Chapters (58)
‘My husband grieves mightily the loss of the King’s love. And your good opinion.’
‘I suspect he grieves more the loss of his offices and favour.’
‘Perhaps.’ She shrugs. ‘He is proud. But I believe … I believe his greatest sorrow is born of his present lack of usefulness. Whatever he has done since, he served the King well, in France and in Ireland—’
‘At Dartford he did not serve his king.’
‘Perhaps not.’ That is a concession she will make. ‘But he did not oppose him.’
‘And he sent Jack Cade against us.’
This is a concession she will not. She holds up her hand. ‘Your Grace, I believe you are with child. Am I right?’ She wonders if Marguerite will tell her, share the secret still so little known. Then she sees that sharp chin rise and hears the confirmation in soft, sibilant French.
‘Oui. Grâce à Dieu.’
‘Then you will know the value of the oath I make to you now. On the souls of my children, living and dead, I swear to you, my husband had no part in Cade’s business and knew nothing of the man. No mother would swear such an oath were it not true. You know that. My husband is no rebel. And he does not oppose the King, did not at Dartford, nor with Cade.’
‘He opposes another who the King loves. And who is dear, also, to me.’
‘You speak of Edmund Beaufort.’ Cecily nods. ‘I know not what to say, so will say nothing. Except that my husband has repented of it. Give him some role that will make him useful and keep him out of Beaufort’s way. He will be content.’
‘And, if I bear a son, will your lord bend his knee to him?’
‘Most readily.’
‘Yet men say York should be next for the throne?’
‘If God is good, the child you carry will silence such voices.’ She watches Marguerite lay her hands against her belly, turn her face to the fire. ‘How far along are you?’
A whisper. ‘A little more than three months, I believe.’
Cecily nods. She knows what it is to be barren; the pain that comes with hope. ‘You will start to show soon. You will carry all before you. Your Grace, you have humbled my husband. Do not grind him into the dust.’ A small white hand is thrust out. Cecily takes it and squeezes. ‘I waited eight long years for my first child. Just as you have. And now look at me. I will pray for you every day, and for the great treasure you bear.’
Marguerite lets loose her hand, nods once, and the face she turns to Cecily is smooth again and still. ‘I have heard your plea. The debt is paid in the listening. Let us see, when I have borne a son, what might be done for the Duke of York.’
