Queen by Right (22 page)

She was even more chagrined a few days later—when she was set free from her confinement and spent a cozy hour alone with Dickon in Joan’s spacious solar—to know that she had been right about the splendor of the event.

“Henry was so mindful of the significance of the occasion that he behaved almost like a sad and wise old man,” Dickon reported. “ ’Twas as though the crown was too heavy for his small shoulders to support. I hope it is not a portent of how he will support the office as a man.”

“Pish, Dickon. He is but eight. You would find a big gold crown heavy on your head if you were only eight. Who set the crown on his head? Was it my uncle Beaufort?”

“Aye, and the cardinal sat on his right all the way through the ceremony. That place should have been Humphrey’s, in truth, or Warwick’s, who has been Henry’s guardian all these years.” Dickon frowned. “Sadly, while the magnificent festivities were much enjoyed by the citizens along Henry’s route from the Tower, word came that several people had been crushed to death by others eager for a closer look.”

Cecily’s hand first flew to her mouth and then made the sign of the cross. “How dreadful. God rest their souls. I pray ’tis not an ill omen for his reign. A king’s enemies should be killed, not his loyal subjects.”

She sighed. “What else of note, Dickon? I am starved of news. Mother has been in attendance on the queen dowager, and I am called to her grace’s apartments on the morrow.”

Richard took her hands and kissed each finger tenderly. “I have no more news, in truth. But I miss you, Cis,” he said simply, grinning at her. “I pray I shall soon share your bed again. I must leave court and see to my family’s seat at Fotheringhay. Nay, do not look so downhearted. It will be your home, too, as will my castles of Ludlow and Wigmore on the Welsh marches, and I cannot wait to share them with you. But not until your mother gives us permission.” Then his face resumed its quiet seriousness. “I have taken the liberty of choosing a gift for both of us that I am certain will enrich our lives.”

Cecily’s eyes shone. “What is it, Dickon? New horses? A carriage?”

Richard frowned. “Naught so mundane, Cecily. You shall have a carriage if you so desire, but my gift is far more lasting. I have received an indulgence from the pope for a portable altar. And he has seen fit to grant not only that but our own confessor to care for our spiritual needs.”

Cecily did not know how to respond. Although she spent as much time on her knees as everyone else at court, her spiritual needs seemed basic. As long as she could call upon the saints and her special advocate, the Virgin, to help her through any hardships, and as long as she knew she satisfied a supplicant’s daily rote of prayers, readings, and the occasional confession, she considered her duty done. She had not thought of Richard as particularly pious, but now she looked at him curiously. There was more to this husband of hers than met the eye, and her heart was filled with pride and love for him. That he should care so much for her immortal soul spoke truly of a great love.

“Then I am the most grateful of wives, my dear,” she cried, smiling happily. “What a comfort to have something so precious always with us. I beg you to let me be part of choosing who will paint the scenes upon the altar panels, and I would ask that the Virgin be among the figures. I will trust you to find the confessor. But,” she giggled, “one who will not be too hard on my sinful soul!”

9
Normandy, Spring 1430

C
ecily could hardly contain her excitement as the king’s train, like a multicolored caterpillar, inched its way along the north Downs, the grassy hillsides awash in the gold of broom, primroses, and cowslips, and into Dover, nestled between sheltering chalk cliffs and astride the River Dour. The harbor was filled with ships, but even so the carracks and cogs were not large, and Cecily wondered if the king’s entourage of three hundred strong could be accommodated on them. Henry was going to France to be crowned again there for the benefit of his French subjects.

At Barham Down, a few miles from Dover, Richard had wheeled his horse away to join his own retinue, as did the other seven dukes and earls who were accompanying the little king to France. These lords’ ships were anchored off Sandwich and would join the royal party at Calais. As she watched Dickon ride off, Cecily sank back on the cushions, remembering the few nights they had spent together before leaving for France, when their lovemaking had progressed to where, as Alice had promised, Cecily looked forward to their intimacy.

Pulled by a pair of oxen, the cumbersome carriage, its protective canvas wall rolled up on one side to let in the fresh air, creaked and groaned its way over the rutted road through the scrubby, chalky grassland, causing its passengers to become more than a little crabby.

“Your lord would appear to be very attentive, Sister,” said Katherine, Duchess of Norfolk, with a chuckle. Together with her sisters Anne and Cecily, she was sharing Joan’s carriage.

“Aye, like an unweaned pup,” Anne muttered.

Cecily glared at her. “Dickon does not deserve your spite, Nan,” she shot back. “’Tis only because your lout of a husband prefers baiting his hook
to keeping you company. Confess you are jealous. You have never forgiven Dickon for not preferring you.”

“Pah!” was all Nan could think to reply.

Katherine was amused. As Ralph’s and Joan’s eldest child, Katherine was eight years older than their next daughter and thus had not had to endure such sibling rivalry. Waiting until her mother’s head drooped sideways in sleep against the side of the coach, she whispered to Cecily, “What is this about York and Nan? Do tell.”

“If you do, Cecily, I shall never speak to you again,” Nan’s voice hissed from the other side. “I swear on His holy cross, I shall not.”

Cecily felt Katherine’s hand find hers under the blanket and give it a squeeze.

Cecily took a deep breath and was silent for a change. Certes, Nan must hate me, she thought, as the carriage began to descend to the town. It is not my fault that Father contracted me to Dickon, she reasoned. Could it be that she is envious of my title, now that I am a duchess and she only a countess?

After an uncomfortable night sharing a room as guests of one of Dover’s prominent merchants, the Neville women went aboard their assigned vessel and settled themselves in the captain’s quarters not long after dawn. Cecily leaned out of the porthole and watched the shoremen untying the massive lines and holding the ship fast until the signal was given to cast off. Joan was meting out galingale powders to Eleanor, Katherine, and her two attendants and then took some herself.

“Cecily, pull your head in before you get hurt. By all that is holy, you have a curiosity that would kill a cat. Come, take some of this powder. ’Tis said to ward off the
mal de mer,”
she advised her youngest. But Cecily would have none of it and made a face. Joan shrugged. “Suit yourself, Daughter, but you may be sorry.”

The day was crisply clear after a night of rain, and as the sun rose higher, the dark line that was France was visible on the horizon. Cecily gave a shiver of pleasure. She had never been anywhere but England, and other than the barges and boats on the Thames, never on a ship before. Her skirts and cloak billowed about her, and she clutched Katherine’s arm as they made teetering progress around the ship, laughing at the ungainly gait caused by the pitching deck that had them taking several steps back to their few steps forward.

As France crept ever closer, the sisters remarked on how flat the land was
compared with the cliffs they had left behind at Dover. Long sandy beaches hugged the low coastline for miles and miles, and the deep channel into the harbor was well marked by a breakwater wall that guided the flotilla into Calais on the mouth of the river. The walled town was an imposing bastion encircled by canals with a four-towered castle at its heart. Against the city wall, sheds and warehouses were packed with precious bundles of fleeces and other merchandise that were the lifeblood of this important English-ruled staple town, where English wool was the source of its wealth.

But the town was also a marshalling point for English armies venturing into France. Dominating the skyline and dwarfing the castle was the Lancaster Tower, the watchtower platform giving the English a view for miles both inland and out to sea. To be named Captain of Calais, Cecily knew, was an honor given only to royalty or the very noblest of commanders, and since 1427, John of Bedford had held the title.

The wharves were alive with sailors, stevedores, fishermen, and the party assembled to greet the king. A roar went up when nine-year-old King Henry stood up in the middle of the small barge that had been sent to fetch him and waved to those watching, the sun glinting off the circlet of gold. Cecily noticed that his light brown hair was cut in the new fashion. She thought he looked very dignified for one so young.

Just as Cecily and her fellow passengers disembarked, they heard a fanfare of shawms and trumpets that heralded the arrival of the king at the castle gate, and they all hurried up the cobbled street to catch up. The royal cavalcade passed through the fortified gatehouse and into the inner bailey, where John of Bedford and the aldermen of Calais waited to receive their sovereign lord.

C
ECILY
’
S FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY
on the third day of May had been marked by her family with special prayers after matins, but it wasn’t until a few weeks later that Joan received word from Alice that upon that same day Sir Richard Neville had finally been granted his father-in-law’s title of earl of Salisbury, and more prayers of thanks were offered. Alice’s news also included the birth of twins.

“Richard appears to have inherited his father’s virility,” Joan chuckled, when she read the letter quietly to her daughters.

“And I hope to have your fruitfulness, dear Mother,” murmured Nan, who had already produced three children. She cast down her eyes to her needlework to hide her delight in snubbing both her sisters; Katherine had only the
one son, and six months of marriage had not yet resulted in a pregnancy for Cecily.

Cecily gritted her teeth and bit her tongue, but placid Katherine merely changed the subject. “When will we leave this rat-infested place and go to Paris?” she mused. “I wonder the king does not return to the comfort of Westminster.”

As if on cue, a steward knocked on the countess’s door and bade the ladies join their husbands and other members of the king’s household in the great hall. In a rustling of silks and damasks and lighted by flambeaux the women processed in single file around three sides of the castle to the great hall.

“It must be safe to leave Calais,” Cecily whispered to Rowena, who was following her mistress. “I pray I am right.”

Richard stood in a place of prominence near Henry. Attendant upon the king and trusted associate of Bedford, he had not been able to spend much time with Cecily since their arrival. Cecily had treasured a letter he had sent a few days before in which he had spoken of his undying love and longing for her.

If only we were again at Raby, the woods and meadows stretching before us, our horses straining at the bit, the wind at our backs, and we without a care in the world. How I long to spend time with you alone, my sweet Cecily, take you in my arms, and share our love. Perhaps I should not tell you this for fear of swelling your head, but I am the envy of my fellow lords, who tell me you are the most beautiful of any lady in Calais. I thought disaster had befallen me and God had deserted me when I was left with an uncertain future as an orphan of a traitor. But then fortune smiled upon me and took me to Raby, and now I must be the happiest man in England. All the love I have in my heart is yours always. Your Dickon.

Cecily now smiled across at Richard and touched her heart with her hand. Her husband bent his head slightly and smiled back. Warmth flooded her once again, and she was beginning to believe that it would be thus every time she saw him.

She took her place next to Joan, who had Anne of Bedford on her other side, and took note of the array of English nobles grouped around the throne. The lions of England and lilies of France decorated the canopy above the boy
king. An energy emanated from the nobles that Cecily had not seen before in the month they had been entrenched at Calais. Certes, we will be leaving, she told herself, impatient for the good news.

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, in the name of our gracious sovereign, Henry, king of England and France, I am commanded to give you the report heard this day from our Burgundian ally, John of Luxembourg. At the city of Compiègne, situated between here and Paris and under siege by our allies, the heavens have smiled upon us and the peasant witch known as La Pucelle is finally captured.”

“Thanks be to God!” the company cried as one, and neighbor nudged neighbor, smiling and whispering excitedly. Even Henry grinned. But Cecily could not be glad. Whatever will become of her now? she wondered.

Bedford held up his hand. “Aye, thanks be to God indeed. We believe King Charles’s soldiers will lose heart without their champion and we will soon repair to Paris.” Another cheer went up, and Bedford stepped back to allow the courtiers time to savor the English success.