I gaze at him.
He gazes back, his eyes fixed on mine. He looks as if he might care how I feel.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” I find myself saying, now calculating. “But I did have to think. It was too much for me after so many years of not seeing you, of not expecting us to marry, of not expecting you to love me or even be very interested.”
He should be horrified by this speech. Instead, he looks hurt and—baffled. “How could you think that? I’ve always been intensely interested in you.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Now, Dickon, don’t be angry. When my lady mother gave me the girlhood which my sisters never had and I educated myself, many people told me that no gentleman would want to marry me and I’d have to spend my days in a convent.”
“But, Cis! You don’t understand! I love you! I want your company!”
I give him another hard stare. But he meets it without flinching. He takes my hand and brushes his lips over it. I shiver with pleasure. “Have I now proved to your ladyship’s satisfaction that I will be a good and loving husband?”
I come to. He hasn’t proved anything. I rise and search through my books. “There is just one more thing.”
“One more thing?” His voice mounts higher. “Cis, how much longer do you plan to torture me?” He moves closer and puts an arm around my waist. Again, I feel a pleasurable sensation radiating from his touch. I don’t understand it. Surely, after the mistreatment I’ve met with at the hands of men, I should be dead to amorous advances.
I ignore my feelings, find my book, and say, “Only until you’ve read this.” I hand him The Wife of Bath’s Tale. “It has some things to say about women, which I would like to discuss with you.”
Richard groans but does not lose his temper. Instead, he takes me in his arms and kisses me. ”And that will be all? You promise?”
“Promise,” I say. If he can swallow that, maybe I should marry him. But I am nearly sure it will enrage him. In which case, I shall refuse him.
Richard sighs. “I don’t know why I allow this, but I will read this ... tale and return tomorrow morning.” He strokes my cheek with his finger. I close my eyes at the unexpected intimacy of his touch.
The next day Richard reappears. “That’s a rather subversive story, Cis.”
I look straight at him. “Do you agree with it?”
“You mean that women want to have mastery over their lives in the same way as men? That is what you want me to remember?”
“Yes.”
Normally marriage negotiations are handled by my liege lord, my father or brother, without taking my views into account. Yet here I am, twenty-one years old, old enough and well educated enough to act as my own advocate. At this moment I know I have the makings of a ruler, just as Mama said.
I draw myself up. “Remember, Richard, I have a soul to keep. That is why the church allows women to give or refuse their consent to marriage. It is important to me that my soul be well matched to that of my husband. Women are not things. We do not want to be viewed as good only for making babies. It is insulting to our intelligence and to our feelings to be treated thus.”
Richard’s mouth opens, horrified.
I experience a moment of disappointment. But after all, he is a man. What did I expect?
“Cis!” he stutters.
I stare into the abbess’s garden as I brace myself for the tirade. I smile.
But Richard does not say anything for a long time. I had forgotten about these silences. I take a deep breath.
“We could make beautiful children,” he finally says.
I whirl around and glare at him.
He takes a step backward.
I fold my arms tight across my body. “I do not wish for a lord and vassal relationship. I want you to love me as your equal.”
“But haven’t I given you every reason to believe that?”
“I have to give up all my legal rights to be your wife.”
“You would be Duchess of York.”
“What would you do if I displeased you?”
“A marriage vow is a sacred obligation.”
“Women have the dice loaded against them.”
“Cis!”
“Every time a woman has a child, she goes to the gates of death.”
“What are you saying?”
“To please her husband, she is usually required to have one child after another, which is bad for her health.”
“Do you take me for a brute?”
“If she displeases him, he can take away her children and lock her up.”
“Do you expect me to ride roughshod over your feelings?”
I stare at him. Yes, I do expect him to ride roughshod over my feelings. But something about the way he looks at me prevents me from saying so. Instead, I merely remark, “I don’t know you.”
“We have known one another since childhood!”
“We have not seen each other in twelve years.”
“That was not my wish. I always wanted to see you.”
I twist my hands together. I can hear the longing in his voice.
“My love, I think you worry too much. No one could love you as much as I. You must know I don’t want a caged animal for a wife, but someone to love me.”
I finger my crucifix.
He kneels. “Don’t you want to experience the joy of having a husband who loves you?” He takes my hand. “Don’t you want to have children to adore?” He kisses my hand and puts it over his heart. “Are you telling me, Cis, that you would prefer to live out your life in your brother’s household when I am offering you my hand, my heart, everything I have?”
Unexpected tears come to my eyes. I realize I am wilting through lack of love. A life ruled by prayer now seems colorless and lifeless. All my life, I have spent in my head. The tips of my fingers resonate with each beat of his heart. He kisses each finger of my hand, front and back. The gentle pressure of his touch makes me tingle. I glance at him. He is attractive, lean, muscular, and well dressed. “Come to me, my love,” he murmurs, “I adore you. You would be safe with me.”
I look away. He sounds hungry for me. What would our wedding night be like? I shiver and close my eyes.
Richard gently kisses each finger. “Would two months give you long enough to get ready?”
Two months? That is not much time. On the other hand, I feel powerful sensations of longing I did not know I possessed.
“Yes—” I sigh out that word on the thread of a whisper, without looking at him, to hide my blushes.
“When?”
I pull myself together and stare at him. “The feast day of Mary Magdalene.”
But Richard laughs, his face warming with merriment. “Cis, you really are—”
“Mary Magdalene is much misunderstood,” I inform him stiffly.
“My love, of course, if you wish it,” he says instantly. He rises and takes my face between his hands. “But have I your promise that we will marry then, in two months time, on the twenty-second day of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1437?”
“On one condition,” I say. “I wish to stay here another week. I need to prepare myself.”
Richard treats me to another one of his long silences. Finally he says, “I have a request also. Of course you may stay here for another week, but I would ask that you allow me to visit you every day, and then escort you back to Bisham.” He folds my hand into his. “It would be cruel to deny me the pleasure of your company.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
BOOK II: ONE SEED SOWN
As long as I am alive, in truth,
no one will have the joy and pleasure of my love
except for this flower
FROM PLUS BELE QUE FLOR
MONTPELLIER CODEX, 13TH CENTURY
Chapter 6
Rouen Castle, Rouen, English France
Feast of Saint Anne, Mother of Our Lady
July 26, 1441
On a day when hot winds carried the sharp scent of herbs, I
was riding back from a visit to the merchants of Rouen—one of several—when I heard the thunderous sound of hooves galloping toward me.
I stopped my palfrey on the slope that led up to the castle.
Was it Richard? He’d ridden out with his army to relieve Pontoise only two weeks ago, and I did not expect him so soon. I clutched at the reins, causing my gentle palfrey to snort and arch her neck.
Life as Richard’s duchess was not as bad as I’d feared. I acquired a taste for gorgeous satin and thick velvet gowns of every hue, for fur robes, supple gloves, elegant boots, and jewelry. I grew to love the wink of precious gems, of emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, and in the summer months, I loved the subtle luster of pearls with lighter silks. Richard proved to be a considerate husband, sparing no expense to fit up his various residences for my pleasure. The only thing he would not tolerate was refusal when he wanted to bed me. He was gentle, but persistent.
And so I bore him three children in four years.
I hated the discomfort of pregnancy and the messiness and pain of birthing, but my children were lovely. My eldest, three-year-old Joan whom I named after Mama, was the apple of my eye. She was a charming child, already showing great beauty, and saying the funniest things. Her sister, two-year-old Nan, was a much quieter soul who glowed with contentment when playing with animals. Baby Henry, born in February, was only five months old and had yet to make his mark on the world. But Richard had been thrilled to have an heir.
Through the thin, semi-transparent fabric of my veil, I dimly saw a gentleman bring his white gelding to a stop with a flourish and vault off.
I pushed the material aside with my gloved hand.
Much younger than Richard, I guessed his age to be no more than twenty. He wore a tunic of dark green velvet over stockings that were half green, half gold with the seam straight up the middle of the front of each leg. The tunic was shorter than usual, and the eye-catching stockings drew attention to those legs, long and very shapely.
“Your Grace,” he gasped in elegant French as he dropped to one knee in the dust. “You forgot this.”
He handed up a package that contained my new dress, stiff with jewels.
I looked into a pair of laughing hazel eyes.
“Have I seen you before?”
“I was riding through Rouen when I saw your entourage. I’d heard much of your beauty, so I reined in to see if I could get a glimpse of such rare loveliness.”
I turned my head to hide a faint blush. “How did you notice my package?”
“I saw it as soon as you left.”
“How fortuitous that you should happen to be there at that precise moment.”
His boots were coated in dust.
“Have you come from Pontoise?”
He nodded.
“Have you news of my lord?”
“Indeed I do, my lady. He is in good health and spirits and his campaign against the French is going well.”
Richard and I had arrived in Rouen a month ago so that he could take up his post as governor of Normandy. The city of Rouen was the English capital of France, but the French had been trying for the past several years to wrest control of English France. Pontoise was an English town near Paris that controlled a strategic crossing over the River Oise. Whenever the French wanted to use this crossing, they were forced to pay English tolls, and this they did not like.
In early June, three weeks before our arrival, the French laid siege to Pontoise. But Richard appeared at the head of a large army, bringing his best generals. He was determined to teach the French a lesson. While the men fought the French, their wives and children kept me company.
At my asking, the young man went into detail about marches and counter-marches, night-crossings and chases back and forth across the River Oise. His brown hair bounced, as he gestured the army’s movements with his hands, his lips equally mobile and expressive. He smelled of almonds, of nutmeg, and of some exotic spice I could not place. This was such a contrast to other men I knew, who smelled of dogs, horses, mud, and—other unmentionable things.
Who was he? Where did he live?
“Why don’t you stay awhile and refresh yourself?”
I led the way into the great hall of Rouen Castle, summoned the servants, and saw that he was well furnished with refreshments. When I was assured that he had what he wanted, I left.
Around an hour or so later, I reappeared.
He was singing a chanson, accompanying himself on his lute. As soon as he saw me, he rose.
He devoured me with his eyes.
My new dress was of blue-grey silk with yards of material that floated around me as I walked. Pearls adorned the bodice. Pearls swirled in patterns down the sleeves. Pearls inscribed my name around the hem. I wore a matching heart-shaped headdress with a fine gauze veil.
It had been hard to decide which jewels to wear, for I had chests filled with them. It had taken Jenet a whole hour to find them all.
Eventually, I chose a sapphire and pearl necklace with matching earrings.
The silence lengthened as he gazed at me.
I lifted my chin and stared back. What would happen now? But our silent reverie was interrupted by the appearance of the other ladies. Word must have got around that an attractive stranger had arrived, for they wore their best dresses, coloring their cheeks and lips with rouge. After two weeks of nun-like seclusion while our men battled the French, we were dying for male company.
The young man got up and bowed, kissing each hand with a flourish.
I took in their finery and glanced down at my gown.
“You look ravishing, duchesse,” murmured the young man. “You need no addition to your attire.”
Richard’s sister, now Isabel de Bourchier, married to Baron Henry Bourchier, bit her lip.
Lady Bess de Vere, married to John de Vere, twelfth Earl of Oxford, interrupted. “Do you know Plus Bele Que Flor, The One To Whom I Submit Is More Beautiful Than A Flower?”
“Now, how does that go, my lady?” said the young man as he sat and strummed some chords on his lute. “The One To Whom I Prostrate Myself Is More Lovely Than A Flower?”
Lady Margaret Beauchamp, Countess of Shrewsbury smiled. “The One Who Lets Me Play For Her Is More Lovely Than A Flower.”
“No,” replied my sister-in-law Lady Lisette Beauchamp, married to George. “The One Who Lies Beneath Me Is More Lovely Than A Flower.”
I laughed. “No indeed. It is The One Who Commands My Obedience Is More Lovely Than A Flower.”
“You are looking very well, Cis,” remarked Isabel in her distinctive voice. She lisped her rs exactly as Richard did. “That is quite a magnificent dress, I have never seen so many pearls. Who is that?”
Silence fell as I faced Isabel.
Lady Isabel de Bourchier was an unusually thin lady of thirty-two years. Of course, it would be Isabel asking the awkward questions, with her habit of watchful silence. “This young man, Isabel, has come from Pontoise.”
Isabel turned towards him. “And you are?”
“My name is of no consequence, my lady.” The young man rose and bowed gracefully.
Isabel’s elegantly thin eyebrows rose. “Are you saying that you are of no consequence?”
There was silence.
“Where are you from?”
“A country far from here.”
Isabel thinned her lips.
“Isabel,” I said, touching her arm. “He has come from Pontoise. He has news of the campaign.”
Immediately the ladies clamored for news about their husbands, all of them among Richard’s generals: Isabel’s husband, Baron Henry Bourchier, Bess’s husband, the Earl of Oxford, and Lisette’s husband, my brother George, Lord Latimer.
I held up my hand. “It’s such a fine evening, with many more hours to run. Why don’t we sit outside? We can discuss Pontoise.”
I signaled to the servants to follow.
The young man put down his lute and offered me his arm.
I led eve
ryone to an area out in the garden screened by yew, which made for a private kind of outside room. Inside this space were tubs of roses, rosemary, thyme, and small orange trees. A turf seat stood in the middle, looking as if three benches had been put into an oddly shaped triangle with a side left open. Sitting on the seat gave us a view out of this small garden through a doorway cut into the hedge. This view led the eye into the larger pleasure ground where a fountain fed the bathing pool.
I sat in the middle of the seat, with the young man on my right and Isabel on my left.
The others took the remaining places.
I turned to the young man, and he began his tale while the servants set up a table at the open side of the three-sided seat and brought cold beet soup, cheese, and manchet bread, followed by a salad and hare stew. This was followed by Hippocras and angel wafers.
“The French are playing a clever game,” I remarked as I set my wine down. “By not coming out into the open to fight us fairly, they conserve their forces, while we wear ours out as we chase after them. Could we not employ a similar strategy to the French?”
The young man raised his brows. “You are quite right, my lady,” he said. “What a strategist you are. I would not like to command an army that opposed yours.”
I was about to reply when Bess said, “I’m thankful our men managed to cross the bridge of boats at Royaumont without breaking their necks. Our Blessed Lady be thanked for that.” She dipped her head like a horse, chestnut curls bobbing.
“Men can be so reckless,” agreed Margaret, wiping her fingers with a napkin. Her husband, the Earl of Shrewsbury, had been holding Pontoise for the English along with my brother William, Lord Fauconberg, before Richard’s army arrived. Now they joined in his campaign against the French.
“We ladies have to be so strong,” declared Lisette, stuffing another wafer in her mouth and licking the honey off her fingers. “Gentlemen have no idea how hard it is to wait and wait with no news.” She batted her lashes at the young man. “Would you treat your wife like that?”
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