Cecily did as she was bidden, although her legs wobbled like a clump of disturbed frog spawn when her feet touched the ground. If this was an ambush, she thought vaguely, the outlaw was either unskilled with the bow or not very ambitious, for having the advantage of surprise, he had not let fly another arrow or shown himself. John had already unslung his bow and was moving from tree to tree, keeping the area in view where Constance had seen the antagonist.
Suddenly a man leaped down from an overhanging branch and knocked the giant archer to his knees. A fierce fight ensued, terrifying the two women, who peered out from behind a sturdy oak. The stranger, although young, was no stripling and was clothed in a mailed tunic and a hood that concealed his face. Blaybourne, who had drawn his knife, shouted angrily every time he lunged at the man. The younger man was quick on his feet, despite his size, and he too drew a knife. He was less skilled than Blaybourne and missed his quarry several times before achieving a gash on Blaybourne’s arm. Blaybourne stepped back to assess his wound for a second, tripped over a broken branch, and fell heavily to the ground.
Before the aggressor could seize the advantage, Cecily had covered the ground between her hiding place and the men and, without thinking, screamed in English, “Stop! Stop this at once!” Immediately the young man put up his knife and started to run, but Blaybourne stuck out his leg and brought his assailant to the ground, and the weapon went flying. Seeing Blaybourne raising his knife to deliver a mortal wound, Cecily ran between them, still shouting, “Stop! Do you hear me, stop!” though now she remembered to use French. Then she saw who the attacker was and she gasped. “Piers? Piers Taggett! Sweet Mother of God, what were you thinking?”
Blaybourne lowered his arm, wincing as he did so, and blinked in amazement when he too recognized Taggett. “You bat-fowling, craven-clotted scoundrel, you might have killed her grace of York. You should be hanged for this!” He dragged Piers to his feet, twisting the falconer’s arm painfully behind his back. “’Tis plain as a pikestaff you have not been trained to fight. And your skill with the bow is laughable,” he spat.
“Leave him be, Master Blaybourne,” Cecily commanded, taking Blaybourne aback, but he obeyed and let go of Piers’s arm. “I thank you for your good service, indeed I do, but I would hear an explanation from Master Taggett.” She looked at Piers sadly. “You have disappointed me, and I would know why.”
Constance, seeing the danger was past, sidled up to Blaybourne and began to check his wound. Piers gawked at her, his eyes starting from his head. “D . . . Doctor LeMaitre.” He choked on her name. “I d . . . did not . . . I never saw you. I only saw him with you, your gr . . . grace.” He jerked his thumb in John’s direction. “I thought—I thought my lady, your gr . . . grace had been carried off by . . . by . . .”
A sudden peal of laughter ended his miserable attempt to explain himself, and Cecily took out her kerchief to wipe her eyes. “I am sorry, Piers, I truly am,” she apologized between chuckles, “but the idea is too funny. You thought Master Blaybourne was running away with me? Come, Constance, Master Blaybourne, you must see the humor,” and she continued to laugh.
Blaybourne, however, was not amused. “You thought what? You ignorant clodpole. You clapper-clawed peasant. That I would abduct the duchess of York? Christ’s blood, but you are more of an ass than you look.” Picking up Piers’s dagger, he appraised it before shoving it into his belt alongside his own knife. “I shall take charge of this. It may be needed as evidence when I give you up to the sheriff.”
Piers began to stammer his apologies, and his humiliation was so apparent that Cecily silenced him by holding up her hand. “Let me understand you properly, Piers. How could you have thought Master Blaybourne was running away with me? Of all the ridiculous notions. The duchess and the archer, certes, that would make a good story.” She chuckled again, but on seeing Piers’s shame, stopped herself from mocking him further. “Let me hear your explanation,” she said more gently.
Piers pulled himself together when he sensed the duchess was giving him the benefit of the doubt, and he retold the story of what he had seen at dawn at the mews. “I swear, I did not see Doctor Constance, your grace,” he said. “Thus, without a chaperone, I imagined . . . well, you know what I imagined, and I could not let any man defile you!”
Cecily nodded and clucked her tongue as Blaybourne slapped his forehead and groaned, “Clay-brained scut!”
“Poor Piers, I can quite see why you might have misunderstood—” She broke off and frowned. “But how did you know to meet us here?”
“I found out which gate you left by and tried to follow, but I had no way of knowing which road you were taking. I searched a barn or two and even a church, but then I decided to wait to see if you would come back to the same gate, if you would come back at all. I made up my mind to stay one more night and then I would have sounded the alarm for you at the castle.”
Cecily could not bring herself to retort that in three days she might have been well and truly used by Blaybourne or even dead. Instead she told him, “If you had but alerted Sir William Oldhall before venturing off to save me, you would have discovered that I was on a short pilgrimage to Les Andelys. Sir William knew where I was. I am sorry for you, Piers, but I trust you have learned a lesson.”
He went down on one knee. “I humbly beg your pardon, your grace. I did not intend to kill Master Blaybourne, I swear it. I carefully aimed my arrow into the ground but to warn him, that be all. I hoped to seize him, take him back to the castle, and expose what he had done.” He cast his eyes to the ground so that no one would see his tears. “In truth, I resented him for taking my place, and when this happened, I lost my head.”
Cecily was touched by such devotion, but she knew she must punish the young man for his attack on Blaybourne. She would not do it publicly, she decided, as the incident was too embarrassing and would only serve to broadcast her absence more widely.
“I forgive you, Master Taggett, but ’tis Master Blaybourne’s forgiveness you need to beg. Apologize to him at once,” Cecily said sternly. “And come to me on the morrow for your punishment.” Piers eased himself on his knees toward John and mumbled an apology. Blaybourne grunted but gave a curt nod, muttering, “Aye, I accept.”
Cecily chewed on her lip as she watched the little scene, sorry for Piers but concerned more for Richard’s champion archer’s future.
“Master Blaybourne,” she said finally, watching Constance bandage his arm as Piers rose and stepped out of John’s long reach. “I fear your reputation may be sullied through this little adventure of mine, and I am sincerely sorry for it.” She suddenly recalled the face she had seen at the window upon their departure and grimaced. Whoever it had been might have come to the same conclusion as Piers. How she wished she had followed her first instinct and had ridden out with a larger retinue, but that was as good as shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, she decided. “I forbid you to continue your argument with Master Taggett upon our return,” she continued, standing tall and gazing sternly at Blaybourne. “Aye, I see the anger in your face, and I cannot blame you for it, but I believe Piers was acting in good faith and tried to protect me. If you love your master, Duke Richard, then as soon as you deliver me safely back to Rouen, I wish you to rejoin him with a message I shall send with you. The fewer people who know about this, the better, and if you are not in Rouen to be talked about, then you can hold your head high. Am I right, Master Blaybourne? Will you do this for me, please?”
She turned those beautiful eyes on her devoted escort and tilted her head, waiting for his response.
“You are too good, your grace,” Blaybourne said, going down on one knee and kissing her hand. “And Master Taggett is a fortunate man. You must know I am a devoted servant of your house, and if ever you have need of me . . .”
“I shall call upon you, Master Blaybourne. In the meantime, let us resume our journey. I shall have two escorts and a chaperone now, which might help to curb those wagging tongues.”<
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With Piers leading Cecily’s horse and Blaybourne and Constance a length behind, the little group made their way back to Bouvreuil, where the first person to greet them was Jacquetta Woodville with her attendant. Dear God, Cecily thought, she looks as though she is a cat who has caught the bird. She allowed Blaybourne to help her dismount, thanked him perfunctorily, but dismissed him with a curt, “See to the horses, Master Blaybourne,” and turned her back on him to face the Woodville woman. She was proud Cis once again, and in control of the situation, she hoped. She must give no one watching any food for gossip.
“We were worried about you, your grace,” Jacquetta purred, her eyes flitting over both of Cecily’s big, handsome escorts. “Sir William told us you had gone to Les Andelys on a pilgrimage, but we thought you would be back ere now. I trust you are well?”
Cecily gave her a brilliant smile. “I have never felt better in my life, duchess, but ’tis sweet of you to care. Perhaps you too could benefit from the healing power of St. Clothilde.”
A MONTH LATER, Richard rode through the Beauvoisine gate at the head of a weary but victorious army after relieving Pontoise. Richard wanted his troops to receive the accolades they deserved by entering Rouen in daylight, and so the army had camped overnight only a short distance away, giving citizens time to line up and cheer and the duke’s kitchen staff time to prepare a feast.
Cecily was on the steps of the great hall of Bouvreuil to greet him, the rousing sounds of church bells and cheering crowds floating over the high castle walls. Richard dismounted and ran up to where she was waiting, the long train on her azure gown rippling around her and down the steps. He knelt and kissed her hand.
“My lord, I am overjoyed to see you,” she said formally, surrounded as she was by the ladies of the castle and with Sir William at her side. “Praise be to God for returning you to us whole and for your victory.”
“Then let us give thanks to Him before we dine, my lady,” he said, rising. He turned to Sir William and extended his arm, which the other man grasped in friendship. “I give you God’s greeting, sir,” Richard said warmly. “I have some good news.” Turning to those milling around to welcome him home, he waved his bonnet. “I am pleased to report that our commander of the army, Lord Talbot, has been given the earldom of Shrewsbury for his pains. It could not have been more deserved,” he cried, as a cheer went up.
Cecily was only half listening, distracted by the sight of Sir Richard Woodville taking the moment when all eyes were on the duke of York to pull Jacquetta into his arms and kiss her long and hard. Cecily had done this herself many times at Fotheringhay, but there only the servants had witnessed it. Come now, Cecily, admit it, the act irritates you because you dislike the woman, does it not? Chastising herself for her unkind thought, she turned back to Richard in time to overhear Sir William say, “Your grace may not be as happy with a similar recognition by the king for service in France. Edmund Beaufort has lately been raised to earl of Dorset for his relief of Calais.”
Richard scowled. “Indeed. I had not known he was even in France.” Then he took Cecily’s arm and changed the subject. “I trust all is in order here, my lady?” he said, before leading the way into the hall.
After a prayer of thanksgiving had been spoken by Father Lessey, the household and distinguished guests began to take their seats on either side of the trestle tables ranged down the hall. Amid the noise of benches scraping on the flagstones, musicians tuning their instruments, and a general murmur of conversation, Cecily and Richard were finally able to share a moment to talk quietly. Seated by themselves on the dais under a canopy decorated with York’s royal coat of arms and hundreds of tiny white roses, Richard whispered that she was as beautiful as he had ever seen her.
Cecily’s loving eyes held his as she replied, “Perhaps ’tis because I am carrying your heir, my lord,” she murmured, relishing the expression of joy that suffused his weather-beaten face. “Aye, I know it must be a boy. St. Clothilde would not be so unkind.”
17
Rouen, 1442 to 1445
Edward Plantagenet came noisily into this world on a drizzly day in late April after giving his mother due warning many times during her final trimester that he was impatient to be born.
“Never has my womb endured such a thrashing,” Cecily told Richard one night in March before he left on yet another mission, this time to meet and negotiate peace terms with the duchess of Burgundy acting on behalf of her husband. Cecily chuckled. “Either he finds the accommodations too confining or else he is honing his knightly skills. I expect him to arrive early, I have no doubt of that! Conceived in the shadow of Richard the Lionheart’s castle, perhaps we should name him for that king—or for you, my love.”
“I have thought long about this, Cis, and I decided out there in the marshes of Pontoise that should we be blessed with an heir one day, Edward would be his name—for my grandfather of York and his sire, the third King Edward. We can save Richard for a subsequent son,” he told her, winking. “I have an inkling there will be many, unless you lose your looks, my dear.” He ducked as she flung her slipper at him, laughing.
Richard made certain to be at this birth, and he was much relieved to hear from Constance that Cecily’s labor had been easy. Edward had been in such a hurry to make his entrance that the servants had not even had time to boil water, Constance told him. The next day, when Richard was allowed in to see mother and son, he and Cecily laughed as they watched the infant struggle with his swaddling bands, his chubby face screwed up with the effort. Not unexpectedly, his rage soon erupted in cries that made Richard’s greyhound take cover under the bed. Cecily stroked the boy’s blond wisps of hair and rocked him gently in her arms.
“Soft, Ned,” she cooed, “all in good time you will run around, play, and be king of the castle.” Edward stared unblinking at his mother, but her voice and the rocking seemed to calm him, for he stopped wriggling and closed his eyes.
“He looks like your father, Cis, and I am happy he has your yellow hair. Such a contrast to our Anne, who has a look of Isabel about her, I think.”
Cecily watched him as he studied his son. She noticed that his face appeared care-worn of late. Not surprising, she thought, with the responsibilities of government on his shoulders and the bad news that the French are gaining ground again. It was bad enough in Normandy—Pontoise had soon been claimed back by the French following the fleeting English victory in August—but King Charles had turned his attention on the long-held English province of Gascony in the southwest, where several nobles had defected from their allegiance to Henry. Richard had no hand in the latter losses, but Normandy was under his jurisdiction. She had witnessed his outbursts of temper against the council in England when he received only five thousand of his promised salary of twenty-thousand pounds to cover the campaign expenses of an army for a full year. How could he meet wages and victualing, let alone arm the troops and maintain military control in the province?
“I am regent, not a miracle-worker,” he had shouted to Talbot and the other commanders one evening in the winter, after learning the French had advanced on Crotoy on the northeastern coast and Harfleur and Caen in the southwest of Normandy.
The news from England that a proposal of marriage was being considered by the council between the daughter of the count of Armagnac, the most prominent of the Gascon nobles, and twenty-one-year-old King Henry took Richard by surprise, believing the Beaufort faction was leaning toward peaceful negotiations with France.
“It will anger King Charles, that is certain,” Richard explained as a puzzled frown creased Cecily’s forehead. “And I wonder what the peace-mongers on the council are thinking. How can it help the cause of peace negotiations with France? Armagnac hates Charles.”
Cecily asked what Humphrey of Gloucester, the hawk, might make of it all, guessing that Richard’s thoughts were more closely aligned with his. “He is finished, Cis. Whatever influence he had as uncle of the king was buried under the debris of Eleanor Cobham�
��s disgrace. But I believe he would die before he allowed the province to fall.
“But enough of serious talk,” Richard said, yawning. He reached over and patted her lovingly. “I am for bed, my love, and you must have your rest. Will you call Rowena?”
Now Cecily sorted through that conversation as she put up her hand to stroke his dark hair. Aye, he has his worries, she mused, while mine seem so mundane.
“Do I have your permission to find a nursemaid, Richard?” she asked, remembering the most important of them. “Anne needs more guidance now that she is almost three. And with Ned joining her, ’tis important to have a constant companion in the nursery.”
Richard nodded. “I will have the steward make inquiries, my love,” he murmured, careful not to disturb the now peaceful baby. “And speaking of Ned, we should christen him tomorrow, Cis, as I must leave again in a few days. Lady Say and Thomas Scales have agreed to stand as godparents, as we discussed. Though I think we should have asked her grace of Bedford.” He chuckled at her look of horror. “I am only half teasing you, my love. Poor Jacquetta, she can do no right, can she?” he continued, and on seeing Cecily’s stubborn mouth: “Ah, well, no matter. As for the christening, ’twould be fitting to have the ceremony for our heir in the cathedral, do you not think?”
Cecily made a face. “Oh, do we have to?” It seemed unfair to her that mothers should be forbidden to enter a church after giving birth until a cleansing period had passed, which meant that they always missed their children’s baptisms. “I know ’tis not customary for the mother to be there, but if we had it in the chapel here at the castle, I could use the squint and watch unseen. No one would know, and I would not be breaking the church law because I would not be physically in the chapel.” She ran a finger down his arm and around the back of his hand. “I did it for your knighting ceremony, remember? Please, Dickon,” she entreated, “Constance will not allow me out of bed for long, but ’tis only a few steps to—”
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