Queen by Right (9 page)

Elated, Cecily ran along the dark passageway to her father’s office. Knocking, she pushed open the door and then stopped short on the threshold. Seated at the tapestry-covered table, his head bent over a quill and parchment, was Richard.

“Dickon!” she cried. As soon as he saw her at the door, Richard pushed himself back from the table and hurried forward, his hands outstretched, and Cecily suddenly felt shy. He had grown an inch or so in the nine months he had been gone, and his fashionable blue-pleated tunic and hat with its upturned brim all served to give him a maturity she was not prepared for.

“My dear Cecily,” he said, looking her up and down and grinning. “I do believe you are prettier than ever.”

Much to her annoyance, she blushed. She had always sworn she would never be like Anne, who had reddened every time Richard had glanced
her way. And now she could feel her skin on fire as he held her hands. She dropped a little curtsey, hoping to recover her composure in that simple, reassuring act, but she did not have the chance, for he picked her up and swung her around before planting a kiss on her open mouth.

“Aye, very pretty indeed,” he reiterated sincerely. “Those simpering ladies in London will be put to shame when the Rose of Raby is finally presented there. What? Has the cat pounced on your tongue? Or were you expecting me to talk only about the weather?”

Cecily finally closed her mouth and fixed her eyes upon her betrothed. “But Father never said you were with him. He told me to come and find the gift he had brought me from London. I never thought ’twould be you, Dickon. ’Tis the best present I have ever had. Welcome home, my lord,” she said grandly and swept him a deep reverence. “It seems the saints do listen to my prayers,” she added, with a smug smile. “Only last night I asked St. Jude for news of you.”

Richard was amused. “Ah, you believe I am a lost cause?”

“Aye,” Cecily retorted. “Two letters in nine months. And those were about the weather and your new horse. ’Twas unkind, my lord.”

Richard was contrite at once, stammering an excuse about not knowing what to tell her and that London had really been quite dull.

“Pah!” Cecily muttered. “You just forgot us here in the wilderness—forgot
me.
”

Richard turned away and went to the window. Had word reached Raby about his flirtation with the Lady Agnes, one of Queen Catherine’s ladies? A few years older than he, she had given him his first taste of the delights of the bedchamber, but he had admitted his lust in the confessional after each encounter, and eventually the young lady had tired of his clumsy attempts at wooing and reminded him of his betrothed far away in the north. Now Richard felt an uncomfortable prickling around the neck of his chemise and attempted to loosen it with nervous fingers.

“How could I forget you, Cecily? You wrote to me every week,” he told her, hoping his guilty conscience was not obvious. “I confess your letters kept me laughing. You write well, sweet lady.” He turned when he felt her close behind him and gently took her in his arms. “Truly, I missed you. I promise I shall be better when we return to court,
ma mie.
” She is only ten years old, he told himself again, and yet it is as though my body knows hers already.

Cecily plucked at a loose thread in his sleeve and sighed happily. “I hope
that will not be for a long, long time, Dickon. I am all alone now that George has his lordship of Latimer and Edward has been made Lord Bergavenny. They have been sent to other houses, and I miss them.”

“Then let us make the best of these days, dearest Cis. Shall we hunt on the morrow?”

R
ALPH SPENT MOST
of his waking hours either reclining on a settle in Joan’s solar, listening to her read to him, or walking in the park, leaning heavily on a stick, with Cecily skipping beside him, chattering away and amusing him. Joan was most concerned that he showed no desire to sit his horse and ride to the hunt, which was, in his healthier years, his dearest occupation. He groaned when he stood, even louder when he sat down, and he could barely walk without a shoulder or a stick to lean on.

One day late in October, Joan read a passage from the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight to Ralph and Cecily: “Then came together all the noblest knights, Ywain and Erec, and many another. Sir Dodinel le Sauvage, the duke of Clarence, Launcelot and Lionel, and Lucan the Good, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere—”

Ralph held up his hand for her to pause, muttering, “Lionel and Clarence—that reminds me . . .” He lifted his head and spoke to his daughter. “Cecily, have a page fetch York here, I beg of you,” he said without explanation, giving her a weary smile. “He should be at the butts at this hour.” He watched her hurry to the door. “I beg your pardon, my dear Joan. Please continue.”

When Dickon knocked and entered fifteen minutes later, Cecily was with him, and Ralph motioned for both to approach the cushioned settle. Joan rose and excused herself, knowing with sorrow why Ralph wanted to speak to the young couple.

His thin gray hair had been combed carefully by Joan, and he had made an effort to prop himself up on several velvet cushions. Cecily took Joan’s seat. Dickon stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. Ralph smiled at the picture they made, the dark-haired, gray-eyed young lord and his own beautiful fair-haired daughter.

“I expect you to have handsome, intelligent children,” he began, amused by Dickon’s nervous, lopsided smile. “But that is not why I summoned you here.” He paused, turning a large gold ring on his thumb, unsure of his next words. “It seems I have little time left here on earth. Nay, sweet child, I am at peace with it,” he soothed Cecily when her sharp intake of breath interrupted him.
“The physician has turned up his hands and has no more knowledge of what ails me or how to treat me. If God in his mercy sees fit to take me on the morrow, I am ready.” Cecily leaned forward and took his big hand in hers, covering it with kisses. “I would be even happier to know that I leave you contented with each other. York, you must have noticed that this willful child is the apple of my eye. I cannot go to my Maker without her assurance that she is pleased with my choice for her and that you will cherish her even more than I have.”

Cecily’s tears dripped on her wool gown, leaving dark spots in the green fabric. “Cer—certes, I am contented with D—Dickon, my lord,” she faltered. “But I refuse to believe that you are . . . you are dying. You are merely weary, ’tis all. Mother and I shall soon have you up and well again, trust me.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve.

“Most unbecoming, young lady,” Ralph said, chuckling, and then he began to wheeze and gasp for breath. He waved his hands, signifying the fit would pass, which it did, and he pushed himself up further into a sitting position. “That’s better. At times it feels as though I am drowning,” he said, patting his chest. “Now where was I?”

“You asked if Cecily and I were contented with each other, my lord,” Dickon prompted. He reached down and took Cecily’s hand. “I cannot imagine a more suitable bride, and I shall be proud to have her to wife.”

“Swear to me you will never betray her trust in you,” Ralph commanded. “She is a loyal, good girl.”

Dickon squeezed Cecily’s hand, his gaze never wavering from Ralph’s face. “I owe you all duty for your kindness to me these past two years, my lord, and I swear to you on my mother’s grave I shall not betray your daughter—or your trust in me,” he said. “You need not fear. I shall care for her all the days of our lives together and”—he paused and smiled over Cecily’s head at his father-in-law—“if I can curb her importunity, then our union may well be close to perfect.” He was rewarded by a laugh, albeit feeble, from the earl.

Cecily’s eyes widened, and she tilted her head to look up at Dickon. “What is importunity, Dickon?”

“It means you do not always behave the way your mother has taught you,” Ralph answered before Dickon could find a simpler word. “I fear I have overindulged you, and now that you are ten, you must change your childish ways and behave as befits the consort of a duke.” His voice was tiring, and he stopped to catch his breath.

“Mind your mother, Cecily,” he admonished her when he continued. “She
is a great lady, and one day you will have to teach your own children what she is teaching you now.” He fixed his eyes on Dickon. “Be not hasty to have the child to wife, your grace.” He paused, watching closely for a reaction. When he saw genuine concern and agreement, he continued, “Countess Joan will have need of Cecily after I am gone, and I pray you allow Cecily to remain close to her mother until such time as you are both ready to take on the responsibilities of your office—and of a family.”

Dickon gave Ralph a brief nod of acknowledgment. “Aye, my lord.”

Seeing the earl close his eyes, Dickon drew Cecily toward the door.

Ralph suddenly said, “Before you go, I must confess something to you, Daughter.” Cecily ran back to her father’s side. “Your mother was right to chastise me for allowing you to ride in boys’ breeches. I pray my hardheadedness has not imperiled your immortal soul.” Cecily gulped and involuntarily crossed herself as Ralph continued, “Swear to me you will never again wear them, as it offends the Lord our God.”

“Imperil my soul?” Cecily whispered, her eyes darting around looking for the Devil himself. “By wearing braies?”

Richard stepped in. “Aye, Cecily. Remember that when we first met, I told you then I believed ’twas so.”

Cecily knelt by her father’s head, her eyes brimming.

“Swear to me, Daughter,” Ralph commanded. “I have confessed my sin, as must you.”

Cecily whispered, “I swear, my lord.” Then she laid her head on his chest, her tears spilling onto his nightshirt.

Ralph closed his eyes and stroked her hair. “I thought because you were a child . . .”

“Oh, Father, dearest Father, do not fret,” Cecily implored, lifting her head and gazing at his dear, familiar face and seeing his tears on it for the first time in her life. “God will forgive us, I know He will.”

“Come, Cecily,” Richard coaxed and gentled her to her feet. “Your lord father needs to rest.”

Obediently Cecily allowed herself to be led to the door.

“By all that is holy,” Ralph muttered as he watched them go, “no man has ever been so fortunate in a child.”

O
N THE TWENTY-FIRST
day of October, Dickon’s fourteenth birthday and four days before the tenth anniversary of Agincourt, Ralph Neville, earl of
Westmorland, lay dying in his imposing canopied bed. As many Nevilles as could fit crowded into his chamber, the attending physicians and clerics swelling their ranks. Ralph’s heir and two of his Stafford daughters and their husbands had arrived the night before from Brancepeth. Joan had sent for all her children in time for them to pay their respects to their father. Only his daughter Sister Joan had been unable to come from the convent.

Despite his loss of weight, Ralph was still an imposing figure as he lay between the white linen sheets, his torso propped up on feather pillows, a crucifix between his hands. Cecily knelt at the foot of the bed with Anne, who had not long since given birth to a daughter, and Eleanor from Northumberland. Their mother knelt at one side of the bed and young Ralph on the other. The room was stuffy. Open windows might let in the Devil, who could steal away with a dying man’s soul, and so they had been shut against the summer breezes. A priest swinging the censer, a group of chanting monks, and Father John from Staindrop were all ranged behind Ralph. The churchmen had taken over the vigil from the tired physicians, who were now relegated to the doorway.

Somewhere behind her stood Dickon, Cecily knew, and her father’s words came back to her then. Dickon would be her protector now, but as much as she cared for him, she could not envision him ever replacing her beloved father in her heart. All Ralph’s children had gone one by one to receive his blessing a few hours before, and as last and youngest of the siblings, Cecily’s few words from her father were then barely audible.

“Pray for me, my child. I shall be watching over you when I am taken into the kingdom of heaven. Never forget your faith and your family, Cecily. They will sustain you even unto death.” Then he beckoned for her to bend close. She heard Joan’s sharp intake of breath and knew her mother disapproved of this mark of favoritism. “Kiss me, Cecily, for I have loved you above any of my children.”

Cecily had let her tears bathe his ashen face as she kissed his clammy forehead. “And I love you best, too, Father.”

Then Anne found Cecily’s hand and clutched it in the folds of their black gowns. Cecily stared miserably around at her family, some weeping, some telling their rosary, and others with eyes fixed on their father. Her knees were aching, and she felt as though she had no tears left inside her to shed. Hardly masked by the sweet frankincense, an unpleasant smell lingered around the bed, which she would later learn was the usual harbinger of death. The incense
and the monks’ voices lulled her into a half-meditative state, but when Ralph’s breathing became more labored and she heard the ominous words of the priest reciting,
“Per istam sanctam unctionem et suampissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus . . . ,”
something snapped inside her. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to climb onto the bed and stop the priest from dropping holy oil on her father.

“Nay, nay, he cannot die, he shall not die!” she cried. “Father, I shall not let them take you!” She caught sight of the stricken George, and the memory of their snowy adventure to fetch the Yule log flooded back. She pointed an accusing finger at him. “’Tis your fault. You dropped the mistletoe,” she wailed, and she threw her arms around her father’s blanketed legs.

In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Dickon alone moved to her and removed her from the inert figure, cradling her to him. Ralph’s eyes fluttered open once more, and seeing Cecily in Dickon’s arms, he smiled. “My precious child,” he whispered, and then, turning his head to the priest to indicate he was now ready to meet his Maker, he rasped in his last breath,
“In Tuas manus . . .”
A strange rattling noise prevented more speech, his eyes glazed over, and he moved no more.