Queen by Right (37 page)

In the darkened unfamiliar church, her body spent and racked with grief, Cecily’s faith in God and her husband faltered for the second time.

A
FTER A CONSULTATION
with Constance, Sir Henry Heydon elected to delay the departure of the duchess’s retinue for a few days, and Piers was once again dispatched with a message to Richard, though the duke’s whereabouts was a matter of conjecture. On Constance’s advice, a second messenger was sent east to Reigate Priory to request a temporary lodging for her grace the duchess of York, who was indisposed. The prior of the Austin Friars would no doubt rub his hands with glee in the hope of an ample reward for his hospitality, Sir Henry whispered to his clerk as he sealed the letter.

Little Henry Plantagenet was placed in a lead coffin and escorted away in all haste to be buried at Fotheringhay. In a daze Cecily had agreed to the plan, though she was distraught as she watched the somber little party leave the camp, believing she ought to be with them. But not only was she too exhausted to travel; she knew in her more lucid moments that the king’s business would not stop for tragic events such as this, and that Richard’s timely departure for France must take precedence over the death of a child. In her heart, however, she protested such an unnatural course, and her anger grew.

She allowed herself, therefore, to be drawn in a litter the six miles to the priory, which was nestled under a hill with a splendid view of the distant South Downs. Cecily was given the prior’s house for her use, and Constance and Rowena set about making the rather drab surroundings into a haven for the mourning mother.

In the meantime, the rest of the duchess’s household continued west toward Guildford before turning south.

C
ECILY SAT BY
the open casement of her chamber and watched Rowena pick daisies with Anne on the grassy slope beneath her. Her tears were spent, but her heart was still heavy after a week at the priory. Every day that passed without word from Richard found her deeper in a hole of self-pity and resentment. Worse, she could not even bear to have Anne in her presence, and so Rowena smothered the little girl with love to make up for her mother’s lack.

For the first time in Cecily’s service, Rowena was heard criticizing her mistress in front of the other attendants, and Constance gently tried to talk to her about the imprudence of this. But Rowena was stung that Cecily sought Constance’s presence over hers, and she bristled at the doctor’s homily. She began to prattle about the doctor behind her back, and soon it was whispered that Constance had been the cause of baby Henry’s death. Only one word remained unspoken: witchcraft. Rowena knew that if Cecily ever
suspected her of spreading the rumor out of wounded pride, she would lose her position.

Seated by the window, Cecily gazed out with indifferent eyes at her only child, who was dutifully holding Rowena’s hand and stopping to pick a flower to add to her posy. Why could it not have been Anne whom the bee chose to sting? Cecily’s question came from the darkest part of her heart, and she gasped at the wickedness of it. Nay, you do not mean it, her goodness whispered back. Anne is a beautiful child, so like Richard with her dark curls and solemn eyes. I should be grateful I have one healthy child, she mused, but the thought gave her no comfort. She glanced back into the room and watched Constance quietly measuring more poppy juice into a vial. The medicine had given Cecily some respite from sleeplessness. Dear Constance. Their friendship had grown through the years, and Cecily cherished it daily. How could she blame Constance for the death of her babes? In her heart, she knew the doctor had done all she could do, given Cecily’s sometimes unreasonable conditions.

All at once, the clatter of hooves on the stone path broke upon the quiet afternoon, and Cecily leaned out to see who the visitors were. She saw the falcon and the fetterlock badge on the three men-at-arms and then recognized Richard’s oversized murrey and blue chaperon and his black courser, Geraint. She wanted to call out to him but instead his name stuck in her throat. A rush of unexpected emotions overcame her: fear, sorrow, shame, anger, and self-pity. But where was love? She sat down on her stool with her hand over her mouth, tasting bile. So she did not see him spring down from his saddle and scoop the excited Anne into his arms and cover the little girl’s face with kisses. Instead, she sat fighting an urge to hide so that she need not face him.

She had willed him to come to her every waking moment since watching Henry’s coffin disappear from view. She had thought she could not suffer this loss without Richard’s strength to support her. She thought his arms about her would take the grief away. But for a week she had grieved alone, and so she had realized she did not need Richard to help her survive a tragedy. This had been a sobering discovery at first, and she had never felt so alone. In their whole life together she had never questioned her love or need for him until now.

All this she had confided earlier to Constance, who had sat quietly and listened before offering her advice. “I pray you, forgive me for being blunt, but I would tell you the truth. I am not married, madame, and neither have I ever loved a man. But in watching you and the duke, I have regretted that such love may never be mine. It is a gift from God when two people who are forced, as
you are, to spend their lives as husband and wife can find such a meeting of the heart and soul. There is not a person in this household who does not see the duke’s desire for you, and I see the same desire in your eyes whenever you look at him. Certes, you are angry with him for what you perceive is his abandonment of you at a tragic time, but I assure you, anger will fade while love will endure, as our Savior taught us.”

Cecily had wept when Constance left the room, asking herself over and over why God had forsaken her. Had she been too consumed by her love for Richard, she asked herself, craving his touch, aching for him to bring her to ecstasy? She thought of the wild nights of lovemaking, the passionate kisses, the pleasurable positions they had devised, and she guiltily wondered if they had sinned.

As she pondered how to greet her husband, turning her ruby betrothal ring on her finger, Cecily thought on Constance’s words, and they calmed her. It would not be like the joyous reunions of old, she resolved. She needed to find the part of her heart that loved him, and she must also give Richard time to express his grief.

“Pull the veil over my face, I pray you, Constance,” she said, rising and smoothing her skirts. “My husband has arrived, and I must greet him, but I would not have him see me like this.”

Richard stopped in the doorway when he saw Cecily, framed by the window casement and veiled. “Cecily? My love, my dearest wife.” His voice was hoarse and his eyes full of compassion. “Why the veil, Cis?”

Cecily gazed at him through the translucent fabric as though she were seeing him for the first time. He had been wearing his hair in the longer fashion since returning from France, but he was now sprouting a curly beard. His face was tanned from so much time on horseback, and he had lost weight, which he could ill afford. Was this the man she had loved for so long? The man she had given her heart and her body to? She no longer knew.

He approached her with his hands outstretched, but she took a step back, and for the first time in their lives together he felt rebuffed. He took in a sharp breath and spoke again, this time with authority. “What is this manner of greeting, my lady? What have I done to deserve your distance—your coldness?”

Cecily stiffened. “Coldness?” she echoed scornfully. “Nay, my lord, ’tis grief that consumes me, and I am dismayed you do not recognize it. But perhaps you do not because you have not known it.” Her voice did not seem to belong to her but to some hard-hearted harpy. “I have had to suffer it alone while I waited here at your convenience.”

Richard snorted his disbelief, and Cecily flinched. “At my convenience? At
my
convenience?” he snapped. “Christ’s nails, Cis, I am at the king’s convenience. Believe me when I say I came as soon as I could—”

“Not even a letter, not even one word,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “I felt abandoned. Your heir is dead—our little son—and I feared from your silence you blamed me.” She was faltering now. “I thought you’d stopped caring.”

Richard was on his knees, pressing her unresponsive hand to his lips. “Not care? What have I ever done that made you believe I would not care that our precious son is taken from us? And how could I blame you for such a tragic accident? You cannot think I am so unreasonable. Do we not know each other well enough after all this time? Ah, Cis, do not be so proud now. I have ridden without sleep for three days to be with you here—to share my grief with yours. With every league I have begged God to show you that I have had you in my thoughts ever since Piers Taggett gave me the terrible news. Have you not felt my love around you all these hours since Henry’s death? It has been with you, I swear, and I cursed the council for holding me to the contract to muster more men that kept me from coming immediately.” As his speech gathered speed, Cecily felt his tears on her hand, and something in her heart finally moved.

“Then I am comforted somewhat,” she murmured. “But I did not know until I saw you arrive how great my hurt was—aye, I was bitter that you were not with me when I lost another child. Until you know the anguish of being alone as you helplessly watch your child die, I warrant you will not understand my agony.” She sat down on the window seat behind her, Richard’s hand still in hers. “I cannot deny that I felt abandoned by you—and by God.”

“Aye, it would seem He has abandoned us.” Richard rose and, letting go of her hand, took a few paces, and turned. “I cannot fathom why, but we have no choice but to accept that Henry’s death was His will.”

“Then He is a cruel God,” she whispered. “Henry was an innocent child. I fear it is you and I that He is punishing.”

“Why should He punish us, Cecily? We have done nothing wrong.”

“The Bible says our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit, who lives in us all. I believe that we have taken too much pleasure in each other and so we are punished.”

Richard was astonished by this reasoning, and knew at once that it was her irrational, grief-stricken mind speaking. “We have done nothing immoral, my dearest love. You are mistaken. The teachings of the church also tell us that a husband should not deprive his wife of intimacy, which is her right as
a married woman, nor should the wife deprive her husband. We have obeyed those teachings throughout our life together.”

“Then why punish us?” Cecily argued. “Nay, Richard, I have lost faith in Him.”

Richard came back immediately to sit with her. “Never say so, Cecily. We must always trust in God, no matter what the cost. ’Tis our faith that upholds us daily.”

The piteous cries of La Pucelle echoed in Cecily’s head. “Jesu, Jesu, have pity,” Jeanne had begged, but God had not heard her, even though she died for her faith. What kind of God was He, Cecily asked herself angrily, her heart hardening toward Him in her grief.

“I pray you, let me see your dear face, my love,” Richard was saying. Cecily let him remove her veil. She was touched to see the compassion in his eyes. “Ah, Cis, will you forgive me?” he begged, his thumb tracing one of the dark circles under her eyes. “Tell me you forgive me, for I cannot endure this disharmony.”

She looked at him soberly. “Aye, Richard, I must forgive you or I fear our life together will be changed forever. It will take some time to recover from our loss, but perhaps we can share our grief in this peaceful place.”

Richard nodded. “We will take the time, Cis.” He took her face and kissed her gently. “And now, if you can bear it, I would hear how Henry left us.”

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
Richard came to Cecily’s chamber after Rowena had tended to her mistress and left the room. He and Cecily had spent the best part of the day in prayer, but Richard was not to know how little Cecily trusted in God now. Since losing Henry, she prayed exclusively to the Virgin; surely Mary would understand how it felt to lose a son, she reasoned. After walking in the priory’s untidy herb garden, she and Richard had shared quiet conversation at supper together, and Richard thought Cecily would be as ready for them to make love as he was. He was not prepared for her reaction as he pulled her gently toward the bed and tried to untie her flimsy chemise.

“I cannot, my lord!” she cried, backing up to a chair. “How can we ever couple again when I feel this way? Thrice you have got me with child. I give birth while you are gone, and then God takes the child from us. Answer me this: How shall I ever again enjoy making love with you?” Her chin was trembling and her knuckles white as she gripped the arms of the chair. “I do not want to conceive another child and have him taken from me—ever again!”

Richard listened aghast and sank to his knees. “Sweet Mother of God,
Cecily, what can I say to console you?” Almost as quickly he got up, his patience tried. “What about little Anne? God has not taken her from us. She is alive, clever, loving, and healthy, if you would take the time to notice,” he snapped and, snatching up his gown, he left the room.

“Aye, but He will take her. You will see, my lord, He will,” muttered Cecily, staring with venom at the crucifix on the opposite wall.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Richard sought out Constance in the priory infirmary, where she was grinding up some poppy seeds. She told Richard that she was worried when she had tiptoed past the door during the night and heard Cecily crying. It had been some time after Richard left and so, knocking first, Constance had let herself in and found Cecily wide awake, still seated on the chair with her knees under her chin.

“What can I do, doctor? Is she ill?” Richard asked. “I fear for her mind. She has sunk so low into melancholy.”

Constance was taken aback by the duke’s familiarity with her, but his urgency and concern touched her. She had had few dealings with him, living as she did in the duchess’s apartments. She proceeded carefully. “I cannot tell if she is simply grieving and her humor will pass, or if she is truly ill,” she told him. “I have studied the diseases of women from Trotula of Salerno’s treatise. It is known some women are afflicted with melancholy following birth, but it most often passes with time, my lord. But although I do not believe it will cure her, I will bleed her, if you so desire.”