Instead, Richard chose to give Cecily the happier news:
Our sovereign lord, King Henry, received me in his presence at Westminster, where I again swore I was his true liegeman and obedient servant. He took me at my word and called me his dear cousin, and it was agreed I should be included in the council, but he would not listen to the need for reform. I went away to stay at my lord Bishop of Salisbury’s house, and I drafted yet another bill.
Cecily drew in a breath. This was the bill, she knew, that would make hard demands on the king. Richard had said he would submit such a bill only if the king had received him kindly and listened to his declaration of loyalty. This bill would demand not only reform but also the dismissal of Somerset. She shook her head. If she could read between the lines, he had submitted it, it had been ignored, and Richard had felt the need to retire to Fotheringhay.
Richard continued:
London is no place for women and children now. Since Somerset returned disgraced from France in August, the city is filled with disaffected soldiers—veterans of the endless years of war. They have nowhere to go and no work and have resorted to violence and crime. Even Somerset’s life was threatened in the street one day. You will be amused—or not—that I helped rescue him from disaster, and the king had him housed in the Tower for his safety. He is a fortunate man on many counts, in truth.
Cecily rose from the wooden bench in the knot garden, where she was enjoying some privacy, and began to pace around the neatly clipped privet hedges. Constance, always a constant in her life, was nearby, deadheading roses, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the high-pitched shouts and laughter of her boys playing on the grass along the western wall of the outer bailey. She wanted more information, but upon reading the letter’s last paragraph, she knew that, as always, a wife must be patient.
Look for me before Martinmas, my dearest wife. I shall answer all your questions—for certes, you must have several—when I next greet you. Commend me to my sons and daughters and tell them I count the days until we are together again. To you I send all honor and love. Your humble and faithful husband, Richard.
THE COLD, DRIVING November rain pelted the windows, smearing the view of the drab, leafless trees. Ned and Edmund were playing draughts, Edmund slumping further and further on his stool as he watched Ned gleefully amass a large pile of white pieces by jumping Edmund’s black pieces on the chequered board. Cuddled on cushions by the crackling fire, Gresilde was telling Bessie and Meg a story, and Constance pored over the writings of Galen, an ancient medical text that was never far from her side.
“The hogs must be good and fat by now, judging by the number of acorns the oaks produced this year,” Cecily remarked to Gresilde as she moved the delicate wooden frame around to start on a new corner of her tapestry. “It means ’twill be a hard winter, so they say, but we should have plenty to eat. The steward will order the slaughter to begin in a few days, and I pray my lord will be home for the Martinmas feast.” She stopped when she heard the sound of voices in the passageway.
The door was flung wide and a guard outside cried, “His grace—” but was cut off by Richard, who finished the announcement for him. “Duke Richard is come home and desires an audience with his wife, the Duchess Cecily.” He had changed out of his soggy traveling clothes and presented himself in a new short gown of saffron velvet trimmed with sable, and a square black bonnet.
“And me!” Meggie squeaked joyfully as she ran headlong into her father’s arms.
“By all that is holy, child,” Richard exclaimed, pretending to find her heavy as he lifted her. “How you have grown since September.” Meg giggled and snuggled her face into the soft fur collar. “And Bess, my good girl. Have you been staying out of trouble?” Richard smiled down at his elder daughter, who had her arms wrapped around his thighs and was nodding her blond curls furiously. “Aye, I am sure that you have.”
By now the boys were kneeling for their father’s blessing, their earnest faces seeking approval. “God give you welcome, Father,” Ned said, his face flushed from the heat of the fire. “We are right glad to see you.”
“As am I you, my son. You may rise,” Richard told him and kissed Meg on the nose. “I must put you down, sweeting, for I have not yet greeted your mother.”
Cecily had risen but had stood back to watch him with the children, her heart rejoicing. Why, Cis, she told herself as she felt the familiar sensual tug in her breasts, you still lust for him after all these years. His face was haggard and he had lost weight. She longed to melt into his arms and soothe away his troubles.
Now Richard was kissing her hand, his slate-gray eyes looking at her with love.
“I trust your journey was safely made, my lord.”
“I did not come alone, my lady, and so, aye, it was safely made. We shall be having a few more mouths to feed before I return to London, if my plans bear fruit, so I hope the cattle and sheep are herded in and some are ready for butchering.”
Richard sank into a chair close to Cecily’s and held his feet up to the fire. “You do not know how I dreamed of this moment on the last leg of the ride from Worcester. God’s bones, it was miserable.”
Cecily sat down in her cushioned seat, and Edmund sat on the footstool near her and allowed his mother to play with his fair hair. Cecily raised an eyebrow at her husband. “How many people are we expecting? The sheep are penned, and the swineherds will round up the hogs in a day or so.”
“I shall instruct the steward to butcher enough animals for a small household this winter. The rest I will take and buy more along the way to feed an army of, I hope, four thousand,” he replied. “It must not be said that Richard of York’s men pillaged when they came to London—as the retainers of some noble houses are doing.”
“Dear God, four thousand?” Cecily exclaimed, dread creeping into her heart. “Are you not merely attending a session of Parliament? You wrote to me that the king received you kindly. What has changed that you need so many retainers?”
Richard shrugged and stared into the flames. “Nothing has changed, and there is the rub. Somerset is still the king’s chief councillor, and more than that, he has become the queen’s champion. Thus my bills calling for his dismissal are no doubt now residing in the Fleet ditch. I have gained the support of many disaffected citizens and veteran soldiers from Normandy who see Somerset as the reason France is lost. A few nobles may be sympathetic as well, but even so I am not prepared to enter the city without troops at my back.” He straightened in his chair and took a sip of wine, averting his eyes from his wife’s. “But enough of such disheartening talk. How have the children been behaving? And when may I see George?”
Cecily’s face softened at the mention of her youngest. “He chose his first birthday to take his first steps, my dear. He is a beautiful child and a charmer. ’Tis my belief he will get all he desires in life as no one will be able to resist that smile. Our Meggie worships him already, and ’twas she who spent hour upon hour helping him to walk.”
Richard grinned and looked over at his favorite daughter. She was sitting close by Bessie, who was busy dressing a poppet, but Margaret’s eyes and ears were fixed on her parents. She looked down quickly and fiddled with her own poppet, afraid she might be chastised for eavesdropping.
“George may have all the charm, my love,” Richard murmured, “but that child has all the brains. She does not miss a thing.”
DESPITE HIS WEARINESS, Richard joined Cecily in her high tester bed that night, enjoying its downy luxury.
“I swear to you, my bones cannot tolerate sleeping on the ground or even a straw pallet anymore,” he declared, watching Cecily draw the heavy velvet curtains around them, his fingers itching to wind themselves in her still glorious hair.
Cecily chuckled. “Aye, old man, how does it feel to be in your fortieth year?” She playfully touched his prick through his nightshirt, making him jerk his knees up to protect himself. “Does everything still work?” she teased.
Richard gra
sped her arms and roughly pulled her down on top of him. “Aye, my lady, it does,” he replied, laughing. “Let me show you how well.” Finally fulfilling his desire, he ran his fingers through the silky tresses that concealed them both from the outside world and whispered, “How I love you, my sweet Cecily,” as their lips met. They lost themselves in a lingering kiss. As their passion mounted, Cecily reminded herself to eschew a climax and thus, she believed, conception of a child.
I have had too many babes, she told herself, as she took Richard to pleasurable heights. She was not prepared to bring another child into a world so full of strife and danger for the house of York.
THEIR TIME TOGETHER was all too short. A week later, after more and more men had answered their lord’s call and arrived to camp around Ludlow, he was yet again bidding Cecily farewell on the great hall steps.
“If I can, I will be with you for Christmas, my love,” he said, dismayed to see her close to tears. “But the longer Parliament is in session, the better for my cause, I believe. If aught goes wrong, I will send you word with Roger Ree. You are safe here, Cis. ’Tis far from London, and I trust the men I am leaving to protect you.” He frowned. “You are pale, my dear.”
Cecily clutched his arm. “I am afraid. You do not think the king would harm you, Richard, do you?” she asked, breathing hard. She had woken with a toothache, and her whole head was throbbing.
Richard smiled grimly. “With an army at my back? I seriously doubt it. But again, I shall make it known I am his grace’s obedient liegeman, so why would he harm me? You worry too much, my dear. Now let us make our farewells.”
He knelt and kissed her hand, then rose and mounted his courser, which was fully caparisoned. Richard was magnificent in his murrey and blue tabard, a simple gold coronet upon his dark head. He wanted the finery to inspire the citizens of Ludlow to cheer their lord as he rode out of the city.
Waving to Cecily and his children, he turned and trotted through the gatehouse archway and into the outer bailey. As soon as he was gone, Cecily’s hand went to her aching jaw and her face distorted in pain. She climbed the few steps to the children and saw tears streaming down Meggie’s face. Ignoring her own distress, she bent down and embraced the little girl.
“He will be home again soon, I promise,” she whispered. “Say a prayer for him, sweeting, and the Virgin will protect him. Now dry your tears. You must learn to control your emotions in public, Meggie.” She straightened and, grim-faced, walked ahead of them into the hall and went in search of Constance, her own tears forced back into her heart.
RICHARD HAD INSTRUCTED Cecily that he wished Edward and Edmund to witness their first ritual slaughter of a hog at Martinmas. The ceremony marked the beginning of the long process of butchering the livestock and storing food for the winter.
“Not Edmund, Richard,” Cecily begged. “He is still so young.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Cis,” Richard retorted. “Do not protect him so or he will truly grow up to be afraid. He is but a year younger than Ned, and I was even younger when Sir Robert made me watch. It was not practical in Dublin, but here at home we know the butchers. ’Tis something the boys should witness. I regret I cannot be here for it, but I will ask Piers to attend the boys. They trust him, and besides, he is a farmer’s son, so he can explain the ritual and prepare them. You need not be present, my dear.”
But Cecily could not allow her sons to watch the butchering without her, and since her own father had made her at an early age break a chicken’s neck, she knew in her heart that it was considered, at least by men, a necessary part of growing up.
Cecily walked with the boys to the animal pen in a corner of the castle green. The ground was a quagmire from the rain and the many animals penned there, and she was glad of her wooden clogs. Piers had taken both boys by the hand, though Edward soon pulled his away, deeming himself too old for such childishness. Still, he listened carefully as Piers explained what they would see. Edmund stiffened and pulled back, but when he saw that Edward was ready to mock him, the younger boy lifted his chin and walked grimly on. Cecily’s heart went out to him.
When they were seated on haycocks outside the small pen, Piers gave the swineherd the signal to send in the first of the hogs. The unsuspecting animal, now fattened from a month of foraging for acorns, waddled in, and giving a few grunts, snuffled at the ground for something to eat. From behind, a farmhand took the beast by surprise and pulled its legs out from under it, and the pig fell over with a squeal of annoyance. Its protests grew louder when the sturdy yeoman knelt upon its bristly brown back and grasped a handful of belly flesh. Edward laughed heartily at the hog’s frantic and noisy attempts to unseat the heavy man and dug Edmund in the ribs. But Edmund had seen the second man come forward with a knife in one hand and a long-handled pan in the other, and he began to panic. He looked around desperately for Cecily, who guiltily avoided his terrified eyes. She had no intention of allowing the many yeomen watching to see any weakness in either of her sons.
Piers gently talked Edmund into focusing on what was happening, and Cecily was grateful that the big man put his arm on the little boy’s shoulder just as the second man slit the pig’s throat. Its hideous death scream still made Cecily, who had heard it many times before, emit a gasp of horror, squeeze her eyes tight, and put her hands over her ears. The pan, positioned to catch the blood, filled rapidly, but the noise, which should have subsided, endured for too long. It was only when Cecily opened her eyes that she realized the scream was coming from Edmund. Jumping from her perch, she unhooked her cloak and flung it over Edmund’s shaking body, pulling his head to her bosom and muffling his sobs. She felt all eyes upon them.
“Hush, my child,” she soothed him. “You have been a brave boy and your father will be proud of you.” She felt his arms fumble for her waist through the mantle, and she tightened hers around him.
At a loss, Edward looked on in dismay, but Piers took charge of him and led him away through the knot of castle workers who had gathered to ogle the initiation. Edward held his head high, and as though he were already a leader of men, he nodded graciously right and left as men twice his size touched their forelocks to him.
Between them, Gresilde and Cecily half carried Edmund back to the castle, Cecily’s aloof and inscrutable expression stalling any unkind murmurs that might have arisen to embarrass her son. Inside, her heart was breaking.
That night Edmund had a nightmare, and although the nursery was far from the ducal chambers, his cries awoke Cecily from a sound sleep. Hurrying through the cold passageway that connected the lodgings, Cecily was led by a guard and followed closely by Gresilde.
“’Twas but a bad dream, my son, my sweetheart,” Cecily told him as she held his shivering body close. “Mama is here to keep you safe, never fear.”
His light blue eyes looked up into his mother’s familiar face, and Cecily was dismayed to see the terror in them. “What is it, Edmund? What did you dream?”
“That I . . . I was the h . . . hog an . . . an . . . and a soldier cut my throat and h . . . held his helmet to catch my blood.” And he buried his face in her chest.
It was all Cecily could do not to swoon at the image. She lifted Edmund off the bed and onto his knees next to her, crossed herself, and began to calmly recite the pater noster. The soft Latin words seemed to comfort the boy, and soon he had joined in, his eyes closed and his hands clasped devoutly before him.
Baynard’s Castle, London
FEBRUARY 9, 1461
Mother of God!” Cecily cried aloud from her bed, aghast at her own realization. “My sweet Edmund. He foresaw his own death.”
She ran to the window and flung the shutters wide, hoping the light would chase away the awful darkness of the nursery scene. I told you he was too young to witness the hog slaughter, Richard, she raged now. Her fists balled as her anger grew for her husband, who had left her a widow and the grieving mother of a most beloved son. I told you, but you did not listen. And I also told you he was too young
to fight. But you did not heed me about that, either, did you? Poor little Edmund, I can still see the terror in his face when he told me of his dream. She beat her fists on the wooden shutter and sobbed. “Ah, sweet Jesu, he was too young to die.”
She heard a knock on the door and brushed her sleeve over her wet face. Come, Cecily, she chided herself, you must pull yourself together for Margaret, George, and Richard. Besides, how many times had she heard Joan Beaufort tell her never to cry or appear weak in front of the servants. In fact, Cecily’s mother had often admonished her never to cry at all. But although she was passing on this wisdom to Meggie, Cecily secretly believed a good weep salved the soul—in moderation, she told herself sternly. One should not burble like a fountain.
“Come,” she called, and nodded to the page who slipped in carrying a tray of food. She watched as the boy stoked the fire before thanking him and waving him away. “I pray you leave me and tell Dame Boyvile to attend me in an hour.” She yawned and went to inspect the food. She picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled at it.
“Now, where was I?” she muttered.
Wrapping the bedrobe tightly around her, she pulled a chair closer to the hearth. Ah, yes, the end of the twenty-ninth year of the reign of King Henry. She sighed and shook her head. Poor simple, saintly Henry, who should never have sat upon a throne. It should have been Richard, she mused sadly, and how close he came. He would have been the people’s choice had not Queen Margaret and her favorite, Somerset, fought so hard to keep the throne. She frowned, remembering how the queen had accomplished Somerset’s swift release from the Tower after Richard had convinced Parliament that the duke and certain others should be removed from the court. The Anjou woman was hell-bent on destroying Richard even then, Cecily mused, but then why did she send me gifts? And kind missives. How puzzling. It was as though she imagined I was married to a different man.
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