1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “He’s taking me to the abbey tomorrow. He said it would do me good to ride out and get fresh air.”

  Isabel turned to stare at her. “Your husband is fighting in Pontoise. Who could you possibly be talking of?”

  Lisette flung herself down.

  “I feel much better. I agree with our charming friend, fresh air will make me feel well again, especially as he’ll have to help me on and off my horse. How it will feel to be in his arms—” She closed her eyes and smiled dreamily.

  I dropped any pretense of sewing and looked at Margaret. “Is she well?”

  “Obviously not,” snapped Isabel. She rose. “I will not have it said that we ladies are so uncontrollable we fly towards the first pot of honey we see while our husbands risk their lives in battle.”

  Lisette rose, hectic spots of red flaring on her cheeks. “I’m going out with him tomorrow.”

  Isabel turned to Margaret. “I strongly suggest we give her a draught of poppy juice to calm her down.”

  “I’m not a child!” Lisette stamped her foot, then swooned.

  Isabel nodded to Margaret, and between them, they bundled up the limp figure and carried her off to bed.

  I sat there, stunned. Were they going to drug Lisette? What had Blaybourne said to her? I closed my eyes and imagined Lisette in Blaybourne’s arms. I could feel his breath, hear her giggles, imagine what might happen.

  But why should I care? What was he against Richard and four years of marriage? I knew scarcely anything about him—not of his family, where he came from, what his station in life was, or what he was doing in Rouen.

  What was he doing in Rouen?

  There was a soft footfall, and someone entered the room. My eyes flew open. And there he was.

  I rose slowly; the room swirled.

  With catlike grace, Blaybourne caught me in his arms.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Come, my love.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “I adore you,” he said, kissing my cheek.

  At that moment, the door to Lisette’s chamber opened a crack. But no one came out.

  He grabbed my hand, and we ran down the stairs into the courtyard, through the garden, until we came to the private screened-in area.

  I turned away to compose myself, for I was short of breath, and the pins in my hair were coming loose.

  “My love, do you remember you promised to meet me at compline?”

  I put the last tendrils of hair back into place. “I am the governor of Normandy’s wife.”

  “Has someone upset you?”

  “Another story of a jealous husband. This time he beheaded his lady wife.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He was silent.

  “What about you? Can you fight with a sword? My husband is extremely skilled with his.”

  “I have ways of protecting myself.”

  “Do you?”

  He flushed. “I am sorry to have troubled you, madam.”

  He turned and walked slowly away.

  I stood there, watching him go, wrapping my arms around me. My fingers were cold, my hands were cold, my arms were cold. I moved towards him. “Don’t go!”

  Blaybourne turned and raised an eyebrow.

  I went to him.

  He folded his arms around me. “You are sure?”

  I nestled against him and nodded.

  He covered my mouth with kisses and stroked me with long, nimble fingers, sweeping me away in a wave that was so fierce, I could no longer fight.

  I unwound myself, kissed him on the forehead, and sighed.

  Alert in an instant, Blaybourne dressed with deft motions, then helped me into my chemise.

  I leaned against him, my hair hanging loose to my waist. “I’ve broken my marriage vows.”

  Our eyes locked. “Did you choose your husband?”

  “You know there is no choice.”

  “And if there were?” he asked, stroking my hair. “Would you have me?”

  I wrapped my fingers around his. “If I were free. But I’m trapped inside my marriage.”

  “I could protect you.”

  “But you’re just an archer.”

  “Do you think so?”

  I sneezed.

  He put my gown on over my chemise and tied the laces. He was in the middle of helping me with my hair when we heard footsteps. We gave each other a quick glance, then Blaybourne melted into the shadows.

  I rose to my feet, fumbling for my shoes.

  “Cecylee!”

  The cold voice cut through the warm air like a knife.

  I drew myself up, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Isabel’s cold blue eyes raked me from head to toe, and from toe to head.

  My cheeks burned.

  “Have you thought of what it would do to Richard if he found out?” she asked, biting off each word in cold fury. I stared at the ground, a whiplash of fear prickling up my spine. “I’m surprised at you, Cecylee, I thought you had more sense.”

  I twisted my hands.

  “I have been so stupid. Here I have been protecting your brother George’s honor, trying to get his flighty Lisette to behave, when I should have been protecting Richard’s honor.”

  I hung my head.

  “Do you not care about Richard?”

  “Richard is not Black Fulk—”

  “You don’t need to tell me that!” snapped Isabel. “He isn’t going to burn his wife in her wedding finery, however badly she behaves.”

  “But—”

  Isabel jerked my chin up. “Look at me. Remember your heroine Queen Alainor? Do you know what her husband did to her when she betrayed him? He locked her up for sixteen years.”

  “Queen Alainor outlived her husband.”

  “Is that all you can think of, outliving Richard?”

  I squirmed. “Queen Alainor lived for another fifteen years and helped her sons rule England.”

  “You snake in the grass,” hissed Isabel, sounding like a snake herself. “You care nothing for the House of York.”

  “Enough,” said Blaybourne, quietly but firmly, materializing out of the shadows.

  “How dare you,” said Isabel. She turned towards me. “How could you lower yourself with an archer on the Rouen garrison?”

  ““You don’t know anything about me.”

  As Isabel stared at him, my mind sluggishly went to work, like a millwheel churning up muddy water.

  “You have grievously injured my brother.”

  He was silent.

  Isabel leaned forward. “Do you deny it?”

  “Did Cecylee choose her husband?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Did you choose your husband?”

  Isabel stared at him.

  “I understand you had two husbands. Your first marriage to Sir Thomas Grey was annulled, was it not?”

  Isabel tightened her jaw.

  I scrutinized his face. How did he know that? That happened over fifteen years ago.

  “I believe on the grounds of cruelty?”

  She was silent.

  “Your husband beat you, didn’t he?”

  I recoiled. An image sprang to mind of Isabel as a young woman visiting Castle Raby on the occasion of my betrothal to Richard. She was pale and thin and complained of pains in the stomach. When I asked Mama about it, she told me it was women’s troubles. Now, I wondered. It explained a lot: the watchfulness, the sourness, the pleasure she took in unpleasant tales.

  “How dare you cross-question me like this,” said Isabel, her voice rasping. “I am a great lady. I am above such things. Yet here you are, digging for dirt—” She went into a spasm of coughing.

  He ignored her. “That marriage was not of your choosing, was it? You were only four years old when you were married to him.”

  I winced. That was bad as anything that had happened to Alainor.

  “I do not choose to discuss th
is with a stranger!”

  “As you wish. But remember that you had a terrifying experience with a husband foisted on you when you were a small child. Why can’t you be more compassionate to Cecylee?”

  “Because my brother is no monster!”

  “Isabel,” I put in. “I do not expect you to understand—”

  “Understand? I do not understand why Richard loves you.”

  “That marriage was not of my choice.”

  “Choice! What makes you think you would choose well for a husband?”

  “I have a right to choose.”

  “You should be thinking of the family honor.”

  “My happiness is at stake.”

  “Is he well chosen?”

  I folded my hand into Blaybourne’s.

  “Your behavior has been disgraceful.”

  “I want to be happy in my life.”

  “You have grievously injured the House of York, and if I had any say over the matter, you would be severely punished!”

  Isabel glared at me. Then she swept off in the direction of the castle.

  Chapter 9

  Feast of Bernard of Clairvaux

  August 20, 1441

  I did not leave the castle until one evening a week later. The day had been especially warm, Lisette had just recovered, and to celebrate we went out to the bathing pool to cool ourselves with a bathe in the evening air. We lingered, gossiping and playing with the children, but at length everyone went in, leaving me gazing at the brightening stars. The night was peaceful and I ached for some of its quietude before I had to go back into that hot, noisy, and smelly castle.

  I lay back in the pool, half closing my eyes to let the sounds of the evening wash over me. I was unaware of anything other than the turmoil of my thoughts, unleashed against the quiet backdrop of the night.

  “My sweetest flower, how sad you look.”

  I started. “What are you doing here?”

  “I must talk to you,” he said in a low tone.

  I stared. Where had he come from?

  “You could be carrying my child.”

  “No.”

  “I will wait while you dress yourself.” He disappeared into the shadows.

  I clambered out of the pool, grabbed my chemise and threw it over my head, followed by my silk gown, which had become water-stained and ruined by my splashes. Sighing, I sat on the bench, finger-combing my hair and making a half-hearted attempt to braid it, when he returned.

  “Who are you?”

  “Truly I don’t want to talk about myself.” He pulled me gently to him and kissed me slowly and luxuriously on the lips.

  “You are not answering the question.”

  “Could it not wait?”

  “I have been thinking, since last we met. I realize I have agreed to marry someone whom I know not. Isabel is right to chastise me. How can I make such a choice about one whom I know nothing?”

  There was a pause.

  “Let us start with your name. Is it really Blaybourne?”

  He turned away from me and gazed into the bathing pool for a long moment. A breeze stirred faint ripples. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “You may not like what I have to say, for my family is humble. My father was a blacksmith in the village of Blay, near Bayeux in Normandy.”

  The color drained from my cheeks. I was silent for several long moments. “But you do not have the manners of a blacksmith,” I stuttered.

  “I was sent to the Abbaye-aux-Hommes in Caen as soon as I turned seven, for my parents were dead, my elder brother had a family to support, and there was no money for my keep.”

  I stood silent for a long time, trying to imagine this. “Is it usual for poor children to be sent away to the monastery?”

  “If they are lucky. Otherwise they have to beg at the side of the road.”

  I shuddered. I had seen such children of course, many times, but had never given thought as to what their lives were like.

  “I did well at the abbey, so when I turned twelve they sent me to study languages at the Abbaye de Saint-Maurice on Lake Geneva. I studied Italian and German as well as French, Latin, and Greek.”

  There he stood, now gazing into the pool. The son of a blacksmith. I had allowed myself to be touched by a peasant. My cheeks burned with shame. But his manners were excellent, highly polished and courtly. His voice was musical and cultivated. He dressed well. He was clean.

  “I know you feel betrayed,” he said, flushing and twisting the ring on his finger. It was a sapphire set in silver. His fingers were long, thin, and aristocratic-looking. They did not bear the marks of hard labor.

  “You have not led the life of a peasant.”

  “No. But I started out that way.”

  “But you have made something of yourself. You were not born with riches as I was. You had to work to make your way in the world.”

  He gazed at me. “That is a rather unusual thing for a great lady to say.”

  I put my hands into his. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

  His lips met mine, and we lingered together for a long moment. “Beloved,” he whispered, “I hardly dared hope—”

  I stopped his mouth with my fingers. “I want to know more.”

  “I spent a couple of years at the Abbaye de Saint-Maurice. Then I was sent to university, in Italy.”

  “Where?”

  He smiled and shook his head slightly.

  “Are you a bachelor?”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  I stared. I’d never met anyone so well educated. The aristocratic men I knew lived and died in the saddle. A vision of myself with this gentleman filled my head. We would study together, have soaring conversations.

  “How did you become an archer?”

  “I learned various trades.”

  “Is your name Blaybourne?”

  “My name is Pierre de Blay, from the village in Normandy where I was born.”

  “Where does ‘bourne’ come from?”

  He was silent.

  I frowned. “Bourne” was an old English name for stream, like the north-country “burn.” Many villages had “bourne” in their name, like Pangbourne, Fishbourne, Nutbourne. “Are you going to tell me anything else?”

  “Not now.”

  “But—”

  “All in good time, my sweet. You need to think about what I’ve said, and if you remember, I wanted to speak with you.”

  I nestled against him like a bird that has found her home. Suddenly I didn’t care where he’d come from, only what he meant to me now.

  He held me close. “Would he lock you up?”

  “Is that why you wanted to see me?”

  He nodded. “Would he harm you?”

  I froze. Richard loved me, and yet—

  “I would have to hide you somewhere.”

  “But I am the Duchess of York.”

  “Today is the twentieth day of August. I will return on the morning of the twenty-third to await your answer. I will meet you in the great hall of the castle where you hold your public audiences.”

  “But that’s too dangerous.”

  “It will not be dangerous, I assure you.”

  “But how?”

  “You will see, my sweet. Be sure to wear your pearl dress that day.” He kissed my hand, bowed, and vanished.

  Next day, I took to my bed. ”Whatever shall I do when Richard returns?” I asked Margaret, when she came to visit me with Bess.

  “Perhaps he’ll not know.”

  Bess kissed my cheek.

  “Are you not angry?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “You liked him well.”

  “Indeed I did,” replied Bess.

  “Why did you leave me alone with him at the abbey?”

  She patted my hand and smiled. “I have never seen two people so in love as the two of you. I knew you could not have long with your husband returning. I thought such lovers deserved to have some precious moments together.”<
br />
  Annette entering my chamber woke me. She carried Joan, who sobbed hard.

  I cuddled her on my lap. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Madam, I know not,” replied Annette. “Lady Joan seemed in good spirits this forenoon. I put her down for a nap, as I usually do. But she awoke screaming. I can do nothing with her.”

  I turned to the limp figure in my lap, gently cupping my hands around her little face. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Mama, Mama,” sobbed Joan, her tears making a wet patch on my silken chemise.

  I stroked her hair and rubbed her back. “Come now, my dearest child. Tell me what troubles you so. Mama is here. You are safe. Whatever is wrong?”

  Joan lifted a tear-stained face. “Don’t leave!” She buried her face in my gown and sobbed.

  I stiffened. “What is this?”

  “I know not, madam,” said Annette, going pale.

  “Has she talked of this before?”

  “No, madam, I don’t think so.”

  “Who has been talking?”

  “I would not like to say—”

  “Come now,” said Margaret, getting up from her place on the window seat. “Remember, your loyalty is to Duchess Cecylee. If someone has upset Lady Joan, she needs to know who.”

  Annette blanched. “Lady Lisette,” she whispered. “She said she would curse me if I told anyone. She told me she would put a spell on me so that I would wither away before my time.”

  “That’s nonsense,” exclaimed Margaret. “Lisette should not be saying such wicked things. I’ll find her at once and bring her here.”

  Margaret returned not only with Lisette, but with all the women. Jenet was there, and Margaret’s woman, Bess’s woman, Lisette’s woman, and even Isabel’s woman. Keeping Joan on my lap, I faced them all. “For the sake of my children and for peace in my family, I ask you not to gossip.”

  Lisette smiled.

  I handed Joan, now quiet, to Annette and rose. “Was it you?”

  Lisette remained silent.

  “I find my daughter sobbing her heart out, my maid frightened out of her life—”

  “That’s nothing to what you did. You broke your marriage vows. You sinned against your husband.”

  I slapped her across the cheek. “You will say no more. Do you understand?”

  Lisette faced me, holding her hand to her cheek. Her eyes flashed. “Why should I help you? You always get what you want.”