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  A new question occurred to Cecily. Sensing her mother was in a talkative mood, she made bold to ask, “Does Richard know we are to be married? It will make a difference how I speak to him the next time I see him, I suppose. Do I call him ‘dearest lord,’ as you call Father?”

  Joan smiled, wondering what else the little minx had observed about her relationship with Ralph. “Nay, Cecily. You must truly be wedded and . . .” She was about to say “bedded” when she remembered to whom she was speaking. “And know your husband well before you may call him anything but my lord, my lord husband, or even your grace, the last because Richard is a duke.”

  “How silly!” Cecily exclaimed. “I cannot even call him by his first name? Or as George does, Dickon?”

  Joan sighed, suddenly weary of Cecily’s questions. Mercifully, Anne’s one-tune repertoire had ended, and she was seeking Joan’s praise. Joan put her finger to Cecily’s lips and frowned a halt to the child’s inquisitiveness.

  “That was well done, Anne,” Joan called across the room. “Do you not agree, ladies?” And she led them all in polite applause.

  “YOUR GRACE,” CECILY intoned solemnly, curtseying, when Richard approached her with his hand outstretched, asking for a dance. His straight eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing into his fringe. Richard wore his dark-chestnut hair in the old way, the way his first guardian, Sir Robert, did. It looked as though a bowl had been placed on his head and all hair visible below it had been shaved off. Cecily did not care for it and was glad to hear one of her mother’s ladies say that it was unfashionable; she made up her mind that as soon as they were married, she would demand that he grow it.

  “Your grace?” Richard quizzed, taking her hand and leading her out onto the floor for a carol dance. Several couples waiting for a full complement of dancers stood in a circle, tapping their feet to the jaunty tune played by the musicians in the gallery. “Why so formal? Have I done something to displease you, Lady Cecily.”

  Cecily tossed her head, happy that her heart-shaped headdress with its scalloped veil had been anchored so well, and she tried to sound grown up. “’Tis customary for a wife to call her husband ‘your grace’ if he be a duke,” she said. “My lady mother told me so.”

  Richard grinned. “But we are not yet married, Cis. I pray you, call me Dickon like everyone else.”

  “As you will,” Cecily answered merrily. “A pox on ‘your grace.’”

  “I would not say that in front of your mother,” Richard teased. “’Tis not ladylike.” More earnestly, he added, “So you know the way of things between us. What think you of the arrangement? I am well disposed to it. Are you?”

  “Aye, I suppose I am. I like you, in truth. But it will not happen for a long, long time, will it?” Now that she was face to face with him, the thought that she would spend her whole life with this person suddenly alarmed her. Her fingers trembled in his, and he squeezed them to give her courage.

  “Aye, we shall not be wed for a long time to come, sweet Cecily. Never fear.”

  Cecily, trying to show nonchalance, shrugged and lowered her eyes, as was customary. “I am not afraid,” she murmured to her embroidered silk slippers, and as if to prove it, she suddenly said, “I am sorry about your father.”

  She felt Richard’s fingers tense for a second. His tone was icy as he told her, “I do not remember him. He was a traitor to our great King Harry and thus deserved to die.”

  Cecily gasped. “But he was your father . . .” she trailed off, not understanding this coldness. Surely everyone loves their parents, she thought.

  They began to dance, Cecily’s dagged satin sleeves reaching the floor even when her arms were lifted, and while Richard spent most of the carol trying not to trip on them, Cecily avoided stepping on his long, pointed shoes. He glanced at her from time to time, trying to imagine what she might look like as a woman. She was taller than most boys of her age, not much smaller than he was, but he knew he had many years of growing yet to do. He looked forward to the time when his voice would deepen and he would be scraping his face.

  He thought she was pretty but in a childlike way. George had told him that Katherine, the eldest, was the most beautiful of the sisters. “Eleanor is fair, too, but short and plump—a bit like Mother,” he had whispered behind his hand. Somewhere in the middle of the siblings was Joan, a novice at an abbey, who had the unkind nickname Plain Jane. And then there was solemn Anne, who unnerved him with her stares. In truth, Richard was contented with the choice Lord Ralph had made, though Cecily was a little more forward a female than he was used to.

  Richard’s short, fur-trimmed tunic brushed Cecily’s swirling blue and white skirts as they lightly touched hands to turn in a series of circles. Even though Cecily’s eyes were firmly glued to the floor, as were the eyes of all the dancing ladies, she sensed the spectators were watching them. Usually she would have basked in the attention, but this time she found it disconcerting. She wondered what life with Richard would bring her—a fine stable and splendid wardrobe, she expected, and prayed she would not have to give up her beloved hunting. But she also resolved to pay more heed to her mother’s daily routine so that she would be ready to be a duchess when the time came.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Cis,” Richard murmured, when a movement allowed them a few words. “You are looking very serious.”

  “I was just wondering what time Father was going hunting tomorrow, ’tis all,” Cecily lied, hoping her hot cheeks were well hidden by her lowered head. “He has promised I can go with you all to hunt the white hind Master Laidlaw claims runs with a herd at the foot of Cockfield Fell.”

  “Aye, George and I are determined to be the ones to find it,” Richard enthused, “although Lord Ralph fears it is naught but a mystical beast dreamed up by Laidlaw after too much wine. He seems to be the only one to have seen it.”

  The hornpipe and tabor players ended the carol with a slow crescendo, and the dancers saluted their partners with reverences as the last droned note of the symphonie faded away. But before they were able to leave the floor, they were caught up in a whirlwind of cartwheeling tumblers. They preceded a troupe of mummers enthusiastically shaking bellsticks and shooing the company back to their benches to watch an enactment of the story of St. George and the dragon.

  Soon Cecily’s eyelids began to droop, and the ever-watchful Joan sent the girls’ attendants to escort them up to bed. For once Cecily was too tired to protest. She merely curtsied to her parents on the dais and then climbed to her quarters at the top of the keep. The girls were shivering by the time they reached the room, but a servant stoked the fire, and the red-and-green-painted chamber was soon warm enough for them to be undressed and readied for bed by Nurse Margery and Rowena Gower, a fourteen-year-old gently born local girl.

  “Will you hunt with us tomorrow, Nan?” Cecily asked, although she knew full well what Anne would reply. “Dickon and George are determined to find the white hind, but I hope Father finds it first—or me. I want to find it.”

  Anne made a face and unpinned her long, mouse-brown hair. “How many times must I tell you how much I dislike hunting, Cis? Besides, ’tis likely to snow tomorrow, and I shall stay in where it is warm.”

  Cecily sighed and climbed into bed, watching her sister put on her nightcap.

  “Now, then, my ladies, go to sleep, and God give you a good night,” Margery said sternly as she drew the tester curtains around the bed, leaving the sisters in the dark.

  “How do you like Richard, Cis?” Anne whispered to the drowsy Cecily, whose eyes then opened at the unaccustomed overture. “I confess I like him very much, and I wish ’twas I he must wed.”

  Cecily was now wide-eyed. “You do?” she exclaimed, and turned to her sister. “Why?”

  “I think he is handsome, and he is a great deal richer than Humphrey,” Anne answered. “If only Father had waited a few months before betrothing me, then I might have been the daughter he chose for Richard.”

  “Oh, Anne,” Cecily
whispered, patting the shoulder that was turned from her. “I am sorry for you if you are unhappy. How do you know that Humphrey isn’t twice as handsome as Dickon? And he is a Stafford, after all, and he must be rich, too.”

  “Dickon likes me, I know he does,” came Anne’s petulant voice. “And besides, he is the duke of York. Humphrey is but an earl.” She squeezed out a tear and sniffed. “You are naught but a child to him.”

  Irritated, Cecily withdrew her hand: “I am not a child! Besides, we have already talked about being wed. He likes me, too, you know.”

  “Aye, but, in truth, I think he loves me,” Anne replied miserably.

  “Like? Love? What is the difference?” Cecily shrugged. “You are pledged, you are wed, you have children, and you have a pleasant time together. What more is there to marriage, pray?”

  Anne could not suppress a giggle. “You are only eight, Cis, and not near to being a woman, as I am. Love is when your heart aches for someone so much that you think you will swoon. Love is when you want to be with him, when you dream about him night and day. Can you not see?”

  Cecily did not see, but she was not about to admit it. “I love Mother and Father—and I love George—but I do not dream about them night and day,” she reasoned. “Perhaps you are ailing and need a physic.” She was disconcerted to hear another sniff and snuggled into Anne’s back. “What can I do, Nan? We must both do what Father tells us—and you are already betrothed. We cannot exchange husbands—or can we?”

  “Oh, go to sleep. You just don’t understand,” the unhappy Anne complained, leaving Cecily more puzzled than before.

  ANNE HAD BEEN right about the weather. When the cock crowed the next day and the pale Christmas sun crept over Keverstone Bank, it sparkled on the light covering of snow that had turned the frozen, furrowed fields into a completely new and tranquil landscape. After breaking their fast and attending Mass, the hunters hurried down the stairs from the different towers of the castle and converged on the marshalsea, where horses and dogs were snorting clouds of hot breath into the cold air.

  Cecily loved days like this. It was as though God wanted to cover the drabness of brown November by dazzling His people with an immaculate, magical mantle in December. She was glad of her two pairs of stockings under her warmest gown today, and she called for a groom to help her onto Tansy’s back and keep her leather ankle boots from getting too wet. For once she was content to be riding sidesaddle along with the other ladies in the party, with her heavy woolen gown tucked cozily around her legs. Her hooded, fur-lined cloak warmed her upper body and head, so that when the group trotted through the gatehouse and north toward Cockfield, she forgot about the frigid air and instead reveled in the excitement of the hunt: the running hounds yelping in the distance, picking up the scent of their prey, and the colorful cavalcade of riders jostling for position to ride in hot pursuit.

  George called to her from a courser in the midst of his fellow henchmen, and she waved back gaily. Richard was there too, his chin jutting forward in concentration as he kept his mount in check. Cecily knew that she would have to hold back and ride like a lady today—a thought that chafed her—but when her mother chose to ride beside her, Cecily’s heart sang. ’Twas an honor indeed to hunt with the countess, she knew, and so she sat her horse proudly.

  There were more than forty riders that day, and some of the fewterers were having difficulty restraining their greyhound charges from slipping the leash. When a horn sounded in the middle of the forest ahead, Earl Ralph gave a whoop and a tally-ho and urged his horse into a fast canter. As she watched all the males in the group follow suit, it was all Cecily could do not to dig her heels into Tansy’s flanks and join them.

  Joan eyed her with amusement. “Good girl, Cecily,” she said, taking a hand from her fur muff, pushing a graying curl out of her eyes, and tucking it back under her felt chaperon. “You must learn when you may let down your hair and when you may not. ’Tis not easy being a lady, my dear, and I fear that you, of all my daughters, may have the most trouble with it. Kat was ungovernable when she was a child, but she grew out of it quickly. Your father, I am afraid, encourages you.” She watched her husband’s saffron cloak float out behind him as he entered the forest, and she smiled. “He is sixty-one, and yet still he rides like a young knight,” she said half to herself. “He swears ’tis the fresh, cold air of the north that keeps him healthy.” Seeing that Cecily was still listening, she added: “For my part, I prefer the warmer London air—though the smell of that city can be more than unpleasant, in truth.”

  “When shall I go to London, Mother?” Cecily asked, enjoying the unexpected intimacy with Joan. “I should dearly love to see London Bridge. Rob told me that there are houses and shops on it. Is it true?”

  “Aye, ’tis true. Your brother is a man of the cloth and so would not lie to you, Cecily,” Joan told her. “You will go to London all in good time, but first we must arrange your formal betrothal to York sometime in the summer before Anne goes away.”

  Cecily gasped. “Anne going away? Where? Why? She did not tell me,” she cried, slowing Tansy to a walk to keep pace with her mother’s plodding rouncy. She forgot her disappointment in not riding with the men, for this news was more important. Her life was about to change.

  “I have explained to you before, child,” Joan said, a little testily. She was tired these days, and after bearing thirteen children, she was eager to put motherhood aside and enjoy her late middle age, knowing that each of her ten surviving children was well provided for. “Young women of noble birth must devote themselves to becoming wives, which oft-times means leaving their own home and joining another great house. ’Tis where we learn to become loyal to our husband’s family and devote our life to our children and support our husband’s ambitions. And thus Nan will go to Brecon and be under the protection of my cousin Anne, Humphrey’s widowed mother. I expect Nan and Humphrey will be properly married inside the next two years.”

  Cecily digested this and stared ahead in silence. Despite the awkwardness between the sisters, Cecily drew comfort from having a sister close to her age share in her daily routine. Her three other sisters were long gone: Katherine to Framlingham Castle in Suffolk, seat of the Mowbrays, dukes of Norfolk; Eleanor to Alnwick Castle, where her husband, Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, guarded the northeastern border from the Scots; and Joan, still a novice but soon to be veiled, to Barking Abbey near London. And now Nan was to leave and be out of reach in the wilds of Wales.

  “Dear Virgin Mary,” she prayed, “do not desert me too. Nan is not the best of companions, but she is always here. Please stay with me when she goes.”

  It then occurred to her that her turn would come one day, and her stomach lurched. But another blast on a hunting horn, much closer now, banished her morose thoughts, and the baying dogs told her that an animal was cornered.

  This time she made up her mind not to be left behind, and before Joan could command her to stay, Cecily had urged Tansy into a canter, and horse and rider expertly wended their way through the woods toward the source of the commotion.

  Then, as she drew closer and slowed to a trot, her eye caught a movement to her left. Every muscle in her body tensed.

  “It could be robbers,” she thought, knowing that they were common in the forests of lawless England.

  She was just regretting striking out on her own when she gasped in wonder. Slipping between two white birch trees and perfectly camouflaged against the snow was an ethereal, almost mystical beast.

  “The white deer,” Cecily whispered, transfixed.

  Suddenly the hind saw her, and for a second the delicate creature and the lovely girl stared at each other. Cecily held her breath. And then it was gone, springing over the snowy ground and disappearing behind a copse of hazel. Cecily exhaled in awe. Taught to believe in holy signs, she was convinced the Virgin had visited her, and she crossed herself reverently.

  “You will be with me always, will you not, Holy Mother,” she whispered. �
�I know that now.” And so she vowed never to tell anyone about the hind. The idea of such a gift from God being felled by hunters and dogs horrified her.

  Kicking Tansy into a fast trot, she headed for the huntsmen and their victim—an enormous stag, its summer-red fur turned winter gray, with a magnificent rack of antlers that Cecily knew would join others on the walls of Raby’s great hall. The skilled huntsmen were making short work of the still warm animal, and after it was gutted, the dogs were given their grisly reward. Cecily hated this part of the hunt and looked away from the glassy eyes and lolling tongue as the stag’s lifeblood oozed onto the snow. She was aware of a rider sidling close to her and recognized Richard’s voice—half boy, half man, asking if she would like to leave the scene.

  Cecily held her head high and shook it vigorously. “Nay, Dickon. One cannot join in the hunt and then not stay to respect the death of such a noble beast,” she said, quoting her father word for word. “I cannot help but feel sorry for him, ’tis all,” she murmured. With a brave smile, she asked who had found the stag’s heart with his arrow.

  “It was your father, Cecily. He felled the stag with one shot.”

  “And you and George? Did you loose your arrows?” Cecily inquired, one eyebrow raised.

  “Aye, both of us did—and missed by a bow’s length.” Richard grinned back. “Master Beckwith will surely berate us for our lack of markmanship.”