Cecily did not weep when William departed for France. She stood motionless in front of Lord Burgeys’s manor, the only home she had ever known, as her husband mounted his chestnut-colored horse, his plate armor, perfectly fitted to his lean body, gleaming in the sun. He left the visor of his bascinet raised so she could see him grinning as he set off, eager for the challenge of battle. She watched until she could no longer see his standard, carried by his squire, who followed behind. And then, when he was out of sight, she let her tears flow free and readied herself for her own journey, to Adeline’s new home.
Alys, her old nurse, prepared the chests of clothing and jewelry and other essentials, but Cecily packed her most prized belonging herself: a beautifully illuminated copy of Christine de Pizan’s The Treasure of the City of Ladies, given to her by Lady Burgeys. It offered what Cecily considered excellent advice for ladies, the authoress providing instruction on how to behave in nearly every situation. She stressed the importance of a wife being able to competently run her estate, going so far as to suggest she must even know how to use any weapons necessary for defense. Cecily pored over the vellum pages, tracing the letters some anonymous monk had copied so carefully, and vowed she would follow the French woman’s advice.
Adeline had never shown a glimmer of interest in de Pizan’s work. Her marriage to the Baron Esterby had elevated her social status, bringing with it a retinue of ladies and followers eager to do her bidding, and she saw no need to exert herself for anything but pleasure. The baron’s estate in Sussex encompassed tens of thousands of acres and countless tenants, ensuring the family fortune did not suffer, even during the agricultural depression that followed the great plagues of the previous century. This meant Adeline could surround herself with every luxury. The day Cecily arrived, she found her friend—for she had decided she would view this chapter of her life as a new start, and make every effort to befriend Adeline—choosing fabric for new gowns. Bolts of the finest silk and the softest furs surrounded her, and her laughter, which Cecily had always considered one of Adeline’s best charms, echoed through the castle.
“Cecily, dear, you must have a new gown, too,” Adeline said, greeting her with a distracted kiss. “Pick anything you like. Lord Esterby is rich enough to pay for both of us. But I don’t think silk for you; it would be a waste on someone of your curious intellectual leanings. Whatever you desire, though, make it known quickly. I want to go for a ride this afternoon and you must come with me.”
Cecily did not mind eschewing the silk, asking instead for a soft, midnight blue wool and not commenting when her hostess all but dragged her to the stable. Given past experience, Cecily half expected to be introduced to a handsome groom, but instead, a middle-aged man, stocky and competent, took them to their waiting horses and helped them mount. Adeline treated him with perfect courtesy; Cecily hardly recognized her.
“The baron is most generous,” Adeline said as they set off across a green meadow to explore the estate. “I knew not how fortunate I was in my marriage until I came here and saw what my life will now be. My husband is kind and gives me anything I desire. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and what I always knew I deserved.”
Cecily murmured a reply, knowing all too well that Adeline had no interest in anything she might have to say. They rode along in silence until they reached a stream. Adeline stopped her horse and slid off of her saddle, urging Cecily to follow suit. A charming picnic awaited them. Servants had set up a low table covered with a fine damask tablecloth. Pewter dishes held cold pies, fruits, and an astonishing assortment of sweets. A servant handed Cecily a glass of wine cut with just the right amount of water.
“I brought you here so that we might speak privately,” Adeline said. “Understand that I am the mistress of this house and you are here, at great inconvenience and expense, only because my husband wanted it so. He thought I should have a companion from home and erroneously identified you as the best choice. I seek neither your counsel nor your friendship. You will wait on me as I require, but your pert opinions and that look of judgment that creeps onto your face are not welcome here. Pray that your husband returns safely, because you will not remain here if you are widowed.”
The wine no longer tasted sweet, and Cecily bit back nervous laughter at Adeline’s final statement. How could anyone think that she would want to stay here, widowed or not?
* * *
William’s trip to Southampton passed quickly. The roads were good, the weather fair, and the Duke of Gloucester made sure his men were well-supplied with every comfort one could hope for on such a journey. William’s squire could not contain his excitement as they reached the town and could see the king’s standard flying above Portchester Castle. Not that he expected to see the king—William had counseled him against unreasonable hopes—but just to be part of the invading force thrilled the young man.
The summer was hot, and they were all eager to embark for France. But their mission would not start quite yet. William had been in a pub thinking about his pretty wife when the chatter began. Something had happened—something that threatened the king. He assumed the danger came from the French—perhaps there were spies among them?—but instead, it was traitorous Englishmen behind a nefarious plot to kill their sovereign and his three brothers, the Dukes of Clarence, Bedford, and Gloucester, as they boarded their ship for France. Edmund Mortimer, the Earl of March, the man they planned to put on the throne once Henry was dead, learned of the plan and informed the king straightaway. Henry did not hesitate to act.
First, he invited the conspirators to Portchester Castle. Then, he had them tried and executed. Their lofty titles and high positions could not protect them from such grievous villainy. And so, on the warm August day when the army at last set off for France, the heads of the Earl of Cambridge, the Baron Scrope, and Sir Thomas Grey remained in England, stuck on spikes for all to see. A gory scene, but nothing so bad as what awaited them abroad. They were soldiers, though, and none among them balked at the horrors of battle. If anything, they looked forward to heaping violent misery on their opponents. They knew too well of the ghastly horrors inflicted by the French on the defeated English archers at the siege of Soissons the year before; mercy was something the French no longer deserved.