Queen by Right (41 page)

As soon as their guestmistress had left them, informing Cecily that she was invited to the mother superior’s table for supper, Cecily asked Constance to do a little exploring while she rested.

“I do not suppose one may request a bath,” Cecily remarked, taking in the simple room and laughing. “But in case my husband does arrive early, I will lie down and nap so I do not look so travel-worn.”

“I will return in an hour and help you dress for supper,
madame,
” Constance
said, hanging a russet wool overgown on a peg. Cecily stepped out of her heavy riding skirt, which Constance shook and slapped to get rid of the dried mud.

Digging into the leather saddlebag, Constance brought out an ivory comb and laid it on the table. “I can at least find rosemary, lemon juice, and a bowl of water in the infirmary with which to cleanse the dust from your hair, your grace. The lemon does lighten it and give it luster.”

When Constance had gone, Cecily knelt before the large wooden figure of Christ upon the cross that dominated one wall, the agony carved in excruciating detail upon the crucified man’s face. She still could not bring herself to address the Father, Son, or Holy Ghost directly and so squeezed her eyes shut and thought of the Virgin, beseeching her to bless her and Richard’s efforts to have a second son. She doubted anyone was heeding her. She suspected her lapse of faith had turned even the Blessed Mother from her. But she persisted, telling her beads and reciting the rote prayers diligently, and she hoped that the visit to the shrine would go a long way to restoring her faith.

As she reached the end of the rosary, something brushed her cheek, startling her, and her eyes instinctively opened. The room was empty. Puzzled, she glanced down at the floor and was astonished to see a white feather at her feet. Then she heard cooing and saw a dove preening upon the windowsill. She gasped, crossing herself.

“You are still with me, Virgin Mother,” she whispered, awed. “I promise I shall not stray again.”

A
S SOON AS
she and Constance had attended Mass the next morning, Cecily made her way to the fountain with its statue of a stern Clothilde looking down on the pilgrims as they stepped into the cool water. In front of her a woman held a child with a withered arm, and behind her another woman, whose haggard face betrayed her pain, was quietly praying and clutching her stomach. When it was her turn, Cecily knelt on the grass, her peasant gown giving her freedom of movement, and, cupping her hands, she washed her face in the clear water and let it run down in rivulets between her breasts. She felt it trickle down over her belly and between her legs, and as she gazed intently at the saint’s image, she begged Clothilde to make her fertile.

She backed away from the shrine and crossed herself. Glancing idly at the men on the other side, her heart leaped. Richard was in the middle of the queue, barefoot and dressed in a drab green tunic such as an archer might
wear. His head was uncovered. He flashed a quick grin before concentrating on his own supplication to the saint. Cecily waited and watched as he immersed himself in the fountain to his knees, cupping his hands and drinking the sacred water.

In a very few minutes they were arm in arm, climbing the chalky footpath to the castle. Cecily could not stop talking. She was too excited to be with Richard on this adventure, where no one knew who they were and thus they were free to act as if they were simply townsfolk from somewhere else come to seek succor from Clothilde.

“And that is why this is called the Lionheart’s one-year-old daughter,” she finished explaining, as they gazed up at the hulk of white rock that seemed to scrape the clouds. Cecily added to Constance’s story only slightly with a fact given her by Mother Agnes at supper. “The English king used to call it his Rock of Andely,” the elderly nun had told Cecily.

“I have much admiration for Coeur de Lion, but I could wish I had this fortress at my disposal now,” Richard grumbled, “or at least the money it must have taken to build. The council still pinches pennies when it comes to funding my work here, in truth.”

Cecily slid her hand through the wide sleeve of his gown and tickled his ribs. “No talk of politics, no talk of war, no talk of money I beg of you, my love. We have more important business to attend to in these two days, do we not?” she teased, loving the surprised gurgle he always emitted when he was tickled. “We have all day to ourselves and no one will know to seek us here.”

Unable to break the habit of checking over his shoulder for an attack, Richard had to make sure no one had followed them before he could relinquish himself to Cecily’s advances. After walking a few paces back the way they had come and satisfying himself they were indeed alone, he turned around to find that she had disappeared.

“Cis? Cecily, where are you?” he called. She had never ceased to amaze him with her antics, he thought, ever since she was a little girl. “Are you expecting me to search for you?” he said. He was approaching a large unruly bush covered in wild white roses when suddenly Cecily popped up from behind it. He gasped. She was naked, her skin alabaster in the sunlight and her rosy nipples hardened by the cool breeze high above the river. She struck a pose for him. She had let down her glorious tresses and they fell to the curve of her hips. He was reminded of an ancient statue of the goddess Venus he had seen once, but when she stretched out her arms to him, he knew she was no goddess but a
nymph, a siren, a naiad, or something so ethereal and yet so alive that he could only throw himself on her mercy and into her seductive embrace.

As though their experience at the fountain had somehow made their coupling sacred, each pleasured the other separately and in silence before they came together many times during that balmy afternoon with only the great white walls of the Rock of Andely as a towering witness.

Pleasantly spent, Richard rolled onto his back and gazed again at the moldering bastion of stone nearby, clasping Cecily’s hand between their perspiring bodies. “’Tis strange, Cis, but I feel my ancestors all around me in this place, built as it was by another Richard Plantagenet. A good omen, I believe, for the begetting of another son of our royal house, do you not think?” he asked, turning to nuzzle her cheek.

“Aye, Richard,” she agreed, squeezing his hand. She sat up to retrieve her gown and cover them both when a noise high up on the castle ramparts attracted their attention. As if to underscore Richard’s pronouncement, one of the huge stones that had come loose over two centuries of neglect toppled at that moment and fell crashing onto the cliff below. Richard chuckled, but Cecily felt a frisson of fear. How odd that they should witness the event, she thought, her mind busy with the coincidence. What if it had a larger and more ominous meaning. What if it were a sign that the house of Plantagenet was crumbling. God’s bones, Cis, she asked herself, why so maudlin after such ecstasy? She quickly crossed herself and chose not to bother Richard with her foolish fancy. Snuggling up to him, she closed her eyes and dozed.

O
NLY LATER WOULD
Cecily receive news from England that made the portent seem not as fanciful. Eleanor Cobham, duchess of Gloucester, long rumored to have dabbled in the dark arts, was denounced on the self-same day at St. Paul’s Cross by an astronomer, who, together with a co-conspirator, had been arrested for making a waxen image of King Henry, with Eleanor’s consent, and subjecting it to a slow flame. They had all believed that as the wax figure melted, so would Henry’s health, and thus Humphrey of Gloucester would become king and Eleanor his queen. Her cohorts were charged with treason, and Eleanor, as an accessory, would have to be tried. The scandal damaged an already diminishing affection between Gloucester and the king, and the duke’s influence and power was all but snuffed out like the candle that had melted the little wax doll.

T
HE TWO-DAY TRYST
was over all too soon, and the journey back to Rouen was taken at a slower pace on Cecily’s instructions. She wanted to savor every second of those idyllic days and was in no hurry to return to her routine in Rouen. Her horse found its own path as she sat in the saddle and daydreamed of the secret sojourn. With no one to disturb Richard with affairs of war or state and only Constance to flit silently about the chamber, dressing and undressing her mistress and then disappearing at all the right moments, the duke and duchess of York had known a freedom and tranquility they could not have dreamed possible. If Cecily conceived, she had told Richard upon parting, then she would know they were truly blessed. She determined the nuns of the abbey of St. Clothilde would receive benefices that would astonish them if a child was born of the Yorks’ time there.

A loud cry of alarm jolted Cecily from her reverie, causing her horse to rear in fright. Cecily’s expert horsemanship prevented her from being thrown, and she calmed the beast quickly. She had fallen behind John and Constance a little way, and now she saw John already on the ground, helping Constance down from their horse. Then Constance was clutching his arm and pointing to a clump of trees off to the left of the path.
“Là bas, monsieur!”
she cried. “I see something moving in the trees there.”

“What is it, Master Blaybourne, are you hurt?” Cecily urged her horse alongside him. Then she saw what had startled them and looked about her in fear. An arrow was still quivering in the ground a few feet in front of Blaybourne’s mount. “Your grace, you should make for the trees,” Blaybourne replied, pointing to two oaks a few paces to their left. His tone was respectful but insistent. “And dismount if you can.”

Cecily did as she was bidden, although her legs wobbled like a clump of disturbed frog spawn when her feet touched the ground. If this was an ambush, she thought vaguely, the outlaw was either unskilled with the bow or not very ambitious, for having the advantage of surprise, he had not let fly another arrow or shown himself. John had already unslung his bow and was moving from tree to tree, keeping the area in view where Constance had seen the antagonist.

Suddenly a man leaped down from an overhanging branch and knocked the giant archer to his knees. A fierce fight ensued, terrifying the two women, who peered out from behind a sturdy oak. The stranger, although young, was no stripling and was clothed in a mailed tunic and a hood that concealed his
face. Blaybourne, who had drawn his knife, shouted angrily every time he lunged at the man. The younger man was quick on his feet, despite his size, and he too drew a knife. He was less skilled than Blaybourne and missed his quarry several times before achieving a gash on Blaybourne’s arm. Blaybourne stepped back to assess his wound for a second, tripped over a broken branch, and fell heavily to the ground.

Before the aggressor could seize the advantage, Cecily had covered the ground between her hiding place and the men and, without thinking, screamed in English, “Stop! Stop this at once!” Immediately the young man put up his knife and started to run, but Blaybourne stuck out his leg and brought his assailant to the ground, and the weapon went flying. Seeing Blaybourne raising his knife to deliver a mortal wound, Cecily ran between them, still shouting, “Stop! Do you hear me, stop!” though now she remembered to use French. Then she saw who the attacker was and she gasped. “Piers? Piers Taggett! Sweet Mother of God, what were you thinking?”

Blaybourne lowered his arm, wincing as he did so, and blinked in amazement when he too recognized Taggett. “You bat-fowling, craven-clotted scoundrel, you might have killed her grace of York. You should be hanged for this!” He dragged Piers to his feet, twisting the falconer’s arm painfully behind his back. “’Tis plain as a pikestaff you have not been trained to fight. And your skill with the bow is laughable,” he spat.

“Leave him be, Master Blaybourne,” Cecily commanded, taking Blaybourne aback, but he obeyed and let go of Piers’s arm. “I thank you for your good service, indeed I do, but I would hear an explanation from Master Taggett.” She looked at Piers sadly. “You have disappointed me, and I would know why.”

Constance, seeing the danger was past, sidled up to Blaybourne and began to check his wound. Piers gawked at her, his eyes starting from his head. “D . . . Doctor LeMaitre.” He choked on her name. “I d . . . did not . . . I never saw you. I only saw
him
with you, your gr . . . grace.” He jerked his thumb in John’s direction. “I thought—I thought my lady, your gr . . . grace had been carried off by . . . by . . .”

A sudden peal of laughter ended his miserable attempt to explain himself, and Cecily took out her kerchief to wipe her eyes. “I am sorry, Piers, I truly am,” she apologized between chuckles, “but the idea is too funny. You thought Master Blaybourne was running away with me? Come, Constance, Master Blaybourne, you must see the humor,” and she continued to laugh.

Blaybourne, however, was not amused. “You thought what? You ignorant clodpole. You clapper-clawed peasant. That I would abduct the duchess of York? Christ’s blood, but you are more of an ass than you look.” Picking up Piers’s dagger, he appraised it before shoving it into his belt alongside his own knife. “I shall take charge of this. It may be needed as evidence when I give you up to the sheriff.”

Piers began to stammer his apologies, and his humiliation was so apparent that Cecily silenced him by holding up her hand. “Let me understand you properly, Piers. How could you have thought Master Blaybourne was running away with me? Of all the ridiculous notions. The duchess and the archer, certes, that would make a good story.” She chuckled again, but on seeing Piers’s shame, stopped herself from mocking him further. “Let me hear your explanation,” she said more gently.

Piers pulled himself together when he sensed the duchess was giving him the benefit of the doubt, and he retold the story of what he had seen at dawn at the mews. “I swear, I did not see Doctor Constance, your grace,” he said. “Thus, without a chaperone, I imagined . . . well, you know what I imagined, and I could not let any man defile you!”

Cecily nodded and clucked her tongue as Blaybourne slapped his forehead and groaned, “Clay-brained scut!”