Thwarted Queen (2 page)

“How much are you willing to pay for her?” says a deep voice.

Mama clenches my fingers so tightly I yelp.

“That is
John Plantagenet, Duke of Bedford
, the senior uncle to the king.” Mama,
Joan de Beaufort, Countess of Westmorland
, turns me around so that I have to look into her eyes. “He’s just been made regent of France, and rarely comes to England. It is a high honor for him to visit us, Cecylee.”

“But you don’t seem happy,” I remark as we peek through the arras.

Mama shakes her head and puts her finger to her lips.

“Two thousand marks,” replies Papa.

Through an opening in the richly woven tapestry, I find Richard standing in one corner, his hand running through his hair. For the past six months, he’s been living at Castle Raby. When I asked why, Papa pinched my cheek and said it would be well if we got acquainted. I try hard to be pleasant, but he is so serious. He’s dressed in black. Couldn’t he think of some other color?

Duke John looks around the solar, his sharp eyes taking in Papa’s glazed windows, the newly installed hooded fireplace on the north wall, and the rich hangings. He reminds me of a merchant at a fair.

“Four thousand?” he says.

Papa stares at his lap as if he’s just discovered something fascinating, perhaps a pulled thread, on his silver and blue robe.
Ralph de Neville, Earl of Westmorland
, must never be too quick to compromise.

A cough erupts as a gentleman enters from the door opposite and bows. I turn to Mama.

“That is Duke John’s younger brother,
Humphrey Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester
. He lives in England and acts as regent for the king.”

“How old is the king?”

“Three years old.”

“He’s ten years younger than Richard then.”

Mama quietly shushes me.

Duke Humphrey smiles at Richard. Perhaps they are friends. I did hear someone say that Richard always stays with him when he visits London.

Duke Humphrey shakes his head.

Richard smiles faintly.

Duke John sighs. “Three thousand?”

“’Tis a goodly sum,” says Duke Humphrey. “Three is the sign of the Trinity. ‘Tis the perfect number.”

Papa strokes his white beard. The corner of his mouth quirks. Then he roars with laughter. “Done. Let us drink to it.”

Mama gives me a look, which means to stay here behind the arras and be quiet. She goes to Papa. “You know I am not happy with this.”

“Cecylee needs to marry,” replies Papa. “This betrothal will make her Duchess of York, and you know where that might lead.”

A duchess! I wiggle with excitement. That would make me more important than Mama! She says softly, “I care little for that kind of future. I want my Cecylee happy in her life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snaps Papa.

Duke John looks surprised. He holds his wine cup high in the air and stares at Mama. To my surprise, she kneels.

“She is my youngest daughter, and only nine years old. Do you have to do this now?”

Papa bangs his cup on the arm of his chair, ruby-red liquid sloshing to the floor. “Mind yourself, my lady,” he hisses, wagging his finger, as Jenkin rushes to clean it up. “Never contradict your lord in public.”

Drawing a handkerchief from her long triangular sleeve, she dabs her eyes.

Papa helps her up, leads her to her seat, and signals for wine.

Mama looks straight at me and nods.

I run into the room. Suddenly all eyes are upon me. I dip a deep curtsey, rising smoothly and without wobbling, the way Mama taught.

Richard bows and smiles, then frowns. I smile back, trying to coax that frown away, and when his features smooth out, I turn to Mama. “What shall I play for the company? Shall I do
I Cannot Help It If I Rarely Sing
?”

Papa slaps his thigh and bellows with laughter.

Mama smiles: “Why not sing
This Lovely Star Of The Sea
?”

Settling onto the window seat beside Richard, I nestle the psaltery in the crook of my elbow, pluck it, and began to sing. I love to sing, it’s so good for the spirits.

“This Rose of Raby has spirit as well as beauty,” says Duke Humphrey after listening for a few moments.

“She’s not shy,” replies Papa, smiling.

Duke John winks at Richard. “I know you must be eager to wed.”

Richard colors a fiery red, making the gentlemen laugh heartily. I sigh.

“When is the ceremony to take place?” asks Duke Humphrey.

“I wonder if it could be this year,” says Papa, “in October, on the Feast of Saint Luke.”

I strum my psaltery with a flourish and finish the song.

“What are you going to sing now?” whispers Richard.

“Wait and see.” I glance at the adults, who are busy talking, and play softly
I Cannot Help It If I Rarely Sing
.

“Cis!” exclaims Richard, laughing softly. “Your lady mother—”

“It’s too late now, isn’t it? Shhh. How can I talk to you if I have to sing?”

Richard smiles and sinks back onto the cushions next to me. He looks less serious.

“Where will they live?” asks Duke John.

“Where would you like to live?” whispers Richard.

I think for a minute. I don’t want to be far away from Mama. “Do you have a castle close by?”

“I have many castles, Cis. But not here.”

“Oh.” I turn away. “I don’t wish to move.”

“I know that you, my lords, have much on your minds,” says Papa, bowing. “So I wondered if they could be betrothed rather than married. That way both Richard and Cecylee could continue to live here.”

Richard nudges me. “Did you hear what they said?”

I nod and smile. I pluck my psaltery and take a deep breath:

A gardyn saw I ful of blosmy bowes

Upon a ryver, in a grene mede,

There as swetnesse evermore inow is,

With floures white, blewe, yelwe, and rede—

“What is that song, Cis?”

“It was written by Granduncle Chaucer. I made up the tune myself. Shall I teach you?”

Richard puts a hand on my arm, for Duke Humphrey speaks. “Is it not true that you have a large number of soldiers garrisoned here at Castle Raby?”

“Indeed,” says Papa, “I am warden of the western march, and I have to patrol the land from here to Scotland.”

“I like not the idea of rough soldiers being so close to this pretty rose.”

Duke John stares at me. “Why not have little Cecylee and young Richard live at court with their cousin
King Henry
?”

“But Cecylee will be safe here with me,” says Mama, hands tensing on her chair.

“This is a serious issue,” says Papa slowly. “It is true that I have a large garrison of soldiers here because of the Scots raids, and because of the lawless nature of this country.”

“We would not want our wild rose plucked before her time,” says Duke Humphrey. “Young Richard here is close to the throne. It would not be seemly if his wife-to-be were caught in a rough soldier’s embrace.”

Confused, I turn to Richard. “What are they talking about?”

“Your virtue,” he replies, reddening.

“But there is no blemish on my virtue.” I frown.

Richard pats my hand. “You would not be able to defend yourself against any man determined to take you. You have not the strength.”

“I have a good kick. And I know where to aim.”

“Cis!” Richard pulls down the corners of his mouth. He looks strange, but then I see he is trying not to laugh. “How do you know that?”

“Audrey.” My mother’s maid has been with her for hundreds of years, and knows everything. I ease the psaltery into a comfortable position, strum for a minute of two, and then sing a song I composed to please Mama:

I once was in a summery dale,

In one such little hidey-hole,

When I heard a great debate

Between an owl and nightingale.

Their brief was stiff and stark and strong,

Sometimes soft, and sometimes loud,

As either side swelled up against

The other, and cursed each other out.

Letting fly their evil thoughts,

They said the very worst they could,

And on and on about their songs,

They argued vehemently and long.

‘Tis my favorite song, and it always makes Mama laugh. She says it is very old, perhaps one hundred and fifty years old, written by someone unnamed, but I make it my own by strumming loudly on the heavy accents of the poem, particularly the words “stiff and stark and strong”. I look up, expecting her grin, but Mama looks pinched around the lips. She signals for me to stop.

“How would you guarantee her safety?” asks Duke John.

“I could give her apartments in the keep for her very own use,” says Papa. “They are accessible only through a flight of steep and narrow stairs. There is a guardhouse underneath those rooms, which could be garrisoned by my most trusted men.”

Duke John comes closer. “You want this marriage so much, you are prepared to lock your daughter up?”

My mouth opens, I look at Mama.

She stares at the floor, her fingers tensed around the bunched fabric of her silken skirts. Suddenly she looks up and glares.

She glares at Richard.

Chapter 2

Michaelmas

September 29, 1424

I fly upright in bed; something wet has touched my ear. A hound regards me mournfully with his large brown eyes. Laughing out loud, I snuggle up to him in the pile of furs.

An Irish Wolfhound with wiry hair, long legs, and floppy ears, Clavis is a birthday present from Papa. He said, now that I’m growing up, I should have a hound. It would attack whenever I’m in danger, just like in the saying,
they are gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked
. I retorted, who would dare to accost me, the youngest daughter of the greatest lord of the land. Papa said only, better to be safe than sorry.

I lie in my new apartments in the keep, the bed in the main chamber, a large room made of flat white stone. The windows are so high up, I have to angle my head to see the castle courtyards below. I miss looking out at my trees, and I’m tired of the faint stench of latrines that makes its presence felt, even on cold days.

To the right of the window opposite my bed, a door leads to a small room where Jenet sleeps. Next to my bed, another door leads down a steep spiral staircase to the guardroom. When Jenet enters this morning, I hear the scrape of metal and the sound of male voices. She curtseys, pours a jug of angelica water into the bowl, and waits. I turn away, burrow under my furs, and cuddle up to Clavis, who growls appreciatively. I giggle as I count under my breath. How long will it take for Jenet to speak? Once, I counted all the way up to three thousand before my new maid timidly asked if I wouldn’t like to wash my hands.

This morning, however, is different. The door bangs as Audrey surges into the room.

“Get up, my lady!” she shouts. “Your sisters, Ladies
Catherine
and
Anne
, have arrived!” When she tugs the bedclothes off the bed, Clavis jumps up and barks. I shiver in the damp chill of the large stone room as Audrey calls for hot water to be brought up from the kitchens for a bath.

“My lady’s uncle writes beautifully, and in English too, so we can all understand it. Even a humble shepherd can understand what Master Chaucer says, not like those priests forever muttering in Latin.” Audrey is small and brown like a sparrow, and never stops talking.

I yawn. “How I long to leave.” Audrey attaches the wide triangular sleeves to my gown over the pink silk chemise. “I haven’t been allowed out since midsummer.”

“You know that’s not true, my lady.” Audrey ties the laces into a bow. “Duke Richard often takes you out.”

I make a face. I want to go out with someone who laughs loud and gallops as swiftly as a greyhound. Richard is always worried about something. He thinks I will fall off my pony if I’m not careful. But I don’t want to be careful, I want to soar up into the sky like an osprey. At least today, I’ll be allowed out for a few short hours. I wriggle in blissful anticipation, and Audrey mutters under her breath.

“Where is Papa?”

Audrey kneels to adjust the long train of my silver and dark green dress.

“He’s ridden out, hasn’t he?”

“Never you mind,” says Audrey.

“I wish he would ride out more often, so I could visit Mama in Bulmer’s Tower.”

“Mind your tongue, my lady,” says Audrey, motioning for Jenet to drape the fur mantle over my shoulders. “You should not speak ill of your lord father. He rode out at dawn to head off another Percy raid.”

“Are they going to attack us?” I ask.

“Mayhap,” says Audrey.

“But why?” says Jenet, going pale.

“The Percies and the Nevilles,” says Audrey. “They have these huge private armies to stop the heathenish Scots from their border raids. The Percies are supposed to be patrolling the eastern marches and the Nevilles, the western. That would be all well and good if the Percies and the Nevilles saw eye-to-eye. Naturally, they do not.”