Now the bishop of Winchester could not refrain from chuckling. The girl was clever and quick. He understood why his niece was so fond of Cicely Bowen. “Very well, then, Lady Minx, you will kneel and, placing your hands in mine, make your confession now.” He led her into the chapel and stood on the steps before the altar.
Cicely did as she was bidden, all mischief gone from her voice as she asked forgiveness for sins she had long since thought she had put behind her. Anger at her stepmother for not loving her, for not being her friend and mentor, for taking her father from her and forcing her from Leighton Hall. Anger that she had not seen Robert Bowen in two years now, and was not even certain he received the letters she wrote to him. And, to her surprise, anger at Queen Joan’s confessor for causing that good woman difficulty, and anger at the women of Queen Katherine’s household, who did not hold Lady Joan Beaufort in proper esteem. “I am not important, my lord, but Jo is royal, and should be treated with kindness and respected.”
Bishop Henry listened. He understood the anger Cicely kept so carefully hidden away from others. He remembered his own childhood, when people had not respected his beautiful mother, and scorned her because of her loyalty and love for John of Gaunt, her lover, and her three sons and little daughter because of the stain of bastardy that touched them. He remembered how their attitudes had changed when his father was finally able to marry Katherine Swynford and legitimate their four children. But his mother had taught them all to be proud of who they were, and allow no one else’s opinions to matter to them.
Young Cicely had the same ethic, and he admired her for it, for she was a girl and, but for his niece, without influence. The bishop also appreciated her loyalty to Joan Beaufort. And he was quite interested in what she had to say about the priest who had accused Queen Joan of witchcraft. Though the man had claimed falsely, it was later proved, Queen Joan’s malice towards Henry V, it turned out that he had learned from a serving girl that she was teaching her two fosterlings how to prevent conception once they were wives. Outraged but canny, the priest had decided that accusing Queen Joan of treason against Henry V would gain him more than the truth. He had, of course, been wrong, for Joan of Navarre’s love for her stepchildren was a well-documented fact. Still, no stone was left unturned in the investigation, which had never learned the real cause of the priest’s ire, but had learned there was no threat to the king.
The bishop of Winchester listened to Lady Cicely Bowen’s confession, and then gave her a mild penance that would keep her in the chapel for at least another half an hour. Putting his hand on the head of the kneeling girl, he blessed her and left Cicely to her meditations, smiling.
Cicely, however, was not thinking of her alleged sins, or her penance. She was wondering what would happen to her when Joan Beaufort married the young king of Scotland. If James Stewart wanted the king of England’s cousin for his wife he would have her. The match was one that would be advantageous to both nations. Where would Lady Cicely Bowen go? Would she be expected to return home to Leighton? If Luciana had disliked the child she had been, she would certainly not appreciate the young woman she was becoming. It was unlikely that Joan could include Cicely among her ladies. A position as one of the queen’s ladies would be eagerly sought after by families more powerful than hers. Perhaps, however, Joan Beaufort would not like James Stewart, and would refuse to marry him no matter how advantageous the match to both countries. Just perhaps.
But Lady Joan Beaufort was, to her own surprise, as immediately smitten with James Stewart as he had been with her on first sight. She returned starry-eyed from their meeting and their subsequent meetings filled with chatter about his charm, how wise he was, his beautiful poetry, his plans to bring Scotland into the modern age. Cicely grew more and more depressed. Then one night Lady Joan Beaufort came back to the chamber she shared with Cicely to announce that Scotland’s king had asked her to marry him, and that she had accepted.
When her best friend promptly burst into bitter tears, Joan Beaufort was astounded. “Ce-ce! What is the matter? Aren’t you happy for me?”
“How can I be happy when I am shortly to lose you?” Cicely sobbed.
“You aren’t losing me,” Joan protested.
“You’re going to be married!”
“So will you one day,” Joan replied.
“You’re going to Scotland! You’re going to be a queen, Jo, and I’ll never see you again for the rest of my life!” Cicely wailed.
“You’re going to Scotland too,” Joan Beaufort said. “You didn’t think I was going to leave my best friend in all the world behind, did you? Oh, Ce-ce, I would never leave you. You will be one of the queen’s ladies.”
Cicely’s tears ceased. “But, Jo, there are nobler families who will want a place in your household. My family isn’t important at all.”
“Your father is a rich man, Ce-ce, but more, he is clever at investing, and his advice is greatly sought by my family, by Queen Joan, by others. Your family has far more to offer me and the king I am to marry than some spoiled get of a duke, or one of my relations. Besides, Scotland is not considered the most fashionable country. Only the families of girls difficult to marry off will be fighting over the places in my retinue.” Lady Joan Beaufort chuckled. She hugged Cicely. “I would never leave you behind, Ce-ce!”
Now Cicely began to cry again, but this time they were tears of happiness. “I am so happy!” she sobbed, and then, as Joan’s laughter bubbled up, Cicely’s tears turned to laughter too. “May I write this news to my father?” she asked her friend.
“Of course! He must, of course, give his permission,” Joan replied.
“He will,” Cicely said. “Luciana does not want me back, especially now. She was quick to give Papa three sons, but for years she has shown no signs of having another child. Yet she is soon to deliver another baby. She prays, my father writes, for a daughter. I hope she has another boy, Jo!”
Her companion laughed. “We will pray for it,” she said wickedly.
But it took many months for the three Scots who had come from the north to settle on a ransom for King James’s long sojourn in England, which would be called a remuneration. The price finally agreed upon was sixty thousand marks, to be paid over a period of six years. And the truth was that the English had indeed taken good care of the young king. And before James Stewart left England he would marry the king’s cousin, Lady Joan Beaufort.
The Earl of Leighton’s wife delivered an infant girl baptized Catherine Marie. Luciana had a daughter of her own, and her husband would soon enough forget his eldest-born, especially as Cicely was leaving England for Scotland. Luciana had considered having the wench assassinated so as to rid herself of the girl forever, but she decided against it, for Cicely’s situation at the English court was proving useful to Robert, and would continue to do so as long as the troublesome wench was connected with Lady Joan Beaufort. Her sons would need that alliance, and one day her daughter would too.
Now Cicely was going to another court, and she was in favor with its queen. But Luciana yet resented the very generous dower that her husband had set aside for his elder daughter. Still, if it bought the girl an important husband, so much the better for Luciana’s own four children. As long as Robert Bowen lived, Cicely would do anything her father asked of her, and Luciana would see he asked whatever was necessary for their sons and daughter. The girl’s dower would be more than worth the favors she would return.
Cicely needed new gowns. She was growing tall, and a queen’s lady needed to be more than presentable, for it reflected well on her mistress. She and Orva visited London’s cloth merchants, all of whom were eager to supply the queen’s lady and the wealthy Earl of Leighton’s daughter with the very best. The gowns she had brought to court with her ten years prior had been let out and let down until they could be remade no more. And Orva had made one trip home to Leighton for more fabric, infuriating Luciana, who had insisted her husband have his daughter’s future needs taken care of in London.
The wedding was celebrated on a cold and sunny February thirteenth in the year 1424. The bridal couple spoke their vows at the riverside church of St. Mary Overy in the village of Southwark, surrounded by her important family: her uncles, Henry Beaufort, the bishop of Winchester, who later feasted the royal couple in his palace; and Thomas Beaufort, the Duke of Exeter, who, like his father, was a great military commander. Two queens stood as witness: Henry IV’s widow, Joan of Navarre, and Henry V’s widow, Katherine of France. The little king, however, was left at home.
The marriage, unlike many, was a love match. Cicely felt both happy for her best friend and jealous of the time she now spent with James Stewart. However, recognized among the queen’s other ladies for her place in Joan’s heart, Cicely Bowen was respected and deferred to, although she did not take advantage of her position. There was just too much to do: packing the queen’s possessions, and packing her own for the trip north.
Finally, on the twenty-eighth day of March, the royal progress set out towards Scotland, crossing the border between the two countries on the ninth day of April. Cicely was astounded to see the rough road they traveled lined for miles with the Scots who had come to get a look at their long-absent king. She was thrilled by the cheers that brought smiles to the faces of the young king and queen.
As they traveled along towards Melrose Abbey, where they were to meet up with the king’s cousins, the border lairds came forward here and there to kneel before James Stewart and pledge their fealty. He accepted it graciously, asking their names, shaking their hands. Cicely heard the Earl of Atholl, who was riding nearby, murmur to one of his companions when a tall, rough-hewn borderer knelt before the king, “By the rood! ’Tis the Douglas of Glengorm. I wouldn’t have expected him. He usually leaves these things to Archie Douglas, the clan chief.”
“Aye,” Atholl’s companion said with a chuckle. “That way he can do as he pleases, and the Earl of Douglas gets the blame.”
Atholl laughed. “The Douglases are a difficult clan, I’ll agree, but they say Glengorm, while stubborn, is honest and fair.”
Cicely looked at the man now rising and shaking James Stewart’s hand. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, and big boned to boot. He was dressed in dark breeks, a light shirt, a leather jerkin, and leather boots, and wore on his head a velvet cap with an eagle’s feather. There was nothing of the gentleman about him, she thought, and wondered if all the men in Scotland were like him. If they were it did not bode well for a girl who needed a husband, Cicely considered.
They reached Melrose Abbey, where the English would leave James Stewart in the hands of his own nobles. The king’s late uncle’s son, the Duke of Albany, was there to greet him, along with his own three sons, and a host of noble lords and ladies who had come to welcome their king home. The king was coldly polite to his relations. His cousin’s father, the old Duke of Albany, had been responsible for David Stewart’s death. He had used one excuse after another in order to delay negotiations for the boy king’s release from the court of Henry IV.
Not that that had been a bad thing, James Stewart thought silently to himself. With his uncle regent of Scotland he might have never lived to reach his maturity. James had actually been safer in England, where he was treated with respect, his education continued, and his military training seen to by his captors. He was not the weak and indecisive man his late father had been, bullied by his younger brother and his nobles. Just past his twenty-ninth birthday, this king of the Scots intended ruling, as his cousin the Duke of Albany immediately realized when, upon pledging his loyalty to the king, he was told by James that his fealty came late. In that moment Murdoch Stewart knew he would not find favor with his king.
The king moved on without letting the duke introduce his sons. Others pressed forward to greet James, introducing themselves and their wives. There were a few men whom he knew, for his uncle had sent sons of the nobility to keep him company in his early years in England. The king’s eyes lit up at the sight of Angus Gordon, the laird of Loch Brae, a particularly good friend from those days. He walked forward as greater men gave way so he might grasp the laird’s hand as they embraced warmly. The laird’s beautiful mistress accompanied him, and as chieftain of a branch of the Hay family she pledged her loyalty to James Stewart, as did Angus Gordon.
Cicely thought the nobles crowding Melrose Abbey didn’t look a great deal more civilized than the border lairds. “How will I ever find a husband among these wild men?” she asked the young queen.
“They are very different from our English lords, I will agree,” Joan said. “But many are very handsome, like my Jamie.”
“They are rough-spoken,” Cicely said. “The king is not, but he was raised in England. These Scots look like brigands.”
“Are you sorry you came?” the queen asked her friend.
“Nay,” Cicely said. “I should rather be happy and unwed than unhappily wed.”
The young queen laughed at this amusing sally.
On the twentieth of April they reached the capital of Perth and settled into Scone Palace, which was located on the grounds of the abbey. Cicely had to admit that Scotland was a beautiful country. They could see mountains from the palace, and were surrounded by many lakes. In the last few days they had been on the road they had crossed many swift-flowing streams, which were filled with trout and salmon belonging to the king.
The palace of Scone was not grand. The monks from the abbey had originally lived there, but now lived in another building. Cicely and Orva were given a bedchamber with its own fireplace and two lead-paned windows that overlooked the hills behind the palace. There was a comfortable bed with a well-made trundle for Orva, a bedside table, a small settle by the hearth, and more than enough room for the trunks.
“The bed hangings are dusty and have seen better days,” Orva noted. “A good thing I brought our own from England.” She set to work immediately, pulling down the ancient hangings, giving a screech of surprise when several moths flew from the fabric. “Fold that fabric, dearie, and we’ll store it away. If we move, I’m taking our bed curtains with us, and we’ll have to rehang these others. Unless, of course, the queen tells us otherwise. Royalty do love to move from place to place, and we have some fine castles in our England. But in this wild land I don’t know where they live. This is a pretty place, but it isn’t grand, is it?”
“Jo says there is a great castle at Edinburgh, and another at Stir-ling, but the king remembers this place from his youth. His mother loved Perth. I think it will be his favored residence. I will ask a housekeeper to dispose of these old hangings,” Cicely said. “And if it is necessary to take our curtains with us when we move, we will.” She walked over to the windows, noting that two of the wooden shutters that could close out the light and the chill were hanging by a thread. “These shutters must be repaired,” the young woman noted.
The room had been swept for their arrival. Together Orva and her mistress hung the bed hangings, which were of heavy linen and blue velvet. The straw mattress upon the bed was fresh, for they could smell the fragrance of it. Orva lay the feather bed atop it, dug farther down into the linen chest, and drew out a linen sheet smelling of lavender, several feather pillows, and a down comforter. She quickly made the bed while Cicely carefully lifted her gowns from another chest and hung them in a little stone alcove off the bedchamber. The room had been well aired before their arrival and was chilly on that late April afternoon. Finished with the bed, Orva started a fire in the hearth that was soon blazing merrily, taking the damp from the cha
mber.
“You had best go to the hall, my lady,” she said to Cicely.
“I should change first,” the girl replied.
“The lavender gown with the violet surcoat is pretty,” Orva suggested. She helped Cicely dress, and brushed out her wavy red-brown hair. Orva then tucked her mistress’s long hair into a pretty gold caul dotted with tiny bits of amythyst. “There, my lady. You run along now. The queen will be waiting for you.”
The hall was not overly large or impressive. It had several fireplaces; long, high arched windows; and a gray stone floor. It was the hall of a well-to-do nobleman. But it was full to overflowing with those who had come to meet the new king and hopefully get into his good graces. Everyone already knew that Murdoch Stewart and his sons were not among the favored. It had been reported that the Duke of Albany had declared that he had brought home his own executioner. Enough agreed that few wanted to be seen speaking with this now doomed branch of the royal family.
Cicely entered the hall and sought the queen. Seeing her, she hurried to join her mistress. “Am I late, Your Highness?” she asked politely.
“Nay, just in time to save me from boredom, Ce-ce,” Joan Beaufort answered. “The English ladies who came with us are for the most part terrified of the Scots. There are more men in the hall than women too. Look at my ladies, all cowering on their stools, afraid to even lift their eyes. Jamie is speaking personally with all those lords who have come to Perth, trying to gauge where he’ll have friends or not. He has little time for his wife. But when we’re alone he makes up for it.” Joan chuckled with a wicked wink.
“Look about you, Ce-ce! Isn’t it wonderful? And so different from our English court. The men are so rugged and fierce, but I think the few women here a bit bolder than most of our own ladies. Jamie’s friend Angus Gordon, the laird of Loch Brae, brought his mistress with him. Fiona Hay is her name. I think we would like her as a friend. And Maggie MacLeod, the wife of the laird of Ben Duff. She is a Highland girl who married the man of her heart, a border laird, and infuriated her family in the process. Those two have some backbone, unlike most of those who accompanied us,” the queen said.
The Border Lord and the Lady Page 7