Queen by Right (56 page)

“Your grace, pray remind me of the dowager duchess’s daughter’s name,” Cecily murmured to Margaret, nodding in Jacquetta’s direction. “I met her as a child in Rouen.”

Margaret’s mouth twitched. “For two ladies who do not see eye to eye, so I have heard, it seems both you and Jacquetta have similar taste in names,
duchess.” She paused to watch Cecily’s consternation. “She is another Elizabeth, and we are pleased to have her at court now that she is wife to Lord Ferrers’ heir, Sir John Grey. I have watched many a young man in my household blush and swoon when she comes near. Ah, here is Prior John to give the blessing,” she said abruptly as the abbot bustled onto the steps. “I am ready to break my day-long fast.”

Jacquetta had obviously spoken enough of Cecily to the queen for Margaret to know there was rivalry between them. Cecily’s dislike of the dowager duchess deepened. And she was perplexed. Why, then, was Margaret being so pleasant to her?

Mouth-watering aromas wafted from the fine food the monks placed before the royal party, and Margaret ate heartily. Cecily dearly wished she could comment on the queen’s condition, but as it was indelicate to raise the subject before the queen herself did, Cecily picked at her food, wishing the pain in her side would subside.

“You do not eat much, my lady,” Margaret noted. “Perhaps the journey has tired you. I made my pilgrimage today and fasted until now, and so, I confess, I am ravenous.
Bien sûr,
I must eat for two,” she said coyly, casting her eyes down at her plate.

“May I offer my heartfelt congratulations, your grace. It seems the prayers we offered at our last meeting were heard. Our sovereign lord Henry must be so thankful. May I ask when you expect your child?”

“’Tis thought October, duchess,” Margaret said sweetly. Then she looked sideways at Cecily, who was taking a sip of wine, and suddenly, without warning and speaking in French, her voice took on a hard edge. “I will tell you this. My son’s birth will put an end to any ambitions others may have of succeeding Henry.”

Cecily was forced to use her napkin to cover her surprise. However, without missing a beat, Margaret continued in English with restored childlike innocence and Cecily wondered if she had imagined the extraordinary moment. “You have such a beautiful daughter, my dear duchess, with such pretty manners. Is she yet contracted?”

Margaret’s expression was guileless.

Taking a moment to recover, Cecily replied, “’Tis kind of you to ask, your grace, but as yet we have not promised Bess to anyone. I am foolishly attached to my children, I dare say, but they will leave me soon enough.”

“I have no doubt I shall be as fiercely possessive of my children. Perhaps
because we had to wait for so long for them, duchess,” was the queen’s benign reply. Her smile showed a genuine warmth again, and she surprised Cecily even more by disclosing, “I came to Walsingham to give thanks for God’s gift to Henry and me and to pray for a houseful of babes. What is the purpose of your pilgrimage, if I may ask?”

Having told no one but Constance of her ailment, Cecily was reluctant to reveal to this enigmatic woman the purpose of her journey to the shrine. However, the friendly way with which Margaret tilted her head and searched Cecily’s face, waiting to know, unlocked Cecily’s tongue. “In truth, I have not felt well since the birth of my little Dickon, your grace. I shall pray the Blessed Virgin will relieve my pain.” And her hand found the spot that was now throbbing.

“Then I am sorry for you, my dear duchess, and I shall pray for your comfort on the morrow at mass.”

“You are too kind, your grace.” Cecily paused. Did she dare speak of Richard, she wondered. Margaret appeared congenial once again, and, despite the veiled threat earlier, she had given Cecily every reason to feel at ease. As if to reinforce this sentiment, Margaret broke a piece of marchpane in two and passed it across Cecily to Bess with a wink and a smile. Aye, I believe she harbors no ill will toward us, Cecily thought, and took a deep breath.

“Much of my pain, I confess, is in my heart, your grace. It comes from knowing that our most noble sovereign lord, your husband, may not hold my dear lord high in his favor of late,” she began and saw Margaret’s hand freeze for a second before carrying a piece of marchpane to her mouth. “If it please your royal grace, Lord Richard has only had the good of the kingdom and his loyalty to the king in all his thoughts and deeds these past years. I swear to your noble highness on the graves of my dead children, he is the king’s loyal liegeman.” She knew her cheeks were flushed, and she put her hand up to cool them. Her fingers were trembling. She could see Richard’s face in her mind’s eye, and it was not smiling. Dear God, she thought, as the silence persisted, have I ventured too far? Did I use too much unction? Or not enough? She lowered her eyes to her plate.

Margaret savored her sweetmeat, her eyes staring straight ahead. Then she wiped her lips with the spotless linen cloth and turned to address Cecily.

“My dear duchess, your love and loyalty to your lord is admirable,” the queen began levelly. “And I believe you are sincere. But ’tis not my favor that Duke Richard should seek but my husband’s. I do not meddle in affairs of
state and live only for the king’s comfort and to bear his heirs.” Cecily marveled at Margaret’s artfulness but was careful not to reveal her disbelief. “I am sorry, Cecily, that your husband would use you to ingratiate himself.”

Hearing her first name threw Cecily off balance, and she could not determine whether Margaret was dissembling, but she was quick to defend Richard. “My husband has no inkling I would speak to you, madame.”

“Your husband’s rebellion last year placed you and your children in grave danger. Pray God, the duke has seen reason.” The queen stared at the crucifix on the wall opposite. “’Tis my belief he is not worthy of you.”

Cecily lifted her head then and with uncharacteristic restraint replied, “Nay, your grace, if it please you, you are mistaken. ’Tis I who am not worthy of him.” She felt herself flush, however, and was dismayed to see Jacquetta of Bedford’s eyes riveted on her.

“As you wish, duchess,” the queen was saying, “I shall say again, your loyalty is admirable, and for our past friendship, I will do what I can for
you.
” Her expression then turned grim as she announced, “When my son is born, things will be different—for all of us.”

Later, as Cecily lay back in the merchant’s tolerably comfortable bed, Bess snuggled beside her, she pondered the inscrutable Margaret of Anjou.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, hundreds of pilgrims ranged themselves along both sides of the narrow village street to gawk at the queen’s procession, which would soon wend its way along the road to Fakenham. Following a mass in the prior’s private chapel, Margaret had actually bidden Cecily farewell with a friendly buss to her cheek, then she had climbed into her curtained carriage and hidden herself from the common folk, which had caused some grumbling from those in the queue forming outside the abbey that morning. Cecily could have told Margaret it was a regrettable error in judgment; she knew these people would have dearly loved to see their beautiful queen and might have cheered instead of groused. These were not times to incense them further, she thought.

Cecily, dressed in her plain brown traveling gown and an appropriate veil, had eschewed an offer from the prior to forgo the muddy mile from the slipper chapel and enter the shrine from the chapter house. “I thank you, father, but I wish to worship alongside my fellow pilgrims. I am no different from them in the eyes of God. Today I am Cecily Neville, penitent. But I thank you all the same.”

Once inside the abbey church, lit by hundreds of candles, she and Bess
gazed up at the brilliantly painted pillars and arches supporting the soaring roof. In a side chapel, gated from the penitents who thronged the nave, a choir of monks chanted quietly as slowly the column of pilgrims reached the wooden house in the middle of the chantry.

“This is the house the widow built, Bess,” Cecily whispered. “The Virgin told her in a vision what it looked like. When we go inside, you must be silent and pray very hard for your father and your brothers and sisters.”

Bess looked up through the gauze of her veil. “And you, Mam? What about you? And Nurse Anne, and Piers, and . . .”

Cecily smiled. “Aye, you may pray for me and the others too, child. Do not forget Doctor Constance, will you? You would not be here if she had not helped you into this world.”

They slipped into the little house and stared about them. The heat from so many candles and warm bodies mingled with the overpowering smell of incense made Cecily feel queasy. Squeezing between two large women, she and Bess knelt in front of the statue of the Virgin, a radiantly golden Virgin, holding the infant Jesus. Other brightly painted and bejeweled statues sat in niches set high in the ornately decorated walls, and Cecily wondered if this was indeed what the Virgin had directed the widow to build. She had imagined something far humbler for a poor woman’s house in Judea.

Bess was pointing to the sparkling jewels on a reliquary resting at the Virgin’s feet, and Cecily saw the vial inside containing the holy breast milk. She crossed herself again and stared at the object, truly awed for the first time since entering the stifling shrine. She had seen other relics in her life, to be sure, including a piece of the true cross and crown of thorns in the holy chapel in Paris, but to be in the presence of something as precious as the milk that sustained Our Lord touched her own motherhood deeply and brought tears to her eyes. You have been with me always on my journey through life, showing me the way, she told the Holy Mother, but never as close as you are to me now. Praise be to thee and thy beloved Son. I pray you guard my family from harm, keep my dearest husband especially in thy protection, and for myself I ask that my health may be restored to me. If it is a burden I must bear for my sins, then I ask for forbearance. If I am fortunate to grow old in your love, sweet Mary, then I shall devote that time to your service when my children have no more need of me. Lord, give me strength.

She smiled up at the shining face of the Virgin and noticed for the first time that the statue’s eyes seemed to be gazing at a point over her head. Turning to
look, she followed Mary’s gaze and gasped. The lifelike figure of the saint in the niche had the face of La Pucelle. “Jeanne,” she whispered. “Is it you?” A beatific smile seemed to curve the mouth of the statue, which appeared bathed in white light, and Cecily began to feel faint as she had all those years ago in the filthy prison. She closed her eyes and crossed herself, but when she looked at the statue again, it was the perfect face of another holy woman martyred for her faith that stared back at her. What can this mean? she wondered. It was Jeanne’s face I saw. I know it was. And it was a happy, blessed face. She gazed at the Virgin again and then she knew. She knew with awe and wonder that Jeanne d’Arc had indeed been welcomed into her Savior’s company of saints. A warm glow suffused her, and she began to chant out loud,
“Ave Maria, gratia plena.”
Her fervor must have moved her fellow pilgrims, for soon they took up the supplication in unison, filling the shrine with prayer. When the chanting ended and Cecily took Bess’s hand to rise and let another take their place, she saw the little girl’s face was wet with tears.

22
England, Summer 1453

D
espite Margaret’s offer of help to Cecily, Richard became more and more isolated in the summer of ’Fifty-three. In May he heard that his ten-year lieutenancy in Ireland had been brought to an early conclusion and the son of Richard’s old friend the White Earl was appointed in his stead. The young man had been elevated to the earldom of Wiltshire, auspiciously through his father-in-law, Edmund of Somerset.

“Somerset’s star continues to rise,” Richard complained to Cecily one day in late July as they rode out from Fotheringhay to hunt. The new merlin sat on Cecily’s wrist, but though the bird was an excellent hunter, she still missed Nimuë. “The court has moved to Clarendon and still I am not welcome on the council. It would seem my experience in Normandy counts for naught with them—especially since Dartford. I could tell them that it will not be long before Bordeaux falls and Gascony is lost, mark my words, Cis.” He gave a harsh laugh. “But who listens to me?”

Cecily watched sadly as Richard’s grim face told the story of his ill-treatment at Dartford. She had hoped that he could put his anger behind him, but instead it festered daily. He had sworn the oath never to rebel again, but Cecily feared another humiliation might lead him to break that oath. She tried to turn her mind to this day and their favorite pastime and chose to answer his rhetorical question with: “I always listen to you, Richard, and I heard you promise me a day of sport. Let us not spoil it with politics, I beg of you.” She turned her pleading eyes on him and his face softened. “That’s better,” she murmured.

The sky was cloudless and the light summer breeze fluttered the flowers of the blue-purple flax in the fields. Cecily’s wide-brimmed hat kept the sun from spoiling her still porcelain skin and shaded her eyes as she scanned the blue horizon for skylarks. Cecily’s bird was trained to hunt small birds but
occasionally went after a rabbit. Richard’s bigger falcon wove back and forth on its master’s glove, hearing noises from its prey in the meadow too faint for human ears. Sensing his bird was eager to fly, Richard loosed the ankle tie, expertly whipped off the embroidered hood, and flung the bird skyward, causing the ankle bell to tinkle in its wake. The riders watched the bird ride the drafts until its wings began to flutter and it hovered over a clump of gorse. A hare sprinted out of the cover, but it was not fast enough for the falcon, which dived like a bolt from a crossbow and felled the animal with its powerful talons in one deadly motion. The sight never failed to awe Cecily. Richard gave a short, sharp whistle, and the bird left the hare’s broken body where it had fallen to return to Richard’s wrist.