Thwarted Queen (5 page)

I do not know what to say. Truly, my lord father and I do not see eye-to-eye on this matter.

“My lord, it is nothing,” stammers Richard.

Papa shakes his head. “Lord Richard, you are too kind. Mark my words, you will be ill recompensed for being so. Cecylee must learn to bear the consequences of her actions.”

I lift my head. “I told him I did not want to be locked up.”

“And why are you locked up?” asks Papa softly.

“I don’t know,” I murmur.

“Speak up, my lady.”

“I don’t know.”

Papa grasps me by the arm. “Don’t you? Then I shall have to teach you, my fine lady. Until then, you will show the company that you know how to behave. Is that understood?”

I look at the floor, moisten my lips.

“Is that understood?” thunders Papa.

I flinch. “Yes, my lord father.”

He glares at me.

I sweep him a low curtsey.

He stalks off.

Richard lets out a long breath. “Are you affrighted, Cis?”

“No.”

“Isn’t he going to punish you?”

I am silent.

“You have greatly angered him—”

With a flourish of trumpets, the food arrives in a procession of platters set down first on the high table, then on the lower tables. Silently, Richard takes my hand and leads me to the place of honor in the middle of the high table.

The feast begins with thick turnip soup, flat manchet bread, and goat cheese; platters of green beans, sweet peas, and carrots follow. There is pike stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs and herbs. While the dishes are being cleared away, the first sugar sculpture is presented, created by Audrey’s son. On one platter is Castle Raby with a rose in front of it, to honor me, the Rose of Raby. On the other platter is a white lion to symbolize Richard, who has taken the White Lion of March as his personal badge in honor of his late mother, Lady Anne de Mortimer.

At another flourish from the trumpets, the meat course arrives. There is a Swan and a Boar’s Head with an orange in its mouth, followed by a large piece of beef dressed with rosemary and sage. At the end of the procession, servants carry silver sauce boats, salt cellars and pipes of wine.

The feast ends with another subtlety of the
Lady and the Unicorn
. The Unicorn bears an unmistakable resemblance to Richard, showing him sitting docilely at my feet. Richard reddens upon recognizing himself. But roars of laughter from Papa and the applause of the guests mask his embarrassment; everyone rises and drinks our health. The minstrels strike up a lively air, and Richard leads me into the hall for the first dance. How I love to dance! I even manage a smile for Richard.

At last afternoon melts into evening, and Mama takes me by the hand. We bid our guests a “God go with you” and leave.

I don’t have to wait long. I’m sitting by the fire with Audrey in attendance, dressed only in my chemise, when Papa strides up to my room, birch twigs in hand. He makes me bend over and lifts my skirts. The twigs cut into my bare skin. I try not to cry out, but soon give up.

I am furious.

Why shouldn’t I be free?

Why should I be forced to marry someone I don’t want?

I hate Richard.

I hate my lord father.

I hate men.

I will never forgive them.

Never. Never. Never. Never.

Never. Never. Never.

Never.

Never.

Chapter 4

Feast of Saint Ursula & The Blessed Virgins

October 21, 1425

I bring the pony to a stop. Before me, sprawled on the ground, lies my lord father, Ralph de Neville, the Earl of Westmorland. His right leg sticks out at a funny angle. Next to him kneels Richard. He is weeping.

“Help me off,” I say.

We’ve been riding from Sheriff Hutton to Middleham to transact business and collect revenues. I have been allowed to come along, accompanied, naturally, by Richard. We ride in the middle of the party, surrounded by knights, when we hear a sudden shout. I dig my heels into Doucette to make her go faster, but the docile little pony merely snorts and continues at her customary pace while Richard’s gelding surges to the front of the line.

I disengage myself from Richard and stand over my father. Is he dead? I stare at him hard, but he doesn’t move.

A thunder of hooves reverberates, and my brother Salisbury vaults off his horse. Instantly, everyone doffs their hats and kneels.

Father is dead.

Salisbury motions everyone up and stands beside Richard. “Did you see him go down?”

Richard shakes his head.

“He clutched his chest, grimaced, and tumbled off,” says
Sir Ralph Neville the Older
, riding up. Sir Ralph is one of father’s numerous younger sons by his first marriage, thus my half-brother.

Salisbury bends over and places a stubby finger on father’s forehead. “He’s as cold as marble,” he mutters. He fishes two golden sovereigns out of his leather pouch and places them over the lids to close them. Then he straightens up and gives orders for father to be borne to Castle Raby.

I stand still, looking at father. He doesn’t move. I stare at the fallen leaves on the ground, then lift my eyes to the huge oak tree that stands in my path. It has been blasted by a summer storm and is dead. Underneath it are the green shoots of new trees. Papa is like that oak, sheltering us from storms. What will become of us now? What of Mama? Will she have anything, or will she be forced to beg like those old women I see by the edge of the road when I ride my pony into Staindrop?

“He’s already acting as heir!” exclaims Sir Ralph.

I look up.

Sir Ralph clutches the reins, causing his stallion to prance.

“I thought he was,” says Richard.

“Well, you thought wrong,” snaps Sir Ralph, swinging his stallion around. “My
nephew and namesake
is heir. I must ride to Brancepeth and tell him so before that upstart takes more than is his right.” He digs his knees in, and the stallion bounds off across the desolate moorland.

I stare after the rapidly fading figure of Sir Ralph Neville the Older, the cold wind snapping my veil. I am ten years old. It is just over a year since I was forced into that betrothal with Richard. The seasons have rolled around, bringing in the bright, chill days of October.

What does this mean? I know, of course, that Sir Ralph is my father’s second son by his first marriage. Sir Ralph’s elder brother,
Sir John Neville
, died some five years ago, and so Sir John’s eldest son, Sir Ralph Neville the Younger, stands to inherit.

Or does he?

What about brother Salisbury? He is the eldest son of my father’s second marriage to Mama, Joan de Beaufort, and father has always treated him as the heir. Salisbury has royal blood flowing in his veins like me, for our mother’s father,
John of Gaunt
, was son to King Edward III.

Has father actually gone against English law and custom and disinherited the children of his first marriage?

“Where’s he gone?”

I turn to see Salisbury standing there.

“Brancepeth,” says Richard.

“Aye, he would,” mutters Salisbury, flicking mud off his blue velvet tunic. “We have not a moment to lose.” He claps his hands. “We ride to Raby.”

“To Raby!” shout the men in response.

I follow Richard as he strides beside Salisbury into the great hall of Castle Raby. They bow before the high table, where Mama presides in state. Before her stands a tall young man I do not recognize.

“He’s already here,” mutters Salisbury.

The stranger turns, and I draw breath, for Sir Ralph Neville the Younger is the veritable image of my lord father. Salisbury smiles and takes the new Earl of Westmorland by the elbow. “Congratulations, my lord, on your new title.” He looks meaningfully at the servants. The entire household rises to its feet, and the steward proposes a toast.

“Wass-hail,” they roar. “May you have good health.” A great noise fills the hall as they clank cups and goblets, precious metal, clay, and pewter, to drink to the new earl.

The second Earl of Westmorland flushes with pleasure and rubs his hands as he looks around the handsome old hall. His gaze lights on me. “Is this little Cis?”

I make my curtsey.

“Yes, my lord,” says Mama. She makes a small gesture in the direction of Richard. “Are you acquainted with my lord of York, her betrothed?”

Richard inclines his head. Sir Ralph makes a perfunctory bow in return and continues to stare at me. I lift my chin, a flush mounting into my cheeks.

The new earl chuckles. He turns to Salisbury. “When do you and your lady mother leave for Bisham Manor?”

The great hall grows silent as Salisbury narrows his eyes. At last, he says: “I thought you knew—”

“Knew what?” snaps Westmorland.

“I thought you knew that your grandfather left most of his lands to my lady mother.”

I glance at Mama.

“No!” roars Westmorland. “I am the heir of the late earl’s eldest son. These lands are mine by the laws of England.”

Salisbury beckons to his scribe. “Show my lord of Westmorland a copy of his late grandfather’s will.”

Westmorland glances at it, then balls the document between his fists. ”God’s teeth!” he explodes. “I am to be Earl in name only!”

“You get Brancepeth,” says Salisbury.

“Aye, but Castle Raby, Sheriff Hutton, and Middleham with all their vast holdings go to that—” he breaks off abruptly and flushes.

“They go to my lady mother,” says Salisbury.

“Which you get when she dies.”

“I do not think we should be talking of the death of my lady mother.”

“As if you don’t have enough land, with all those rich holdings in the south your wife brought you when you married.”

“My lord father did not want my lady mother to be destitute.”

“And what do I get? Nothing, except for Brancepeth and a few paltry manors in the north of this country on poor land.”

“You are the Earl of Westmorland.”

The new earl glares, his blue eyes looking as icy as his grandfather’s. He stalks out of the hall.

There is silence for a few moments, then conversations rumble.

Richard turns to Salisbury. “What do you suppose he’ll do?”

Salisbury sighs. “I know not. But we haven’t seen the end of this.”

“He’ll go to the Percies to seek their aid in taking our land,” says Mama. “I heard he plans to marry Lady Elizabeth Percy.”

“But she’s old enough to be his mother!” says Salisbury.

Mama purses her lips and shrugs.

“I must see to our defenses.” Salisbury bows and leaves.

Richard glances at me, but I take my place beside Mama. Richard looks around the room, as if seeking someone, then bows to Mama and leaves.

Mama puts down her knife and draws a handkerchief from her sleeve. I see that she is weeping.

“Mama,” I say softly.

She takes my hand and attempts a weak smile.

“Papa?”

She nods. “Your brother tells me he didn’t suffer.” She gulps. “But I miss him so. I can’t believe he’s no longer here.”

“But—” I don’t quite know how to put this. “You didn’t always agree.”

She brushes her tears away and takes me gently by the shoulders: “Understand this, my love, your father and I were the best of friends.”

“But—”

“Of course, we didn’t always agree. You’ll understand when you’re a married lady yourself.”

I frown.

She leans forward and whispers. “Look what he did for me. He left me everything of value in his will.”

I look at her, and it is as if everything becomes lighter. I smile.

Mama smiles back.

“My lady!” The steward appears, bowing. He engages Mama in a long discussion.

I pick at my food, but can’t eat. Suddenly, the hall seems unbearably hot and stuffy. I long to get outside. I want to think about everything Mama has told me. When the steward has gone, I lean forward. “Mama,” I say. “It’s such a glorious day. May I ride out on Doucette?”

Mama nods absently.

I rise, filled with sudden energy. After a year of being mewed up in the castle keep, I will be alone.