Thwarted Queen (16 page)

“Hush, my sweet,” replied Cecylee, looking around to see if anyone had heard her. “Ladies do not pass remarks about people in public.”

A slap of water made her turn. From the direction of Paris, a dark shape emerged silently through the mists. Several swathed figures sat in it, but the only color that emerged from the deep gloom was a faint gleam of gold shining dully from the head of one of the figures. Propelled by the rhythmical rising and falling of the oars, the barge drew closer and fanfare shattered the quiet. Richard took her hand, and they moved across the thick carpets that had been placed at shore’s edge as the crowned figure arose and stepped lightly to land.

“By the Grace of God, Marguerite, Queen of England and France, and Lady of Ireland!” the herald roared.

Suffolk disembarked next and knelt. “My dear lady,” he said in his mellifluous voice, “May God bless you and keep you. This day is a blessing, for England gains a great queen.”

A chill wind blew as Marguerite hastened forward to help him up. “Rise,
mon cher ami
.” she said. “I am most grateful for all that you have done for me. You have my most especial favor.”

Suffolk patted her hand and smiled as Richard thinned his lips.

Chapter 14

Pontoise, English France

When Marguerite d’Anjou first met the English Court at Pontoise on Saint Joseph’s Eve in March 1445, the Duke of York was the first to kiss her hand. Marguerite was struck by the somber coloring of his raiment and the serious expression on his face. But as she motioned him to rise, a smile lit his face, warming those blue-grey eyes. Just behind Duke Richard was his wife, who sank into a deep and graceful curtsey with her head bent. Duchess Cecylee was very pretty in an English sort of way, with grey eyes, a lily-white complexion and fair hair that had been braided up into an elaborate hairstyle. She wore a grey gown of fine wool, further setting off those eyes. For a woman who had already borne her lord six children, the Duchess was enviably slender. It was obvious her lord adored her, for he could scarce keep his eyes away.

As the duchess rose from her curtsey, she smiled, making her grey eyes sparkle. “Welcome to England, my dear,” she said in that ugly, clattering Norman French with its rounded vowels, sharp consonants, and frequent heavy stresses.

Marguerite flinched. She would have to accustom herself to the elegant and beautiful French language being mangled in such a fashion.

“My lord Duke and I hope you will be happy in England,” continued the duchess. “We will try to make it so.”

As she spoke, Duchess Cecylee took in Queen Marguerite’s appearance. But she lowered her lashes, and said nothing.

Marguerite lifted her chin. How dare the duchess criticize her.

York cleared his throat. “We are blessed indeed with the arrival of this most beauteous princess from France.” He murmured various other compliments, but Marguerite was distracted by Duchess Cecylee, who beckoned to a young boy to come forward. He held various packages done up in twine.

“I have this day been to the merchants of Pontoise,” she remarked.

York raised an eyebrow as he turned to his wife.

She put a hand on his arm. “Dickon,” she said, “you know we women must look our best for the state banquet we are to give our queen tonight.” She turned to Marguerite. “May I present to you my maid Jenet?”

A slender brown maid curtseyed low.

“Jeanette is from Picardy,” continued the Duchess in her heavy Norman-French accent, “but has lived many years in England and knows English fashions. If it pleases you, I would like to invite you to my apartments after Mass to see what I have bought.”

Marguerite’s cheeks warmed. Had they heard she’d been so short of money she’d been obliged to pawn her silver plate to the kind-hearted Countess of Somerset so that she could pay the wages of her sailors? Marguerite involuntarily glanced at her new friend
Eleanor Beauchamp, Countess of Somerset
, who stood by her side.

Marguerite turned back to Duchess Cecylee. “I thank you, madam, for your most kind attentions, but I have brought with me five barons and baronesses, seventeen knights, sixty-five squires and sundry others. King Henri has been kind enough to provide me with the services of the Countesses of Suffolk and Somerset. Therefore I can manage, I assure you.”

Duchess Cecylee compressed her lips, a perfect rose-pink filling her lily-white complexion. An elegant lady in sky-blue satin took this opportunity to move forward. She dropped an exquisite curtsey. “My lady Queen, I am Jacquetta de Saint Pol, Duchess of Bedford, and sister to Isabelle of Luxembourg, Countess de Guise.”

Marguerite smiled into the lovely face of this stranger who pronounced French so beautifully. Isabelle de Guise was married to her father’s brother Charles, the Count of Maine.

“How is dearest Isabelle?” continued Jacquetta, as Marguerite motioned her to rise. “Has she had her child?”

“
Tante
Isabelle is very well and sends to you her love,” replied Marguerite, delighted to meet the countrywoman she’d heard much about. “She was brought to bed of a beautiful daughter called Louise.” Marguerite motioned Jacquetta to a seat: “What can you tell me of England?”

“Many things,
chérie
, but all in good time. May I present to you my husband Sir Richard Woodville?”

Sir Richard came forward, bowed low, knelt, and kissed the Queen’s hand. “
Enchanté
,” he murmured, smiling up at her.

“And here is little Élisabeth, my eldest,” continued Jacquetta as a diminutive figure curtseyed low.

“
Ma petite
,” exclaimed Marguerite, raising the child from her curtsey. She planted kisses on each soft cheek of the golden child.

“If it please you, my lady Queen,” lisped Élisabeth. She looked at her mother, who nodded. “It is my greatest wish to be your damsel.”

Marguerite smiled down at her. Élisabeth was tiny, but so perfectly formed, she seemed like a creature out of a fairy tale. “But of course,
chérie
. I would be most happy to have my little kinswoman at my court.” As she gently tilted the child’s chin, she noted the Duke and Duchess of York standing together.

“I had no idea the Woodville woman was related to the queen,” York muttered to his wife.

“Only by marriage,” replied Duchess Cecylee in clear, bell-like tones. She glanced at Marguerite, then lowered her voice, but Marguerite’s keen ears were still able to pick up her muffled tones. “Did you see how patched and mended her gown was? It looks as if she has only one gown.”

“She has no dowry,” whispered York. “I received this morning a letter from Gloucester. He deplores her lack of dowry and has publicly accused parliament of having bought a queen not worth ten marks.”

Marguerite stiffened as she gently took her fingers away from Élisabeth’s face.

“Are you unwell, my lady Queen?” whispered Eleanor, Countess of Somerset.

“There is no point in standing here.” Duchess Cecylee’s clear voice carried over to where the Queen sat with her attendants. “Let us go, my lord. ‘Tis clear we are not wanted.” She swept off, leaving Marguerite staring after her.

York flushed, bowed to the Queen, and hurried after his wife.

“Do not mind her,” murmured
Alice de la Pole, Countess of Suffolk
coming into the room with refreshments just as my lady York disappeared. “Many call her Proud Cis.”

“I do not mind,” replied Marguerite, lifting her chin. “She may be Duchess, but I am Queen.”

Chapter 15

Pontoise, English France

“You must try harder to win her favor,” hissed Richard as Queen Marguerite appeared at the top of the stairs leading into the great hall. “I’m depending upon you to become her friend. You can offer Nan to be her damsel, if you wish.”

Cecylee fingered an emerald necklace. She should not have swept from the room like that, and she couldn’t understand why she had been overtaken by such ill temper. She turned to Richard. “I thank you for your suggestion, but Nan is over young for that at present. Mayhap when she is older.”

As Marguerite arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Cecylee sank into a low curtsey while Richard, bowed, murmured various compliments, and offered Marguerite his arm. Cecylee walked behind on the arm of William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, the rest of the English court following. Cecylee frowned as she caught sight of Mistress Élisabeth Woodville dressed in a gold and green silk gown, her shimmering hair streaming down her back under a matching cap of gold and green.

Richard took Marguerite by the hand as he placed her in the seat of honor to his right. Cecylee sat on his left, next to the Earl of Suffolk, while Alice of Suffolk sat lower down. Richard had ensured that Marguerite was furnished with a fork, a new-fangled implement that the French court had adopted but was not yet common in England. He took care to cut up the choicest pieces of meat into small morsels so that she could pierce them with her fork and eat in one mouthful. As he did so, he murmured various compliments.

“Our last queen,
Catrine de Valois
, was fair, but not as lovely as you,” he remarked, kissing the tips of Marguerite’s fingers with a flourish.

Cecylee had never seen Richard pay court to another woman.

Marguerite smiled and leaned towards Richard: “I have learned something of your history. Was not Catrine de Valois wife to King Henri, the one who fought us at Agincourt?”

“Indeed, yes.” York picked up a flagon of wine, raised an eyebrow, and at Marguerite’s nod, refilled her goblet. “His queen came to England to make peace, madam, like yourself.”

“Tell me about England. Where do you live?”

York sipped his wine and smiled. “I have several residences, but my favorite one is at Fotheringhay.”

“Foh-dring-hey.” Marguerite turned the name slowly over on her tongue.

Suffolk laughed. “We will make an Englishwoman of you yet, my lady!” he bellowed, causing Cecylee to jump. He rose to his feet: “A toast to our queen.” The other men rose also.

“May our queen live a long and happy life.” Suffolk glanced at Richard. “And with no enemies to mar her reign.”

“To our queen,” roared the other men as they pounded the tables and drank.

Duke Richard sat down and took another sip of his wine. “That is my wish also, my Queen,” he remarked softly. He put his goblet down. “Fotheringhay is dear to my heart. My castle sits on top of a tall hill around which the River Nene curls.”

“It sounds lovely,” murmured Marguerite as she ate a morsel of food.

“It would give me the greatest pleasure if you were to visit us there. I could show you the church tower I designed.”

Marguerite stopped eating and stared. Cecylee watched the expression on her face. Does she think we English are uncouth and wild savages?

“Tell me about your tower,” said Marguerite.

“I had it built ten years ago, shortly after I came into my majority,” replied Richard, cutting off a small portion of the roasted duck now placed before them. He laid it neatly on her trencher, put his knife down, and leaned back in his chair. “It is octagonal and commands a fine view of the surrounding countryside.”

“Why did you make it octagonal?”

Richard laughed. “Perhaps because it is unusual. To my knowledge, the only other octagonal tower I know of is the Lantern Tower of Ely Cathedral. I did not want it to be round or square because that would have made it look like a fortress.” He rubbed his forked beard. “I wanted something that conveyed elegance and grace, qualities that I fear we are sorely lacking in England.” He picked up Marguerite’s hand and kissed it. “But you will remedy that, madam, of that I have no doubt.”

Cecylee’s stomach clenched at Marguerite’s smile.

At length, the ladies rose to escort the queen upstairs to her bedchamber.

“I wish to learn English,” remarked Marguerite as she entered the dark room with handsome carved furniture and heavy draperies, “but what should I read?”

“Have you heard of Master Geoffrey Chaucer?” asked Duchess Cecylee.

“Does he make shoes?” replied Marguerite, indicating that the ladies should sit around her.

My lady York laughed merrily. “No, no,” she replied as soon as she could. “Though I see why you might think so. One of his forefathers must have been a
chaucelier
or shoemaker, for him to have the name Chaucer. But you should read him. He writes in English.”

“What does he write about?”

Duchess Cecylee’s grey eyes sparkled. “If you wish to understand the English, read the
Canterbury Tales
. There you will find people of every station in life. It will interest you greatly.”

“I believe Master Chaucer was your mother’s uncle, was he not?” murmured Jacquetta, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Marguerite winced.

Duchess Cecylee turned pink. “An uncle-by-marriage.” She lifted her chin. “I am not ashamed to be related to the greatest poet of the land. In any case, I am not the only one here to call Master Chaucer relative. My lady Suffolk is his granddaughter.”

There was dead silence as Marguerite looked from Duchess Cecylee to Countess Alice and back again. How was it possible for these great ladies to have relatives who were not aristocratic? This mixing of classes wasn’t right. Peasants should know their place and not get above their station.