Once again, Cecily had watched her husband set off to France to fight for their king, after the army, headed by his brother the Duke of Clarence, suffered a scathing defeat at the hands of French and Scottish forces near Anjou. Clarence had been killed, and King Henry was ready to take his place at the head of his troops once again.
Cecily was heavy with child, a babe who would be born when its father was far across the Channel, but she had become accustomed to such things. Following Christine de Pizan’s advice, she had learned to run every part of their estate, and she knew she was capable of managing any difficulty that arose in her husband’s absence, down to and including defending it with the weapons she had insisted he teach her to use. Not that she expected to ever be called upon to do so.
She would miss him, as would his sons. But her work here was as important as his in France. She was securing the foundations of their family. Generations from now, the Hargrave family would still reside on the beautiful land granted to them by the king, land earned by her husband’s fierce bravery. They had already expanded the manor house twice, and she was considering new methods of farming she had learned about from travelers who came from the south. A pang in her abdomen caused her to double over. She sank to her knees and called for the midwife. Hours later, she cradled her daughter in her arms.
* * *
Meaux, currently besieged by the English army, showed no signs of falling as easily—if one could call any victory by siege easy—as nearby Dreux had. Once again, the bloody flux and shortages of food plagued the army. One of the French leaders, the lord of Offémont, led a group of men into the English camp, hoping to make a surprise attack. God was not on the Frenchman’s side that night; Offémont fell from the walls, and the sound of his plate armor crashing against stone alerted the English to the scheme.
Better still, a lowly cook took the mighty Offémont prisoner. The English all rejoiced at their enemy’s defeat and humiliation.
It was only after that insult that the brutal man inside the city walls began to see that he would not be able to hold the city indefinitely. He was called the Bastard of Vaurus, and there was not a man among the English who had not heard tales of his cruelty. Now he decided to set the city on fire, preferring destruction to defeat.
King Henry’s spies told him of the Bastard’s decision, and this spurred the noble leader to attack without delay. The citizens of Meaux did not stand in his way; perhaps they preferred him to their vicious lord. Victory was not immediate, however, and the fighting continued for week after week.
But it did come, eventually, and at an uncommonly high cost. King Henry himself had fallen ill during the siege. No one doubted he would recover with speed, but William, seeing the gray tint on his liege’s face, could not help but worry.