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, d.u.c.h.esse 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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?"

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 embarra.s.sment; 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 "G.o.d 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.