Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  Anne’s eyes widened in surprise. “Were we, Cecily?” she said before she could stop herself. And then she smiled. “Mais bien sûr, that is what we were wishing. Alors, your grace,” she cajoled her husband, “may we? You say the French are many leagues from us now, and La Pucelle is safe within the dungeon at Beaurevoir, the other side of Normandy. What danger is there for us to hunt near St. Catherine’s Mount?” She turned to look toward the city wall where the high hill was just visible over the top. “’Tis the best place to hunt, and we can eat out in the fresh air. Can you not persuade the king to allow it? After all, the huntsmen go out often to put food on the king’s table and have never been attacked.”

  Bedford’s blue eyes twinkled over his high-bridged beak of a nose, and he nodded. He had easily seen through Cecily’s dissembling but thought it harmless enough. “In truth, there is no danger and thus no reason why we should not have some sport. How can I resist two such charming ladies?”

  Cecily beamed at him, and not for the first time did he envy young York his bride, although his petite passereau delighted him in every way.

  “Merci, monseigneur,” the little sparrow said, raising his hand to her cheek. “You work too hard and you look tired. You must take a day to think of nothing but the pleasures of the hunt. No talk of war or even La Pucelle, do you promise me?”

  Bedford’s expression darkened. “Forgive me, ma mie, but in the matter of the Maid, you may know that we are attempting to buy her from Burgundy.”

  Although intent upon gleaning any new snippet of information about Jeanne, Cecily could not help casting her mind back to a talk with Richard and how angry she had been when he had told her that the bishop of the Beaurevoir diocese, Pierre Cauchon, was negotiating the sale of the difficult prisoner to the English. Upon hearing that Jeanne was now chained to her bed for attempting an escape, Cecily had even declared, “His name should be cochon, not Cauchon, for he must be a pig to treat a poor girl thus.”

  “Tiens, milord. Her grace of York is distressed by the story. I beg of you, if it be your wish, may we not talk of other things?” Cecily looked up when she heard Anne mention her name.

  John, duke of Bedford, eyed Cecily with interest, wondering what in the good news concerning Jeanne d’Arc had distressed her. He had grown to admire this spirited young duchess and was often torn between amusement and disapproval at her enthusiasm for entering into delicate political conversations, in which, he was convinced, women did not belong. His beloved Anne had marked well the words of the Goodman of Paris, whose written homily to his new young wife at the end of the last century had been copied for many high-born nobles to present to their own wives. Indeed, Bedford had given it to Anne at the time of their wedding, and he resolved to make young Richard of York aware of it—especially in the matter of a wife’s duty.

  . . . that you shall be humble and obedient towards him that shall be your husband, the which article containeth in itself four particulars. The first particular saith that you shall be obedient to wit to him and to his commandments whatsoe’er they be, whether they be made in earnest or in jest, or whether they be orders to do strange things, or whether they be made concerning matters of small import or of great; for all things should be of great import to you, since he that shall be your husband hath bidden you to do them . . .

  Aye, Cecily could use some advice in the matter of wifely obedience, he thought, even though he admitted he was taken with the comely young woman. Bedford was not to know that Anne had already pressed the book on Cecily, who, on one occasion while reading alone in her chamber, had pitched the leather-bound volume across the room in disgust.

  The Goodman wrote:

  The fourth particular is that you be not arrogant and that you answer not back your husband that shall be, nor his words, nor contradict what he saith, above all before other people.

  “A pox on the Goodman,” Cecily had muttered. “He needs a good dose of the wise Wife of Bath.” She had smiled to herself as she recalled the Wife’s final prayer:

  And—Jesu hear my prayer!—cut short the lives

  Of those who won’t be governed by their wives;

  And all old, angry niggards of their pence,

  God send them soon a very pestilence!

  10

  Normandy, Winter to Spring 1431

  Ten thousand francs was what it took to transfer custody of Jeanne d’Arc to the English, and on Christmas Day in the tenth year of Henry’s reign, the young peasant woman from Domrémy was finally brought in chains to Rouen and imprisoned in the high donjon of Bouvreuil Castle. While the English king’s court made merry that Yuletide season, a few corridors away the hope of the French languished in a dank cell behind thick stone walls. There she awaited trial by those French clergy loyal to Henry.

  Cecily had learned she was virtually alone among the nobles and their wives in her sympathy for the young woman. After a few months of living with Duke John, she began to see the truth of Queen Catherine’s advice to her those few years ago. The ladies were not expected to show knowledge of the discussions that went on among the men. But Cecily noticed that many women eavesdropped, as she did. She wondered how many of them also talked to their lords in moments of intimacy, as she was wont to do with Richard. Their snatched time together, however, was so precious that much of it was taken with releasing pent-up passion.

  Every now and again, she could cajole Richard into divulging what was happening with Jeanne. He had told her that the Maid had been moved from stronghold to stronghold once she was sold and that the English had indeed treated her more kindly than the Burgundians, which fact was a small comfort to Cecily. They had allowed her to attend Mass presided over by another French prisoner, a bishop, Richard had said. “But she still refuses to remove her men’s clothing.”

  “Oh, pish,” Cecily responded, and yet she was instantly transported back to the scene with her father before his death and refrained from saying more. She was grateful Richard had not reminded her of it, though she was certain he was recalling the same event.

  “Jeanne’s sin is that she swears God made her do it,” Richard went on, “which contradicts His word in the Bible. ’Tis a piece of evidence that will be used against her, can you not see? ’Tis heresy,” he had ended.

  Two weeks had gone by following that conversation with no word on the notable prisoner in the donjon, and so, on a snowy mid-January day, Cecily chose a sweet afternoon of lovemaking in Richard’s fire-lit room at the castle to ask him for more information.

  “Why are you so preoccupied with her?” he asked a touch resentfully, nuzzling the milky skin between her breasts. He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow while she playfully fingered new silky hairs on his chest. “How can you think of her at a time like this, Cis? In truth, it makes me wonder if your mind was on our lovemaking at all.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “How can you doubt that? I was pleasured as much as you, I dare say, and you know it. But now, Richard, I beg of you, indulge me.”

  Ever since their pivotal conversation in the Chantereine orchard, Cecily had ceased to call Richard by his nickname. It was as though they had moved from their first innocent love to a more mature relationship, and both were aware of a deepening of their affections.

  Now, having so enjoyed his wife’s attention that afternoon, Richard found he was unable to resist Cecily’s thirst for information about Jeanne.

  “Very well, my inquisitive wife, I will give in. I know she will be tried soon,” he revealed, sitting up and stretching. “In fact Pierre Cauchon is here. It is said he will preside over the first tribunal in a few days. It seems he has temporarily assumed the title of bishop of Rouen since the old bishop moved on last year. This means he can conduct the trial here, which is a safer place for it than Paris.”

  Cecily frowned, cupping her hands behind her head on the pillow. “Cauchon? Why is Duke John not presiding? Why is the church involved at all? Is she not a prisoner of war?”

  R
ichard gave a sigh. “I regret to tell you, my innocent, that were she simply a prisoner of war, she would not need to be tried at all. She could be ransomed or kept indefinitely—until the war ends, I suppose.” He grunted then. “It has been the source of much talk in the council chamber. Why has the French king, who owes his crown and his recent successes to the Maid, not attempted to rescue or buy her? It seems he has abandoned her to her fate, and for that reason I have some sympathy for her. It is now a matter for an ecclesiastical court as,” he lowered his voice, crossing himself, “she will be tried for heresy.”

  Cecily gasped and signed herself too. “So you are saying that Duke John wants her to be found guilty of something, no matter what, so he can dispose of her, and so heresy is the accusation?”

  Richard nodded. “And due to the way the French courts work, ’tis almost certain she will be found guilty. In England one is innocent until found guilty. Do you see? It will look better for the English if she is tried by her own people. But make no mistake, Cis, Bedford will make an example of her. ’Tis the bishops and clergy—her own countrymen—who want to bring her down.”

  “You mean the Inquisition?” Cecily whispered, sitting up, her eyes wide with fear.

  Richard nodded. “Aye, and Bedford, your Uncle Beaufort, and the king are happy to agree. Heresy or witchcraft, it matters not.”

  Cecily chewed on her lip, frowning. “What is the difference?”

  “I confess ’tis a distinction that begs more learning that I have. But if I have it right, a witch may consort with evil spirits or Satan to perform magic, whereas a heretic defies the Word of God. Jeanne swears her holy voices instructed her to dress in men’s garb and become a soldier. In so doing she offended God, so her enemies say, but ’twas in the name of God that she dressed in that way, became a soldier, and raised the siege of Orléans and then of Compiègne, not to mention crowning Charles. What is more, she predicted all these events exactly as they happened, and she claimed to have worked miracles. It is said she used secret charms to protect her soldiers and that she led common people to worship her. Some of it is heresy, some of it witchcraft. You choose.”

  Cecily contemplated the answer as she drew her chemise over her head and tied the neck ribbon. Then she ran her fingers through her tangle of yellow hair and began to braid it slowly. “Does she still dress like a man? In truth, that would be easy to change now that she is no longer a soldier. Would that not mollify Cauchon?”

  “It would be a start,” Richard replied, tired of the subject. “And now I must leave you.”

  He got out of bed, giving Cecily a full of view of his strong back, narrow hips, and muscular thighs. He was not tall like her father, but he was well made, and she could not help but admire him as he walked about the room.

  “How did my hose find their way over here?”

  He rescued one leg from one side of the room and the other from the bottom of the bed and sat down to pull them on. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a seductive smile on her lips. He grinned. “Are you going to help me with these confounded points, Cis, or do you want me to come back to bed? Nay, my love, I was jesting,” he teased as she moved toward him. “I have been gone too long and must tend to my next office, more’s the pity.”

  He caressed her head as she knelt at the edge of the bed to thread the silver points of the laces that tied the hose to his short gipon. “I regret I shall be in attendance on the king in the next days and unable to enjoy you for a while.”

  After tying the sides of his tunic, he suddenly slapped his forehead. “God’s truth, I almost forgot. His grace has invited us to an audience with him in his private apartments the week following Shrove Tuesday. He has expressed a wish to know my new duchess better.”

  NINE-YEAR-OLD HENRY was gracious when the duke and duchess of York were ushered into his cavernous audience chamber in the castle. Neither the many wall hangings nor the roaring fire in a hearth that would accommodate four men shoulder to shoulder could ward off the draughts in the room, and Cecily was glad of her fur-lined velvet mantle. She was wearing a gold filament mesh that concealed her hair and over which was perched, in the latest fashion, a heart-shaped roll of fur. The blue of her velvet gown paled beside her eyes, which glowed sapphire in the firelight. No one would have guessed the agony of indecision she had gone through not two hours before about which gown and mantle to wear.

  “York spoils you,” Joan had muttered, tweaking the creamy underdress visible through the split front of the gown and standing back to study her daughter’s magnificent appearance. “How can he pay for all this finery? He does not truly come into his inheritance until next year. Your father would say you are extravagant, my girl.” She gave a snort of laughter. “Nay, he would not have uttered a word—never did where spoiling you was concerned. First your father and now your husband. It has taken all my resolve to turn you into a modest young lady, which I am gratified to see has been successful—most of the time. If I cannot curb the expenditure on your wardrobe, at least I can curb that tongue of yours. Now turn around, and let me see if you need a veil.”

  When Cecily was ready, Joan had nodded her approval and admonished her to speak only when she was spoken to and allow Richard to lead the conversation, “for he understands correct behavior with the king.”

  Cecily for once heeded her mother’s advice and behaved like a lady during the audience, deferring to her husband and sitting quietly on a stool when invited by the king, while Richard remained standing. Richard was astonished and pleased with his beautiful, demure wife.

  “Do you play an instrument, duchess?” Henry asked, turning his solemn gaze on her, his fine eyebrows slightly arched over a long but still childish nose.

  “Not well enough to play for you, your grace,” Cecily replied, smiling. “I am not a good pupil, so my lute teacher tells me.”

  Henry motioned to his bodyguard to bring a lute, and the strapping Sir Ralph Botiller hurried to the other end of the room to borrow one from the trio of musicians playing in the background. Cecily was discomforted by the admiring look Sir Ralph gave her as he put the delicate instrument into her hands. She held the lute to her chest and wished she had covered that exposed part of her with a plastron as Joan had suggested.

  “I beg of you, your grace, let someone play who will do credit to this beautiful instrument,” Cecily murmured, hoping Richard would intervene and save her from embarrassment. She had learned one melody on the lute, but at Raby she had often skipped practicing to go for a ride.

  “I should like to hear you play, my lady,” Richard remarked. “I cannot recall ever seeing you with a lute.” He winked at Henry. “Usually, my wife is not one to hide her light under a bushel, your grace. I am surprised by her shyness.”

  Henry grinned and said, “I observed how she outshone every lady in the hunt last week, and in some cases, even the men. I was particularly impressed with how she managed to jump that hedge—wearing all those skirts as well.”

  Cecily began to resent being spoken about as though she were invisible and was gathering her thoughts in her defense when Henry fumbled his cup of ale and it fell to the floor, spilling its contents onto his white satin shoes.

  “Forsooth!” he exclaimed, jumping up and staring at the spreading liquid in the rushes. “Forsooth and forsooth! Botiller, send in a servant, I pray you. Forgive me,” he said to his guests, “how clumsy of me.”

  He looks like a little boy who expects to be chastised and not at all like a king, Cecily thought, feeling sorry for him. “Your grace, I have to thank you for your charming courtesy,” she chirped, picking up the cup and handing it to Botiller. “You cannot think I did not recognize your gallant attempt at preventing me from making a fool of myself with this lute. ’Tis I who must beg your forgiveness for causing you to take such a measure.”

  Richard was too stunned to do anything but grin his appreciation, and his eyes shone with pride. Henry’s jaw, however, did register his astonishment, but his eyes spoke their thanks with
a genuine warmth. And Cecily put the lute aside with relief.

  “Perhaps your grace would honor me with a game of chess,” Richard said, shifting the king’s focus. “I believe you are hard to beat, but I should like to try. I have quite a ruthless reputation among my fellows.”

  “Then prepare to meet your match, Lord Richard,” Henry said with enthusiasm, his embarrassment deflected. He allowed Botiller to fit a clean pair of slippers on his feet and rubbed his hands together as two gentlemen ushers set up the ivory chessmen on the table. “Lady Cecily, forgive me while I concentrate on beating your husband. Perhaps you would keep Dame Alice company.”

  And so Cecily spent the next hour conversing with the king’s governess, a motherly, intelligent woman who gave Cecily news of the queen mother. “The queen has another son,” she told Cecily out of the king’s hearing, “and has named him Edmund. I daily thank God for allowing her a little joy with Master Tudor. Such an unhappy life she lived with her family in France, and then to lose her beloved King Harry so soon after their marriage. He adored her, you know,” she said, shifting her gaze from the attentive young duchess to her charge, who was deep in thought at the chess board. “A tragedy for her—and for England. And I thought it would break her heart when she was separated from her son, her only link to her husband. Gossips may say what they like, but I believe my dearest lady deserves this happiness.”

  Cecily murmured her agreement but could not forbear to ask, “Has Queen Catherine married Master Tudor, Dame Alice?”

  “’Tis none of my affair, your grace, but it would surprise me if she has not,” came the tempered response. Then, to change the subject, Alice nodded at Sir Ralph. “He is my son, did you know? A good boy, but”—she leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper—“he has a roving eye.”