Queen By Right Page 5

  Richard’s expression softened. He had married Alice Montagu when she was fourteen, several years before. Her father, the earl of Salisbury, one of England’s finest commanders in France, doted on his only child.

  “It is my dearest wish, madam, but my duties keep me in the north, and as Salisbury requested that Alice keep her mother company in his absence, ’tis in God’s hands.”

  He finished his wine and rose. “I must find Father before he is offended because I came to you first,” he said, smiling down at Joan. She was growing old, he thought, noting the deep lines at the corners of her mouth and on her brow. Several of her teeth were missing, her energy was much diminished, and she had a slight tremor in her right hand. At forty-five, and after birthing fourteen children, she had a right to slow down, he mused. He picked up her hand and kissed it reverently. “Until later, my dear lady. You, too, Cecily. I want to meet this Dickon of yours.”

  Cecily started at the remark. She had been dismayed by her brother’s cold tone when he had spoken of Richard earlier, and she resolved to ask Nurse Margery who the Mortimers and Lionel of Clarence were.

  “Oh, you will like him, sir,” she stated firmly. “Will he not, Mother? Everyone likes Dickon.”

  BUT THE TWO Richards were not certain of each other when they met. Richard of York knew exactly why Richard Neville looked at him askance. He knew it had to do with his lineage and his father’s treason.

  Dickon’s former guardian, Sir Robert Waterton, had given him a long tutoring about his family history, and York was fully aware that, through his maternal blood line from the great King Edward, he was nearer to the crown than his Lancaster cousin, the present king. Henry of Bolingbroke had conveniently ignored that closer line when he had usurped the crown at the end of the last century. But Waterton had assured the boy, “You have royal blood from both your parents, Dickon. Your York grandfather was King Edward’s fourth son.”

  At the time, the small boy did not believe he would ever understand or care where he came from. All he knew was that he missed his sister and disliked the damp manor house that Waterton owned. But at a later time, when Dickon came to appreciate his delicate position, he had told his guardian, “If I understand rightly, Sir Robert, I must tread very carefully.”

  Sir Robert had let out a low whistle of admiration. “Aye, Dickon, you have the measure of it. I would counsel you to keep this close and be contented with the fact that you were not attainted along with your father. Swear fealty to Lancaster and do not become too ambitious. I have known many men lose their life for ambition.”

  Now standing in front of him in Raby’s great hall, Richard Neville saw an unprepossessing fourteen-year-old, with a pleasant face, intelligent eyes, and athletic build. If he was expecting arrogance, he found none. Dickon gave him a practiced bow, and Neville returned it with the customary, “God’s greeting to you, your grace.” Considering the wealth York was inheriting, it was surprising that the young duke was dressed so modestly, Neville thought. Not a bad thing at his age, he surmised, although he was certain the lad would learn soon enough that one’s wealth—and so power—was always more evident if one wore it.

  The ornate silver saltcellar was the last thing to be placed on the long table that ran from the raised high table and down the length of the hall. Richard Neville presided over the household dinner in place of his father, who was at Brancepeth. Joan resented the time Ralph spent there with his other family, and as she had never pretended to care for her stepchildren nor they for her, she kept away from the massive twelfth-century castle.

  Tonight she sat proudly at Richard Neville’s right hand, and in a gesture of deference, York was given the honor of sitting at Neville’s other side with the three younger Neville brothers next to him. Cecily sat to Joan’s right. The rest of the household knew their stations below the salt, and the meal was a lively affair, especially after the prodigal Neville had consumed several cups of wine and feasted on Raby’s finest pheasants, quails, and haunches of venison. He conversed amicably with Dickon at first, describing a rout of some Scots marauders who had boldly crossed the border and met with Neville resistance. The young duke plied him with questions about the Scottish King James and a truce, and Neville was impressed by the young man’s political knowledge.

  Cecily half listened to the details of fighting the Scots, and as there was no one sitting at her other side, she had leisure to watch the servants hand out baskets of bread and jugs of ale. Those at the bottom of the table received the coarsest brown rye bread. Further up the table, round white cocket was served. Ralph’s officers and squires enjoyed good wheat wastele. She broke a piece of her own pain demain, made with the finest white flour, and wondered how different it was from the others.

  Cecily heard the adults discussing the politics at court. She recognized the names of the king’s uncles—John of Bedford and Humphrey of Gloucester—but why anyone cared about their wives she could not fathom. She deduced that the elder uncle, Duke John, had pleased everyone with his wife from Burgundy, but Duke Humphrey had angered the King’s council with his choice. She stifled a yawn, focused on the delicate flavor of the swan’s meat she was nibbling, and wondered if her mother’s monstrous, heart-shaped headdress would fall off her nodding and shaking head.

  “Humphrey seeks his own piece of Europe through his wife, ’tis all. He has never been content with the role of mere Protector. He wanted to be Regent with Bedford and was slighted when King Harry chose Bedford alone to control his son,” Richard told his mother. He then called for more wine.

  “May we have music, please?” Cecily asked her big brother during a pause. “I would dearly love to show you what my dancing master taught us all recently. We have not had music since the betrothal feast. May we, Richard? Mother?” she pleaded.

  Richard deferred to his mother, who nodded to the steward and asked him to prepare the room for dancing. Four musicians appeared in the minstrels’ gallery, and Cecily sent instructions for them to strike up a saltarello. The timbrel player started the rhythm of the lively Italian dance, and the others joined with the melody. Cecily looked down the line and tried to catch Dickon’s eye, hoping that he would invite her to dance. They had learned the steps together, and he was a fair enough dancer, she had concluded. Instead, Richard Neville rose and bowed over her hand, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “Will you do me the honor, Lady Cecily,” he murmured. “His grace of York can lead our lady mother out, n’est-ce pas, York?”

  Dickon almost fell off the bench. Hating to be the center of attention, he had been relieved when Neville had offered to dance with Cecily, and with Nan gone, he preferred to sit back and watch. Joan observed with amusement the different expressions flit across the young man’s face as he climbed awkwardly over the back of the bench, trying not to stand on the long toes of his hose-shoes. Finally he managed a graceful bow and offered her his arm.

  “Have no fear, your grace,” she assured him. “You will not have to lift me. I am too old to perform the leaps of this dance, so we shall be more sedate, you and I.”

  The rest of the household stood on either side of the hall as the oldest and the youngest of the Beaufort Nevilles demonstrated their prowess in the dance. Cecily was exuberant in her little leaps on the first beat of every bar, but her brother was more circumspect with his and simply enjoyed this unaccustomed entertainment after months of soldiering on the Marches. He tried to picture the earnest Dickon and his impetuous sister as husband and wife, and had to smile. “Perhaps these two will make a match of it,” he thought, “they are so young yet.”

  And then he prayed, for his little sister’s sake, that York would never attempt to assert his Mortimer right to the throne and put Cecily in any danger.

  IT WAS FRIDAY, the only day of the week Cecily looked forward to during those months when summer turned to autumn. On that day each week, Ralph took her hunting with his sons, and Dickon usually rode along. She was learning that at this time of year, when the male deer b
egan the rut, the archer’s task was much easier than usual.

  “They have only one thing on their minds,” her father told her on a recent outing, pointing to a stag in the distance that was rubbing its hardened antlers against a tree to mark it. “To find a willing doe.”

  Cecily’s blank look tickled her father’s sense of humor, and he roared with laughter. “’Tis the time to get her with child—just as all males in the animal kingdom feel the urge to do, including us—and not just at rutting time!” he told her, pointing to a lurcher trying to mount a bitch and getting its leg nipped for its pains. At once he remembered that it was his daughter and not a son he was talking to and covered his clumsy explanation with an embarrassed cough. “Ask your mother. She will tell you all you need to know,” were his parting words. But Cecily never dared approach her mother with the topic and so remained in ignorance—and gratefully so.

  Today Ralph was planning to hunt near Brancepeth, where it was rumored that a pair of wild boars had been seen. The party that set out was larger than usual, and Cecily maneuvered herself next to Richard, who was among a group of henchmen that did not include her brothers. With George and Edward now riding with Ralph, Cecily saw her chance to have a quiet conversation with her betrothed, as her mother had sanctioned. The other young hunters fell away, and Cecily and Richard trotted side by side up the road to Brancepeth.

  “What do you think of your Brancepeth family, Cecily?” Dickon asked. “It seemed to me on the day of our betrothal that your father’s heir is somewhat vainglorious. Am I mistaken?”

  “Vainglorious? I confess ’tis not a word I know. But if it means conceited, high and mighty, or a bore, you are being kind, Dickon. Why, he can barely give any of us Beaufort Nevilles a ‘Good day,’ and his nose would scrape the tree branches if he held it any higher. He is naught but a swollen-headed peacock, and I hate him!”

  “God’s body, Cecily,” Dickon said on a laugh. “Why do you not simply speak your mind?”

  Unused to sarcasm, Cecily replied, “But I did. ’Tis what I think.” Then she giggled. “Heavens, I was only supposed to talk to you about the weather—or perhaps you would like me to recite a few of Master Chaucer’s lines?”

  Dickon made a face. “I detest verse,” he declared. “Nay, I would much prefer we speak about the rest of your family. But we can tell your mother we spoke of the weather, if you don’t mind a small untruth.” He raised his eyebrow, and seeing her grin, he put his finger to his lips to keep their secret. “What more can you tell me of your sisters and brothers?”

  Cecily was ecstatic. She felt so grown up, chatting with her intended about her family. Not only was she having private time with Dickon, but he did not mind conversing about things other than the weather. I think I shall like being married to him, she decided.

  “I was happy when our Joan went off to the convent,” she confided. “Nay, not happy she went, but happy it was not me. I think being a nun must be the dullest thing in all the world.”

  “What do you hope for in your life, Cis? Besides being my duchess, of course.”

  “What else is there, Dickon?” Then she dimpled. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I sometimes dream about being a queen. I think I would make a good queen.” She looked at him from under her lashes, afraid he would laugh at her, but his face was perfectly serious.

  “I dream about being a soldier—nay, commander of an army—and winning lots of battles,” he said. He smiled at her as they crossed a clearing, following the sound of faraway horns. “I think my dream is more likely to come true, but I promise I will not tell a soul about yours.”

  Cecily’s eyes shone. “A secret! I love secrets.”

  A pair of magpies flew over them, and the two young people looked up at once. Cecily was enchanted.

  “One for sorrow, two for joy,

  “Three for a girl and four for a boy,

  “Five for silver, six for gold,

  “Seven for a secret never to be told,” she chanted. “Let’s imagine there are five more birds coming to join them, Dickon!”

  Richard was moved to laugh out loud, and Cecily stared at him in surprise. His face had lost its grave expression, she noticed, and what erupted from him sounded more like a horse’s neigh than a man’s laugh. But it made her want to laugh as well, because she had always thought that he was altogether too serious. So she joined in, happy that she was pleasing him.

  “Ay, I shall like being his wife,” she repeated to herself.

  And unbeknownst to Cecily, Richard’s thoughts were running along the same line as he caught his betrothed’s hand and took it to his lips.

  “We should catch up with the others,” he said, and clicked his tongue to make his palfrey quicken its pace. “We have fallen a long way behind.”

  They urged their horses into a canter and followed a path that Cecily knew led into the forest, a dark place where the shade of the famous oaks was like night and raised the hairs on the neck of even the most stalwart huntsman. Cecily was used to it, and Richard admired her fearlessness as she wended her way through the trees and found Stockley Beck, a spring-fed stream teaming with salmon. The main hunting party was waiting for the stragglers on the other side of the beck, and George and Edward began chiding Dickon for leading their sister astray. Cecily was furious, but Dickon merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Your sister is often better company than you are, George,” he said, pulling a heavy glove from his saddlebag and preparing to receive his lanner from one of the falconers. This compliment made Cecily cock a snook at her favorite brother behind Ralph’s back.

  That night, snuggled in bed next to a gently snoring Rowena, Cecily thanked the Blessed Virgin and St. Sybellina, protectress of all orphans, for sending Dickon to her at Raby.

  “HUMPHREY STAFFORD AND I were wed last week,” Anne wrote in October, “and so now I am a countess.”

  Cecily was basking in the late autumn sun on an exedra in Raby’s neat herb garden, where she had gone to read her sister’s first letter to her since leaving Raby in the spring. Cecily peered at the untidy script, wondering why Anne’s impeccably neat embroidery efforts did not translate onto paper. “For the wedding day, the dowager countess gave me red cloth of gold for a new gown, and a hundred guests came for the feast. I have never tasted anything as delicious as the roasted fawn that was taken in the hunt the day before. The eels from the river here are the largest and best I have seen or eaten. And much to my wonder, I saw a pie placed before us that, when cut open, ten blackbirds flew out—alive and singing. The master cook would not tell me how, saying it is a secret recipe. But I will know!”

  Cecily was impressed, and she vowed to ask Raby’s master cook if he could attempt such magic.

  “As I am certain Father has told you,” Anne continued, “Humphrey now sits in the regency council with him, and he is one of the most important people at court.”

  Nay, Nan, Cecily thought, you are mistaken. Father has not thought to mention it.

  “I miss the gentle countryside at Raby. Here there is naught but wild high hills, good for nothing but sheep, and many rivers, the biggest of which flows below the castle and town. Humphrey likes to fish all the time.”

  Cecily paused and gazed at a thrush singing blithely on a brick wall. Aye, poor Nan must be most unhappy if she needed to tell me that. She pictured her sister at her window high up in the castle above a sheer drop into a swiftly flowing river, watching her new husband, equipped with rod and creel, ride off with his squires. “But when he is here, he is all duty to me and denies me nothing, although, in truth, he looks on me as though I were a child, even though I am now his wife in all ways.”

  Cecily’s mouth dropped open at Anne’s insinuation. She wished she could talk to her sister about such matters. What does happen in bed, she started to ponder. Then she heard her father’s stentorian voice calling her from the gatehouse.

  Cecily folded the letter, stuffed it into a pocket, and flew along the paths to the i
ron gate that led out to the park. She saw her father waving impatiently.

  “What is it, Father?” she asked when she reached him. “Is something amiss?”

  Then she saw that Ralph was in his traveling clothes and his horse laden with double saddlebags. George and Edward waited beside Brown Baldric to bid their father good-bye and help him onto the huge horse’s back.

  “Where are you going?” Cecily asked, her blue eyes filling with tears as she noted that several of his gentlemen had already mounted. Ralph had not left Raby all summer long, and she had forgotten that as one of the regency councillors he must return to court from time to time. “Is it London this time? And why will you not take Mother and me with you?”

  “Only a few hours ago, I received a summons from your Uncle Beaufort, and I must go to the council at once,” Ralph explained, pulling on a pair of tooled leather gloves. “Duke Humphrey of Gloucester has gone abroad, which means that we must convene and govern in his absence, my child. With Bedford in France as well, we councillors must try to hold the throne safe for the young king. Do not look so downhearted, Cecily. You shall go to London soon, I promise.” He tipped up her trembling chin and kissed her forehead. “George and Edward will take you hunting, have no fear. They have their instructions.”

  “What about Dickon?” Cecily said anxiously. “Can he come with us too?”

  Ralph looked sheepish. “I forgot to mention that he comes with me to London. ’Tis time he was formally presented to the council and the king. He is fourteen now and cannot while away much more of his time up here with us.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Tears for Dickon, and you are not even wed yet? ’Tis very touching, but you must become accustomed to a husband’s frequent absences, my sweet girl.”

  Cecily pouted. “I shall go with him wherever he goes, you see if I don’t,” she grumbled.

  “Ah, there you are, York,” Ralph called to Dickon, who was hurrying toward the stables with a servant tagging along with his saddlebags. Dickon’s elaborate chaperon fitted him better these days, Cecily noted absently, but seeing him preparing to mount, she forgot about his hat and ran to him. She grasped his hand.