Queen by Right (20 page)

“Thank you for helping the boy, Dickon,” she murmured. She held up her hand, the ruby glinting in its golden setting on her finger. Her father had once told her that to give was infinitely more rewarding than to take, and she hoped she would always remember the glow of satisfaction that filled her now. “This ring will always remind me of this day and how you and I saved a soul.”

Dickon took her hand and kissed the ring. “Let us never forget in future to be more compassionate to those less fortunate.” He chuckled. “Remember the day when I told you I wanted nothing more than to be a soldier and you, I believe, wanted to be a queen? Here we are again, in a forest, sharing another intention.”

“I love you, Richard Plantagenet, and I would not care if you wanted to be naught but a gong farmer.”

Richard Neville turned back to see what had caused the now familiar neigh of laughter.

J
OAN TOLD HER
daughter that she was not to leave her bed the next day. With her head still hurting and the effect of ground valerian root taking its time to wear off, Cecily had agreed to a postponement of the wedding for a spell. “I have waited for six years. I can wait a few more days,” she told Alice. Alice was sponging Cecily’s head wound. “I do not want to get married with a black eye,” Cecily said, chuckling.

So for four more days, the men hunted or competed with bow and arrow at the butts, and Alice and Cecily played with the older children while baby Richard—at ten months already a force to be reckoned with—struggled with his swaddling bands and babbled nonsense.

From her window Cecily saw Piers Taggett arrive on foot from the nearby village of Marlow. His hair was cut and combed, and he walked with purpose toward the stables. Alice had been astonished when Cecily had described the scene in the woods. She had crossed herself upon hearing Cecily’s belief that the Virgin herself had sent Piers to teach her a lesson in mercy.

“I should have known some joy would come from the incident,” Alice said, clapping her hands. “On my way back to the manor I saw two magpies fly across our path.”

“One for sorrow, two for joy,” Cecily intoned, nodding. “Let us hope Piers rises to his reward.”

T
HE WALLS OF
the private chapel at Bisham reflected the silver and scarlet colors of the Salisbury coat of arms, with its green spread eagles decorating the door columns. Today a Neville and a York banner had been hung for the occasion of Cecily’s marriage. The tiny space could accommodate only a dozen people, but as the event was private, all the guests of honor were able to kneel in comfort upon the tapestried cushions and watch the young bride wed her duke.

Cecily wore a gown of palest blue cloth of silver. Joan had commissioned it for this occasion more than a year ago, and the bodice was too tight when Cecily had tried it on at Windsor a month before. With much blushing she had allowed the seamstress to measure her chest. Several inches of white satin were inserted into the front of the bodice to allow for her blossoming. When the dress was finished and Cecily tried it on, Joan nodded in satisfaction, but Cecily had grimaced in the polished brass mirror.

“It has spoiled the line of the gown, in truth,” she complained, and the seamstress rolled her eyes behind Cecily’s back as she worked on the silversable hem. “The satin should have been put in at the sides or in the back. It will cry out that the gown is old and we had to alter it.”

Joan had had enough. “Hold your tongue, young lady,” she snapped. “Mistress Roberts has performed a miracle, and you should be thanking her instead of upbraiding her. Rowena, take the gown off your mistress, wrap it in linen, and lay it safely in the oaken chest. She does not deserve to wear it.”

Joan smiled to herself now as she bent her head over her polished amber rosary and waited for Mass to begin. Cecily looked magnificent in the gown, her sapphire necklace a startling blue against the inserted white satin. Even Cecily had admitted that she was pleased with her wedding attire once she
was dressed, and she had spun round and round, letting the yards of shimmering fabric billow out like a bellflower. Her hair was undressed, falling in straight rivers of gold down her back and over her shoulders, a simple circlet of flowers crowning its glory.

When Richard saw her enter the chapel on her eldest brother’s arm, he felt his knees go weak. Steeped in the romance he had read of in books of chivalry, Richard desired Cecily, but he cherished her virtue first. They had been promised to each other for so long that he had almost forgotten a time when he had not known she would be his. She had become first his little sister and then his friend, but in the few months since his return from France, a tender love had grown. When he thought of Cecily, he had fleeting visions of her naked body next to his, but they seemed almost disrespectful, and he would chase them from his head. Last night he had chosen a verse from his favorite
Roman de la Rose
to read before he fell asleep, and now he remembered these few lines:

Her name was Gladness, she a singer gay
Who since she was but seven summers old
Had given him all her love. . . .
Well did they suit each other. . . .
Color of new-blown rose
Glowed in her flesh so tender.

Aye, my dearest Cecily, you are indeed the color of a new-blown rose, he thought, watching her now. He raised his left hand to shoulder level, his palm facing the priest. In his right hand he held the traditional garland of flowers through which the couple would kiss to seal their vows. He waited impatiently for Neville to relinquish Cecily to him and for her open hand to touch his in a sign that the couple came before God with open hands and hearts.

Cecily had never felt more vital in her life. When she saw Richard standing near the carved wooden altar, waiting for her with an expression of such awe on his dear face, she felt power surge through her veins. She was so eager to begin her life with him that she wanted to rush to his side, but at the sight of her mother’s anxious face, she counted to five, assumed a pious expression, and slowly stepped down the aisle in time with her brother. Her eyes held Richard’s unwavering gaze as she made her way slowly to his side, and she heard a tiny sigh of pleasure from him when they were side by side, her raised hand touching his.

“Cecily, here I take you as my wife, for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith,” Richard said, a slight tremor in his voice. Then it was Cecily’s turn to repeat the words, and she found herself moved by the simple yet binding troth.

The chaplain made the sign of the cross over the gold ring before offering it to Richard and prompting him in the blessing.
“In nomine Patris,”
Richard repeated, slipping the ring briefly over Cecily’s thumb, then the index finger,
“et Filii,”
and the middle,
“et Spiritus Sancti,”
and finally to the fourth, where it belonged.

“Amen,” she and Richard murmured in unison. When she looked up again, her eye was drawn to the painted altarpiece upon which the radiant face of the fair-haired Virgin smiled down at the newborn baby on her lap. Bless us, I pray you Holy Mother, Cecily pleaded and closed her eyes tight as the priest signed over them and chanted,
“Benedicite.”

She could smell the sweet scent of the honeysuckle as she leaned forward for Richard’s kiss through the garland, wanting to savor this moment for the rest of her life. He lingered on the kiss a little long for the pudgy priest’s liking and only pulled away when he felt the man tugging at the fur trim on his tabard. It was time to kneel for the rest of the Mass.

Richard reluctantly let go of Cecily’s hands as they sank onto their cushions. It was then he saw the first tear from his bride. He felt for her hand and squeezed it, envying for once a lady’s license to cry with joy.

T
HE FEASTING LASTED
for hours, six courses of tasty fare from the Salisburys’ cook, employed these twenty years by Alice’s father. He was known more for the heartiness of his dishes than their elegance, Joan had complained, suffering from indigestion after two days at Bisham Priory. Following a soup of ground almonds and milk, servants brought in a side of beef served with a spicy verjuice, a haunch of venison taken in the hunt by Richard the day before Cecily’s accident, pheasants and partridges re-dressed in their colorful plumage, and a heron and dozens of snipe, all of which had been roasted to perfection all day in an open pit behind the house. The tantalizing aromas of ginger, cloves, and cinnamon mingled with the mouth-watering smells of the succulent meats, and the hungry guests fell upon their food as though it were their first meal in a week.

Cecily and Richard sat alone on a small dais, a spotless white linen cloth covering their table with Alice’s family’s finest silver upon it. Their hands
touched often under the cloth, and once Richard leaned into Cecily, ran his finger along her thigh, and whispered, “I am counting the minutes until we are alone together, Cis.”

Cecily suddenly found herself blushing furiously, a feminine trait she had disdainfully laid at simpering girls’ feet but never her own. “My lord,” she murmured demurely and she could have kicked herself. Tell him you can wait, you goose, she thought. Tell him you should not be bedded until you are at least sixteen, and maybe even twenty. Tell him . . . tell him anything. Oh, sweet Mother of God, don’t let him see that I am terrified! Please let me find the words, she prayed.

“How do you like my gown, Dickon?” she asked brightly, taking both herself and Richard by surprise with this absurd non sequitur. Mother of God, did I really say that? she groaned inwardly, but she heard herself chatter on regardless. “Your tunic is one of the handsomest I have seen. Pray did you have it made for this occasion?” And she gave him an innocent smile that heightened rather than hid her anxiety as she bit into a filbert.

A neigh of laughter ricocheted off the rafters of the old great hall, abruptly halting conversation in the rest of the room. Alice caught Cecily’s eye from the ladies’ table and raised an eyebrow.

“Pray what is so amusing, York?” Richard Neville called, chuckling. He leaned to his neighbor and elbowed him with a guffaw. “I suspect the lad is lily-livered about bedding his lady. What say you?” he murmured. “And look at my sister; would you not describe her as a roe caught in the crosshairs.” The two men roared, and Dickon saw an escape. He pushed back his chair, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and ran down the three steps to join them, slapping Neville on the back and leaving Cecily staring after him in dismay.

A fine way he has of showing me he cannot wait for us to be alone together, she thought miserably. I suppose it was my fault. That was a stupid remark I made. She sought out Alice’s anxious face and sent her a silent plea for help.

Alice took charge of the situation at once and called for music. Then she marched over to Dickon, took him firmly by the arm, and led him away from her husband. “You had better invite your wife to dance immediately, Dickon, or you will be sleeping alone tonight,” she hissed. “Do I make myself clear? Can you not see the poor little thing is afraid of what is to come later?” She clicked her tongue. “Certes, men have no sense at all, it seems to me.” She almost pushed him back up the steps, and the startled Richard found himself on bended knee begging Cecily to dance.

“Cecily. My lady. My dear wife, I am sorry that I laughed at you,” he murmured, genuinely contrite. “I do like your dress, truly I do. Come, will you not step out with me? Our guests are here to wish us joy, and here are you on the brink of tears. What must they think?”

“That you are unkind, in truth,” Cecily replied, pouting. “Why did you laugh at me and leave me like that to join the men?” She lowered her voice, informing him, “’Twas humiliating, and I do not enjoy being humiliated.” Then, noticing everyone looking at them, she raised her head, blinked back tears, and gave him—and the hall—a brilliant smile. “I should like nothing better than to dance with you, dearest lord,” she said loudly. “Come, give me your hand.”

She would have giggled at his slack-jawed face had she not wanted to show the world that Cecily Neville—nay, Cecily of York now—was fully in control of herself.

To the sound of rebecs, recorders, a gittern, and a tabor, Cecily and Richard glided effortlessly together on tiptoe in the slow, romantic steps of a
basse danse.
Others joined them on the floor and the hall resumed its gaiety. But running woefully through Cecily’s head was the refrain of a ballad she had recently heard at court:

That unkindness hath killed me
And put me to this pain.
Alas! What remedy
That I cannot refrain.

I have looked forward to this day for so many years, she thought, and now Dickon has ruined the moment—or, she thought guiltily, perhaps ’tis I who have spoiled it.

“A pox on all dukes,” she muttered under her breath, and Dickon cocked his head, asking what she had said. “Nothing,” she replied. “’Twas naught but an idle thought.”

T
HE PRIEST HAD
blessed the bed, Cecily had been bathed and dressed in a yellow silk shift—a gift from Alice—and she sat waiting in the soft feather bed as one by one her family bade her good night. Earlier a maid had searched carefully for bedbugs before tucking a few sprigs of lavender between the sheets and into the goose-down pillow. Although it was only September, a fire had been lit to take the chill off the room.

Joan had attempted to warn her daughter about the initial pain of deflowering, as she called it, but had expressed herself in such evasive terms that she came to an abrupt halt with a lame “God bless you, my child,” and merely kissed Cecily on the forehead. Joan had avoided this conversation with all her daughters, not having had the benefit of such a conversation herself. Cecily will find her own way, just as I did, Joan decided, just as all women have through the ages.

Cecily’s sister-in-law made certain that she was the last to wish the bride well, and her heart went out to the exquisite young girl, whose face was as ivory as the bed pillow and whose long, delicate fingers plucked nervously at the damask coverlet.