Margaret interrupted. “If you don’t promise,” she replied, her gentle grey eyes turned to steel, “I could go to George and hint that his wife’s behavior was not what he would have wished.”
Lisette jutted out her chin.
“You threw yourself at him every opportunity you got,” said Bess.
“He didn’t want you,” said Lisette, rounding on her.
The room fell silent.
Lisette looked from one to the other, her face flushed, her under lip jutting out. At last, she turned to me and made the sign of the Horned King.
“I curse you, Cecylee! May you have a long and unhappy life!”
I fell into a chair. “You couldn’t mean that.”
But Lisette had gone.
Chapter 10
Saint Bartholomew’s Eve
August 23, 1441
It was a bright hot morning. I sat on the dais in the great hall of the castle of Rouen, struggling to listen carefully to a stream of petitioners. The steward from Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire wanted to pursue a land dispute. There were several merchants from Rouen wanting to show off their wares. There were people from Normandy seeking redress from the governor’s wife over land, marriage settlements gone awry, and taxes.
I shifted in my seat. I should have sent a message to Blaybourne, telling him not to come. But I had somehow forgotten to do so. I drew a handkerchief from my sleeve and dried my moist palms.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded, and a page appeared, a boy of around nine or so, attired in a white satin tunic and hose. He wore white shoes and had a white hat on his head. He approached the dais bearing a ring on a white velvet cushion.
“My master wishes, madam, to present you with this ring.”
As he knelt, I moved forward to accept the present. The ring was magnificent. It was a deep blue sapphire, cut into a strange shape, set into silver. It radiated a deep color in the warm sunshine, matching my pearl dress perfectly.
“Shall I ask my lord to approach?”
“Indeed. I should like to thank him for his gift.”
I had entertained many diplomats and visitors from other countries arriving with costly gifts. Vague questions entered my head about this particular diplomat, but they left just as quickly. Another fanfare sounded, and this time a procession appeared. They looked like soldiers, men-at-arms, menservants and pages—the sort of people an aristocrat would have traveling with him.
The unknown personage was the last to appear. Like his entourage, he was attired in white. But his tunic came down to his ankles, the long sleeves adorned with fashionable jagged edges. He wore a stylish hat with a piece of material hanging down from it, protecting him from the dust of his journey. Altogether, he looked exotic and foreign, perhaps Italian. Perhaps from a place further to the east. I could not place him as he came closer. He exuded a scent of nutmeg and almonds, with a hint of exotic spices.
As I inhaled deeply, I remembered where I had encountered it before.
But now, the herald was announcing the aristocrat’s name:
Philippe de Savoy, Count of Geneva.
He bowed and smiled as he held out his hand to take mine.
Then our eyes met.
Of course. His ruse was perfect, for no one would dare challenge a lord of such obvious means.
I swallowed.
The sounds in that bustling hall faded away as he straightened and we faced each other.
“Madam, I have a long journey to make, and I wondered if you would be good enough to give me some advice. I understand that stormy weather may blow in from Pontoise, and I wanted to know whether Rouen would provide a goodly place of shelter.”
“No,” I replied.
His eyebrows shot up. Silently he proffered his arm so that I had to leave the dais and walk into the hall with him.
His timing was perfect, for the servants were setting up the tables for the midday meal, and we stole some private moments together amidst the hubbub. He led me to an unoccupied window seat: “My sweet, are you sure?”
I was silent.
He took my hand. “My flower, I know how hard this is for you. But I have everything ready. My groom is outside waiting with an Arabian mare. I have spare clothes. You need only throw this cloak over your gown and we can leave.”
I jerked away.
“I should have told you before,” he murmured.
I clasped my shaking hands together.
“I have more people stationed outside Rouen waiting for us to arrive. You would be safe from your husband. There are many places where I could hide you.”
“No,” I interposed, looking down.
He waited, taking my hand in his.
After a long moment, I lifted my head. “I cannot go with you.”
Abruptly, he let go of me. “Is it because I’m the son of a blacksmith?”
I put a hand on his sleeve. “You could not take me and three children.”
“You promised to marry me.”
“I cannot leave my children.”
“We would have our own children.”
I shook my head as I took his hand and kissed it. “If I had no children, I would go with you in a heartbeat.”
A sound drowned out our conversation. A rumble of hooves. A fanfare sounded, and a shout went up. The men of the garrison, dicing and lounging in the shade of the trees outside, now scrambled to their feet, straightened their tunics, grabbed their weapons, and lined up in formation along the castle walls.
“They’re back!” someone shouted. A roar answered.
His face turned as white as his tunic. “You will not come with me?”
“I cannot.”
“You have my ring?” He dug into his tunic and produced another sapphire ring, quickly showing me how his ring fit around mine.
“If you change your mind, send your most trusty messenger to me with this ring. If it fits mine, I will know it comes from you.”
“Where should I send the ring?”
“The Medici bank of Florence. They will get a message to me. There is a branch in every big city, including Paris and London.”
He bowed low, took my hand, and kissed it. “Always at your service and ever devotedly yours.” Then he abruptly pulled away, ran outside, vaulted onto his gelding, and rode off before I had time to breathe.
I ran to the window. In the distance I could make out Richard’s pennant bearing his white lion.
Blaybourne rode straight for Richard; my heart slammed against my ribs. He drew his white horse level with Richard’s black one, bowed low, and commenced a conversation. Moments later, Richard raised his gauntlet in salutation as the Count of Geneva and his entourage set off south, towards Paris.
I watched and watched until I could see him no more, my mind reeling.
But scarcely had I time to think. I sent orders to the cooks to prepare a more elaborate feast, and for the steward to bring up pipes of the best wine from the cellars. Everyone flooded back to the castle to greet the governor of Normandy and to hear news of the Pontoise campaign.
I slipped upstairs to the solar where Jenet bathed my tear-stained face with rosewater, re-did my hair, and rearranged my headdress. On impulse, I went to the prie-dieu in the corner of my chamber, closed my eyes, and knelt to pray.
Half an hour later, I made my way down to the great hall, into a noisy din of hundreds of guests drinking the health of the governor of Normandy. As I arrived, there was a sudden hush. The men rose and bowed.
My eyes met Richard’s. He looked thinner than before, the hard exercise of the previous five weeks showing off a new muscular leanness. I’d never found him so attractive and was overcome with sorrow at what I’d done.
Richard came forward and, taking my hand, courteously led me to the seat beside him.
“Cis,” he murmured, as he eyed my pearl-encrusted, blue-grey gown with its yards of billowing silk. “You look ravishing.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek, and whispered into my ear, “I can hardly wait until
tonight.”
And then he turned and resumed his conversation with a gentleman sitting near him.
My hands shook as I sipped my wine.
At length, Richard turned towards me.
“Tell me about the campaign,” I said. And so Richard spent the rest of the meal discussing tactics while I asked many questions.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded, heralding a toast. Richard rose, and I rose, forcing a smile onto my face. The whole hall shook as everyone lifted their cups and toasted the newly arrived Duke and his Duchess.
Afterwards, Richard and I, followed by the ladies and their husbands, the army, and the townspeople, rode down into the town of Rouen to celebrate a solemn Mass of thanksgiving in the cathedral. Then we went back to the castle, where the feasting and merrymaking went on for hours.
I collapsed into an exhausted sleep late that night. Afterwards, I was ill for a week. Every morning brought with it the painful knowledge that I would never see Blaybourne again, and that I’d hurt a good man who loved and trusted me.
I sat on a seat beside the bathing pool, near to where we’d had our tryst, unable to prevent the tears from trickling down my cheeks. I could see him, hear his voice, smell his scent.
Richard frowned and shot several glances at me as he paced up and down. “You have loyal friends here at Rouen. I have asked everyone what is wrong with you, and I get the same response: They avert their eyes, say you will get better in God’s good time, and then change the subject.”
I wiped away my tears with the tips of my fingers.
“As your husband, I have a right to know what is going on.”
I studied my slippers. “I can’t explain.”
Richard gently tilted my face so that my eyes met his. His eyes gazed back, darkly. “What can’t you explain?”
My head drooped as I drew a line in the dust with the toe of my slipper.
“You had an affair with another man.”
My head jerked up. As my eyes met Richard’s, he flushed.
“It’s true! Christ on the Cross!”
He drew his sword, went to a nearby tree, and whacked it. I recoiled.
The spear-pointed diamond that hung from his gold collar jumped and glared at me in the harsh sunlight.
Richard turned round, his face taut, his mouth snarling. “How could you?”
I squeezed my folded arms against my chest.
He thrust his sword back into the scabbard, grabbed me, and jerked my head back. “Don’t I mean anything to you? What about our marriage vows? What about our children?”
I stared back, trying not to see his pain, when suddenly he let go.
I clutched at the wooden bench to prevent myself from falling, then got to my feet.
“If you knew how many times I tried. How many times I walked away. How many times I tried to forget about him.”
“So you blame him? By God Almighty and all his saints, if I ever catch him, I’ll flay him alive.”
“You won’t.”
“I won’t what?”
“Catch him,” I murmured, looking down.
I looked up to find Richard glaring at me. A vein in his forehead was throbbing. “And how do you know that?” he said in an icy tone I’d never heard before.
I folded my arms. “I don’t even know his name.”
“You don’t know his name? How could you lie with someone you don’t know? Are you so fickle, so shallow, that you pick up anyone who happens along?”
I lifted my chin. “If I ‘d been free, if I’d not been married and had you and three children to think of—”
“You were thinking of running off with him.” He folded his arms and gazed at me keenly.
I turned away.
He drew his sword, and walked up and down for several minutes, whacking trees, hedges, anything that he came into contact with. Leaves, twigs and branches strewed the path. Then he sheathed his sword. “I would banish you now. I would lock you up. But I need your family.”
I shivered. I had never heard such cold calculation from Richard before.
“You are a Neville,” he spat. “There are political considerations. Salisbury is a loyal supporter. I am constantly in the position of struggling to make my voice heard on the king’s council. I would be nowhere were it not for your brother’s support. A scandal would make me the laughing stock of the whole court.”
The color drained from my face.
“You didn’t think of that, did you?” he snapped, thrusting his face into mine so that I felt the drops of his spittle as he bit each word off.
I stepped backwards.
“If your family were not so valuable to my political career, I would punish you as you deserve.”
Blaybourne’s voice filled my ears: Would he lock you up?
“Are you with child?”
I lowered my head.
“You spend days, nay, weeks in that misbegotten knave’s arms. And you expect me to accept his bastard!” He looked around. “It happened here, didn’t it?” His eye caught the door in the yew hedge through which the private garden with the turf seat could be seen. He reached out and held my arm in a vice-like grip. “It was on that turf seat wasn’t it? It was in this garden where you spent your time.”
“One night,” I murmured.
He twisted me around. “Look at me, damn you. What did you say?”
“It was only one night.”
“Ha! So you wish it had been more.”
He grabbed me around the waist with one hand, while with the other hand he gripped my chin so that I was forced to look at him. We gazed at each other in dead silence for several minutes.
“Damn you, Cis,” he said between his teeth, letting go of me so suddenly, I crumpled into a heap.
“I am cursed!” he shouted over and over again.
I crossed myself. Was Lisette’s curse coming true? I wiped the dust from my clothes and hair and rose. “I am here, Richard. I have not gone.”
“Aye, but you lie to me. What is his name?”
An image of Blaybourne filled my mind. I couldn’t give him away. I resented Richard for assuming he had a right to know my private thoughts and feelings. Was I to have no space to call my own in this marriage? Blaybourne would be my space.
“I think you know, but for some reason, you won’t tell me. Come, my love, out with it.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t know? Or, no, you’re not telling?”
I stared at the ground.
Richard sprang forward and lifted me up in his arms, holding me in a vise. “You know I could lock you up. I could forbid you to see the children. I could starve you to death.”
I shook, then looked him full in the face. “But you cannot make me talk.”
He slapped me hard across the cheek. He grabbed me by the arm as I crumpled to my knees, holding my throbbing face.
“Woman. You will speak. I asked you a question. What is the knave’s name?”
“I will never tell you.”
“You love him as much as that? You would risk all?”
“Yes.” I moved to the other side of the seat. “I have never loved anyone before. When you met me after all those years, you were experienced, but I was not. I married you because I had to. I had no notion of what love was like, until now. Here I am. You can do with me as you please. My heart is broken. I don’t much care what happens to me now.”
Richard moved swiftly to prevent me escaping and imprisoned me against a tree by putting his arms on either side of me. I closed my eyes, but could not get away from him. I could smell the leathery scent of his sweat, and hear his heavy breathing.
“Are you with child?”
I was silent.
He tore himself away. “I cannot believe you would do this!” He slumped onto the bench and put his face in his hands.
I stared at him, still backed up against the tree. I did not dare move.
Chapter 11
September 1441 to April 1442
When R
ichard found out that I was indeed carrying another’s child, he was not best pleased. He did not shout or carry on, but compressed his lips into a thin line. Thereafter, although scrupulously courteous, he was cold.
It didn’t help when the quarterly bills came due at Michaelmas, for they were unusually high. During Richard’s absence, I’d been unable to resist all the lovely luxuries the merchants of Rouen kept bringing to the castle. Richard did not bother with a confrontation. Instead, he sent a note saying that he’d hired a Master Elbeuf to be comptroller of the household, and if I needed money, I was to consult him. This was a clever way for Richard to keep watch on me, for if he knew exactly how I spent my allowance, he’d know how I was spending my time. I couldn’t argue with his logic.
Things continued in this uneasy state through October; then little Henry sickened as the first frosts appeared. He died on All Hallows Eve, aged eight months. Truth to tell, I’d never paid much attention to the child, being so occupied with getting the entire household to Rouen shortly after his birth, and then being caught up in my affair of the heart. Now he was dead, and Richard lost his heir.
As I sat there with my hand on Henry’s cold cheek, there was a stir, a glint from the diamond, and Richard arrived. He cleared the room with a look and went up to me.
“Well?” he demanded coldly.
“I do not know what happened.”
“You don’t know. Why not?”
“He was never strong.”
“No, he was not. And whose fault was that?”
He came over and gripped my chin with his fingers, so that I was forced to look into his eyes, hard and steely.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“You should be. You have been extremely careless, madam, in the care of my son. Riding off to Lincoln in your condition, when you were six months gone with him.”
“I had to go to Mama’s funeral.”
“You should have waited until he was born to pay your respects to your lady mother. If you had done as I’d asked and stayed at Fotheringhay, he would have been stronger. And now we would not be dealing with the death of my heir.”
Henry was buried in the Abbey of Saint-Ouen.
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