Read Online Queen by Right by Anne Easter Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Easter Smith
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“I am left out of everything!”
3
Raby, Durham, 1425
T he weeks came and went, and Yuletide was a less festive affair in the absence of the lord of the castle. On a snowy day during Advent, Cecily, George, and Edward accompanied some of the gardeners and woodsmen into the park to gather holly, ivy, and the mystical mistletoe and to cut down a tree for the traditional Yule log. Their horses slowed by the drifts to a walk, they made for the woods, and the servants, pulling sleds, tramped through the ankle-deep snow, trying to keep up. Bunches of mistletoe clung to the oaks’ bare brown branches, the poisonous white berries glistening among the yellow-green leaves. By standing in his stirrups, George was able to reach and cut down several sprigs of it.
“Have a care not to drop any, George!” Cecily cried anxiously. “’Twill bring bad luck to our house if it touches the ground before Candlemas.”
“Pah!” retorted George. “’Tis naught but an old wives’ tale,” he told her. Nevertheless he crossed himself for good measure. “For my part, I intend to hang some close by the buttery. There is a dairymaid . . .”
Edward moved forward and gave his brother a swift kick, making George’s horse skitter and George drop some of the mistletoe. Cecily gasped in horror, and all three siblings stared at the unmistakable green lodged in the snow. A nimble woodsman snatched up the sprig and added it to the boughs of pine on his sled before others saw.
Cecily gave George a withering look. “How foolish of you, brother,” she snapped. “I think I shall return to the castle, for now I am certain we shall have ill luck for the next twelvemonth. You see if we don’t.”
George leaned over and patted her hand. “Dearest Cis, I am heartily sorry for spoiling the day for you, but ’twas I who dropped the plant, and I shall bethe only one to pay, in truth. Now, I pray you, let me see a smile again on that sour face.”
Cecily sat unmoved, but George could always coax her out of a mood, he knew, and when he lifted her hand to his lips and winked at her, he was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.
“I will make it up to you if aught ill befalls the family,” he promised. “Now, come with us. We have yet to find a suitable Yule log.”
B EFORE THE END of January and a few days before Candlemas, it seemed that Cecily’s superstitious fears were unfounded. News came that Richard Neville had been made constable of Pontefract Castle, one of the crown’s important northern strongholds. And, more relevant to Cecily, word was sent to Raby that Dickon’s maternal uncle, Edmund Mortimer, earl of March and descendant of Lionel of Clarence, had died of plague in Ireland, leaving no children and thus bequeathing to the young duke of York vast tracts of land in England, Ireland, and Wales, as well as the Mortimer claim to the throne.
“This is excellent news, Cecily. Your betrothed will be one of the wealthiest men in England when he comes of age,” Joan exulted. “But for now, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester and my brother John have charge of his estates.”
Cecily tried to look pleased, but then she asked, “When will Dickon and my lord father come back to Raby?”
“While Duke Humphrey is selfishly blundering into his wife’s disputed lands in Burgundy and Bedford is succeeding in holding France for England, the regency council must keep close watch on King Henry’s interests. My two brothers and your father are well placed to guide and govern. Be patient with a noble’s obligations, Daughter, and proud of your family always.”
Joan saw Cecily stifle a yawn and paused. Aye, she is still only a girl of ten, despite her intelligence, Joan thought. She will have to learn the intricacies of politics soon enough. Why not let her enjoy this quiet life for a little longer? And in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, she pulled Cecily into her arms and stroked the lovely blond head, just as she remembered her mother
3
Raby, Durham, 1425
T he weeks came and went, and Yuletide was a less festive affair in the absence of the lord of the castle. On a snowy day during Advent, Cecily, George, and Edward accompanied some of the gardeners and woodsmen into the park to gather holly, ivy, and the mystical mistletoe and to cut down a tree for the traditional Yule log. Their horses slowed by the drifts to a walk, they made for the woods, and the servants, pulling sleds, tramped through the ankle-deep snow, trying to keep up. Bunches of mistletoe clung to the oaks’ bare brown branches, the poisonous white berries glistening among the yellow-green leaves. By standing in his stirrups, George was able to reach and cut down several sprigs of it.
“Have a care not to drop any, George!” Cecily cried anxiously. “’Twill bring bad luck to our house if it touches the ground before Candlemas.”
“Pah!” retorted George. “’Tis naught but an old wives’ tale,” he told her. Nevertheless he crossed himself for good measure. “For my part, I intend to hang some close by the buttery. There is a dairymaid . . .”
Edward moved forward and gave his brother a swift kick, making George’s horse skitter and George drop some of the mistletoe. Cecily gasped in horror, and all three siblings stared at the unmistakable green lodged in the snow. A nimble woodsman snatched up the sprig and added it to the boughs of pine on his sled before others saw.
Cecily gave George a withering look. “How foolish of you, brother,” she snapped. “I think I shall return to the castle, for now I am certain we shall have ill luck for the next twelvemonth. You see if we don’t.”
George leaned over and patted her hand. “Dearest Cis, I am heartily sorry for spoiling the day for you, but ’twas I who dropped the plant, and I shall bethe only one to pay, in truth. Now, I pray you, let me see a smile again on that sour face.”
Cecily sat unmoved, but George could always coax her out of a mood, he knew, and when he lifted her hand to his lips and winked at her, he was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.
“I will make it up to you if aught ill befalls the family,” he promised. “Now, come with us. We have yet to find a suitable Yule log.”
B EFORE THE END of January and a few days before Candlemas, it seemed that Cecily’s superstitious fears were unfounded. News came that Richard Neville had been made constable of Pontefract Castle, one of the crown’s important northern strongholds. And, more relevant to Cecily, word was sent to Raby that Dickon’s maternal uncle, Edmund Mortimer, earl of March and descendant of Lionel of Clarence, had died of plague in Ireland, leaving no children and thus bequeathing to the young duke of York vast tracts of land in England, Ireland, and Wales, as well as the Mortimer claim to the throne.
“This is excellent news, Cecily. Your betrothed will be one of the wealthiest men in England when he comes of age,” Joan exulted. “But for now, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester and my brother John have charge of his estates.”
Cecily tried to look pleased, but then she asked, “When will Dickon and my lord father come back to Raby?”
“While Duke Humphrey is selfishly blundering into his wife’s disputed lands in Burgundy and Bedford is succeeding in holding France for England, the regency council must keep close watch on King Henry’s interests. My two brothers and your father are well placed to guide and govern. Be patient with a noble’s obligations, Daughter, and proud of your family always.”
Joan saw Cecily stifle a yawn and paused. Aye, she is still only a girl of ten, despite her intelligence, Joan thought. She will have to learn the intricacies of politics soon enough. Why not let her enjoy this quiet life for a little longer? And in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, she pulled Cecily into her arms and stroked the lovely blond head, just as she remembered her mother
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