Thwarted Queen (3 page)

“What mean you?” says Jenet faintly.

“They fight each other,” I say. “Sometimes they don’t notice that the Scots have launched another border raid.”

Audrey sits to put her clogs on. “If you’ve got loads of men roaming the countryside armed to the teeth, you get all kinds of banditry. You get raids, skirmishes, ambushes.”

“But in Picardy, it wasn’t like that,” murmurs Jenet.

“We are not in Picardy,
ma petite
,” replies Audrey. “Here, in the far north of England, it is wild, dangerous, unruly. Ungodly, you might call it.”

Jenet crosses herself. “If we’re going to be attacked, shouldn’t we be making ready?”

“Never you mind,” replies Audrey. “My lady is in Bulmer’s Tower. That can be defended in any raid.”

“What about the king?” asks Jenet, drawing close her red woolen mantle. It is her most prized possession, all she had of value when she left Picardy in northern France after the death of her mother to come serve me under the guidance of Audrey, her mother’s sister. Audrey tells me that she has around fourteen years.

“The king’s writ does not run here,” I say.

“And that is why your lord father gave you these fine apartments in the keep, in the middle of the castle, to keep you safe,” says Audrey. “Truly, he knows what is best for you.” She picks up my train.

“But I hate being mewed up.” I pick my way onto one of the wooden walkways that criss-cross Castle Raby. “I want to be free.” My voice is taken away by a gust of wind.

“My lady and I speak French, of course,” says Audrey to Jenet as they follow. The gusting wind makes the wooden walkway sway. I sway in time to it. These walkways allow the soldiers to patrol our defenses and get from one tower to another easily, but the wind makes the journey somewhat perilous. “But we don’t do as some jumped-up persons do, which is to speak loudly in French to show off in front of their servants.”

Another gust knocks my cone-shaped headdress to the side of my head. I giggle, for I must look very peculiar. I stop so that Jenet can replace it on my head.

“I would never tell my lady this to her face,” continues Audrey as we walk sixty feet above ground, “but do you really want to understand what Master Chaucer says? It’s such rubbish! There he is, as bold as brass, criticizing the church. And then there is that vulgar tale told by a miller about the young woman who cuckolds her husband by pretending the flood is upon us.”

She pauses to let the material of my train flow down the wooden staircase taking us into the top of Bulmer’s Tower.

“Take the Wife of Bath,” says Audrey as we enter Bulmer’s Tower, “that dreadful woman with her four hundred pounds of linen on her head, her five husbands, and all her talk against chastity. ‘Tis proper scandalous, I tell you, and no fit subject for a young lady.”

I bite my lips to prevent myself from laughing; if I want to hear gossip, I best look stupid. I take the fur mantle off, give it to Jenet, and enter the solar.

Mama is reading aloud:

‘
You have two choices; which one will you try?

To have me old and ugly till I die,

But still a loyal, true and humble wife

That never will displease you all her life,

Or would you rather I were young and pretty

And chance your arm what happens in a city

Where friends will visit you because of me,

Yes, and in other places too, maybe.

“It’s the Wife of Bath today,” mutters Audrey to Jenet.

I curtsey to Mama and sit on the window seat, picking up the tunic left for me to embroider. Truly, it is a glorious day. The sun throws beams of light across the floor where my betrothal gown is laid out in a pool of blue velvet. The betrothal is less than a month away. Yesterday my half-sister
Mary
, a daughter from Mama’s first marriage, finished stem-stitching the hem, which reads
Cecylee, Duchesse of Yorke
in a scrolled pattern. ‘Tis very fine.

Audrey takes off her clogs and kneels on the carpet to draw a design for the skirts with her wand of chalk. It looks like a flowery mead with animals. As I am fond of sheep, she sketches in a couple for Jenet to embroider. Meanwhile Mary wears her usual thin-lipped expression as she laboriously sews the diagonal bands of the Neville crest onto the bodice of my gown. At thirty years, she is already old, married to Papa’s son by his first marriage, Sir Ralph Neville.

Which would you have? The choice is all your own.’

The knight thought long, and with a piteous groan

At last he said, with all the care in life,

‘My lady and my love, my dearest wife,

I leave the matter to your wise decision.

You make the choice yourself, for the provision

Of what may be agreeable and rich

In honor to us both, I don’t care which;

Whatever pleases you, suffices me.’

‘And have I won the mastery?’ said she,

‘Since I’m to choose and rule as I think fit?’

‘Certainly, wife,’ he answered her, ‘that’s it.’

Anne puts her sewing down and frowns. Four years older than me at thirteen, she’s expecting her first child, being married to the
Earl of Stafford
. “You mean,” she says, “his wife rules him? But how can that be, Mother?”

“What kind of woman was the knight’s wife?” asks Mama, turning to Anne.

I cannot contain myself. “She was the one who told him the answer to that riddle, Mama. She told him that what a woman most desires is sovereignty. She wants to rule her own life, her husband, and her lover.”

Mary looks up and frowns. I toss my head, and smile. Mary is always sour, always quick to find fault, always hard to please.

But Mama’s lips quirk at the corners as she shakes her head at me and says, “Let Anne respond, my love.” She turns to Anne. “How would you describe her?”

“She was very well read,” says Anne, slowly. “She quoted Dante, Catullus and Juvenal. So she could read Italian and Latin. Perhaps the knight, her husband, let her make the decisions because she was so wise.”

“But is education the same as wisdom?” asks Mama.

Anne is silent while I look around. The late September afternoon sunlight is bright on the round carpet of Mama’s solar. It is peaceful here, away from the swirling winds outside. A bee hums. Silken threads whisper as Mary and Jenet pull their needles through the velvet. A spoon tinkles against glass as my eldest sister Cath, visiting from the estates of her husband, the Duke of Norfolk, stirs a distillation of rose petals. I yawn, and quickly bend over the tunic I am embroidering, a betrothal present for Richard. I’ve selected purple velvet to betoken his royal blood, while embroidering the hem in a pattern of songbirds. The yellow thread makes their song bright and cheerful.

“No,” says Anne at last. “But it helps to develop your mind, to give you discernment, to learn to discriminate.”

“Indeed it does, my love,” says Mama, patting her hand.

I cover another yawn. I’ll fall asleep soon if nothing interesting happens. I put my sewing down, get up, and pour a cup of wine for Cath. It might make her talkative. Though past twenty-seven, she seems young because so merry.

“Cath,” I say. “Did Queen Alainor of Aquitaine have great learning?”

Catrine, named after our mother’s mother,
Catrine de Roet
, sips her wine quickly, loving to talk about the past. “That’s not what made her so famous. When she was married to King Louis, they went off on crusade together, and Queen Alainor and all her ladies dressed as Amazons. They wore breastplates, carried swords, and rode like men.”

“And what about King Louis? Was he dashing?”

“He was dressed as a monk and walked a great deal of the way.”

I am crushed that my heroine should have to put up with someone like that. He sounds worse than Richard. “They seem rather ill-sorted,” I say. Cath bursts out laughing.

“That marriage didn’t last long,” she remarks. “Once Alainor got her divorce from Louis, she married Henry of Anjou, who was thirteen years younger—”

“Thirteen years younger?” I gape at her. “A younger husband? I didn’t think that was allowed.”

“Cath!” says Mary. “That’s enough. You shouldn’t fill Cis’s head with such ideas.” She turns to me. “Pick up your embroidery, child; you have much to do so it is suitable for Richard to wear.”

I absently finger the tunic before me. A much younger husband would not even be born yet, for I am only nine—

“Mary,” says Mama. “Cecylee knows her duty.”

“Not as well as Anne,” says Mary, her lips thinning.

This is true. Anne sits there, quietly sewing. I don’t know how she does it. How can you concentrate on something as dull as embroidery, when all these tales are inviting you to imagine all sorts of things? I eye Richard’s tunic and turn to Mama. “Is it true that a woman may marry only once?”

“That depends on canon law,” replies Mama.

“Bishops and the church determine that?” asks Anne.

“Men! Men always do!” I exclaim.

Mama takes some time to explain what canon law is. I pick up Richard’s tunic. Perhaps it would be well to finish it soon, so I can make something pretty for myself.

“It’s ridiculous, all this talk about canon law,” says Audrey under her breath. She sits down beside me and threads her needle with silver thread. “I ask you, most women are lucky if they manage to survive one husband, with all those pregnancies, let alone several. Men always want the same thing.” She bites off the silver thread with the one tooth that is left in the side of her mouth. “They don’t always stop to think if their favorite sport is good for their young brides. Look at Lady Anne. She was only twelve when she married the Duke of Buckingham last year, and now she’s expecting her first child at thirteen.”

I look up to see Mama’s reaction. But she talks as if nothing has happened: “Most people don’t worry about remarrying nowadays. You can marry as often as you please—provided that your husbands are dead first.” She smiles at me, then turns to Anne. “Which women have power?”

“Abbesses,” says Anne. “They may ride out of their convents and conduct business with important men.”

“Widows with rank and money,” I put in quickly. “Once your husband is dead, you may do as you please. You can manage your land, plead lawsuits, spend your own money.” I throw back my head and peal with laughter, contemplating the luxury of so much freedom.

“Makes you wonder why more husbands are not bumped off,” says Audrey, “when wealthy widows have much more power than rich wives.”

A hush descends. Anne and Jenet stare, their needles suspended in mid air. Mama bites her lip. Catrine looks amused. Mary stands. “My lady mother, how can you countenance this? If you do not curb her, Cecylee will imagine she can do as she pleases.”

“You’re too hard on her, Mary,” says Catrine.

“Life is going to be hard on Cecylee,” replies Mary. “You know she has no choice in the matter of her husband.”

“I am well aware of that,” says Mama, flushing. “But I see no reason why Cecylee may not enjoy the girlhood that is left to her.”

“My lady mother, your judgment is usually faultless, but you are blind about Cecylee,” continues Mary.

Mama rises. “You know the sacrifices I have been forced to make.”

“How can you expect her to be a dutiful wife?”

“I never see Bess, my eldest, because she lives on the other side of the mountains.”

“Filling her head with the Wife of Bath only makes things worse.”

“I never see
Jehane
, because she is a nun.”

“You never say no to her.”

“
Alainor
is lost to me because she is married to the heir of our worst enemy, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.”

“Cecylee is acquiring a temper to go along with her haughty ways.”

“Anne and Catrine must live with their husbands and can make only rare visits.”

“And you do not see this, because she winds you around her finger as if she were reeling in a day’s catch.”

“And the only reason why I see you, Mary, is because you are married to a Neville and live at Castle Raby.”

“You’re so jealous—” says Catrine, and then stops.

The unmistakable sound of mail-shod feet climbs the spiral staircase. It sends prickles up the spine. Quick as a flash of steel, Cath bundles Master Chaucer’s manuscripts into a chest and shuts the lid.

“Mama—” says Anne. But Mama takes my hand and says, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll not be parted from my Cecylee.”

Papa enters the solar.

Mama grips my hand tight.

Papa narrows his eyes. “Well, my lady?”

Mama draws herself up. “You agreed that Cecylee could visit me in Bulmer’s Tower—”

“What’s this I hear about never being parted from Cecylee?”

I flick my gaze from Papa to Mama. “Mama means that she would like me to visit more often.”

Papa fingers his beard as he glances at me. He gives a harsh bark of laughter. “So be it!” he exclaims. “Provided you include young Richard in your visits.” He strides to the door and turns. “It would do the lad good to spend more time with the ladies, do you not agree, madam?” And laughing, he pounds down the stairs, his mailed foot striking each stone step.

Mama’s fingers clutch mine as we both sweep him a low curtsey.

Chapter 3

Feast of Saint Luke

October 18, 1424

My eyes snap open.

The day of my betrothal; my stomach spasms into knots.

Why be betrothed now? At nine I’m expected to enter a woman’s estate, with a woman’s cares and responsibilities. Where is my girlhood? I don’t want it to end. I’m comfortable with Mama and enjoy my studies. I don’t see why all of this can’t continue.

Maybe I can delay things.

The door opens. Jenet pours warmed water into a bowl and hands over a linen napkin to dry my hands and face. She stokes the fire into a blaze before helping me into a fur-lined robe. I put my feet into fur-lined slippers, Jenet wraps her red woolen mantle tight, and then we file onto the wooden walkway for our cold and invigorating walk around the kitchen tower to the chapel.