Queen By Right

by Anne Easter Smith

  Richard laughed and slid off the bed. “Who am I to stop you, my pampered rose of Raby? The chapel it shall be. I cannot think Edward will care one way or the other.” He laughed. “Although wherever ’tis done, he will not take kindly to being dipped in cold water! I do not envy Elizabeth Say her duty.”

  His greyhound scrabbled out of his hiding place and nuzzled Richard’s hand, his tail waving. Just then a flea attacked his neck, and in his attempt to rid himself of the pest with his back paw, his leg thumped loudly on the red and white tiled floor.

  Cecily waved them off. “Take yourselves and your fleas away. The wet-nurse will be here anon. Rowena,” she called to her attendant, who was seated in the window, sewing, “I pray you, fetch little Anne so she can meet her baby brother. She is confused by the idea that she is no longer the baby of the family. I pray she will not be jealous.”

  “That is up to you, my love,” Richard said, giving her a meaningful look. “Aye, we have an heir, but he was not the first—at least, not in my affections. Henry holds that place.” Richard kissed her forehead and straightened his grosgrain short coat. “I think I will take a few hours to hunt, with your permission, my dear.” He grinned as Cecily groaned. “You will be back in the saddle ere long, never fear.”

  There was a knock at the door and Richard went to open it on his way out. Expecting to see Rowena with his daughter, he was caught by delighted surprise to see his sister standing on the threshold.

  “Is it convenient for me to see Cecily and your son?” Isabel Plantagenet asked, smiling up at him. She had been shy with him the first few times they had spoken during the stay in Rouen. She could not reconcile the grown man, husband, and father with the little six-year-old boy she had been parted from after their father’s execution and attainder. She had been pledged to Thomas Grey before that awful day twenty-seven years ago when they learned of their father’s fate, but the Grey family had wanted nothing to do with a traitor’s daughter and had annulled the betrothal. Instead, at eight, she was brought up in the household of her Aunt Anne Bourchier and eventually was betrothed and married to that lady’s son, Henry. The siblings had only been reunited a little before the departure from England.

  “Certes, you may, sister,” Richard enthused, kissing her. “The wet-nurse will be here anon, but judging from my son’s well-formed lungs, you will know when it is time to leave. God’s greeting to you, I will leave you ladies in peace. Cecily,” he called back to his wife, “Isabel is here to see you.”

  Cecily patted the place on the bed that Richard had just vacated and wished her sister-in-law a good day. After Isabel had inquired after Cecily’s health and the birthing ordeal, Cecily transferred the sleeping Edward into the crook of his aunt’s arm. “God be praised, nephew, what a handsome fellow you are to be sure.”

  “And how is your own babe, my lady? He is half a year now, I believe. Six boys! How fortunate you are.”

  Isabel smiled wistfully. “Aye, I suppose I am, but in truth I envy you your daughter.”

  At that moment, the object of Isabel’s envy entered the room, clutching Rowena’s hand. Her big gray eyes took in the scene at the bed and, dropping a creditable curtsey to her mother and the countess, she waited to be invited closer. It was then that Cecily saw another child hiding behind Rowena’s long dagged sleeves. She frowned, and Rowena propelled the little girl forward, instructing her to curtsey. Cecily was astonished by the child’s beauty.

  “’Tis Elizabeth Woodville, your grace,” Rowena apologized. “She and Anne are inseparable in the nursery, and with her mother also confined . . .”

  Cecily cut her off. “Keep her by you, I pray you,” she said, and Isabel’s eyebrow arched in surprise at the sharp tone. Elizabeth seemed well behaved and passive enough, she thought, and ’twas true that Jacquetta was confined to her quarters awaiting the birth of her fourth child.

  Cecily beckoned to Anne, putting her finger to her lips, and the child tiptoed slowly toward the big bed, not once taking her eyes off the white bundle on Isabel’s lap.

  “He dead?” she whispered, curious. Without warning, she poked her finger in Edward’s cheek.

  “Nan!” Cecily admonished her, taken aback. “Certes, he is not dead.”

  “Last baby is dead,” Anne said matter-of-factly. “I saw it.”

  Cecily’s heart constricted. She reached down and set the little girl next to her on the feather mattress, throwing off Anne’s dainty red slippers and tucking her legs under the coverlet. Anne beamed and snuggled next to her mother. “That was a long time ago, Nan. This is Edward, your new baby brother. You may call him Ned for short. I promise you he will not die.” She mentally crossed herself and muttered, “If God has mercy on me.”

  “Is he not beautiful, Anne?” Isabel covered the prayer to help Cecily. “See how fair his hair is, just like your mama’s.”

  Suitably distracted, Anne had put out her hand to touch the golden head, when Edward suddenly sneezed and opened his eyes. Anne giggled. “Baby ashoo,” she said, fascinated. “Can he talk?”

  “Nay, he has to wait until he is as big as you before he can talk,” Cecily explained. Edward began to fuss and work his mouth. “Perhaps you can teach him, sweeting. He has a loud voice, just you wait and see. He is hungry and will soon let everyone know.” She called to Rowena. “Is the wet-nurse ready?”

  As Rowena took the baby from Isabel, Anne skipped over to her friend Elizabeth and took her by the hand to show her the baby. Cecily watched as the doll-like face of Jacquetta’s daughter bent over Edward and studied him earnestly. “Hush, baby, don’t cry,” Elizabeth lisped in her high, silvery voice. “All will be well, you shall see.”

  EDMUND BEAUFORT WAS, like his uncle the cardinal, a tall, haughty man with a prominent nose and piercing blue eyes. But Edmund was half the cardinal’s age, blessed with a strong, athletic frame and a winning smile that hid the cruel streak Cecily had witnessed often when they were children. He had ridden into Bouvreuil’s courtyard that summer with his retinue wearing the blue and white Beaufort badge to join with Richard in negotiating with the duchess of Burgundy for help in reclaiming English lost lands in the southwest. They would all be leaving in a few days to meet her in Anjou, the lordship of which province Edmund Beaufort had been granted by the crown.

  “One day Duke Philip is fighting with us against France and the next day he is negotiating a truce behind our backs,” Cecily said to her brother and cousin one evening following a quiet supper in the Yorks’ solar. “Where does he stand now? And why do you believe the duchess will be easier to deal with than her husband, cousin?”

  The remains of Cecily’s favorite sparviter’s pie had been cleared away. Richard and Edmund sat on high-backed cushioned chairs at either end of the table. Cecily had chosen a stool on which to perch and was plucking absently at her psaltery, more interested in the men’s talk than her music.

  Edmund gazed at her. “Still the outspoken Cis I remember,” he said, amused. Turning back to Richard, he arched a bushy brow. “Have you not curbed that tongue of hers yet, my lord? I must confess I am unused to being interrupted by a female while I am in serious conversation. I must be fortunate in my dear wife, for I do not believe Eleanor would ever attempt it.”

  Then Eleanor Beauchamp must be a ninny, Cecily thought, but held her tongue. She was too intrigued to know how Richard would respond.

  Richard laid a tender hand on Cecily’s shoulder. “Then I am sorry for you, Lord Edmund,” he said pleasantly. “I feel fortunate that my dear wife has a mind as good as yours or mine, and I find her questions—and indeed her advice—both insightful and wise.” He saw her triumphant smile for a second before she lowered her head modestly to her instrument. “To answer your earlier question, my dear, you have the measure of Burgundy, but, you may remember, his wife Isabella shares the same grandfather as you and Edmund here—John of Gaunt. She is thus a Plantagenet princess, and as Gaunt was also duke of Aquitaine, she has no desire to see it fall into French hands. Y
ou see,” he said pointedly for Edmund’s sake, even though he still addressed his wife, “a woman can be of influence when it comes to politics—as well as being useful for her family ties.”

  Edmund had the grace to nod. “Touché, cousin,” he acquiesced. But he did not care for being patronized, and his next remark had an edge to it that Cecily did not like. “However, it does not mean, dear cousin, that a daughter is as important as a son when it comes to what really matters: inheritance and succession. But I will concede that Duchess Isabella is important to our cause because of her Plantagenet blood.”

  An awkward silence fell for a moment as his implication tumbled like a smoldering cinder from the fire onto dried rushes. All were surely thinking of Richard’s claim to the throne through a female ancestor. Quickly setting aside her psaltery, Cecily rose to fetch more wine.

  “Will you hunt on the morrow, my lords?” she asked brightly, doing her best to distract any such thoughts. “I should dearly like to try my new merlin. She is from Turkey, Edmund, and has had to bear with my ill temper while I mourn my sweet Nimuë—my first bird and a precious gift from Richard.”

  “Certes, I would not say no, madam,” Edmund said, relieved at the change of subject and annoyed with himself for putting the Mortimer claim in the Yorks’ minds. He had not taken the measure of the younger man yet. His uncle the cardinal had given instructions to watch for any disloyalty to the king or mismanagement in France by the dangerous duke of York.

  “Then that is settled, my lord, you shall ride with Richard,” Cecily said. “Forgive me, I should have asked sooner, but how does my cousin of Somerset?”

  “My brother enjoys high favor with the king and Suffolk,” Edmund said. “’Twas not easy for John to return to England and a life of freedom. He brooded upon his eighteen years as a French hostage, and he thought he had been forgotten at court. His marriage greatly improved his humor, although he laments he has not sired a son yet by his wife. He is an ambitious man—as are all Beauforts, I believe, and I include myself in the list,” he boasted and then smiled. “Although I am naught but the lowly fourth son with few prospects.”

  Richard harrumphed. “Despite your lowliness you have not fared ill, my lord. You have the king’s ear; you have a powerful uncle; have had an earldom bestowed on you but lately; and, with two of your other brothers being long deceased, I believe you stand next to John in line to inherit the Somerset title, even if you are fourth born.”

  Again the supercilious arching of the Beaufort brow, which Cecily determined to practice as soon she was alone in front of a mirror. “It seems you are counting my blessings where I am not. The earldom of Somerset does not carry with it one hundredth the wealth of your title, York,” he retorted. “And by the way, I do not anticipate my brother’s death any time soon. But your zealous interest in my family disturbs me.”

  Richard began to rise. “Christ’s nails, but you are insufferable!”

  Cecily banged her cup down hard on the table, startling the two men, who were glaring at each other across the green velvet cloth. “Sweet Jesu! Stop bickering, the two of you. You are behaving like two bullyboys. Next you will be wrestling each other to the floor, and rather than witness that humiliation, I believe I shall retire.” She called to Constance and Rowena. “Ladies, pray accompany me to my chamber. Let us leave the boys to squabble.”

  Both men got to their feet, bowing to the duchess and looking sheepish. “I give you a good night,” Cecily said. The quarrel had unnerved her. Her knees felt weak and she needed to gather her thoughts. The tension seemed an inauspicious start to a journey leading to a negotiation, she believed. She hoped she would have a chance to point that out to Richard before the two rode off to Anjou. It was clear to her as a summer sky that Richard of York and Edmund Beaufort would never be friends. Even worse, Edmund might prove to be another wedge between her husband and the king.

  BY THE TIME Richard returned—without Edmund—the summer was almost over. A month later the golden days of September lent a rosiness to Rouen’s white walls and turned the apples in the many orchards a deep ruby red. Cecily could just see the tips of the turning trees as she luxuriated in her copper tub and Constance applied a lemon and chamomile infusion to her hair. She stroked her smooth thighs with a cake of castile soap and smiled to herself.

  The last time she had bathed, she had gone with her sister-in-law and their attendants to a spot along the Seine to escape the city heat. Their escorts had erected a small canopy on the riverbank, and they had spent the August afternoon dabbling their feet in the cool water, splashing each other, picking flowers, and dozing in the shade.

  “Ho, there!” a familiar voice had called from the rise behind them. The escorts reached for their weapons.

  “Richard!” Cecily cried in delight, squeezing water from the bottom of her gown. “’Tis his grace the duke, brave sirs,” she had assured the soldiers. “Put away your swords.”

  Richard kissed her hand and gave her a sly wink. “How now, Cis? I should know why you are breaking my rule about not straying too far from the city. But, in truth, I am too glad to see you to worry.” He took Isabel’s outstretched hand and kissed it too. “My two favorite family members,” he said, and then corrected himself, “two favorite adult family members.”

  “Pish, Dickon! That is no compliment—we are your only adult family members,” Cecily recalled retorting. “Come, sit and take some ale. If I may say so, you look as though you have walked from Angers. I trust your mission bore fruit?”

  Richard nodded. “’Tis not over, but we make progress. Edmund has returned to England to report. I was happy to see the back of him, in truth, for he is arrogance incarnate. I suspect he will take all the credit for our dealings with Duchess Isabella. Once again, he will be at the king’s side and I shall not.”

  “Tell me more anon, my lord. For now, forget the road, your worries, and your weariness and sit with us,” Cecily had cajoled.

  After seeing to his horse and refreshing himself with some ale, Richard removed his sweaty tabard and leather jerkin and sighed with relief to be finally unencumbered. Cecily was offering the horse a handful of grass, so Richard took the opportunity of asking his sister in a whisper if she would mind returning to the city with the escort on her own.

  “I will take care of Cecily,” he murmured.

  Isabel chuckled. “I have no doubt of that, Brother. But do not be long or the tongues will wag,” she teased him.

  Richard let out a neigh of laughter. The familiar sound had filled Cecily with pleasure.

  Aye, life was always sweeter when Richard was there, she thought, feeling around for the slippery soap.

  If she remembered rightly, it was not long before she and Richard were alone on the riverbank, and after Richard’s nimble fingers had helped her to disrobe, Cecily plunged naked into the shallow water. Richard hurriedly finished undressing himself and then followed her. They soon stood face to face, moving their hands over each other’s wet body until their fingers intertwined and their lips met on a whispered “I love you.” Richard guided her hand to his prick and let her decide when it was time. I made him wait far too long, she thought, sighing now, as she recalled how she had seductively tongued the water trickling off his torso.

  “Ah, cruel Cis,” he had moaned. “I fear I must cut your teasing short or—” He crushed her to him, thrusting into her and crying out in his release. Cecily knew then, with a sly smile, that she had waited exactly long enough.

  Cecily let out a little moan in remembered pleasure of that day, and Constance, thinking she had pulled too roughly on a strand of hair, apologized. Suddenly, her mistress sat up, splashing water onto the floor.

  “What day is it, Constance?”

  “Why, ’tis the feast of the nativity of the Virgin, your grace. We celebrated with a special rosary this morning.”

  “Aye, I know that, Constance. But has it not been five weeks since my last course? I forget.”

  Constance knew very well tha
t Cecily was late. A long time ago she had taken over the ritual of preparing her mistress for the monthly confinement. However, it was not her place to badger the duchess into an examination. “You are correct, madame. ’Tis more than five weeks.”

  Cecily turned a radiant face to her physician. “Then perhaps we had better see if I am with child.”

  WITH ANOTHER BABE on the way, Ned and Anne healthy and happy in the nursery with the new nursemaid, Anne, who came from the Norman region of Caux, and Richard ensconced at Rouen for a long period, Cecily thought she could not be happier. Yet Jacquetta Woodville was still a thorn in her side.

  Throughout the past year, Cecily had tried to define the origin of her dislike for the younger woman but had never been able to put her finger on it. It simply lurked in the shadows to be puzzled over from time to time. A tidbit of information following the tryst at Les Andelys had come to her through Rowena. It had angered Cecily, but as it was mere servants’ gossip, she had tried to bury it. Jacquetta was said to have disparaged Constance’s skills on more than one occasion, calling the doctor a charlatan. Cecily was well aware that Jacquetta believed she had magical powers—how many times had the woman brought her water-witch ancestress into a conversation—but as Cecily herself was not above believing in magic, she had grudgingly dismissed Jacquetta’s distrust of Constance as jealous disbelief in the doctor’s more scientific method of healing. It was, however, yet another reason for Cecily’s dislike, justified or not.

  Cecily could not say when she became resolved to treat Jacquetta with the utmost civility for Richard’s sake—especially after both women had given birth to heirs within a month of each other—but she was happy that Richard had noticed the concession. He had commended her on her graciousness more than once, and indeed there was no one who would have guessed the two women did not share the highest regard for each other.