Queen By Right Read online

  Ralph Neville, earl of Westmorland and sixth Baron Raby, grinned as he watched his youngest daughter lean over her horse’s neck and urge the beast into a full gallop. The sight of her in the saddle never failed to give him pride; she was only eight years old and yet she could ride better than either of his younger sons, perhaps because he had taken it upon himself to teach her. “Spare the birch and spoil the child,” his wife, Joan Beaufort, had recently chided him, but Ralph had merely chuckled, twitched his drooping moustache and told her: “My dear lady, I have sired more than a score of children in my sixty years, and my hair has been rendered gray by many of them. I beg you to allow me in my dotage to indulge myself as a father with this enchanting child of ours. I fear you will bear me no more, and so I shall do as I please with Cecily.” And with that, he had bent over and given her such a smacking kiss on her upturned mouth that Joan did not have the heart to press the matter further.

  Instead, she stroked his weathered cheek, saying, “You are incorrigible, my lord,” and then straightened her cumbersome headdress.

  Digging her heels into the horse’s flanks and letting it have its head, Cecily willed her mount to cover the ground as if being chased by a demon. Ralph had taught her to ride like a man, defying all convention and amusing the many grooms who peopled the earl’s ample stables. The first time Cecily had appeared in what looked like peasant braies, Joan, the youngest child of the great prince John of Gaunt, had thrown up her hands in horror and quoted: “ ‘A woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God.’ Do you not remember your scriptures, my lord? Have you no fear for Cecily’s immortal soul?”

  Cecily had looked from one parent to the other, dismay written on her face, but Ralph had dismissed his wife’s objection, claiming that the verse did not apply to children. He picked up his daughter and carried her through the vaulted passageway to the stables hard by the Clifford Tower. Trusting her father in everything, Cecily had pushed a tiny fear to the back of her mind, but she had asked God’s forgiveness that night—and every time she rode out in her braies—nonetheless.

  The day was crisp, and the leaves had turned russet and gold on the huge oaks, ash, and elms that dotted the park and canopied the forest. Just before crossing the Staindrop road to continue into the woods, they saw a small group of riders trotting up from the village toward them. Ralph reined in his horse when he recognized the falcon and fetterlock badge of the lead outrider and called out a warning to Cecily that he was stopping. But her horse had other ideas, and instead of obeying her tug at the reins, it wheeled around and began to head for the horsemen. Using all her strength, she finally succeeded in reining it in but not before it reared up, pawed the air, and came to a standstill a bare three feet from a youth astride a palfrey.

  “Whoa, Tansy!” Cecily cried sternly enough, but then reached down to stroke and soothe the horse’s neck. “Forgive me, sir,” she addressed the astonished boy with the confidence of one who knew her place as an earl’s daughter. “Something must have alarmed her. I trust she did not frighten you.”

  “Cecily, apologize to our guests at once!” Ralph’s admonition as he rode up to join them made her hang her head. “This is not the most comfortable of meetings, my lord duke,” he said, addressing the youth with a slight bow, and, leaning out of his saddle, he took hold of Cecily’s rein. “I must beg your indulgence. This is my youngest unmarried, the lady Cecily Neville, who is usually in more control of her mount. You must think we are naught but ill-mannered clodhoppers hereabouts.” He grinned down at the young man from his large roan.

  But twelve-year-old Richard Plantagenet had forgotten about manners for a second, and he stared at the small figure he had taken for a boy. Cecily stared right back. When Ralph chuckled, Richard made a hasty bow. “My lord of Westmorland, I am at your service.”

  Ralph turned to the older man in charge of the party. “Sir Robert, you are right welcome to Raby.” He maneuvered his horse so that he was beside Waterton, leaving Richard and Cecily to fall in behind them. “You have made good time.”

  “Lady Cecily, I give you God’s greeting,” Richard murmured politely by way of an introduction, and then he remembered to answer her. “I was not afraid just now, in truth. You ride well—for your age.” He almost said “for a girl” but something in the toss of her head made him think better of it. She rode up to join her father.

  “Shall we not hunt today, Father?” she asked quietly, so that Waterton could not hear her. “You promised.”

  Ralph’s eyebrows snapped together. “Certes, we shall not hunt, Daughter. We have guests. Sir Robert Waterton and I have business to attend to in the matter of my wardship of Lord Richard.”

  “Wardship? Another one! Why have you not told me of this, Father?” a disappointed Cecily muttered to him, as the little cavalcade trotted back toward the castle. “Are we all to share you and Mother with him as well as the others?”

  “Your mother will explain, Cecily. But for now, I pray you, be charitable,” he said sternly. “’Tis certain your brothers will make Lord Richard more welcome, at least. He was orphaned by the time he was four and has no family to speak of, except for a sister.”

  “Oh,” Cecily murmured. Turning around, she looked with pity at the slight rider, his over-large bonnet almost covering his slate-gray eyes. “How sad.” With nine brothers and sisters and several half siblings, she could not conceive of being so alone. She wondered where his sister had been sent and murmured a prayer heavenward for the girl to be as fortunate as Richard in her enforced placement at a stranger’s hearth.

  Cecily saw that Richard was impressed by the many crenellated towers that graced Raby Castle. The towering stone barbican’s portcullis was unneeded in this peaceful corner of England. Raby was not on the major road to the border with Scotland, unlike the earl’s principal seat of Brancepeth a dozen miles away.

  Cecily was too young to remember the only armed men to be seen at Raby during her lifetime—other than her father’s guard—those who had left the castle to fight with Henry of Monmouth in France. She had been born just before that young king’s thrilling victory at Agincourt. Who could have guessed that only seven years later, in his mid-thirties, the fifth King Henry—affectionately dubbed Good King Harry by his subjects—would be dead of the bloody flux? He had only just done his duty by his royal French bride, Catherine. He had sired an heir nine months before his death, which had “set the cat among the pigeons,” Cecily had heard her father say. A child king would mean a regent and in-fighting, Ralph had explained, “and who will now maintain our renewed hold on France?”

  “Do you always dress that way?” Richard said to Cecily, catching up with her as they rode through the gatehouse and into the busy outer bailey. “I thought you were a boy. I have not seen a girl in man’s garb before.” Cecily bristled as he continued, “I thought ’twas against God’s laws.” He did not wait for an answer but threaded his way deftly through the throng of yeomen, stewards, grooms, and squires going about their tasks and then dismounted with practiced ease.

  Cecily frowned, reminded of her mother’s remark. But she loved the freedom the braies gave her, and she had often secretly wished she had been born a boy. She called out in defiance to the young duke, “Have no fear, my lord. You will see me in a gown within the hour.” As if he were still in doubt, she removed her chaperon to show off her golden hair. Once freed, it spilled over her shoulders and down her back. The transformation made him smile for the first time, and Cecily liked the way his eyes crinkled up. She decided she might make friends with him after all.

  “Shall I see you at supper, my lord?” Cecily asked, and seeing Richard nod, she skipped off up the newel stair to her own chamber high in the keep.

  CECILY DID NOT see Richard again for a week, and when she did bump into him on her way to the stables, he was engaged in swordplay with her thirteen-year-old brother, George. Judging fr
om the laughter and good-natured bantering from the other young would-be squires in the care of the experienced master of henchmen, John Beckwith, Richard was fitting in without difficulty. George was a formidable opponent, but it was clear that Richard had already received good instruction in the use of the small stick sword and was gaining ground despite his slighter stature. Cecily waved as Richard sprang out of the way of George’s lunge, and he was momentarily distracted, allowing George to thrust his wooden weapon right at the heart.

  “Aha!” George mocked, encouraging the others to tease the embarrassed Richard. “I see you already have an eye for a pretty girl, Dickon!” He swung around to face his sister. “Have a care, Cis. Doing what you did could be the death of a man one day,” he admonished her.

  Cecily’s smile faded into a pout. She hated George scolding her, which wasn’t very often, as he had adored his baby sister from the day she was born. He was her favorite brother, and she strove to win his approval.

  “A pox on you, George!” she retorted, close to tears. Avoiding Richard’s gaze, she turned toward the passageway that led to the stable yard.

  Feeling sorry for her, Richard said loudly, “I should thank your sister if I were you, George. She saved you from a certain drubbing!” The other youths roared with laughter, and it was George’s turn to redden.

  Cecily’s heart warmed to this newcomer, and she walked off with her head held high.

  SEATED ON A footstool near her mother, Cecily watched intently as Joan showed her an intricate embroidery stitch on a piece of linen covered with Cecily’s previous attempts to learn the skill. She was proud that her mother thought she was old enough to move from the basic and boring chain stitch into making knots and loops that would one day form intricate designs.

  On the other side of Joan sat Cecily’s twelve-year-old sister Anne, her pale blue eyes alternately lowered to her sewing and watching Cecily receive all the attention from their mother. She appeared to be a model child—never speaking out of turn, never causing her nurse or tutor trouble, and always seeking the approbation of her elders—but once out of adult view, Anne guarded a jealous heart and a spiteful tongue, and she resented her father’s favoring of Cecily. When Cecily found a toad in their shared bed a few years ago, she knew it was Anne who had put it there; when her favorite bonnet went missing, she knew Anne was responsible but said nothing—not even when Anne pretended to come upon it unawares folded inside Cecily’s second-best gown and was praised for her diligence. The two sisters dutifully said their nightly prayers side by side, but when the nurse had tucked them in and snuffed out the candle, there were no shared giggles or secrets. Each turned on her side and went to sleep.

  Earlier that summer, when Anne was contracted in marriage by proxy to Humphrey, earl of Stafford, Cecily wanted to ply her sister with questions, but Anne had returned from the civil ceremony in her father’s privy chamber and snapped at her sister, “I am married, ’tis all, Cis. Nothing has changed. All I know of him is that he is twenty-one and has been an earl since he was one. I do not even know what he looks like.” To hide her bitterness, the older girl had knelt down to fondle a little Italian greyhound.

  The countess finished instructing Cecily in the intricacies of a blanket stitch and, turning to Anne, asked her to demonstrate her progress on the psaltery. Anne gladly relinquished her embroidery and ran across the room to where one of Joan’s ladies was quietly plucking the instrument. Making certain her mother was watching her, Anne pushed her floor-length sleeves out of the way, steadied the boxlike instrument on her knees, and began to play. Joan smiled encouragingly as Anne painstakingly struggled through the song.

  Joan waited until her daughter was well along before nodding to her ladies to continue their quiet conversation and then turned back to Cecily. The maternal gesture was not lost on Cecily, and she marveled at how her mother made each one of her children feel special. And there are so many of us, Cecily grinned to herself. ’Tis a miracle she even remembers all our names. I shall have but two children, she decided then and there. A boy first, who will be a big brother to my little girl—just like George and me.

  “Are you listening to me, Cecily?” Joan’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She blinked up at her mother. With a heart-shaped face and complexion of a pink-tipped briar rose, a generous mouth, and a pair of blue eyes that could melt the stoniest of hearts, it did not surprise Joan that the villagers in Staindrop had begun calling Cecily their Rose of Raby. Ralph said his daughter’s eyes reminded him of cornflowers. Bishop Henry Beaufort, Joan’s brother, thought of a jay’s feather. But Joan knew they were the color of her own father’s eyes—of the sky above his beloved Aquitaine—and she smiled now as Cecily lowered her head.

  “Aye, my lady,” Cecily acquiesced sheepishly, “I am now.”

  “Your father wishes me to talk to you of your future, of marriage, my dear,” Joan began, and then sighed. All her daughters were either promised in marriage already or were even in a second one, but that was what was expected of girls of noble rank. Having been born a bastard, Joan had escaped early wedlock and had been respectably married to a knight at the grand old age of seventeen. But by the time he died, her royal father’s liaison with his mistress, Katherine Swynford, had been solemnized in marriage and his Beaufort bastards decreed legitimate. Then Joan was fit for an earl, and a year later she was married to Ralph, widower of Margaret Stafford and already the father of several children.

  “Marriage?” Cecily repeated abruptly and searched her mother’s lined face. “But I thought I must be twelve before I am married. Anne said . . .”

  “Anne is quite right, Cecily. Twelve is the legal age for marriage, but you can be promised at any age,” Joan told her.

  “How old were you when you were betrothed, Mother? Older than eight, I’ll be bound!” Cecily immediately regretted her outburst. The countess’s expression hardened, and she gave a quick look around the room to make sure no one else had heard her daughter’s insolent remark.

  “You forget yourself, Cecily,” Joan scolded quietly. “Your father may indulge you, but it is left to me to teach you manners, and not even he will tolerate disrespect, I assure you. Apologize at once and interrupt me no further.” She chose not to inform her wayward daughter that in fact she had been twelve when her father had given her in marriage to Sir Robert Ferrers.

  A tear rolled down Cecily’s cheek, but she swiftly wiped it away and whispered an apology. In moments like these, it was not hard to remember that Joan was one of the children, surnamed Beaufort, of John of Gaunt and thus half sister to King Henry the Fourth. As mistress of the one hundred and fifty members of the Raby household, she was revered for her royal blood and equally regal bearing, but it was the care and concern she showed her servants that made them more devoted. Joan had learned this from her mother, who had begun in Gaunt’s household as a servant—governess to his earlier children. Woe betide, however, anyone who forgot his place at Raby; it was said Joan Beaufort could wither with a look as well as her father ever had.

  Seeing Cecily so contrite, Joan reached out and patted her hand. “There is hope, Cecily. I do not think you will be displeased with your father’s choice, and aye, you must wait until you are twelve before you are officially wed.”

  Forgetting her dismay, Cecily’s curiosity was piqued enough for her to ask, “Who is he, Mother?”

  “A young man with whom you are already acquainted. And this young man will make you, as his wife, the noblest lady in the kingdom—after her grace, the King’s mother.” Joan’s eyes twinkled at Cecily’s open-mouthed stare. “Can you guess?”

  But eight-year-old Cecily was not yet well versed in England’s nobility, other than understanding how grand her eldest sister, Katherine, was as duchess of Norfolk. All she knew was that her mother and father were the king and queen of her little world at Raby. She shook her head. “Nay, Mother, I cannot guess.”

  “His grace, the duke of York, Richard Plantagenet, your father’s ward,” Joan to
ld her triumphantly. “’Tis a high honor indeed, and one day you will outrank us all, Cecily. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Richard’s gray eyes, wiry body, and lopsided smile leaped into Cecily’s mind, and she giggled. “But he’s not a man! He’s not a husband,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth to hide her merriment. “He’s just a boy. How can he be a duke? I thought dukes went off to France to fight.”

  Joan had to laugh. At least the child was not upset. Joan had been elated by Ralph’s plan to secure Richard’s marriage contract from the Crown along with the wardship, and the king’s council had agreed. “As the others of my daughters are already pledged, Richard is the perfect match for my sweet Cecily,” Ralph had told Joan. “There are only four years between them, and I do believe they like each other already.” Joan had agreed and sent a prayer of thanks to St. Monica for her intercession in this affair. “Richard will be with us for several more years, ample time for them even to grow to love each other. They are fortunate.”

  “Is he not too young to be a duke?” Cecily was asking her now, and Joan brought her focus back to her daughter. “What happened to his father?”

  Joan explained that Richard’s father had rebelled against the late King Harry just before Agincourt and the king had executed him for treason. “This made our Richard earl of Cambridge. And, God is merciful, the king did not attaint him with his father, because he was only a boy,” Joan said. “And when Richard’s uncle, the childless duke of York, was killed a few weeks later at Agincourt, Richard inherited that title too. Are you following me?”

  Cecily nodded, though Joan had lost her at the execution of Richard’s father. She understood that to have been executed by the king, the man must have plotted against him. Her father had told her that the word for a person who did that was “traitor.” And then the word “attainted” would be whispered every time the traitor was mentioned. As yet, Cecily had not grasped the significance of that second word, but as it sounded as though it meant rotten or having a bad smell, she would wrinkle her nose every time she heard it. How humiliating for poor Richard, she thought. ’Twas a wonder he could hold his head high or even sleep at night, knowing his father had been such a bad man.