Queen by Right (45 page)

This might have been better news, Richard told Cecily, if his place—though with the lesser title of earl—had not been taken by his brother and, Richard feared, his enemy Edmund Beaufort.

“We have simply changed one Beaufort brother named Somerset for another,” Richard said. “And this Somerset has the brains the other did not. Edmund is a far more dangerous proposition.”

“Pish,” replied Cecily airily to hide her misgivings.

18
France, 1444 to 1446

T
hree days before John of Somerset’s death, Henry the Sixth of England and France was formally betrothed, with Suffolk standing as proxy, to Margaret, the fourteen-year-old daughter of René, duke of Lorraine, count of Anjou, king of Naples and Sicily. More significantly, Margaret’s aunt was queen of France.

Richard and Cecily, who had recently added a daughter, Elizabeth, to their growing family, were surprised by the match. Isolated as they were from the English court, they were not privy to the reasons behind the choice, though they recognized it was surely time for twenty-three-year-old Henry to take a bride.

“I understand why Armagnac’s daughter was eventually abandoned,” Richard murmured during one of his visits to Cecily and their new baby. “But René of Anjou’s daughter? She is not even the elder of his girls and she can have very little in the way of a dowry. What was Suffolk thinking?”

“As part of the terms of his release from the Tower, did not the duc d’Orléans give his word to Suffolk to negotiate a peace between us and France?” Cecily asked, watching while Richard rocked baby Bess in the crook of his arm. “Perhaps he thought this would please the French enough to come to terms, so maybe it was not Suffolk’s idea.”

Richard grunted. “He backs it, I am certain, because Gloucester opposes it. It still persists—the Gloucester faction against the Beaufort faction. And the king is in the middle.”

“Which side would you come down on if you were there?”

“Neither—or the king’s, I suppose.” Richard kissed the baby’s cheek. “We shall find out soon enough why the choice was made. Suffolk will be here anon.”

“M
Y DEAR
Y
ORK
, his grace the king is in need of an heir, and we cannot wait until one of King Charles’s daughters is of an age to bear a child,” William de la Pole, earl of Suffolk, explained. “Aye, a royal French bride would have been desirable, but I regret to say we are not in a good negotiating position. René d’Anjou is Charles’s brother-in-law and so Margaret is close enough to be of use, we hope. Before I left, I told Parliament I was merely the messenger doing the council’s bidding. ’Twill not be my fault if the arrangement fails.”

Richard caught Cecily’s fleeting look of surprise. They had both presumed Suffolk was squarely behind the match.

“And peace?” Richard arched an eyebrow. “Is it possible after almost a hundred years of war?”

Suffolk was chagrined. “A truce of twenty-three months was all the French offered.” But then he looked Richard straight in the eye and declared, “But the first true one since King Harry died, and I am proud of it. The citizens of Tours themselves were enthusiastic. It was amusing but moving to hear them cry in English, ‘Peas, peas’ upon the conclusion of the betrothal. And, if you noticed, your people here in Rouen cheered me when I entered the city.” He resented having to defend himself to the duke of York, and it showed, Cecily noted.

“But my lord,” interjected Cecily, cheerfully intent on lightening the mood, “you must indulge the ladies here who wish to know about our new queen. Is she beautiful?”

“She is perhaps the only woman I have met who might hold a candle to you, your grace,” Suffolk said. Then he felt his wife’s presence beside him. “I beg your pardon, I forgot to preface that with: besides my wife, Lady Alice, to be sure.”

Alice de la Pole smiled, amused. “No need to dissemble, my lord, I know where I stand in your eyes.” Suffolk drew her hand to his lips, and Cecily was surprised to see the spark between husband and wife.

Alice’s brown eyes swept over Cecily, from the sable-fur-trimmed hem of her blue cloth of silver gown to the translucent gauze floating from her jeweled headdress, and she added sweetly, “Margaret of Anjou is of astonishing beauty, wit, and intelligence, duchess. We all pale beside her.” A few quiet gasps could be heard from the assembled company at the slight, and all waited for Proud Cis’s response.

Cecily regarded Alice de la Pole, Chaucer’s granddaughter, with interest.
So this is the awful stepmother my dear sister-in-law was saddled with once, she mused. She inclined her head imperceptibly. “Is that so, my lady?” she said haughtily. “Then . . .” Richard’s elbow pressed hard into her side. “Then I for one cannot wait to be presented,” she finished, ruefully resisting a more caustic comment.

Before Suffolk left for England, he had a private word with Richard that was passed along to Cecily in pillow talk.

“What would you think of our proposing to the French king that our Ned be betrothed to one of his daughters? Aye, that was my reaction,” he admitted, feeling her turn abruptly in his arms. “’Twas Suffolk’s own suggestion, believe it or not. He thinks it might shore up goodwill for a peace.”

“A king’s daughter for Ned?” Cecily could hardly keep the excitement from her voice. “Do not delay, my love, for fear she is claimed elsewhere first.”

W
HEN THE EARL
of Suffolk left Rouen a week later, he took Sir Richard Woodville and his family with him. Jacquetta had now produced five children, the latest born not long before the Yorks’ Elizabeth. With the truce there was little for a soldier of Woodville’s experience to do. As well, not being a great lord like Richard, the knight did not have retainers to take care of his estate and business, and he had asked permission of Richard to return to England with Suffolk.

Cecily had come to terms with her unexplained dislike of Jacquetta, and she took the news now with a measure of regret. A bond had formed among all the English ladies, and, as the York and Woodville children grew up side by side in the castle nursery, the two mothers had tried to rub along. Indeed, in April, before Bessie’s birth, Richard told Cecily that he would have to ask the widow of his mentor Bedford to stand as godparent to the baby with Lord Talbot, “for we are running out of English noblewomen here in Rouen,” he teased. Then more seriously, he said, “I would have you obey me in this, Cecily.” He was relieved when she had voiced no objection.

S
NOW WAS FALLING
lightly on a late February evening the following year when a horseman cantered through the castle gate with a message from the duke of York that he would be returning from his progress to Lisieux in western Normandy earlier than expected.

Sir William brought the message along the dark passageway between his chambers and the duchess’s, a page holding a torch to light their way. Christ
on his Cross, but it was cold in this castle, he thought for the hundredth time since coming here four years ago with the duke. At least the many towers of the extensive castle were connected by these covered passageways. Going out into the snow with his gouty foot wrapped so heavily was less attractive. The guard outside Cecily’s chamber scrambled to his feet and stood to attention when he saw Oldhall coming.

Cecily welcomed him warmly when he was announced. “Sir William, pray come in and enjoy the fire. Rowena, pour us some mulled wine.” She plucked Anne from the other chair and waved him to it. “Demoiselle de Caux, if you would be so kind, Nan should go to bed. We shall finish our game in the morning, sweeting,” she reassured the disappointed child, moving the draughts board out of harm’s way. “Now, come kiss me goodnight.”

Rowena handed Oldhall a hanap of spiced wine from a pot suspended over the fire. He cupped his cold hands around it and savored the spicy steam before it cooled enough for him to drink.

“’Tis good of you to see me so late, your grace. But I have received word within the hour that the duke will be returning on the morrow. I thought you should know.”

“So soon,” Cecily remarked, frowning. “Is there trouble brewing in the province? I thought we still had a truce with France while the marriage negotiations with Margaret are going on. Has the king changed his mind again?” She was remembering Richard’s disappointment when the proposed alliance with Armagnac’s daughter was abandoned.

Sir William smiled and took a sip of his wine, wincing as he burned his tongue. “Nay. The marriage is going forward, though they have kept Suffolk kicking his heels longer than we had hoped. But now Lord Richard must prepare to meet King Henry’s queen in a fortnight at Pontoise and escort her to the coast. We believe the queen and her party plan to spend Easter here before sailing to England from Harfleur.”

Cecily made a mental note to talk with her steward about the arrangements she would have to make for the royal visit, but then her thoughts turned to Richard. I wonder if he will want me to go with him, Cecily thought, tapping her finger on the arm of the chair and staring into the flames. She had to confess that she was consumed with curiosity about Margaret of Anjou. She hated the idea of leaving the children. Their well-being consumed most of her time these days, and as soon as her administrative duties of the day were done, she would hurry to the nursery to cuddle Bess, help Edward build something
with his colorful blocks of wood—a sweet gift from Piers Taggett, and then watch as Edmund invariably crawled over to knock them down. Edward never cried. He simply balled his fists and shouted, “Bad boy, Eddom,” and Edmund would grin and gurgle and knock more down, much to Cecily’s amusement. She never tired of watching her brood, as she called them, grow and blossom. Cecily wondered how the news had been received in London that Richard was in communication with King Charles proposing marriage between Edward and one of the French king’s two younger daughters.

“Someone has to wed her,” Richard had said, when he told her he had approached Charles and that he was entertaining the idea. “It is propitious for us that the girls are too young for Henry. He cannot afford to wait to produce an heir.”

Cecily returned her thoughts to Sir William, who was noisily sipping his wine. “Then we must prepare for my husband’s return and make everything ready for his speedy departure for Pontoise. I shall prepare to go with him, should he so desire. And you and I must plan for the queen’s visit, Sir William.” She steepled her fingers and tapped them together lightly. I pray this marriage leads to lasting peace, she mused, but there is bound to be a price.

M
AINE AND
A
NJOU
were the price England had to pay for Margaret’s hand. Richard’s disgust at Suffolk’s capitulation in the marriage negotiations manifested itself in a rigorous practice session with short swords with his brother-in-law, Richard Neville, earl of Salisbury, in the martial yard of Pontoise castle in March.

Alice, countess of Salisbury, and Jacquetta Woodville, former duchess of Bedford, were among the noblewomen chosen to accompany Suffolk from England to escort the young queen from Tours to Pontoise. Cecily and Alice were joyfully reunited when the Yorks arrived a day later.

The two sisters-in-law watched the younger, faster Richard thrust and lunge at the older Salisbury, who seemed more amused than assertive in his defensive parries, allowing York to vent his frustration.

“Easy, boy, easy,” the veteran soldier advised Richard at one point, putting up his sword and falling back. “Take your time. You are rushing at me like a barbarian. It was not your fault we lost Maine and Anjou. You have done your duty. You still hold Normandy.”

Richard scowled under his sallet and ignored Salisbury’s counsel. He took up a threatening stance and began to weave around again. “Aye, brother, but
for how long?” he growled. “Mark my words, Suffolk will pay dearly for this. Charles has made an excellent bargain and he must be guffawing in his cup of Rhenish. He gave up an insignificant princess with little dowry, agreed to only a temporary peace, and won Maine and Anjou. ’Tis hardly a fair exchange!” In his ranting, he failed to notice Salisbury’s move sideways and the next thing he knew, he had Salisbury’s blunted sword tip pointing at his heart. “Christ’s nails, Neville, how did you manage that?”

Salisbury lifted off his helmet and grinned. “Were you not taught by John Beckwith at Raby never to talk while you are fighting? You took your inner eye off me to focus on your words and the rest was easy.”

W
HEN
C
ECILY WENT
forward to kneel before Margaret of Anjou, she had to admit that the marchioness of Suffolk was right. The fifteen-year-old Frenchwoman was dazzling indeed. Her ripples of golden-red hair were crowned simply with a gold coronet in which were set three large sapphires with intervening diamonds. Droplets of pearls the size of pigeon eggs fell from her ears, and the neck, sleeves, and hem of her azure velvet gown were trimmed with ermine. An aggressive energy radiated from the young woman with her pert nose, full mouth, perfect complexion, and purple eyes. Nay, they cannot be purple, Cecily thought, kissing Margaret’s outstretched hand, but looking again, she decided they were. She wondered how quiet, saintly Henry would handle his passionate bride.