Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  Her name was Gladness, she a singer gay

  Who since she was but seven summers old

  Had given him all her love. . . .

  Well did they suit each other. . . .

  Color of new-blown rose

  Glowed in her flesh so tender.

  Aye, my dearest Cecily, you are indeed the color of a new-blown rose, he thought, watching her now. He raised his left hand to shoulder level, his palm facing the priest. In his right hand he held the traditional garland of flowers through which the couple would kiss to seal their vows. He waited impatiently for Neville to relinquish Cecily to him and for her open hand to touch his in a sign that the couple came before God with open hands and hearts.

  Cecily had never felt more vital in her life. When she saw Richard standing near the carved wooden altar, waiting for her with an expression of such awe on his dear face, she felt power surge through her veins. She was so eager to begin her life with him that she wanted to rush to his side, but at the sight of her mother’s anxious face, she counted to five, assumed a pious expression, and slowly stepped down the aisle in time with her brother. Her eyes held Richard’s unwavering gaze as she made her way slowly to his side, and she heard a tiny sigh of pleasure from him when they were side by side, her raised hand touching his.

  “Cecily, here I take you as my wife, for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith,” Richard said, a slight tremor in his voice. Then it was Cecily’s turn to repeat the words, and she found herself moved by the simple yet binding troth.

  The chaplain made the sign of the cross over the gold ring before offering it to Richard and prompting him in the blessing. “In nomine Patris,” Richard repeated, slipping the ring briefly over Cecily’s thumb, then the index finger, “et Filii,” and the middle, “et Spiritus Sancti,” and finally to the fourth, where it belonged.

  “Amen,” she and Richard murmured in unison. When she looked up again, her eye was drawn to the painted altarpiece upon which the radiant face of the fair-haired Virgin smiled down at the newborn baby on her lap. Bless us, I pray you Holy Mother, Cecily pleaded and closed her eyes tight as the priest signed over them and chanted, “Benedicite.”

  She could smell the sweet scent of the honeysuckle as she leaned forward for Richard’s kiss through the garland, wanting to savor this moment for the rest of her life. He lingered on the kiss a little long for the pudgy priest’s liking and only pulled away when he felt the man tugging at the fur trim on his tabard. It was time to kneel for the rest of the Mass.

  Richard reluctantly let go of Cecily’s hands as they sank onto their cushions. It was then he saw the first tear from his bride. He felt for her hand and squeezed it, envying for once a lady’s license to cry with joy.

  THE FEASTING LASTED for hours, six courses of tasty fare from the Salisburys’ cook, employed these twenty years by Alice’s father. He was known more for the heartiness of his dishes than their elegance, Joan had complained, suffering from indigestion after two days at Bisham Priory. Following a soup of ground almonds and milk, servants brought in a side of beef served with a spicy verjuice, a haunch of venison taken in the hunt by Richard the day before Cecily’s accident, pheasants and partridges re-dressed in their colorful plumage, and a heron and dozens of snipe, all of which had been roasted to perfection all day in an open pit behind the house. The tantalizing aromas of ginger, cloves, and cinnamon mingled with the mouth-watering smells of the succulent meats, and the hungry guests fell upon their food as though it were their first meal in a week.

  Cecily and Richard sat alone on a small dais, a spotless white linen cloth covering their table with Alice’s family’s finest silver upon it. Their hands touched often under the cloth, and once Richard leaned into Cecily, ran his finger along her thigh, and whispered, “I am counting the minutes until we are alone together, Cis.”

  Cecily suddenly found herself blushing furiously, a feminine trait she had disdainfully laid at simpering girls’ feet but never her own. “My lord,” she murmured demurely and she could have kicked herself. Tell him you can wait, you goose, she thought. Tell him you should not be bedded until you are at least sixteen, and maybe even twenty. Tell him . . . tell him anything. Oh, sweet Mother of God, don’t let him see that I am terrified! Please let me find the words, she prayed.

  “How do you like my gown, Dickon?” she asked brightly, taking both herself and Richard by surprise with this absurd non sequitur. Mother of God, did I really say that? she groaned inwardly, but she heard herself chatter on regardless. “Your tunic is one of the handsomest I have seen. Pray did you have it made for this occasion?” And she gave him an innocent smile that heightened rather than hid her anxiety as she bit into a filbert.

  A neigh of laughter ricocheted off the rafters of the old great hall, abruptly halting conversation in the rest of the room. Alice caught Cecily’s eye from the ladies’ table and raised an eyebrow.

  “Pray what is so amusing, York?” Richard Neville called, chuckling. He leaned to his neighbor and elbowed him with a guffaw. “I suspect the lad is lily-livered about bedding his lady. What say you?” he murmured. “And look at my sister; would you not describe her as a roe caught in the crosshairs.” The two men roared, and Dickon saw an escape. He pushed back his chair, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and ran down the three steps to join them, slapping Neville on the back and leaving Cecily staring after him in dismay.

  A fine way he has of showing me he cannot wait for us to be alone together, she thought miserably. I suppose it was my fault. That was a stupid remark I made. She sought out Alice’s anxious face and sent her a silent plea for help.

  Alice took charge of the situation at once and called for music. Then she marched over to Dickon, took him firmly by the arm, and led him away from her husband. “You had better invite your wife to dance immediately, Dickon, or you will be sleeping alone tonight,” she hissed. “Do I make myself clear? Can you not see the poor little thing is afraid of what is to come later?” She clicked her tongue. “Certes, men have no sense at all, it seems to me.” She almost pushed him back up the steps, and the startled Richard found himself on bended knee begging Cecily to dance.

  “Cecily. My lady. My dear wife, I am sorry that I laughed at you,” he murmured, genuinely contrite. “I do like your dress, truly I do. Come, will you not step out with me? Our guests are here to wish us joy, and here are you on the brink of tears. What must they think?”

  “That you are unkind, in truth,” Cecily replied, pouting. “Why did you laugh at me and leave me like that to join the men?” She lowered her voice, informing him, “’Twas humiliating, and I do not enjoy being humiliated.” Then, noticing everyone looking at them, she raised her head, blinked back tears, and gave him—and the hall—a brilliant smile. “I should like nothing better than to dance with you, dearest lord,” she said loudly. “Come, give me your hand.”

  She would have giggled at his slack-jawed face had she not wanted to show the world that Cecily Neville—nay, Cecily of York now—was fully in control of herself.

  To the sound of rebecs, recorders, a gittern, and a tabor, Cecily and Richard glided effortlessly together on tiptoe in the slow, romantic steps of a basse danse. Others joined them on the floor and the hall resumed its gaiety. But running woefully through Cecily’s head was the refrain of a ballad she had recently heard at court:

  That unkindness hath killed me

  And put me to this pain.

  Alas! What remedy

  That I cannot refrain.

  I have looked forward to this day for so many years, she thought, and now Dickon has ruined the moment—or, she thought guiltily, perhaps ’tis I who have spoiled it.

  “A pox on all dukes,” she muttered under her breath, and Dickon cocked his head, asking what she had said. “Nothing,” she replied. “’Twas naught but an idle thought.”

  THE PRIEST HAD blessed the bed, Cecily had been bathed and dressed in a yellow silk shift—a gift fr
om Alice—and she sat waiting in the soft feather bed as one by one her family bade her good night. Earlier a maid had searched carefully for bedbugs before tucking a few sprigs of lavender between the sheets and into the goose-down pillow. Although it was only September, a fire had been lit to take the chill off the room.

  Joan had attempted to warn her daughter about the initial pain of deflowering, as she called it, but had expressed herself in such evasive terms that she came to an abrupt halt with a lame “God bless you, my child,” and merely kissed Cecily on the forehead. Joan had avoided this conversation with all her daughters, not having had the benefit of such a conversation herself. Cecily will find her own way, just as I did, Joan decided, just as all women have through the ages.

  Cecily’s sister-in-law made certain that she was the last to wish the bride well, and her heart went out to the exquisite young girl, whose face was as ivory as the bed pillow and whose long, delicate fingers plucked nervously at the damask coverlet.

  “You will see, dearest Cecily, ’tis only as bad as grazing a knee or stubbing a toe,” Alice whispered, stroking Cecily’s arm. “It hurts for a second and then you can enjoy yourself. Perhaps not the first night, but soon you will count the hours until you are together again. Believe me, I know. As well, I have watched Dickon these few days here at Bisham, and I see a kindness that many young men lack. I promise you will learn to desire him just as much as I desire my lord every minute of every day.”

  Cecily giggled. “You do? Truly, Alice?”

  Dimpling, Alice nodded. “Truly,” she asserted. “Just you wait.” She kissed Cecily’s soft cheek and slipped away.

  Cecily suddenly felt horribly alone. Sliding out of bed and onto her knees, she whispered a supplication to her friend the Virgin. “This is a time when I need you to be with me, Holy Mother.” She paused for a second. It occurred to her only then that perhaps Mary was not the best person to be asking. The Holy Mother had not had to suffer through a night like this to conceive her Son. But Cecily was desperate, and did she not have a special bond with the Virgin? “Let me be everything my husband desires, if it please God.”

  A few lit candles had been left and Rowena had hurried in to make sure all was tidy when a tap on the door told them Richard was outside. Cecily jumped into bed and watched Rowena move to open the door. The attendant turned back to her mistress for permission to let the young duke in, her eyebrows raised in question.

  Do not open it, Rowena, Cecily wanted to cry. Leave him outside. Nay, tell him to go away and come back another day. But desire for him overcame her nerves, and she called to the attendant with new-found courage, “Rowena, open the door and then leave us.” She wanted to add, “However, do not go far,” but she relented.

  Richard entered wearing only his gipon, shirt, and hose and tiptoed to the side of the bed. “Am I welcome, Cis?” he asked simply, looking worried. “I feared I would not be welcome.”

  Cecily could not resist his hangdog expression. She held out her hands to him. “To be sure, you are welcome at my bedside tonight and always, Dickon.” She patted the bed, and he sat down facing her on it and boyishly crossed his legs, grinning with relief.

  “I have thought upon my words to you this evening,” Cecily began, “and I believe ’twas I who wronged you, not the other way.” She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “I will try and explain,” she began, “because I do not want to begin our marriage with deception or dissembling.” She told him of her fear of this night and how her anxiety had affected her behavior earlier that evening. “But when you laughed at me, it hurt my feelings,” she finished. “So I was angry.”

  “Ah, Cecily, I wish with all my heart I could take back that laughter now. You must believe that I did not mean to hurt you.” He started to chuckle. “But, in truth, asking if I liked your dress was such a comical response to my intimate remark about being alone with you that I could not refrain from laughing.” He was pleased to see her smile. “I was foolish not to realize you must be afraid, but you should know that in truth I am every whit as afraid as you are tonight, my love,” he told her quietly. “We must be gentle with each other. You should know I desire nothing more than to make you happy.”

  “Ah, Dickon,” Cecily breathed and reached out her arms to him. Her whole body yearned for him to touch her, look at her, love her. “Show me how it is done.”

  “First I must remove these unholy hose,” he said. “You could help greatly, if you have a mind.”

  Perhaps because they knew they had a lifetime of such nights together, they were in no hurry now. Cecily carefully untied the silver-tipped points that attached the hose to his gipon and slipped off each stocking and dropped it on the floor with a flourish. Dickon’s legs were very hairy, she noted. She touched his calf shyly as he unbuttoned his tightly fitting gipon and discarded it. The linen shirt underneath then modestly covered him down to his thighs. He pulled back the bedclothes, and they lay down together, his dark head and her fair one side by side on the pillow. Then raising himself on his elbow, Dickon gazed on her perfect profile, the sweep of her neck, and the tips of her young breasts outlined under the pale primrose silk of her shift, which almost matched her yellow hair.

  “Dear God, but you are beautiful. Almost too beautiful to touch,” he said, reverently, but he put out his hand anyway and slowly traced a course with his finger from the tip of her nose all the way to her breast and circled the nipple a few times, marveling at the way it hardened under his touch. Then he bent and kissed it through the silk.

  Cecily gasped and felt a rush between her thighs, and when he took the tit gently between his teeth, she cried out in pleasure.

  “Soft, my love,” he teased. “Do you want the guard to come in?”

  “Do not be so foolish, Dickon,” Cecily retorted. “There is no guard.” Then she turned her head to him. “Kiss me, I beg of you. I want you to finish what you started at the altar.”

  He did as she asked, but she was unprepared for his passion, his tongue probing deep into her mouth and his teeth gently pulling at her lips, the exquisite sensation overcoming her initial distaste of tongue touching tongue. After a long moment she thought she would suffocate and pushed him away with an embarrassed laugh. “Am I doing something wrong? I can’t breathe.”

  “You will learn, little rose of Raby,” he murmured in her ear, nibbling the lobe and letting his hand finger the hem of her gown. “Now will you allow me to see all of you? I dreamed of this each night during the long winter in France, and I want to see if you are as lovely as the woman of my dreams.”

  Cecily took a deep breath and nodded. “’Tis your right, I know,” she said. “I pray I am worthy of that dream.” She allowed him to lift the silk from her and gentle it over her head, her eyes squeezed shut in case his face gave away disappointment. She opened them quickly at the long-drawn, silent whistle of awe and saw his eyes admiring her. She had often witnessed such a look on her father’s dog when he was made to wait for a bone, and at once she knew she was desirable.

  “Nay, I am not worthy of such treasure,” Dickon whispered and then quipped, “but as a priest told me today, in the eyes of God, you are all mine. So I shall accept my unworthiness gladly.” Cecily could not help but chuckle.

  Kneeling, he straddled her legs and caressed her breasts until she moaned her delight. But his intuition had told him that tonight he should not remove his chemise. He did not want to frighten such a lovely creature with his nakedness, especially as his prick was in need of a haven as fast as he could sensitively moor it. Gently he eased her thighs apart and entered her with a groan of satisfaction. A slight pressure told him he was about to take her virginity, and he whispered, “I am sorry if this hurts.” He was taken aback when he felt her hands on his buttocks helping him achieve his goal, and a tiny cry was all he heard as he moved forward in her and climaxed almost immediately with a loud grunt.

  Cecily lay still beneath him, stroking his hair. Richard knew she had not enjoyed the
same ecstasy, and a momentary guilt dampened his pleasure, but he whispered his love to her and how she had pleased him, and her loving murmurs told him she was satisfied. How different it had been for him, he thought, with wild, sensual Agnes, who knew exactly how to satisfy herself. But together he and Cecily would learn, he had no doubt. He rolled off her and pulled the bedclothes over them both, snuggling her to him and kissing her warm mouth.

  “Good night, Cecily—my wife, my duchess. May the angels send you pleasant dreams.” Reaching over he snuffed out the candle.

  “I love you, Dickon,” Cecily said simply. “And thank you.”

  “Thank you for what, my dearest?”

  “For gentling away all my fear.”

  WHEN WINDSOR CASTLE came into view, the recent Bisham residents were surprised to see the king’s household belongings scattered the length of the wharf and being loaded onto several barges and shouts.

  “’Twas my understanding that the court would stay at Windsor until Martinmas,” Richard Neville told Dickon. “I hope nothing is amiss.” Then he cantered along the river road and up the hill to the gate to discover what was afoot.

  Later, when the Nevilles gathered in Joan’s solar to hear Richard’s news, they saw that the hangings and carpets had been folded and stacked in one corner, two carved wardrobe chests neatly packed with clothes, and the bed linens with Joan’s silver wrapped securely in them locked in a coffer. The few chairs and stools stood forlornly about on the floor swept clean of rushes.

  “We are to leave after matins,” Neville told them, his voice echoing off the bare walls. “News has reached the council that after King Charles and La Pucelle unsuccessfully attacked Paris, Bedford and Phillip of Burgundy became reconciled to oppose them, with Bedford now ruling Normandy and Duke Phillip governing Paris and those provinces south and east of the Seine. Bedford has strongly recommended that in order to maintain English rule over there and to counteract Charles’s crowning at Reims, young Henry should be crowned in Paris. So . . .”