lord.”

Richard grinned. “You mean
fornication?”
he teased, picking her up and carrying her to the bed. “You do mean fornication?”

“I do, I do!” Cecily answered, throwing off her turbaned headdress and letting her hair fall loose. “But you shall not have it all your way, you understand.”

“You may have it any way you choose, madam, but it has to be now.” And not waiting to undress, Richard pushed her skirts up to her waist and unhooked her tight bodice, and she spread her legs for him. As he untied his hose and codpiece with clumsy fingers, he began kissing the inside of her thighs, relishing the scent of her and the movement of her hips as his mouth moved higher. Freed at last, he thrust into her and almost immediately climaxed with such a cry of pleasure that it might have been heard in the next town, Cecily told him later.

“Christ’s nails, Cis,” Richard complained. “If you had not made me wait so long . . .”

“Oh, pish, Dickon. I waited just as long,” she murmured, snuggled up against him. “In the morning, I shall show you properly what we have been missing. But now . . . now, I’m . . . too . . . tired.”

“I love you, Cecily Neville,” Richard whispered, her breathing telling him that she was almost asleep. “I always have and I always will.” He felt her foot rub his shin and knew she had heard him.

16
Rouen, late Summer 1441

C
ecily was disappointed when her courses arrived on their appointed day in early July, a week after Richard had marched out of the Martainville gate on his way to Pontoise with four hundred men-at-arms and a hundred and fifty archers. John Blaybourne was not among them. Richard preferred to leave him and his company behind to protect the duchess. Poor Piers was once again seen sulking when he rode out to exercise the falcons.

“How long before I see you again, Richard?” Cecily had asked, as her husband bade her farewell on the steps of Bouvreuil’s inner courtyard. Anne was tucked in the crook of her father’s arm, playing with his beard.

“I know not, but I promise to write, and if I can get away, I will. In truth, Pontoise is only three score miles, which should take me not more than, say, a day to cover,” he said, laughing at her expression of horror. “Maybe two,” he assured her.

Richard had written to her as soon as he had caught up with Talbot. The letter cheered her as she sat idly in her solar, lamenting a woman’s lot at this time of the month and especially in this instance. She was kept company by Rowena, Anne, and Sir William’s kind-hearted but unimaginative wife, Margaret. Constance had been given permission to return to the convent for the afternoon and visit her old friends there.

We are making progress against Charles, and I believe we may relieve Pontoise in a very short time. I long for news of you and our little Anne. I was touched by her weeping on my leaving her. She is a dear child, and I pray that you will find time to let her know a mother’s love.

Cecily looked up from the letter guiltily. Was her indifference still that obvious to others—to Richard? She believed she had tried of late. Across the room, her daughter was playing pat-a-cake with Rowena on the turkey carpet. A wave of guilt suffused her, and she chewed on her lower lip as she contemplated her child. How foolish I have been, she thought, staring at Richard’s words. They had the desired effect, however, for she suddenly called out to her daughter. Anne turned anxious gray eyes to her mother, but when she saw Cecily’s smile and outstretched arms, she gave a cry of joy and ran into them, flinging her arms about her mother’s neck as if greeting her for the first time after a very long separation. Cecily gasped. What had she been missing all this time? she admonished herself. Why she had denied herself the innocent love of this child, she could not imagine. She gently released Anne’s hold and held the girl at arm’s length on her lap.

“You are a good girl, Nan, and your mama loves you very much.” Then she whispered, “Do you love me too?” and held her breath.

Anne’s vigorously nodding curls gave Cecily her answer. The child put her thumb in her mouth and contemplated her beautiful mother. “Pretty,” she lisped. “Mama pretty.” Then as if at two she had already learned the art of diplomacy, she slipped off Cecily’s knee and ran back to Rowena. “Weena pretty, too,” she cried, making everyone laugh.

Although she took the time to write to Richard to let him know their night together had not yielded the result they had hoped for, Cecily’s disappointment in not having conceived was eased as she rejoiced in getting to know her daughter and learning to be a mother. She even forgot to miss Richard until she received his next letter two weeks after the first. This time the messenger had arrived with some urgency.

For some reason the French are quiet, and we believe they are contemplating pulling back. Therefore I am keeping my promise to see you but can leave for no more than two days, and our meeting must be kept secret in case spies let the French know I am no longer at the head of the army. I will have my squire and a groom with me, but no one will know who we are. May I suggest that you tell Sir William you are going on a pilgrimage to Les Andelys, not far from Rouen, to take the water at St. Clothilde’s holy spring. The nuns at the abbey will welcome us as pilgrims and perhaps the sacred place will help us conceive a son. Bring Constance or Rowena with you and arrange for John Blaybourne
to accompany you but no one else. I will trust you to invent a reason why you do not want a whole retinue of people, but you may inform Sir William that it is upon my orders.

Cecily frowned. Certes, people will be suspicious if I go with only an attendant and one escort, she thought. However, I can understand why Richard does not want to be observed. She shrugged and read on.

Meet me on the twentieth day of the month at the abbey and come clothed as a simple pilgrim, as will I. My dearest love, I can already feel your sweet body in my arms.

C
ECILY HOPED THE
dawn departure of a trio of riders from the castle would go unnoticed by those whose apartments overlooked the courtyard. She glanced up at the windows of the second floor, where many of the nobles and their ladies lodged, and was certain she saw a face at one of the windows. Was it the Woodvilles’ chamber? she wondered, trying to remember the position of their apartment. She would have been dismayed to know that Jacquetta had spent a restless night and was indeed watching the riders leave that morning. Cecily was glad of her simple gown and her cloak with its voluminous hood and naively thought that she would be unrecognizable. But she forgot to mask the legendary ease with which she handled a skittering stallion, and the giant Blaybourne, who had helped Cecily up onto it, was unmistakable. Blaybourne then effortlessly swept Constance up behind him, leaving Jacquetta in no doubt that Cecily of York was attempting to leave Rouen in secret.

A few moments later, the riders passed the royal mews, where Piers Taggett had spent the night tending to the broken wing of one of his charges. Hearing the muffled hooves on the dirt path that skirted the outside of the eastern castle wall, he stooped to avoid the low doorway and stood in the shadows of the mews house to see who was leaving the castle so early. He would have known Cecily on horseback anywhere and at any time, and his eyes widened in surprise. Then he saw John Blaybourne’s substantial figure on the second horse, and not wanting to be seen himself, Piers ducked back into the mews. In his haste he had not seen Constance riding pillion.

A puzzled Piers sat down heavily on a barrel to ponder Cecily’s departure. He could not believe his goddess would choose to ride off alone with as lowly a fellow as John Blaybourne. Then he remembered how many times he himself had ridden alone with Cecily. But that was different, he argued, as his anger grew, for, on Christ’s holy cross, nothing untoward would ever have occurred with him. Her grace was the purest, kindest, most honorable woman in the world, and he could not imagine himself laying a finger on her noble person. He went with Duke Richard’s blessing—indeed, at his bidding, the falconer told himself. There was nothing secret about their rides to the hunt or his lessons in hawking. The whole household knew of them. Sweet Mother of God, what did Blaybourne have in mind? he thought fearfully. Was the duchess in danger? It did seem to Piers that she was riding freely of her own accord, but it was too dark for him to see if the man was holding her rein. Mayhap—he recoiled in horror—Blaybourne had abducted her! Now he was pacing uncomfortably in the low-ceilinged barn, and the birds under his care were beginning to be restless.

“Hush, my beauties. Stay still,” he cajoled. “You will break your fast soon enough. But now I needs must think.”

B
Y MIDMORNING, THE
riders had reached the eastern bank of the Seine after cantering cross-country from Rouen. Following a tow path flanked by stands of comfrey, campion, and marguerites, they rounded a wide turn in the river affording them a view that took Cecily’s breath away. Facing them on another sharp bend a mile away and dominating the spectacular landscape was Château Gaillard. Constance told her mistress that the extraordinary white fortress, whose many towers were lacking slate in their pointed turrets and whose walls were crumbling, had been Richard the Lionheart’s pride and joy two centuries earlier.

“In Normandy,” she explained in her accented English for the benefit of Blaybourne, “it is known as Coeur de Lion’s one-year-old daughter. It has taken
six milles
—how you say? ah, yes—six thousand building-men only one year for finishing. But the English king died the next year, and soon Philip of France he captured it and then he . . .
nom de Dieu,
how you say
abandonné?
”

John let out a slow whistle of awe, but then frowned. “It commands the river from both directions. Why is it still not a stronghold?” he wondered aloud.

Constance chuckled. “I do not understand the ways of men thinking,” she replied. “I know only the story.”

The little village of Petit Andely hugged the riverbank in the shadow of Gaillard, the ubiquitous chalk cliffs of the Seine rising behind. The travelers were soon walking their horses along the main street leading to the magnificent but not yet completed church of Our Lady with its extensive abbey behind.

Blaybourne used the butt of his dagger to knock on the door of the hostel where pilgrims could lodge, which was run by a small order of Benedictines. They were all that was left of the first Christian convent in France, founded by the sainted Queen Clothilde. A grille in the door snapped open and a white-wimpled, bewhiskered nun peered out.

“We are pilgrims,” Blaybourne had been instructed to say in French, and showed his scallop-shell badge.
“Anglais,”
he added, as if the accent had not already given him away.

Constance spoke up.
“Ma maîtresse a besoin de logement, ma soeur,”
she told the woman. “We need lodging for two or three nights, if you would be so kind. My mistress, who is a noble English lady, would like to take the waters and seek help from St. Clothilde.”

Hearing her native tongue spoken so fluently, the sister opened the door and beamed at Cecily and Constance.
“Entrez, entrez, mesdames,”
she welcomed them, her smile revealing three missing teeth. “God’s greeting to you. Follow me.” Blaybourne, leading the two horses, was pointed the way to the stables, where, Cecily had no doubt, he would be sleeping.

Once it was known that Cecily was a noblewoman, she and Constance were ushered into a private room, sparsely furnished, with a small arched window open to the elements and overlooking a cloistered garden, where Cecily could see the object of her pilgrimage. The fountain could be approached by two paths, one for men and one for women, and several of both were slowly making their way toward the bubbling water caught in a room-sized stone basin.