Thwarted Queen (8 page)

Through the thin, semi-transparent fabric of my veil, I dimly saw a gentleman bring his white gelding to a stop with a flourish and vault off.

I pushed the material aside with my gloved hand.

Much younger than Richard, I guessed his age to be no more than twenty. He wore a tunic of dark green velvet over stockings that were half green, half gold with the seam straight up the middle of the front of each leg. The tunic was shorter than usual, and the eye-catching stockings drew attention to those legs, long and very shapely.

“Your Grace,” he gasped in elegant French as he dropped to one knee in the dust. “You forgot this.”

He handed up a package that contained my new dress, stiff with jewels.

I looked into a pair of laughing hazel eyes.

“Have I seen you before?”

“I was riding through Rouen when I saw your entourage. I’d heard much of your beauty, so I reined in to see if I could get a glimpse of such rare loveliness.”

I turned my head to hide a faint blush. “How did you notice my package?”

“I saw it as soon as you left.”

“How fortuitous that you should happen to be there at that precise moment.”

His boots were coated in dust.

“Have you come from Pontoise?”

He nodded.

“Have you news of my lord?”

“Indeed I do, my lady. He is in good health and spirits and his campaign against the French is going well.”

Richard and I had arrived in Rouen a month ago so that he could take up his post as governor of Normandy. The city of Rouen was the English capital of France, but the French had been trying for the past several years to wrest control of English France. Pontoise was an English town near Paris that controlled a strategic crossing over the River Oise. Whenever the French wanted to use this crossing, they were forced to pay English tolls, and this they did not like.

In early June, three weeks before our arrival, the French laid siege to Pontoise. But Richard appeared at the head of a large army, bringing his best generals. He was determined to teach the French a lesson. While the men fought the French, their wives and children kept me company.

At my asking, the young man went into detail about marches and counter-marches, night-crossings and chases back and forth across the River Oise. His brown hair bounced, as he gestured the army’s movements with his hands, his lips equally mobile and expressive. He smelled of almonds, of nutmeg, and of some exotic spice I could not place. This was such a contrast to other men I knew, who smelled of dogs, horses, mud, and—other unmentionable things.

Who was he? Where did he live?

“Why don’t you stay awhile and refresh yourself?”

I led the way into the great hall of Rouen Castle, summoned the servants, and saw that he was well furnished with refreshments. When I was assured that he had what he wanted, I left.

Around an hour or so later, I reappeared.

He was singing a chanson, accompanying himself on his lute. As soon as he saw me, he rose.

He devoured me with his eyes.

My new dress was of blue-grey silk with yards of material that floated around me as I walked. Pearls adorned the bodice. Pearls swirled in patterns down the sleeves. Pearls inscribed my name around the hem. I wore a matching heart-shaped headdress with a fine gauze veil.

It had been hard to decide which jewels to wear, for I had chests filled with them. It had taken Jenet a whole hour to find them all.

Eventually, I chose a sapphire and pearl necklace with matching earrings.

The silence lengthened as he gazed at me.

I lifted my chin and stared back. What would happen now? But our silent reverie was interrupted by the appearance of the other ladies. Word must have got around that an attractive stranger had arrived, for they wore their best dresses, coloring their cheeks and lips with rouge. After two weeks of nun-like seclusion while our men battled the French, we were dying for male company.

The young man got up and bowed, kissing each hand with a flourish.

I took in their finery and glanced down at my gown.

“You look ravishing,
duchesse
,” murmured the young man. “You need no addition to your attire.”

Richard’s sister, now Isabel de Bourchier, married to Baron Henry Bourchier, bit her lip.

Lady Bess de Vere, married to
John de Vere, twelfth Earl of Oxford
, interrupted. “Do you know
Plus Bele Que Flor, The One To Whom I Submit Is More Beautiful Than A Flower
?”

“Now, how does that go, my lady?” said the young man as he sat and strummed some chords on his lute. “
The One To Whom I Prostrate Myself Is More Lovely Than A Flower
?”

Lady Margaret Beauchamp, Countess of Shrewsbury
smiled. “
The One Who Lets Me Play For Her Is More Lovely Than A Flower
.”

“No,” replied my sister-in-law
Lady Lisette Beauchamp
, married to
George
. “
The One Who Lies Beneath Me Is More Lovely Than A Flower
.”

I laughed. “No indeed. It is
The One Who Commands My Obedience Is More Lovely Than A Flower
.”

“You are looking very well, Cis,” remarked Isabel in her distinctive voice. She lisped her
r
_s
exactly as Richard did. “That is quite a magnificent dress, I have never seen so many pearls. Who is that?”

Silence fell as I faced Isabel.

Lady Isabel de Bourchier was an unusually thin lady of thirty-two years. Of course, it would be Isabel asking the awkward questions, with her habit of watchful silence. “This young man, Isabel, has come from Pontoise.”

Isabel turned towards him. “And you are?”

“My name is of no consequence, my lady.” The young man rose and bowed gracefully.

Isabel’s elegantly thin eyebrows rose. “Are you saying that you are of no consequence?”

There was silence.

“Where are you from?”

“A country far from here.”

Isabel thinned her lips.

“Isabel,” I said, touching her arm. “He has come from Pontoise. He has news of the campaign.”

Immediately the ladies clamored for news about their husbands, all of them among Richard’s generals: Isabel’s husband, Baron Henry Bourchier, Bess’s husband, the Earl of Oxford, and Lisette’s husband, my brother George, Lord Latimer.

I held up my hand. “It’s such a fine evening, with many more hours to run. Why don’t we sit outside? We can discuss Pontoise.”

I signaled to the servants to follow.

The young man put down his lute and offered me his arm.

I led everyone to an area out in the garden screened by yew, which made for a private kind of outside room. Inside this space were tubs of roses, rosemary, thyme, and small orange trees. A turf seat stood in the middle, looking as if three benches had been put into an oddly shaped triangle with a side left open. Sitting on the seat gave us a view out of this small garden through a doorway cut into the hedge. This view led the eye into the larger pleasure ground where a fountain fed the bathing pool.

I sat in the middle of the seat, with the young man on my right and Isabel on my left.

The others took the remaining places.

I turned to the young man, and he began his tale while the servants set up a table at the open side of the three-sided seat and brought cold beet soup, cheese, and manchet bread, followed by a salad and hare stew. This was followed by Hippocras and angel wafers.

“The French are playing a clever game,” I remarked as I set my wine down. “By not coming out into the open to fight us fairly, they conserve their forces, while we wear ours out as we chase after them. Could we not employ a similar strategy to the French?”

The young man raised his brows. “You are quite right, my lady,” he said. “What a strategist you are. I would not like to command an army that opposed yours.”

I was about to reply when Bess said, “I’m thankful our men managed to cross the bridge of boats at Royaumont without breaking their necks. Our Blessed Lady be thanked for that.” She dipped her head like a horse, chestnut curls bobbing.

“Men can be so reckless,” agreed Margaret, wiping her fingers with a napkin. Her husband, the
Earl of Shrewsbury
, had been holding Pontoise for the English along with my brother
William, Lord Fauconberg
, before Richard’s army arrived. Now they joined in his campaign against the French.

“We ladies have to be so strong,” declared Lisette, stuffing another wafer in her mouth and licking the honey off her fingers. “Gentlemen have no idea how hard it is to wait and wait with no news.” She batted her lashes at the young man. “Would you treat your wife like that?”

“I have no wife.”

Lisette opened her small, raisin-like eyes wide. Small and plump, twenty-year-old Lisette was like a pigeon that constantly pecked at its feed. “You don’t? A fine young man like yourself?”

“It’s not so easy for someone with my kind of life.”

“What kind of life? I’ve never met such a well-favored gentleman who hadn’t been snatched—”

“Lisette means only that she is used to married couples,” interrupted Margaret, flushing. “In our society, we are married at such a young age.” Her voice trailed off.

“Before we know who we are,” I said. “Before we even have the capacity to choose—so that we can’t.”

The young man shot me a sharp look. I twisted my napkin while Isabel picked up her horn-handled knife and peeled an orange.

“Have you heard the story of Black Fulk of Anjou?” she enquired, staring at the young man. She looked around. “Some of us here are descended from him. One day, he discovered his wife in the arms of her lover. Do you know what he did?”

The young man stared at her, unflinching.

“I will tell you,” said Isabel, returning his stare. “He made his wife get into her wedding finery. Then he burned her alive in the town square at Angers.”

There was silence for several moments, almost as if everyone was holding their breath. Then a sound made everyone turn.

It was Lisette. She slumped, white-faced into her seat.

Margaret got up. “She is not well,” she said, frowning at Isabel, who daintily placed a piece of orange into her mouth. “I must take her back to her chamber.”

I signaled to the steward, who bowed and put his hand under Lisette’s elbow while Margaret stood on her other side. Between them, they propelled the limp figure back to the castle.

“She makes much out of nothing,” said Isabel. “She creates these dramas.”

“Your story was not pleasant,” said Bess. She turned to me. “Is she easily upset?”

I hesitated. It was a delicate matter for Lisette, married to someone like my brother George, who had an unpredictable temper. Eventually I murmured, “She is not happy.”

Isabel snorted. “Who is?”

I rose. “I fear I must bid you goodnight,” I said to the young man. “Margaret might need my help.”

The young man bowed. “Of course,” he murmured, gazing at me as he kissed my hand.

I stepped into the shadows to hide my blushes while the others bade farewell to him.

“What a charming young man,” declared Bess as we went back to the castle. “So well favored. Do you suppose we’ll be seeing him again?”

“You can be sure of that,” said Isabel. “He clearly enjoys gleaning information and gossip from wherever he can find it.”

I didn’t respond.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Bess, curtseying first to me, then to Isabel. She smiled at me as she stifled a yawn and disappeared up the stone staircase.

“You’re quiet tonight, Cecylee,” said Isabel, giving me a peck on the cheek.

“I am greatly fatigued, madam,” I replied, sweeping her a low curtsey.

I spent that night waiting for dawn to break.

Chapter 7

Lammastide

August 1,1441

By Lammastide, the roses had reached their peak and clustered thickly up and over the arbor, providing not only shade but also a wonderful scent that intensified upon the evening.

It was my custom to sit in the arbor, by the bathing pool, with Margaret while we did our needlework. At thirty-seven years, Margaret was the eldest lady of my acquaintance, and during that long, hot summer, she became my dearest friend and confidante. Perhaps this was because Mama had so recently passed away.

How I missed Mama. Though we’d not seen much of each other these four years since my marriage to Richard, our messages brought me great comfort. Now she’d been gathered up to heaven, leaving a great hole in my life. Something Richard didn’t understand.

I sighed. Why did
he
interest me so? I’d scarcely been able to keep him out of mind for the past week. “What do you want?” I murmured. Then, recollecting myself, I said to Margaret, “I wish I could give my lord another son. Little Henry is not strong. I fear he will not make old bones.”

“Has he been coughing again?”

“Yes. He seems always to be sick with something, and it’s high summer. What will happen when winter comes?”

Margaret leaned forward and patted my hand. “It is not in your hands, but in God’s. Only God can tell whether your son will be spared.”

“Is that so, Mama?” asked six-year-old
Eleanor Talbot
. Margaret’s youngest was the most striking of her three daughters, with fair hair the color of silver and unusually colored eyes. Now, she tilted those violet eyes up to her mother’s face.

“What about Our Blessed Lady?”

“Of course, she’d know as well,” replied Margaret, smoothing back the child’s silky hair.

“But wouldn’t she know more than God?” asked Eleanor.

Margaret frowned. “I don’t know, my sweet. Why do you think she would?”

Eleanor smiled, revealing even white teeth. “Because she’s a lady, and ladies always know more than gentlemen.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked. Where had the child got such ideas?

“Gentlemen do not always think with their heads,” remarked Eleanor, executing a stem stitch.

“What do you mean child?” said Margaret. “Of course they do.”

“Not always,” replied Eleanor. “Sometimes they think with their pricks.”