"I'll leave with the baby if you wish."

Richard stared.

"Or, I could stay with you," I murmured hastily, trying to soften his stony look.

"Of course you're staying with me!" he shouted, seizing me by the shoulders. "I would never let you go. You know that."

"Perhaps you would like another wife."

"Do you want to leave me?"

I looked at my long-suffering husband as though I were seeing him for the first time. He wasn't tall, but he wasn't fat either. He wasn't exceeding graceful, but he wasn't uncouth. The recent lines around his eyes and mouth made his face more interesting, less bland. His eyes were his best feature, a clear blue-grey that reflected his every mood.

I hung my head. How stupid I'd been. Kind husbands who stood by you in a crisis were a rarity. And what of Nan? She needed me. It was my duty to hold my family together. I lifted my eyes and put my hand into his.

Richard wrapped his fingers around mine and held on tightly.

I lowered my lashes. Blaybourne seemed so dim and far away. Would I have been welcome if I'd gone to him? Who was he anyway? I wasn't sure if I believed him to be a powerful n.o.bleman, a scholar, or a humble archer. I opened my eyes. "I would rather stay."

Richard drew me close. "The greatest wish I have is for my wife to love me. Could you?" His eyes bored into mine, going darker as they gazed at me.

I touched his cheek lightly with my finger, all hesitations gone. "Yes," I breathed, and he kissed me with more abandon than he ever had before.

"I could never let you go," he murmured over and over.

I leaned my head against his chest and frowned. "But what of the baby?" I asked hesitantly.

Richard stiffened. "Where is it?" he demanded, pulling away and rising.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Richard's eyebrows drew together.

"I didn't want to see him until I'd talked with you first."

"I see." Richard went to the door and signaled to Annette to bring the child.

"Would you like to hold him, my lady?" asked Annette.

I looked at Richard. Richard went over to look at the child. "He's big and perfectly formed. He seems robust and healthy. He'd be a good fighter." He fingered his beard. "You know what this means, of course."

I shook my head.

"If I say nothing, he becomes my heir."

I clasped my hands. "Is that what you want?"

BOOK III: THE GILDED CAGE.

When she is fully readye she hath a lowe ma.s.se in her chamber, and after ma.s.se she taketh something to recreate nature; and soe goeth to the chappell hearinge the devine service, and two lowe ma.s.ses; from thence to dynner, during the tyme whereof she hath a lecture of holy matter...

After dinner she giveth audyence to all such as hath any matter to shewe unto her by the s.p.a.ce of one hower; FROM ORDERS AND RULES OF THE PRINCESS CECILL.

QUOTED BY JOHN WOLSTENHOLME COBB (1883).

HISTORY & ANTIQUITIES OF BERKHAMSTED.

Chapter 12.

Abbey of Beaumont-les-Tours, Tours, France.

Spring 1444.

"Enchanted," murmured William de la Pole, fourth Earl of Suffolk, as he stooped to kiss the outstretched hand of Marguerite d'Anjou. A vibrant young lady, her full lips parted as she smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. The King of England had already fallen in love with a secretly obtained portrait of her, but in the flesh, this visage was intoxicating. Her black hair had been braided into plaits and wound around her head, and her eyes glowed like a stoked fire, enormous and black. Marguerite d'Anjou was but fifteen years old.

Suffolk had come to France at the urging of his young master, the King of England, who had made him promise to obtain the lady for him. His patron, Cardinal Beaufort, had told him that the marriage would form the centerpiece of the peace negotiations labored on for the past two years. It was now Suffolk's duty to interview the lady herself and ascertain if she were truly fit to be England's queen. He offered his arm. "What do you know of England?"

"There has been a war between the English and the French for the past one hundred years," replied Marguerite. "So far, no one has won this fight. Though the English gained a great victory at Agincourt thirty years ago when King Henry's father was king, they have not been able to press their claims to the throne of France. If I were King of England, I would sue for peace."

"So you would never make war?"

"I did not say that. If an enemy dared to attack me, I would mount my best horse and lead the charge."

"Marguerite!" exclaimed her mother Ysabeau, the d.u.c.h.ess of Lorraine, who walked a few paces behind. But Suffolk laughed, delighted.

"But you need men to fight for you," observed Suffolk, patting her arm. "How would you persuade them?"

"A queen must be many things," said Marguerite. "She must be a good wife to her lord and provide him with heirs. She must be a gracious hostess to everyone at court. She must find suitable husbands for the young women under her patronage. She must be charitable to those in need. She must encourage education and art. But, above all, she must inspire her people." She turned her dark gaze up to Suffolk's face. "I say to you, sir, that if such a queen requested her people to fight for her, do you not think they would follow?"

Suffolk chuckled as he kissed her hand with a flourish. This young lady had just given a perfect description. "Tell me," he murmured, "do you seek to emulate anyone in particular?"

"My lord father," replied Marguerite without pause.

Suffolk glanced around, but her father was standing some feet away, engaged in animated conversation with his steward. He narrowed his eyes. Did she really mean that? Rene of Anjou, King of Naples and Sicily, was described as a man of many crowns and no kingdoms. He had been struggling to take control of his vast inheritance without great success, even being taken prisoner by Philip III, Duke of Burgundy.

"And my lady mother," remarked Marguerite.

That was more like it, thought Suffolk, smiling at her eager face. d.u.c.h.ess Ysabeau had raised an army to rescue her husband from captivity.

"And my lady grandmother," said Marguerite.

"The d.u.c.h.ess of Aragon?"

Marguerite smiled, showing off her perfect teeth.

Suffolk whistled under his breath as he stroked his beard. Yolande of Aragon had dominated French politics until her death two years ago. Suffolk had heard rumors that it was d.u.c.h.ess Yolande who orchestrated the appearance of Joan of Arc to inspire the French troops. If Marguerite were anything like her grandmother, she would be a formidable lady indeed. But perhaps she was exactly what the young king needed, for it was plain that he was weak and easily led by his councilors. The king's council was barely able to govern these days on account of the continuing feud between Humphrey Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, and Cardinal Beaufort. Suffolk considered. Should he be concerned about promoting such a charismatic young lady to be Queen of England? What of his own position? He was entirely dependent on the king's favor. He glanced over at her as she moved into the Abbot's parlor.

"My daughter likes also to dance," murmured her father, standing at his elbow. He signaled to a servant to pour wine. "My daughter requests that she dance the Tarantella for you."

Suffolk inclined his head.

Marguerite began the dance by curtseying low, first to Suffolk, and then to each of her parents. She danced lightly, moving through the supple rhythms with ease and grace, her steps matching the rhythms exactly, her bearing and gestures adding beauty to the music.

Suffolk watched for a few minutes. The young lady was beautiful, personable, articulate and displayed impeccable carriage. She smiled at him as she danced, and he could not help smiling back. He did not fear her, for he and Marguerite were going to be the greatest of friends. He turned to Rene. "Your Grace, you have a lovely daughter. She has all the qualities one would hope for in a queen. I would now like to make a formal request for the hand of your daughter Marguerite."

"By all means," agreed Rene. "My daughter is a jewel, as you can see. Her mother and I are happy that you think her worthy to be Queen of England. But there is one matter I should warn you about. It shames me to say this, but I have no money, so I will be unable to provide my daughter with a dowry."

"No dowry?" exclaimed Suffolk.

d.u.c.h.ess Ysabeau raised her head, and Marguerite paused for a measure while she shot a sharp look in Suffolk's direction. Then she began to dance once more.

Rene lowered his voice. "I inherited the Duchy of Anjou ten years ago, but I get no revenues from it because it is owned by your king. I tried to claim the Kingdom of Naples, but was forced to cede it to my cousin Alfonso of Aragon. My friend, I am poor and cannot provide for my daughter as I would wish."

"But you surely don't mean to send your daughter to England with nothing."

"I would be better able to provide for her, mon ami, if I had my lands back. I demand that King Henry give me the counties of Maine and Anjou as part of the marriage settlement."

Suffolk choked on his wine. "But the English people will never agree," he said between coughs. "If you insist on this, Your Grace, you will make your daughter unpopular. The English will resent her for the terms of this treaty. Is that how you wish her to begin as Queen of England?"

Rene made a dismissive gesture. "I don't see that the opinion of peasants should have any bearing on matters of state. The King of England will protect Marguerite from all that."

"England is not like France, my friend. People are in the habit of expressing their opinions much more freely. Being unpopular with the people could be costly. The King of England has to please the London merchants, otherwise they will not give him loans."

Rene shrugged. "Those are my terms. Charles, Count of Nevers, wants my daughter also, so I suggest you hurry."

Suffolk glanced at Marguerite again. She was perfect, and the King of England was already in love with her; he would never forgive Suffolk if Marguerite didn't become his bride.

Chapter 13.

Pontoise, English France Saint Joseph's Eve March 18, 1445 Cecylee shivered, the piercing air of March sending threads of freezing air through the thick fur mantle. She stood a little way back from the riverbank, careful not to get too close to the soft mud oozing up between the reeds and river gra.s.ses and threatening to soil her slippers. This Saint Joseph's Eve, she stood by the banks of the Seine, waiting for the queen's entry into Pontoise.

Cecylee measured time by how long it had been since Joan's pa.s.sing. Before, everything seemed filled with sunlight. Now, the clouds had rolled in. How long would it be before she could join her daughter? It had already been three years.

Richard had agreed to name Blaybourne's son Edward and christened him in a small private ceremony in the chapel of Saint Romain where Joan was buried. One month after Edward's first birthday, Cecylee bore a son that Richard named Edmund, after his uncle Edmund Mortimer. Richard was ecstatic about this son's birth and a magnificent ceremony for his christening was held in Rouen Cathedral with a large number of dignitaries present. As a mark of special favor, the cathedral chapter allowed Richard to use Duke Rollo's font for Edmund's christening. Much was made of this honor, for this was the font at which Duke Rollo of Normandy, an ancestor of William the Conqueror, had been baptized into Christianity in the year 912. It had been kept covered and unused for over five hundred years.

Eleven months after Edmund's birth, Cecylee gave Richard a daughter named Beth.

Cecylee had mixed feelings about bearing so many children in such a short span of time: Joan, Nan, Henry, Edward, Edmund, Beth. She was in her prime, yet the fear of death was a continual presence. Now she stood with Richard, holding Nan's hand as she peered through the murky gloom for the barge that bore the new Queen of England from Paris. Sixteen-year-old Marguerite d'Anjou had been married by proxy to twenty-three-year-old King Henry of England a couple of weeks back and now began her journey to England.

Cecylee had heard much of the new queen. She'd heard that Marguerite d'Anjou had won golden opinions at the French court where she'd been living for the past year with her aunt Queen Marie d'Anjou of France. Charles of Valois, Duke of Orleans, was reported to have said that this woman "excelled all others, as well in beauty as in wit, and was of stomach and courage more like to a man that to a woman."

"Are they here, Mama?"

"Not yet, my sweet. Are you sure you're warm enough?"

"I am perfectly comfortable," replied five-year-old Nan gravely, her blue-grey eyes bearing Richard's expression. "Chatelaine keeps me warm."

Cecylee smiled, adjusting the child's soft fur hood. Nan was inseparable from her kitten. The tiny grey animal had hooked its claws into the thick sable, so that it reclined on Nan's shoulder. "She's not too heavy for you?"

"Not yet," replied Nan.

"You shouldn't have allowed her to bring that cat," muttered Richard.

"She adores Chatelaine," whispered Cecylee. "Besides," she added, tilting her head as a sudden thought struck her, "it looks like a fur collar, don't you think?"

Richard's smile eased away the lines of his face.

"Why don't you take her for a walk?" murmured Cecylee, thinking it would be well for Richard to spend time with his daughter.

She clasped her hands together for warmth beneath her furs as they left. Now that Marguerite d'Anjou was Queen of England, she was no longer first lady of the land. She would have to yield precedence to a girl fourteen years younger, and of an age to be her own child. If Marguerite bore the king sons, Richard would cease to have any claim on the English throne. Perhaps it would be best if she and Richard went back to their estates in England, even to Richard's favorite residence at Fotheringhay, and lived out their lives in peace. As it was, Richard did not have many friends amongst the councilors who surrounded the king. They were divided into two camps. The Duke of Gloucester, supported by Richard, argued vociferously for the continuance of the war in France; Cardinal Beaufort and his allies Suffolk and Somerset favored peace. The king was entirely dominated by Beaufort, Suffolk, and their cronies, who would stop at nothing to get their way, including accusing Gloucester's wife of witchcraft.

She crossed herself and shivered. At least they'd got rid of York by posting him abroad.

"Well met, my lady York," said a soft voice.

Cecylee turned to see Jacquetta de St Pol, d.u.c.h.ess of Bedford, smiling. The d.u.c.h.ess was a lady of her age, elegantly dressed in grey furs that set off her grey eyes and pale complexion. She had caused a scandal some ten years before, when, as recent widow to the powerful Duke of Bedford and aunt-by-marriage to the king, she had married Sir Richard Woodville, a mere knight. Cecylee had admired Jacquetta for the courage she'd shown in braving the wrath of the King of England to marry this man who had been but a chamberlain to the Duke of Bedford.

"May I introduce my husband Sir Richard Woodville?"

A man with a well-cut profile came forward and bowed low. Cecylee felt a twinge as she stared at this handsome face now emerging from a bow.

He looked down and smiled. "My lady York: The pleasure is all mine."

Cecylee's cheeks burned as she compared him with Blaybourne. Everyone sneered at Sir Richard's low birth, and yet his manners were courtly, his bearing elegant. The conundrum of Blaybourne reappeared: How could a mere peasant have the manners of an aristocrat? Didn't blood run true? How could this be possible unless he had some blue blood in his veins?

"Handsome, isn't he?" murmured Jacquetta.

Cecylee started and blushed as she realized she must have been staring at Sir Richard, almost as if she were trying to make out his shape from beneath the folds of the lavish cloak he'd wrapped himself in.

Jacquetta chuckled deep in her throat.

Cecylee stiffened.