Chapters (58)
Joan is thinking, Cecily knows, of the thing Richard will not speak of, other than to curse: the old royal blood his father died for. She has been gathering the game’s pieces and now takes the king from her mother’s hand and puts it in its box. ‘It must be dizzying, mother, to plan so many moves ahead.’
‘Indeed, it is.’ Joan rises, smooths her skirts and sighs. ‘And often pointless. The game may never be played, nor the board ever set.’ She takes the box from Cecily’s lap, closes it and sets it aside. ‘But it’s wise to keep in practice.’
When a fortnight is done Cecily moves south again to Fotheringhay, where her household awaits her orders and the walls of her church grow.
On her first day home she surveys the work with master mason Hanwood. While the air rings with hammers and men teeter on scaffolds, he points out progress here, a detail there. He explains how a stairway will rise just so and how, one day, sunlight will pour through windows high in the lantern tower to focus all eyes on the sanctuary, where her priests will summon God to earth. The church is dedicated to the Virgin, but its creation is all about York. What they make here will challenge even the chapels of Westminster and Windsor for glory.
Striding ahead of the mason, deaf to his prattle, she sees it as it will one day be: a shimmering tower of limestone, an arching nave, a high-vaulted choir. She hears the high, pure voices of the canon and choristers she’ll bring here to keep the endless offices, from lauds to terce, vespers to compline, as the seasons turn, and on for ever; an inexhaustible engine of prayer. Here God will be reminded, every hour, of Richard, of Cecily, of the family He must bless them with.
‘Press on with God’s house, Master Hanwood,’ she urges. ‘We have need of its prayers.’
At Fotheringhay news of France can reach her quickly. Every letter is a cause for reluctant pride. Fécamp and Saint-Germain are retaken, Rouen secured. The Pays de Caux settled. While he lets Talbot lead the fighting, Richard gathers the remains of Bedford’s competent council about him and, under his steady hand, they bring good order back to Normandy. The ravages of famine are alleviated, banditry subdued.
The cardinal is crowing. ‘Your lord is a Colossus,’ he writes.
‘Call him home that I might tell him,’ Cecily replies.
‘The King says he will relieve him himself, when he takes up his strength.’
‘Then am I never to see my husband again?’
So amused is her uncle at this that he sends her a cask of his best Burgundian wine. The accompanying note tells her to drink deep of the blood of Richard’s enemies.
