Queen by Right (25 page)

Cecily gasped and signed herself too. “So you are saying that Duke John wants her to be found guilty of something, no matter what, so he can dispose of her, and so heresy is the accusation?”

Richard nodded. “And due to the way the French courts work, ’tis almost certain she will be found guilty. In England one is innocent until found guilty. Do you see? It will look better for the English if she is tried by her own people. But make no mistake, Cis, Bedford will make an example of her. ’Tis the bishops and clergy—her own countrymen—who want to bring her down.”

“You mean the Inquisition?” Cecily whispered, sitting up, her eyes wide with fear.

Richard nodded. “Aye, and Bedford, your Uncle Beaufort, and the king are happy to agree. Heresy or witchcraft, it matters not.”

Cecily chewed on her lip, frowning. “What is the difference?”

“I confess ’tis a distinction that begs more learning that I have. But if I have it right, a witch may consort with evil spirits or Satan to perform magic, whereas a heretic defies the Word of God. Jeanne swears her holy voices instructed her to dress in men’s garb and become a soldier. In so doing she offended God, so her enemies say, but ’twas in the name of God that she dressed in that way, became a soldier, and raised the siege of Orléans and then of Compiègne, not to mention crowning Charles. What is more, she predicted all these events exactly as they happened, and she claimed to have worked miracles. It is said she used secret charms to protect her soldiers and that she led common people to worship her. Some of it is heresy, some of it witchcraft. You choose.”

Cecily contemplated the answer as she drew her chemise over her head and tied the neck ribbon. Then she ran her fingers through her tangle of yellow hair and began to braid it slowly. “Does she still dress like a man? In truth, that would be easy to change now that she is no longer a soldier. Would that not mollify Cauchon?”

“It would be a start,” Richard replied, tired of the subject. “And now I must leave you.”

He got out of bed, giving Cecily a full of view of his strong back, narrow hips, and muscular thighs. He was not tall like her father, but he was well made, and she could not help but admire him as he walked about the room.

“How did my hose find their way over here?”

He rescued one leg from one side of the room and the other from the bottom of the bed and sat down to pull them on. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a seductive smile on her lips. He grinned. “Are you going to help me with these confounded points, Cis, or do you want me to come back to bed? Nay, my love, I was jesting,” he teased as she moved toward him. “I have been gone too long and must tend to my next office, more’s the pity.”

He caressed her head as she knelt at the edge of the bed to thread the silver points of the laces that tied the hose to his short gipon. “I regret I shall be in attendance on the king in the next days and unable to enjoy you for a while.”

After tying the sides of his tunic, he suddenly slapped his forehead. “God’s truth, I almost forgot. His grace has invited us to an audience with him in his private apartments the week following Shrove Tuesday. He has expressed a wish to know my new duchess better.”

N
INE-YEAR-OLD
H
ENRY
was gracious when the duke and duchess of York were ushered into his cavernous audience chamber in the castle. Neither the many wall hangings nor the roaring fire in a hearth that would accommodate four men shoulder to shoulder could ward off the draughts in the room, and Cecily was glad of her fur-lined velvet mantle. She was wearing a gold filament mesh that concealed her hair and over which was perched, in the latest fashion, a heart-shaped roll of fur. The blue of her velvet gown paled beside her eyes, which glowed sapphire in the firelight. No one would have guessed the agony of indecision she had gone through not two hours before about which gown and mantle to wear.

“York spoils you,” Joan had muttered, tweaking the creamy underdress visible through the split front of the gown and standing back to study her daughter’s magnificent appearance. “How can he pay for all this finery? He does not truly come into his inheritance until next year. Your father would say you are extravagant, my girl.” She gave a snort of laughter. “Nay, he would not have uttered a word—never did where spoiling you was concerned. First your father and now your husband. It has taken all my resolve to turn you into a modest young lady, which I am gratified to see has been successful—most of the time. If I cannot curb the expenditure on your wardrobe, at least I can curb that tongue of yours. Now turn around, and let me see if you need a veil.”

When Cecily was ready, Joan had nodded her approval and admonished her
to speak only when she was spoken to and allow Richard to lead the conversation, “for he understands correct behavior with the king.”

Cecily for once heeded her mother’s advice and behaved like a lady during the audience, deferring to her husband and sitting quietly on a stool when invited by the king, while Richard remained standing. Richard was astonished and pleased with his beautiful, demure wife.

“Do you play an instrument, duchess?” Henry asked, turning his solemn gaze on her, his fine eyebrows slightly arched over a long but still childish nose.

“Not well enough to play for you, your grace,” Cecily replied, smiling. “I am not a good pupil, so my lute teacher tells me.”

Henry motioned to his bodyguard to bring a lute, and the strapping Sir Ralph Botiller hurried to the other end of the room to borrow one from the trio of musicians playing in the background. Cecily was discomforted by the admiring look Sir Ralph gave her as he put the delicate instrument into her hands. She held the lute to her chest and wished she had covered that exposed part of her with a plastron as Joan had suggested.

“I beg of you, your grace, let someone play who will do credit to this beautiful instrument,” Cecily murmured, hoping Richard would intervene and save her from embarrassment. She had learned one melody on the lute, but at Raby she had often skipped practicing to go for a ride.

“I should like to hear you play, my lady,” Richard remarked. “I cannot recall ever seeing you with a lute.” He winked at Henry. “Usually, my wife is not one to hide her light under a bushel, your grace. I am surprised by her shyness.”

Henry grinned and said, “I observed how she outshone every lady in the hunt last week, and in some cases, even the men. I was particularly impressed with how she managed to jump that hedge—wearing all those skirts as well.”

Cecily began to resent being spoken about as though she were invisible and was gathering her thoughts in her defense when Henry fumbled his cup of ale and it fell to the floor, spilling its contents onto his white satin shoes.

“Forsooth!” he exclaimed, jumping up and staring at the spreading liquid in the rushes. “Forsooth and forsooth! Botiller, send in a servant, I pray you. Forgive me,” he said to his guests, “how clumsy of me.”

He looks like a little boy who expects to be chastised and not at all like a king, Cecily thought, feeling sorry for him. “Your grace, I have to thank you for your charming courtesy,” she chirped, picking up the cup and handing it to Botiller. “You cannot think I did not recognize your gallant attempt at
preventing me from making a fool of myself with this lute. ’Tis I who must beg
your
forgiveness for causing you to take such a measure.”

Richard was too stunned to do anything but grin his appreciation, and his eyes shone with pride. Henry’s jaw, however, did register his astonishment, but his eyes spoke their thanks with a genuine warmth. And Cecily put the lute aside with relief.

“Perhaps your grace would honor me with a game of chess,” Richard said, shifting the king’s focus. “I believe you are hard to beat, but I should like to try. I have quite a ruthless reputation among my fellows.”

“Then prepare to meet your match, Lord Richard,” Henry said with enthusiasm, his embarrassment deflected. He allowed Botiller to fit a clean pair of slippers on his feet and rubbed his hands together as two gentlemen ushers set up the ivory chessmen on the table. “Lady Cecily, forgive me while I concentrate on beating your husband. Perhaps you would keep Dame Alice company.”

And so Cecily spent the next hour conversing with the king’s governess, a motherly, intelligent woman who gave Cecily news of the queen mother. “The queen has another son,” she told Cecily out of the king’s hearing, “and has named him Edmund. I daily thank God for allowing her a little joy with Master Tudor. Such an unhappy life she lived with her family in France, and then to lose her beloved King Harry so soon after their marriage. He adored her, you know,” she said, shifting her gaze from the attentive young duchess to her charge, who was deep in thought at the chess board. “A tragedy for her—and for England. And I thought it would break her heart when she was separated from her son, her only link to her husband. Gossips may say what they like, but I believe my dearest lady deserves this happiness.”

Cecily murmured her agreement but could not forbear to ask, “Has Queen Catherine married Master Tudor, Dame Alice?”

“’Tis none of my affair, your grace, but it would surprise me if she has not,” came the tempered response. Then, to change the subject, Alice nodded at Sir Ralph. “He is my son, did you know? A good boy, but”—she leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper—“he has a roving eye.”

So I have noticed, Cecily wanted to say, but she inclined her head and mouthed “oh” instead.

A cry of glee came from the chess table. “Checkmate! See, Dame Alice, I have won,” Henry exclaimed, reaching over to grasp Richard’s outstretched hand. “It was a challenging game, was it not, my lord duke?”

Richard grinned and wiped his brow. “One of the hardest I can remember,” he said, and Cecily knew he was not merely flattering this boy king but speaking the truth. “I have a boon to ask of you, your grace. May I have a rematch soon?”

“Bien sûr, monseigneur,”
Henry said in his perfect French. “I shall look forward to it. And now, forgive me, I feel a little tired. I thank you and Duchess Cecily for your company. It has been a pleasant change, has it not, Dame Alice?”

“Indeed it has, your grace, a most pleasant change.” She and Cecily rose in unison as the older woman whispered, “He tells me he thinks you are the comeliest woman at court, madam,” and gave Cecily a knowing wink.

Cecily and Richard knelt, heads bowed, in front of Henry. When he put his hand out for them to kiss, Cecily could not help noticing how cold the fingers were. Richard rose and was about to help Cecily up when Henry stayed him. Leaning over Cecily, the young king had one more thing to say to her. “I shall not forget your kindness this afternoon, your grace. If ever I can repay it, you have but to ask.”

Cecily flushed with happiness. “You are gracious, my liege.” Then she gave a conspiratorial smile. “Perhaps you might let Lord Richard win the next game of chess.”

Catching them all off guard, Henry laughed. The forced, harsh laugh reminded Cecily of a poor madman she had heard once at Raby, and she stared at the floor to avoid showing her dismay. It was as though the boy had no control over the unpleasant sound and that it came from the throat of a much older person. It caused Dame Alice to hurry to him and pat his arm, which gesture the king shook off.

“Leave me be, madam,” he snapped at the unfortunate governess. The others in the solar stiffened. “I am the king, and if I wish to laugh, I shall do so whenever I want.” Dame Alice fell back and curtsied. Then, as if nothing had happened, his young face softened and he turned back to Cecily. “Forgive me, your grace. I am not certain I shall grant you that wish, because I do not know how to lose, but anything else in my power is yours for the asking.”

The duke and duchess bowed their way from his presence. When the door closed behind them, Richard gripped Cecily’s arm and hurried her down the staircase and out into the cold air. His face was tense when he told her, “I have seen him laugh like that once before, Cis. It is a devilish sound, and I fear for his mind.”

Cecily crossed herself and then nodded slowly. “Yet in all other ways he appears to be an intelligent, caring boy, if a trifle grave.” She gave a little smile. “Not unlike you, my love.”

Richard ignored the last remark but said in a low voice, “I have heard his grandfather, Queen Catherine’s father, was known by his own countrymen as
Charles le Fou
—the Mad. Do you think ’tis possible . . .”

“Pish, Dickon, your imagination runs amok. Now, let us think no more on it or it will spoil the memory of the afternoon and how I won a favor from the king.”

“God’s bones.” Richard had to laugh. “I do believe you have bewitched the king as surely as you bewitched me.”

T
HE YOUNG WOMAN
sat on a stool in the middle of a stuffy chamber holding a lily, her shoulders drooped too low for her lank yellow hair to reach. Encircling her, their malicious black eyes staring and their whiskers twitching, a dozen black-hooded rats standing on their hind legs waited for her to speak.

“Confess!” the biggest rat snarled, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger at the girl. “You bewitched the king?”

“God made me do it, I swear,” the woman cried, raising her fearful eyes to him. The rats squeaked among themselves, shaking their heads and shuffling ever closer.

“Do you know the difference between witchcraft and heresy?” their leader shouted. “Well, do you?”

“Who do you think you are? The Inquisitor General?” asked the woman, a little more bravely. “How dare you treat me thus. I am a lady. I am a duchess. You are only a rat.”

“I am your judge. I am Cochon,” the rat replied, snorting for effect.

She stood and thrust the lily at him. “This is my symbol, my banner, my sword. God gave it to me because I am his messenger. Now let me go.”

The room erupted in laughter, the harsh uncontrolled laughter of the insane that made the woman flinch, and the rats moved in closer and closer until she could not breathe.

“Help me!” she cried. “Save me, Dickon!”

“Your grace! Madam!” Rowena interrupted Cecily’s dream, shaking her mistress awake. “You are safe, here in your bed. Here with me—Rowena.”