The Border Lord and the Lady

by Bertrice Small

  “It was pure luck, Luciana,” he told her, “but if Cicely does well she will be able to ease the way to introduce our sons into the court one day.”

  “Yes,” his wife replied slowly, “perhaps the brat will prove useful after all. And I will not have to see her ever again.”

  “Nay, you will not,” Robert Bowen agreed.

  “Take whatever you desire from the storerooms,” the countess told her husband graciously, although in truth it was all his to take. “The wench should not disgrace Leighton. Has she manners? Is she educated at all or will she be an embarrassment, my lord? She must not be forward in any way.”

  “My daughter has manners, and enough learning to please the queen,” he said, amused by this sudden shift in her attitude.

  “Even if she proves of value to us I will always hate her because you love her,” Luciana told him bluntly.

  “I love our sons too, madam, and I was never aware that you sought my love. Have I not been a good husband to you? A competent lover?” he demanded.

  “I thought it would be enough,” Luciana answered him slowly, “but I find it is not enough for me now. I suppose it is my warm nature that makes it so.”

  “I am sorry then that I must disappoint you,” the earl told his wife. “But we need not be enemies, madam.” Nay, they would not be enemies, yet he could never forgive her for the cruel way she had treated his daughter, would continue to treat Cicely. With a polite bow he turned and left her.

  “Does he hate me?” the countess asked Donna Clara.

  “Nay,” the older woman replied. “But had you made the slightest effort towards little Lady Cicely, had you shown her even a modicum of kindness, my lady, you might have gained his love. The love he had for his daughter’s mother was one born of familiarity, longevity, and kinship. They had much in common because they were raised together. Do you not recall your brother Gio’s first love was your cousin Theresa?”

  “He outgrew her,” Luciana said.

  Donna Clara shook her head in the negative. “Nay, he did not. He would have willingly wed her had your father and hers allowed it. But they would not because each family needed a wealthier mate for their child. Your husband was not as practical a man. He was ready to wed his lover. Only her death prevented it, and then he did what he should have done in the first place: He sought an heiress bride. He might have given you his love had you accepted his daughter. I warned you, my lady, after little Carlo was born, to relent and bring Lady Cicely into the house, but you would not. Now the earl’s patience is at an end. ’Tis you who have driven him to it.”

  “I do not care,” Luciana said irritably. “I do not need his love. I am his wife. I am the Countess of Leighton.” Then a calculating light came into her eyes. “I shall give him a daughter too! When he has another daughter, Donna Clara, he will not think so much on this one. And she will be gone from Leighton.”

  Donna Clara did not argue with her mistress. She doubted another daughter would change the earl’s attitude towards his wife. Oh, he would love the child, for he was a good man, but he would not love her mistress. “You are worn with birthing your three sons in so short a time, cara,” the older woman said. “You must rebuild your strength, for if you are to have a daughter you will want her to be strong and healthy, as your sons are.”

  The countess nodded. “Aye, I do want a healthy daughter. You must continue to give me that strengthening drink you prepare each day for me.”

  “I will, my lady. You may be sure that I will,” Donna Clara promised her mistress. And as long as Luciana drank the potion there would be no more children, but of course the Countess of Leighton did not know it. And if her mistress convinced her husband to have another child Donna Clara would cease adding her special ingredient to the mixture. She was relieved that the earl had taken her advice and was fostering his daughter out, for her mistress, she firmly believed, would not have let the matter go.

  On the following morning Orva came early to the hall and sought out Bingham, the steward. Bingham was filled with gossip. “The earl fought so loudly with her yesterday that you could have heard them in the next village,” the steward informed Orva. “It was about our little lady.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a ring of keys. “These are for you. What’s going on?”

  “Come with me to the storerooms, and I’ll tell you,” Orva said, and he followed her eagerly. “He has decided it will be safer for Lady Cicely to be fostered by another family,” Orva began. “And I’m to go with her!”

  “Lady Cicely is being sent from Leighton?” Bingham was surprised. “So the countess has had her way in the matter.”

  “My lord does it for his daughter, not for the countess,” Orva said sharply. “And into whose household are we going? We are being sent to Queen Joan herself!” Orva crowed. “We’ll be a part of the royal court!” Her eyes scanned the bolts of material.

  “God’s boots!” Bingham swore softly. “How did the earl manage that? Leighton isn’t an important house.”

  “He says it was pure good fortune that put him in Queen Joan’s eye,” Orva said. “I think Saint Anne, to whom I always pray, looks out for her namesake’s child.” She reached for a bolt of medium blue velvet and, unrolling it to the length she desired, took the scissors on her girdle and cut the piece. Folding it, she then set it on a small table.

  “Praise God and his blessed Mother that the child will be safe,” Bingham replied. He was Lady Cicely’s great-uncle on her mother’s side. “The others will be glad to learn your news, Orva. May I tell them?”

  “Shout it to the skies if you will,” Orva said, taking another bolt down, this one of burnt orange brocade, and cutting the piece she wanted.

  “I’ll leave you then to your picking and choosing,” Bingham answered. “Lock the door from the inside, Orva. That way you’ll not be disturbed.” And he gave her a broad wink. “The mistress isn’t pleased at all this morning, I’m told.” Then he left her.

  Orva took his advice and turned the big key in the lock before going back to her task. There was much to chose from, and Orva took her time. To the blue velvet and the burnt orange silk brocade she added a dark green, a cream, and a burgundy-colored velvet, along with a violet silk brocade, a medium blue and a grass green silk. She took a length of deep blue wool and another of rich brown to make cloaks for her mistress, as well as a packet of rabbit fur and another of marten to line the cloaks. She took linen and lawn for undergarments and veils, trimmings, buttons, several narrow lengths of satin, and another of leather to make girdles. The shoemaker belonging to Leighton would make Cicely new shoes and boots.

  In a dark corner Orva found a small dusty box almost hidden beneath several bolts of heavy wool. Curious, she opened it. Seeing its contents, she smiled. Inside the box was a narrow gold chain with a small jeweled cross, a simple band of red gold, and a tarnished wire caul. The gilt flaked from the caul as she lifted it up. These few small possessions had belonged to Cicely’s mother, Anne. The chain and the ring had been Bowen family jewelry. Robert Bowen had given them to Anne in pledge of their love. The little wire gilt caul Orva remembered the earl buying for his love at a Michaelmas fair. She could still picture Anne in her mind’s eye, tucking her thick auburn hair into the caul and twirling about happily as she showed it off to Orva and to her father.

  “These should belong to Cicely,” Orva said aloud to herself. The chain and the ring were hardly impressive pieces, and the little caul needed to be regilded. But the serving woman knew that her little mistress would appreciate that these items had belonged to the mother she had never known. She added the box to her pile. Then, unlocking the door, letting herself out, and relocking it, she hurried off to find some servants to aid her in taking her prizes back to the cottage, where she would begin to fashion the gowns her little mistress needed.

  When the earl came to visit his child later that day Orva showed him everything she had taken from his storerooms. The earl nodded, thinking to himself that Cicely could not
be in better hands than Orva’s. The serving woman had taken enough material to make his daughter a wardrobe fit for a princess. Then Orva showed him the box with the few small pieces of jewelry that had been Anne’s.

  Robert Bowen’s eyes welled up. “I had forgotten these,” he said softly, fingering the chain with the crucifix. “Aye, Cicely should have them. You were right to bring them, Orva. But the caul has seen better days, hasn’t it?” He smiled at his remembrance of Anne’s squeal of delight when he had bought it for her.

  “A bit of fresh gilt, my lord,” Orva assured him, “and ’twill be fine.”

  “My daughter should have a real gold caul, and some bits of good jewelry,” the earl noted. “I will see to it.”

  “Remember, my lord, she is still a little girl. Perhaps a strand of pearls, and two or three rings. As she grows older you will gift her,” Orva advised.

  Several days later Robert Bowen brought his daughter a beautiful long strand of pearls, several gold rings decorated with brightly colored gemstones or pearls, a fine golden caul, and a gold headband with an oval piece of green malachite in its center. And when another week had passed he arrived with a beautiful dappled gray mare with a black mane and tail for Cicely, and a sturdy chestnut gelding for Orva.

  The weeks flew by, and then it was Midsummer’s eve. There was dancing, and there were games, drinking of sweet honeyed mead, and bonfires on the hillsides. In just a few more days Lady Cicely Bowen would be leaving her childhood home to be fostered by the widowed Queen Joan. The new king, rumor had it, was preparing for war against France. It would be an exciting time to be at court.

  On the morning before her departure Cicely slipped from the cottage. Orva was busy finishing the packing, and would not consider where her little mistress had gone; nor would she worry about it, for Cicely was completely safe on Leighton lands. Walking across the fields Cicely made her way to her father’s gardens, and secreted herself within a large hedge. And then the three nursemaids came, bringing with them her three little half brothers. She watched them silently, smiling at the antics of the two elder, wishing she might be allowed to play with them. Charles looked like their father, she was happy to see. The other two favored both their parents. Finally she could sit no longer.

  “Farewell, little brothers,” she whispered softly. “I doubt we will ever meet again. May God and his blessed Mother protect you all. Bring honor to Leighton.” Then Lady Cicely Bowen crept quietly from her father’s gardens, making her way back across the fields to the cottage where she had spent all of her life.

  “Where were you?” Orva asked her when she entered.

  “Out walking, and saying my farewells to Leighton,” the little girl answered. “I still wish we didn’t have to go. Oh, I know the great advantage this is for me, for my family, but I should have been content to remain here forever.”

  Orva sighed. “I know,” she sympathized. “This has been my home for all my life too, and now I wonder if I will ever see it again, my little lady.” She sighed again but then said, “Still, it is a great adventure we are about to embark upon. It could be worse. Your father’s wife could have convinced him to put you in a convent for the rest of your days.”

  “I would have made a very bad nun,” Cicely said, giggling.

  “So would I,” Orva agreed with a chuckle.

  “Do you think my father will come to say good-bye, Orva?” Cicely wondered.

  “Did he not tell you, child? Oh! Perhaps he meant for it to be a surprise,” the serving woman said. “Your father is to escort us to Havering-atte-Bower.”

  Cicely clapped her small hands together with delight. “Ohh, we shall have time together before he leaves me. I am so glad!” She danced about the room.

  Orva smiled to see the child happy. This sudden change in Cicely’s life was a difficult one to make for a child so young. Orva prayed silently that all would be well, and that her little mistress would be happy in Queen Joan’s household. She hoped the earl’s daughter would find a friend among the other little maidens certain to be there. She slept restlessly that night—the last night in the cottage she considered her home. The earl had assured her the cottage would be there for her when Cicely was grown and no longer needed her. It was the one comfort she had in all of this great change.

  The following day dawned gray and gloomy. Certainly not the most hopeful sign, Orva thought as she directed the loading of the trunks onto the baggage cart. It would take them a week to reach Queen Joan’s residence, which was some fifteen miles east of London. The earl had sent word ahead to four convents and three monasteries requesting shelter for his party. Each night they would stop at a religious guesthouse, where they would be given a bed and two meals in the safety of the establishment’s sturdy walls. They would travel with a dozen men-at-arms from Leighton to keep them, and Cicely’s baggage cart with all her new gowns and other worldly possessions, safe.

  They had traveled no more than a few miles when the rain began, and it continued for the next two days. The earl had wisely considered that they would travel slowly, and so, while uncomfortable, they were able to reach the convent in which they would stay the night. The mother superior was impressed that Lady Cicely was to be fostered by the king’s stepmother.

  “You are aware, though, my lord, of the rumors about Queen Joan, aren’t you?” the nun asked the earl.

  “What rumors?” Robert Bowen inquired nervously. Were all his plans for his daughter to come to naught?

  “Some say the lady practices witchcraft, my lord, although King Henry does not give such chatter credence,” the mother superior murmured.

  “Why would anyone say that?” the earl wondered aloud.

  “Well, my lord, her kingly father in Navarre was called ‘the Bad.’ And then she lived in Brittany for many years, and all know that witchcraft is practiced there. And then there is the fact that while she bore her first husband, the Duke of Brittany, nine children, and our own late king had six with Lady Mary before she died and he succeeded to England’s throne, together the king and Queen Joan produced no progeny. Both were young enough to do so. So why were there no more children?”

  “Perhaps because of their large families their marriage was by choice a celibate one,” the earl suggested. “As I recall Queen Joan brought her two younger daughters with her when she came from Brittany, Reverend Mother, and they needed her attention. But as I am not a part of the court circle my opinion on the matter would be worthless.”

  The nun smiled archly. “Your little girl is very fortunate, my lord,” she said.

  It rained the next day as well, and the monastery guesthouse they stayed in the second night was very sparse, the supper and meal the following morning scant. But when they awoke the third morning the sky had turned blue and the sun was shining. The weather held for the rest of their journey, and late in the afternoon of the seventh day they reached the village of Havering-atte-Bower, and Queen Joan’s residence. The queen, however, was not there. She would be arriving on the morrow, the steward said, with Lady Joan Beaufort. He could not admit the queen’s new fosterling until she arrived.

  Anticipating that he might need a seventh night of shelter, the Earl of Leighton had arranged it in the guesthouse of a small but prosperous convent just outside of the village. The mother superior herself welcomed them, smiling. She was quite unlike their hostess on that first night on the road.

  “So you’re to live in the queen’s household,” the nun said. “You are a very lucky little girl, Lady Cicely. I have known the queen since she came to England over ten years ago. She is very wise and can be a lot of fun. Her daughters Marguerite and Blanche came with her then. Of course, they’re married back into France now but I remember them well. Two of the sisters and I used to take them berry picking. And the Decembers we had with all the feasting from Christmas to Twelfth Night. Queen Joan always invited us to her table then, for we are a small order. How lovely to learn there will be two little girls back at the queen’s house again to bring
it laughter and joy.”

  “I believe your words are comforting to my daughter,” Robert Bowen said. “She has never before been away from Leighton.”

  “Oh,” the mother superior said, and she stooped down so she might speak face-to-face with Cicely. “You must not be afraid, my daughter. You have come to a good place, and within a few short weeks it will be and will feel like home to you. Do you like animals? The queen’s house here is always filled with dogs and cats.”

  “I have a horse,” Cicely said. “My lord father gave her to me before we departed our home. Her name is Gris, because she is gray. I’ve never had a dog or cat.”

  “Well, you shall probably find you have several once the queen is in residence,” the nun said cheerfully, standing up again. “Come now, my lord, my lady. We are about to celebrate vespers. Will you not join us? And then we’ll have supper. I know that Sister Margarethe has made a wonderful vegetable-and-rabbit potage for supper. I have smelled it cooking all afternoon.” She reached out and took Cicely’s hand. “But first we must go into the chapel and thank our dear Lord and his Mother for your safe arrival.”

  The convent might be small, but the meal they were served after vespers was every bit as good as that served at the earl’s table. The rabbit stew was flavorful, the bread warm and crisp, and there was an egg custard flavored with lavender, served last. The beds given them were clean and fresh, free from bedbugs and fleas. And in the morning their second meal of oat stirabout, with newly baked bread and butter was delicious. The earl thanked the sisters as they departed, pressing a generous donation into the hand of the mother superior.

  “I hope we will see you again very soon, Lady Cicely,” the nun called after them.

  “Do you think the queen will like me, Papa?” Cicely asked as they rode towards the village again, and the queen’s residence. “What of the other girl who comes with her? Do you know who she is?”

  The earl nodded. “You must not fret, poppet,” he told his daughter. “Queen Joan is a good woman, and she cannot help but like you. Everyone likes you.”