Thwarted Queen (11 page)

There was a pause while Jenet braided my hair into plaits and fashioned them into an elaborate hairdo.

“What did the young gentleman say?”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“Indeed it does, my lady.” She paused to look into my face.

I lowered my lashes and set my mouth into a line.

Jenet sighed. “He didn’t make any suggestions—”

My lashes flew up as my cheeks warmed.

Jenet’s mouth opened.

I turned away and studied my jewels.

“My lady, I know I am bold for saying this, but you plunge headlong into things—”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“My lady—”

“I am powerless—”

“But you’re not, my lady. Don’t go to him. He doesn’t have anything to lose. You do.”

I glared.

“I heard a story this very morning,” said Jenet. “I was breaking my fast in the kitchens when a traveler told me a story about an Italian count who murdered his lady wife after he found her in bed with a lover. Chopped off her head, he did—”

“My lord would never do something like that!”

“Of course not, my lady,” said Jenet, gently turning my head so that she could continue making the hairdo. “I never meant to suggest so. But—”

“We will talk no more of this,” I said.

And I kept silence while Jenet finished dressing my hair, washed my face and hands in rosewater, and arrayed me in a richly embroidered green silk dress.

During the rest of that long, hot day, I kept to my seat in the solar next to Isabel as I sewed the children’s clothes. My needle flew with an eerie energy as I embroidered flowers, made buttonholes, and ran up hems and seams.

The time for compline came and went.

I heard laughter coming from the garden below, and looking down, saw Lisette with Blaybourne. I blinked. I hadn’t known Lisette was well enough to get up. When Margaret flew to her side, trying to convince her to return to her room, I understood.

Lisette put her hand on Blaybourne’s sleeve. “It’s such a lovely evening, will you not walk?”

I did not hear his reply, but Lisette threw her head back, laughter bubbling up from her throat. Blowing him a kiss, she was escorted back into the castle by Margaret.

Without thinking, I got up and craned my head through the window.

Blaybourne raised his hand and beckoned.

I clutched at the heavy draperies.

“Is something wrong, Cecylee?” said Isabel. “You mustn’t let silly little Lisette get on your nerves. She’s not worth your time.”

I resumed my seat. “You are quite right,” I murmured when the door flew open and Lisette came in, supported by Margaret.

“He’s taking me to the abbey tomorrow. He said it would do me good to ride out and get fresh air.”

Isabel turned to stare at her. “Your husband is fighting in Pontoise. Who could you possibly be talking of?”

Lisette flung herself down.

“I feel much better. I agree with our charming friend, fresh air will make me feel well again, especially as he’ll have to help me on and off my horse. How it will feel to be in his arms—” She closed her eyes and smiled dreamily.

I dropped any pretense of sewing and looked at Margaret. “Is she well?”

“Obviously not,” snapped Isabel. She rose. “I will not have it said that we ladies are so uncontrollable we fly towards the first pot of honey we see while our husbands risk their lives in battle.”

Lisette rose, hectic spots of red flaring on her cheeks. “I’m going out with him tomorrow.”

Isabel turned to Margaret. “I strongly suggest we give her a draught of poppy juice to calm her down.”

“I’m not a child!” Lisette stamped her foot, then swooned.

Isabel nodded to Margaret, and between them, they bundled up the limp figure and carried her off to bed.

I sat there, stunned. Were they going to drug Lisette? What had Blaybourne said to her? I closed my eyes and imagined Lisette in Blaybourne’s arms. I could feel his breath, hear her giggles, imagine what might happen.

But why should I care? What was he against Richard and four years of marriage? I knew scarcely anything about him—not of his family, where he came from, what his station in life was, or what he was doing in Rouen.

What was he doing in Rouen?

There was a soft footfall, and someone entered the room. My eyes flew open. And there he was.

I rose slowly; the room swirled.

With catlike grace, Blaybourne caught me in his arms.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Come, my love.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“I adore you,” he said, kissing my cheek.

At that moment, the door to Lisette’s chamber opened a crack. But no one came out.

He grabbed my hand, and we ran down the stairs into the courtyard, through the garden, until we came to the private screened-in area.

I turned away to compose myself, for I was short of breath, and the pins in my hair were coming loose.

“My love, do you remember you promised to meet me at compline?”

I put the last tendrils of hair back into place. “I am the governor of Normandy’s wife.”

“Has someone upset you?”

“Another story of a jealous husband. This time he beheaded his lady wife.”

“Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

He was silent.

“What about you? Can you fight with a sword? My husband is extremely skilled with his.”

“I have ways of protecting myself.”

“Do you?”

He flushed. “I am sorry to have troubled you, madam.”

He turned and walked slowly away.

I stood there, watching him go, wrapping my arms around me. My fingers were cold, my hands were cold, my arms were cold. I moved towards him. “Don’t go!”

Blaybourne turned and raised an eyebrow.

I went to him.

He folded his arms around me. “You are sure?”

I nestled against him and nodded.

He covered my mouth with kisses and stroked me with long, nimble fingers, sweeping me away in a wave that was so fierce, I could no longer fight.

I unwound myself, kissed him on the forehead, and sighed.

Alert in an instant, Blaybourne dressed with deft motions, then helped me into my chemise.

I leaned against him, my hair hanging loose to my waist. “I’ve broken my marriage vows.”

Our eyes locked. “Did you choose your husband?”

“You know there is no choice.”

“And if there were?” he asked, stroking my hair. “Would you have me?”

I wrapped my fingers around his. “If I were free. But I’m trapped inside my marriage.”

“I could protect you.”

“But you’re just an archer.”

“Do you think so?”

I sneezed.

He put my gown on over my chemise and tied the laces. He was in the middle of helping me with my hair when we heard footsteps. We gave each other a quick glance, then Blaybourne melted into the shadows.

I rose to my feet, fumbling for my shoes.

“Cecylee!”

The cold voice cut through the warm air like a knife.

I drew myself up, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Isabel’s cold blue eyes raked me from head to toe, and from toe to head.

My cheeks burned.

“Have you thought of what it would do to Richard if he found out?” she asked, biting off each word in cold fury. I stared at the ground, a whiplash of fear prickling up my spine. “I’m surprised at you, Cecylee, I thought you had more sense.”

I twisted my hands.

“I have been so stupid. Here I have been protecting your brother George’s honor, trying to get his flighty Lisette to behave, when I should have been protecting Richard’s honor.”

I hung my head.

“Do you not care about Richard?”

“Richard is not Black Fulk—”

“You don’t need to tell
me
that!” snapped Isabel. “He isn’t going to burn his wife in her wedding finery, however badly she behaves.”

“But—”

Isabel jerked my chin up. “Look at me. Remember your heroine Queen Alainor? Do you know what her husband did to her when she betrayed him? He locked her up for sixteen years.”

“Queen Alainor outlived her husband.”

“Is that all you can think of, outliving Richard?”

I squirmed. “Queen Alainor lived for another fifteen years and helped her sons rule England.”

“You snake in the grass,” hissed Isabel, sounding like a snake herself. “You care nothing for the House of York.”

“Enough,” said Blaybourne, quietly but firmly, materializing out of the shadows.

“How dare you,” said Isabel. She turned towards me. “How could you lower yourself with an archer on the Rouen garrison?”

““You don’t know anything about me.”

As Isabel stared at him, my mind sluggishly went to work, like a millwheel churning up muddy water.

“You have grievously injured my brother.”

He was silent.

Isabel leaned forward. “Do you deny it?”

“Did Cecylee choose her husband?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Did you choose your husband?”

Isabel stared at him.

“I understand you had two husbands. Your first marriage to Sir Thomas Grey was annulled, was it not?”

Isabel tightened her jaw.

I scrutinized his face. How did he know that? That happened over fifteen years ago.

“I believe on the grounds of cruelty?”

She was silent.

“Your husband beat you, didn’t he?”

I recoiled. An image sprang to mind of Isabel as a young woman visiting Castle Raby on the occasion of my betrothal to Richard. She was pale and thin and complained of pains in the stomach. When I asked Mama about it, she told me it was women’s troubles. Now, I wondered. It explained a lot: the watchfulness, the sourness, the pleasure she took in unpleasant tales.

“How dare you cross-question me like this,” said Isabel, her voice rasping. “I am a great lady. I am above such things. Yet here you are, digging for dirt—” She went into a spasm of coughing.

He ignored her. “That marriage was not of your choosing, was it? You were only four years old when you were married to him.”

I winced. That was bad as anything that had happened to Alainor.

“I do not choose to discuss this with a stranger!”

“As you wish. But remember that you had a terrifying experience with a husband foisted on you when you were a small child. Why can’t you be more compassionate to Cecylee?”

“Because my brother is no monster!”

“Isabel,” I put in. “I do not expect you to understand—”

“Understand? I do not understand why Richard loves you.”

“That marriage was not of my choice.”

“Choice! What makes you think you would choose well for a husband?”

“I have a right to choose.”

“You should be thinking of the family honor.”

“My happiness is at stake.”

“Is
he
well chosen?”

I folded my hand into Blaybourne’s.

“Your behavior has been disgraceful.”

“I want to be happy in my life.”

“You have grievously injured the House of York, and if I had any say over the matter, you would be severely punished!”

Isabel glared at me. Then she swept off in the direction of the castle.

Chapter 9

Feast of Bernard of Clairvaux

August 20, 1441

I did not leave the castle until one evening a week later. The day had been especially warm, Lisette had just recovered, and to celebrate we went out to the bathing pool to cool ourselves with a bathe in the evening air. We lingered, gossiping and playing with the children, but at length everyone went in, leaving me gazing at the brightening stars. The night was peaceful and I ached for some of its quietude before I had to go back into that hot, noisy, and smelly castle.

I lay back in the pool, half closing my eyes to let the sounds of the evening wash over me. I was unaware of anything other than the turmoil of my thoughts, unleashed against the quiet backdrop of the night.

“My sweetest flower, how sad you look.”

I started. “What are you doing here?”

“I must talk to you,” he said in a low tone.

I stared. Where had he come from?

“You could be carrying my child.”

“No.”

“I will wait while you dress yourself.” He disappeared into the shadows.