Thwarted Queen (4 page)

A crisp cold morning, the sunlight cuts through the golden leaves of the trees. Smoke curls lazily from the castle kitchens where servants labor to prepare the betrothal feast. As we emerge from the staircase into the chapel, the deep bell tolls, calling people to early morning Mass.

Today, a large crowd gathers, my kinfolk having ridden into Castle Raby to take part in the celebrations. As I enter the chapel, I catch a glimpse of my eldest brother
Richard Neville, Baron Montacute
, who has twenty-four years. He stands at the front of the chapel with Alice Montacute, his sixteen-year-old wife. They’ve spent the last month traveling 300 miles from their estates in the south of England, bringing with them their baby Cecily, named in honor of me.

I look around. My two half-sisters, four sisters, and several brothers are all in attendance. My betrothal to Richard is part of a double ceremony, for my seven-year-old baby brother
Edward
will marry a wealthy heiress and bear the title Lord Bergavenny in right of his wife. His wife-to-be,
Lady Lisbet de Beauchamp
, stands next to him. She has a pale face, pale pink lips, pale hair, and pale blue eyes. She stands very still. You would not think to look at her that she is my age. Edward is two years younger, so she is lucky enough to get a young husband she can boss around.

After Mass, I go back to my apartment in the keep, accompanied by Jenet, who has to wash and dress me and do my hair. I am so busy concocting my plan I don’t notice the ladies gathering to greet me. A well-known voice makes me jump.

“Cecylee, sweeting, guess what I have for you.”

“Cath.” I exclaim. “I’m busy—”

“Listen to her Impatience, the next Duchess of York.”

I blush.

“Don’t you want to know?” she cajoles, hiding something behind her back.

I sigh and resist stamping my foot. Bother Cath for getting in the way.

“What is it?”

“You have to guess.”

I close my eyes as I rack my brains. Why does Cath have to be so irritating? “A mirror,” say I, guessing wildly.

“My baby sister is as cunning as a fox!” exclaims Cath as she brandishes the object in front of me. I focus my eyes on something very bright that reflects the light. It
is
a mirror, a beautiful silver mirror with a matching silver comb. Both have sinuous decorations on the handles and edges, my name carved discreetly within. I am struck dumb.

“Really, Catrine!” exclaims Mama, a twinkle in her eye. “You encourage Cecylee to be vain.”

I look up. My sisters, half-sisters, sisters-by-marriage, their maids and other female relatives fill the apartments. As the laughter dies away the sound of a soft footfall comes, and Anne appears with Humphrey, her new baby boy, the future Earl of Stafford. Even though it’s now three weeks since the birth of her son, Anne looks pale and has violet shadows under her eyes.

“I’m fine, Mother, truly,” she says in response to Mama’s unspoken question. “I just tire easily.”

“Sit by me and rest.” says Mama. She takes the baby from Anne while Cath goes to the kitchens to oversee the refreshments.

Anne sits down, and from her sleeve she produces a small package wrapped up in linen. She smiles at me.

Another present! I unwrap it to find a purse made out of sky blue silk and lined with dark blue damask. My name is embroidered in seed pearls on the front.

“Did you make this?”

Anne nods.

I hold it up. The embroidery is finely wrought with small neat stitches and no knots or threads hanging loose—so different from my own travails, so perfect.

I give it to Mama; she examines it with gentle fingers.

“You can take that to the fair,” says Anne, “with money in it from Richard to buy yourself some luxuries.”

My cheeks warm. Even my quiet sister Anne has noticed Richard’s attentions, how he always presents me with tokens of his affection like sewing scissors, thimbles, and needles—things I need for the everlasting embroidery I am supposed to do. When the fair comes, he buys me headbands, snoods, veils, hair-pins, earrings, and necklaces. I delight in these presents, but should I really accept them?

“It is beautiful,” says Mama, kissing Anne’s cheek. “How you found the time to do it when you had to ready yourself for your first child I do not know. Cecylee, my love, thank your sister.”

I hug my sister tight as Mama wipes tears away with her fingers.

More company arrives in the shape of Richard’s fifteen-year-old sister
Isabel
, married to Sir Thomas Grey. Mama greets her, trying to prompt a smile from her sad face, and settles down to gossip with the ladies who now preen themselves in front of their mirrors.

I tiptoe away.

When I reappear some time later, I am just in time to see the women from the kitchen struggling up the stairs with buckets of warm water. Jenet tests the temperature of the water with her elbow, then helps me out of my clothing, and I step into the tub. She washes my hair in rosemary soap, then tenderly smoothes an oily paste made of finely ground almonds onto my skin to cleanse it, washing it off with angelica water. After that, she helps me out of the tub and dries me off.

With her help, I put on silk stockings and tie the garters just above the knee. When I stand, I hold my arms so that Jenet can pull the ivory silk chemise over my head. Then Jenet can braid my hair into plaits. She coils the plaits around my head, pins them, and then carefully covers her handiwork with a hair net.

As I relax under Jenet’s gentle ministrations, the door bangs and Audrey appears.

“My lady,” she says to Mama, “I cannot find Lady Cecylee’s gown. I swear I had it with me this last hour and now it’s disappeared.” She turns to Thomasina, Cath’s maid, and Gunilda, Anne’s maid. “Don’t just stand there. Help me find it. Search your ladies’ things.”

A hubbub ensues. I smile as I calculate how long this will keep everyone busy. I find a quiet corner, fold my hands, and keep my eyes downcast. I count things; trees, sheep, ospreys. I am just getting started on castles, when I sense someone standing in front of me. I glance up and see Anne.

“Cis,” she whispers, “where is it?”

“Where is what?” I ask.

“You know what I mean,” whispers Anne. “Where have you hidden your gown?”

“I haven’t,” I say.

Anne opens her mouth to say something when the door opens. Cath reappears, followed by servants bearing food on trays and cups of wine. There are pies made out of game, several different kinds of cheese, round flat rolls of manchet bread, mead and hippocras, a spicy wine.

The servants put the food down and withdraw while Cath takes in the crowd of women surrounding Mama, gesticulating and wailing over the disappearance of my gown. Her eyes flick over to me. She beckons.

I make my way slowly over, clenching my hands as she fixes me with a firm look. “Stop playing games,” she hisses. “You cannot hurt Mama in this way—”

“In what way?” I say.

“I know you’ve hidden it, you little prankster,” Cath continues, her voice rising. “Where is it?”

She says it in such a loud voice, it reaches to the ends of the earth. Everyone has heard everything and the room grows quiet. The weight of many eyes fall on me, their expressions a mixture of exasperation, pity, amusement, and disappointment. I flush to the roots of my hair.

The silence holds. Then the door opens and Mary appears.

“I found this in my bedchamber, concealed in my garderobe,” she says, shaking out the bundle in her arms to reveal the missing gown. She glares at me. “Someone must have put it there by mistake.”

I twist my hands, hang my head. Mary’s the dressmaker of the family, and I thought I could conveniently hide my gown amongst everyone else’s finery.

“
Cecylee!
” says Mama. Just that one word, but it makes me cringe with shame.

The room rustles as remarks fly.

“Such wild manners,” whispers the
Countess of Warwick
to her neighbor. “I would never let my daughter behave in that way.”

Mama reddens and bites her lip.

“Let me,” says Anne, taking the dress from Mary and smoothing it out. “I’m already dressed, so I can help Cecylee.”

With Anne helping, Jenet slowly brings the heavy velvet, midnight-blue betrothal gown over my head. They lace it up at the sides and attach the triangular sleeves over my long-sleeved chemise. Jenet places the blue velvet head-roll on my head and pins on the translucent silken veil. Anne helps me into the shoes, pointed poulaines made of matching dark blue velvet with the Neville crest on top.

The dress is ablaze in silver embroidery. There is the Neville crest at my bodice, and the bullion knots on the skirts give way to a silver, flowery mead with horned sheep. At the bottom around the hem is embroidered
Cecylee, Duchesse of Yorke
.

I am ready.

The gentlemen rise and bow as Mama and I enter the great hall followed by the ladies. On that never-to-be-forgotten morning, the great hall looks magnificent, decorated with apples, autumn roses and sheaves of corn. The lighted wax tapers make the stone walls and silverware glow, and new rushes of meadowsweet give off a sweet scent of newly cut hay and flowers.

Cardinal Beaufort
, Mama’s younger brother, clears his throat. “We are met here today, to witness the betrothal of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, to Lady Cecylee de Neville.”

Richard smiles at me. I ignore him, staring instead at the finely embroidered handkerchief placed into my hands by Mama.

Cardinal Beaufort raises his voice. “If there be any among you who know why Richard, Duke of York, and Lady Cecylee de Neville may not be betrothed, say you so now, or forever hold your peace.”

I look around. Surely someone will say something.

They do not.

Cardinal Beaufort turns to me. “My child,” he says, “do you consent to this betrothal?”

I tense. I look at Papa, and he nods. I look at Mama. She nods also.

“Yes,” I murmur, looking down.

Cardinal Beaufort turns to Richard. “Duke Richard, take you Lady Cecylee’s hands.”

Richard’s warm and moist hands take mine. I make a supreme effort not to snatch them away. While Cardinal Beaufort speaks the words that bind us to marry at some future date, I stare at my blue velvet slippers. I don’t look at Richard until Cardinal Beaufort is in the middle of marrying little Edward to Lady Lisbet.

“Does this mean I don’t have to be locked up any more?”

Richard stares at me. He draws himself up. “You must stay in your apartments.”

I set my lips into a line.

“I may be King of England one day.”

“I hate being locked up because of you.”

Richard flinches. “Cecylee,” he says, “calm yourself. I am here to protect you.”

“I don’t want your protection,” I mutter, looking away.

“One day you will be my wife.”

“But I don’t want to be your wife if I have to be locked up like a caged animal.”

“I am the heir to the throne.”

“I hate these chains!”

“You must do what your lord father tells you.”

“I want to be free!”

“Cis!” A deep bellow casts a pall.

I freeze.

Papa strides up, putting his hands on his hips and glaring at me. “Well?” he says. “What do you have to say?”