Queen by Right (28 page)

“Seventy of them?” Cecily exclaimed, between meager mouthfuls of a steaming fish pie that she and Richard were sharing for supper. If truth be told, she had little appetite these days, but she also worried the Lenten diet was not sufficient for a woman with child. “They found seventy ways to accuse her?”

Richard nodded, pouring himself some more ale. “I have heard from my lord of Bedford that the Maid’s answers to the hundreds of questions put to her by the forty judges and assessors were of astonishing intelligence, as though she were a theologian,” Richard continued. “If Cauchon was hoping to entrap her into heretical statements easily, he has been thwarted.”

Nay, Dickon, Cecily wanted to say, Jeanne answered not as a
man
of God but as an
angel
of God. Instead she shook her head in disbelief. “Day after day they have questioned her. That poor woman must be half-spent. In the prison conditions in which she is kept ’tis a wonder she has not fallen ill. Do you know if she has put off her men’s garb?”

“I understand she was asked which she would prefer: to hear Mass in female dress or wear men’s clothes and be deprived of the sacraments. She answered that if she were assured of Mass in a gown, then she would don one for it but put the breeches back on afterward immediately,” Richard said, leaving the table to warm his back by the fire. “To be sure, Cauchon refused to accept that. It seems he is most offended by the men’s clothes more than by all the other offenses.”

Cecily hardly dared ask what the next step might be, but Richard took her hand and gently told her. “They could send her to the stake if she does not recant. If she does, I believe she will be imprisoned anyway. But they are determined to make her recant, Cis, even if it means torture. The English cannot allow her to become a martyr or her very name will inflame the French into chasing us from Normandy.”

Dejected, Cecily stared at the fire. “I do not care for your choice of words, Richard.”

Richard took her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I wish I could spare you all of this, my love, but trust me, it will soon be over.” He did not voice how concerned he was about his wife’s mien. She had lost the roses in her cheeks and, considering she was with child, she looked thinner than he could remember. He hoped the trial of a heretic who seemed to have so captivated her imagination was not an ill omen for this pregnancy, and he sent a silent prayer to St. Monica to protect mother and child and to his own special saint, the soldier-martyr Maurice, for a speedy end to the Maid’s ordeal.

B
UT IT SEEMED
Cauchon was in no hurry, and the trial dragged on.

“The Maid was unwell lately, and the king sent his own physicians to care for her,” Cecily’s uncle Beaufort told Joan one day in early May. He had come to pay his respects to his sister, who was recovering slowly from her winter malady. He gave a short laugh. “My lord of Warwick and I advised the king on this, and he agreed ’twould be a waste to let her die of natural causes.”

Cecily was pretending to read on the other side of her mother’s bed. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying “foul.”

“A waste, Henry?” Joan asked, searching her brother’s round, deeply lined face. “Is not her death what you wish for? What we all wish for?”

Henry patted her fidgeting fingers. “Aye, sister, you have the measure of it. But the king bought her dear, remember, and she has been a canker in our efforts to hold on to France. ’Tis why we think she needs to feel the full force of English justice to pay for her meddling. We want her to die by justice and”—he paused, glancing at Cecily, who still had her nose in the book—“by fire.”

Cecily could no longer feign indifference, and raised her startled eyes to him. “My lord uncle, do you believe in your heart that the Maid deserves to die at the stake?” she said, achieving an even tone with every ounce of self-control she could muster. She even gave him a small defiant smile as his gaze attempted to bore into her very soul.

It was too much for Joan, who suddenly sat up with far more vigor than a woman recovering from sickness. “If I were not in bed, I would box your ears. How dare you question his Eminence thus? Have you no fear for your immortal soul?” Her pale face was now blazing as she willed Cecily into submission. Beaufort had risen, scorn on his face. His sister had relieved him of an answer, for he was by no means certain of Jeanne d’Arc’s heresy yet.

“Forgive her, Henry,” Joan implored him. “Conception has addled her wits.”

Beaufort harrumphed. “I do not believe your daughter’s disposition has changed one whit since the first time I met her, my lady.” He glared at Cecily, who continued to keep her head lowered. “Have a care, niece. If La Pucelle is proven guilty and she recants, the beliefs of those who supported her may also be questioned.”

Joan gasped and crossed herself. “On your knees, Cecily,” she commanded. “Beg your uncle’s pardon and blessing before God and swear you have no such belief.”

But Henry Beaufort had had enough of these silly women and wanted to return to the castle for news of the latest day’s trial. “Nay, Joan, I will not force Cecily to her knees, but I would hope common sense would prevail and that my niece will put foolish notions about the Maid from her mind.” He now addressed Cecily, who was on her knees in front of him. “I shall look for you at Mass on the morrow, niece, and hope you will be guided by prayer. God give you both a good day,” he said, presenting his great bishop’s ring for both women to kiss. He smoothed out his immaculately pleated scarlet robe and walked slowly from the room.

“I hate him!” Cecily muttered miserably. “They all want Jeanne dead one way or another.” She bowed her head and wept.

Joan stared at her daughter in amazement. “What has come over you, child? Why the concern for a peasant who has caused such turmoil with her nonsense.”

“But ’tis not nonsense, Mother,” Cecily cried, and told Joan of her visit to the prison and the divine experience with Jeanne.

“Sweet Jesu, she has bewitched you,” Joan moaned, struggling out of bed and taking Cecily in her arms. “Certes, can you not see now that she must employ demons to convert the innocent, like you, to her cause.”

Through the bedgown Cecily could feel her mother’s soft belly against her cheek and gave herself up to the childish urge to wrap her arms around Joan’s waist. She did not realize she was weeping until Joan gently tipped up her face and wiped away her tears. Had she truly been bewitched? Cecily wondered, mulling Joan’s words. Perhaps she should admit that she had, and then perhaps she could let go of her obsession with the Maid. Why, Jeanne’s predicament had even clouded her happiness at carrying Richard’s child. How cruel was that? Slowly her sobs diminished and she allowed Joan to take off her slippers and her filigree cap and ease her into her mother’s bed.

“You must not think of that woman anymore, my dear child, for fear it will . . .” Joan paused, searching for the perfect phrase, “upset the balance of things inside you. Pray to St. Brigid to put her away from you. You owe that much to your husband and unborn child,” Joan declared. She was tiptoeing to the door to summon Rowena and her own tiring woman, when she heard Cecily’s whispered, “Thank you, Mother. God bless you.”

Before Joan returned to the bed, Cecily had fallen asleep. For once, her daughter’s dreams were not about the unfortunate woman chained in the castle cell but of her own childhood at Raby.

12
Rouen, May 1431

W
ithin a fortnight, it seemed to all at
Joyeux Repos
that Cecily’s humors were once again aligned and her appetite had returned. She had prayed hard to the Virgin—and St. Brigid, to appease her mother—to help her concentrate her energies on bearing a healthy child, and with Joan once again restored to the household, the sunny days of May passed pleasantly enough, including a small celebration for Cecily’s sixteenth birthday. It was easier to forget the grim proceedings on the other side of the city in the pretty Chantereine gardens.

On the twenty-fourth day of the month, Cecily and Anne of Bedford were walking arm in arm along the grassy paths of the estate carpeted with violets, buttercups, celandines, and clover, when they saw a group of horsemen trot through the St. Hilaire Gate. Even from that distance Cecily recognized Edmund Beaufort, second son of the earl of Somerset, and she frowned.

“My cousin, your grace. I have no love for him, I regret to say. Not only did he mock me unmercifully for being my father’s favorite, but he was cruel to animals, so my brother Edward told me. I wonder why he comes now.”

Anne bent to pick a lily of the valley and inhale its honeyed scent. “My lord sent for him,” she replied. “He has had some success in the field, John tells me. Only his first command, I believe.”

Cecily noted the noble carriage of her tall cousin seated so naturally upon his horse and nodded. “Aye, I would expect him to be a forceful leader,” she mused. “And arrogant. Like all Beauforts, an abundance of pride is never far from the surface.”

Anne laughed, shooing away a spaniel who was wanting to play. “
Va-t-en,
Sami! Nay, I will not throw sticks today.” She took Cecily’s arm again, chuckling. “My dear Cecille, are you forgetting you too are a Beaufort?”

Cecily grinned. “I am not allowed to forget, your grace. My mother reminds me almost daily. But in my heart I am first and foremost a Neville,” she said. “And now I have taken Dickon’s name—Plantagenet. I am proud to bear it, in truth.” She patted her stomach. “And our son will be too.”

“Are you so sure you carry a boy?” Anne teased her.

Cecily sidled away, lifting her heavy hem off the dew-drenched grass, and twirled around and around, making Sami bark noisily. “As sure as I am Cecily Neville and Beaufort and Plantagenet,” she cried. “Today I am just happy to be alive.”

Anne hesitated but then chose her words carefully. “In that case, my dear, happy duchess, I do not think you should spoil your mood by accompanying me to St. Ouen this afternoon. It will likely dampen this new
joie de vivre
that we all rejoice to see.”

Cecily stopped turning and returned, anxious, to Anne’s side. “St. Ouen? What happens there today, Anne? You cannot now leave me guessing.”

“La Pucelle will be sentenced in public, but this time the citizens are encouraged to attend. I was curious to see the event,” Anne said. “But on second thoughts, I think I shall remain here with you.”

There was no stopping Cecily once the cat was out of the bag, and the group who set out on foot to walk the mile from
Joyeux Repos
to the cemetery of the abbey church included Anne, Joan and her three daughters, and a small escort of squires.

“Humphrey says they chose the cemetery instead of inside the church so that more people could bear witness,” Nan remarked, her pale blue eyes scanning the crowd for her husband. “There is my lord Buckingham on that platform,” she cried, pointing.

“I believe ’twas because the transept is still under construction,” Anne whispered to Cecily, “but a cemetery seems a macabre choice, in truth. Perhaps Nan is right, however, look how many are here.”

The townsfolk stood aside to let the English noblewomen pass to the front of them, although all were eager to catch a glimpse of the Maid, who had been the subject of conversation in many a citizen’s home these past three months.

“There she is!” a woman cried from the middle of the crowd as a wagon pulled by a cart horse neared one of two platforms erected for the event. The stands on the larger platform, where Nan had spotted Humphrey, were filled with other English lords, the trial assessors, and various clergy, including
Cecily’s uncle and two of Normandy’s preeminent abbots. In the middle of the front row, Cecily saw Cauchon, today dressed crowlike, all in black. She craned her neck to see Richard, but as he was not as tall as Humphrey or Edmund Beaufort, she could not find him among the many-colored gowns, mantles, and chaperons clustered in the confined space. The earl of Warwick, the king’s guardian, resplendent on his caparisoned courser, patrolled the space between the platforms, while English captains and soldiers kept the throng quiet. Cecily was somewhat mollified to note the crowd was expectant but respectful. Perhaps they believed, as she did, that Jeanne would be found not guilty and would simply be taken back to the English prison for the duration of the war.

But she changed her mind when Jeanne was roughly pulled from the cart and thrust upon the empty platform, her guards pinning her between them. Where did they think she could go? Cecily asked herself, grimacing and pitying the slight figure. The crowd egged the guards on, and a young man launched a clod of earth at Jeanne. One sharp bark from Warwick intimidated the culprit, who looked up sullenly at the earl.

She is still in men’s garb, Cecily noted sadly. Ah, Jeanne, where are your voices now? How ill they have advised you!

A short, fat priest ascended the steps to Jeanne’s platform. Standing a few feet from her, he held up his hand for quiet and then proceeded to bless all present.