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Back Cecily Save as PDF
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Author’s Note
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Epilogue
  56. Afterword
  57. Acknowledgements
  58. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Talbot isn’t used to being complimented, either, and he is, for the moment, silenced.

Cecily folds her hands and endeavours to look as demure as he would expect her to be. ‘It is my lord’s first order in France to name you as his lieutenant general for the conduct of war. The role you had when last he was here and you achieved so much together.’

‘That Beaufort brat took it from me.’

‘And I give it back,’ says Richard. ‘It will be as it was before, John. You fight, I’ll govern. Between us we’ll bring Normandy back into shape, get revenues flowing again. Buy some time until the real politicians can find a way to let England hold on to its French territories without having to kiss the French king’s arse for them.’

‘Is that the best we hope for, then?’ Talbot’s wide mouth turns down in disappointment. He’s old enough to remember Agincourt. He drank himself foolish on the night of its victory and carries the wine-fuelled dream with him still. Despite the evidence of his waking eyes, he finds it hard to believe it’s over.

Cecily keeps her voice low. ‘Normandy, Gascony, Maine. Calais. If we can.’

‘Without fealty to the French king?’

‘Under England’s sovereignty. Just so.’

He rubs a hand across a stubbled chin, scratches and looks to Richard for an answer. ‘And young Henry will settle for that, will he? King of England and Duke of Normandy. No more?’

Cecily watches Richard’s face, curious to know how much he will say.

His eyes move from Talbot’s clouded face to her own, then down to his fingers, which are threaded on the table before him. ‘He’s not his father, John.’

It’s a small treason but, even here, a sea away from Westminster, it’s best to whisper it.

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11

August 1441

‘Cecily, they come!’ With this news Jacquetta’s bright face is, for once, unequivocally welcome. Seven days have crawled by since a messenger, who could barely stand for weariness, nor speak for joy, brought news that the siege of Pontoise was broken; that the French king and his dauphin had fled before York’s forces and were even now licking their wounds in Poissy.

‘Your lord bids you make ready,’ the messenger told her, smilingly. ‘He returns in triumph right soon.’

Then a triumph we will give him, she promised herself.

It’s a good victory, it’s come as early as she could have wished, and, since there is no telling when there will be another, she will use it to send clear messages. To England: York is delivering on its promise. To France: get used to not having it all your own way.