Those first weeks in Sussex were all but intolerable. Adeline had given Cecily one of the pokiest rooms in the castle, with a fireplace too small to provide adequate heat, but she considered it a refuge rather than an insult. It was the only place she knew she would never see Adeline. Lord Esterby was a generous husband, indulging his wife’s every whim, and their household rang with laughter, singing, and much dancing. Minstrels performed every evening, and a troubadour from Milan was expected before the end of the month, but Cecily did not find their merriment contagious. She preferred the privacy of her cold and barren chamber.
Every morning, she heard mass in the chapel. The baron’s priest was a severe, humorless man whose sermons rained with fire and brimstone. A part of her craved chastisement, for she felt it cleansed some of the sin of her role in her mother’s death. She felt lighter after mass and wondered if someday, far in the future, she would be altogether free of that burden of guilt.
The rolling hills in the countryside surrounding the castle provided endless hours of amusement, whether on horseback, when picnicking, or if one craved a meandering stroll. Cecily, who had never before liked needlework, found herself newly inspired by the flowers that filled the meadows: violet knapweed, deeper purple round-headed rampion, bright yellow wort, crisp white saxifrage, and flashing scarlet pimpernels. Her embroidery improved, and soon she found herself taking on more and more difficult projects, designing complicated patterns of entwined flowers and vines.
In the evening, she retired to her room, where she would open the wooden diptych, William’s wedding gift to her, and fall to her knees to pray. Only when she could no longer stand the hardness of the stone floor—the room boasted no carpet—would she cross herself and rise. The pain felt more cleansing even than mass. Then she would open her book and read rather than cavort with the rest of the household. She did not feel right dancing when William was away, and even though there had been as yet no news from France, she could not help but worry. The words of Christine de Pizan always brought her comfort.
Adeline hardly spoke to her, except to chide her for being too serious, but this did not trouble Cecily. She liked solitude. It was only when the much-anticipated troubadour arrived that she began to spend her evenings downstairs with the others. Dario Gabrieli, born into a noble Milanese family, came with minstrels of his own, and when he sang, the purity of his voice intoxicated all who heard him, Cecily included. His soulful good looks—dark hair and melting brown eyes—enhanced his work. His rendition of the tragic story of Tristan and Iseult brought all the ladies to tears.
Lord Esterby enjoyed the songs as much as anyone, and invited Gabrieli to stay at the castle through the winter. Cecily wondered if she would still be here, or if William would have returned from France by then. No one knew how long the invasion would take.
* * *
William’s first view of the French coast underwhelmed him. Perhaps it was anticlimactic, following the army’s glorious departure from England, when the soldiers spotted an eagle flying above the king’s ship. An omen of good fortune; no one could doubt that. Nothing so spectacular occurred as their ships dropped anchor beyond the salt marshes on the shore. The city of Harfleur awaited them, behind a moat and miles of thick stone wall that surrounded both town and harbor. The enemy expected them and had spared no expense preparing. Huge Dutch guns as well as ammunition, food, and other supplies had poured into Harfleur. The city was ready for a siege.
The Duke of Clarence and a large force of men approached Harfleur in the dark, cutting off French reinforcements and setting themselves up in a position of strength on a hill across from the rest of the English army. King Henry’s navy blockaded the port, separating the citizens of Harfleur from the support of their countrymen.
Soon they would hear the deafening sound of the guns, for the French were not the only ones with artillery. The pounding would begin, relentless and brutal, its deadly rain destroying everything upon which it fell.
And when the guns went silent, William would be ready to fight.
First, though, King Henry sent a final message offering peace.