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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

‘If he is,’ says Cecily, ‘then God will surely comfort him. As He will Your Grace. If not, then …’

‘How wise is your wife, Richard.’ The King nods, slow. ‘How precious a helpmeet.’

‘And blessed with so many children.’ Behind her husband, the Queen’s French voice is soft.

‘Yes.’ The King’s finger is now a closed fist, tapping lightly on Richard’s breast. ‘Yes.’ A bite to the lip, a shake of the head, a sudden turning away.

‘To business, Your Grace?’ suggests William, holding out a paper in his hand.

‘Yes, yes.’ The King takes it, turns to them again, stands close but averts his eyes, speaks low. ‘There are some who might call you our heir now, Richard, with Gloucester gone. Till we have a son.’

‘Your loyal subject, Your Grace.’

‘Of course.’ He nods, fast and shallow. ‘And we want you near us. And yet you have no London home?’ He takes Richard’s hand in his own and lays the paper in it. ‘Baynard’s Castle. My uncle’s house. The best on the Thames, I’ve always thought. Yours now. And various –’ he waves his pale hand, losing interest – ‘manors and such that were his. Lordship of the Isle of Wight. Hmm?’ He smiles.

Cecily watches Richard’s jaw tighten as he looks at the paper in his hand. Just as she despairs of him accepting it, he nods. ‘Your Grace is generous.’

‘And for your loss of France. I understand.’ He pats Richard’s sleeve. ‘We will think on it a while.’

That night, Richard sleeps ill beside her and keeps her wakeful.

She counts the hours by the sergeant’s bell, imagining a future lived close to a king whose love is so mercurial, whose mind seems barely his own.

Suddenly the bed feels stifling.

She throws back the covers and relishes the room’s cold air; lets it take her back to that frost-bright January morning, throwing her merlin up into open skies.

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20

May 1449

London

‘So, they take away France and give you Ireland? I hope God loves you, Richard, for it seems the King does not.’ Cecily’s brother, Salisbury’s earl, is grinning. He lifts the flagon himself, the page being too slow, and pours for them all. Then leans back in his seat and raises a glass. ‘Here’s to you.’

Richard returns the nod. ‘King or counsellors, would you say?’

‘Same thing. None of them love you.’

Richard smiles and shrugs. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’