Free Queen by Right by Anne Easter Smith Page A

already.
    Cecily plucked at a loose thread in his sleeve and sighed happily. “I hopethat will not be for a long, long time, Dickon. I am all alone now that George has his lordship of Latimer and Edward has been made Lord Bergavenny. They have been sent to other houses, and I miss them.”
    “Then let us make the best of these days, dearest Cis. Shall we hunt on the morrow?”
    R ALPH SPENT MOST of his waking hours either reclining on a settle in Joan’s solar, listening to her read to him, or walking in the park, leaning heavily on a stick, with Cecily skipping beside him, chattering away and amusing him. Joan was most concerned that he showed no desire to sit his horse and ride to the hunt, which was, in his healthier years, his dearest occupation. He groaned when he stood, even louder when he sat down, and he could barely walk without a shoulder or a stick to lean on.
    One day late in October, Joan read a passage from the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight to Ralph and Cecily: “Then came together all the noblest knights, Ywain and Erec, and many another. Sir Dodinel le Sauvage, the duke of Clarence, Launcelot and Lionel, and Lucan the Good, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere—”
    Ralph held up his hand for her to pause, muttering, “Lionel and Clarence—that reminds me . . .” He lifted his head and spoke to his daughter. “Cecily, have a page fetch York here, I beg of you,” he said without explanation, giving her a weary smile. “He should be at the butts at this hour.” He watched her hurry to the door. “I beg your pardon, my dear Joan. Please continue.”
    When Dickon knocked and entered fifteen minutes later, Cecily was with him, and Ralph motioned for both to approach the cushioned settle. Joan rose and excused herself, knowing with sorrow why Ralph wanted to speak to the young couple.
    His thin gray hair had been combed carefully by Joan, and he had made an effort to prop himself up on several velvet cushions. Cecily took Joan’s seat. Dickon stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. Ralph smiled at the picture they made, the dark-haired, gray-eyed young lord and his own beautiful fair-haired daughter.
    “I expect you to have handsome, intelligent children,” he began, amused by Dickon’s nervous, lopsided smile. “But that is not why I summoned you here.” He paused, turning a large gold ring on his thumb, unsure of his next words. “It seems I have little time left here on earth. Nay, sweet child, I am at peace with it,” he soothed Cecily when her sharp intake of breath interrupted him.“The physician has turned up his hands and has no more knowledge of what ails me or how to treat me. If God in his mercy sees fit to take me on the morrow, I am ready.” Cecily leaned forward and took his big hand in hers, covering it with kisses. “I would be even happier to know that I leave you contented with each other. York, you must have noticed that this willful child is the apple of my eye. I cannot go to my Maker without her assurance that she is pleased with my choice for her and that you will cherish her even more than I have.”
    Cecily’s tears dripped on her wool gown, leaving dark spots in the green fabric. “Cer—certes, I am contented with D—Dickon, my lord,” she faltered. “But I refuse to believe that you are . . . you are dying. You are merely weary, ’tis all. Mother and I shall soon have you up and well again, trust me.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve.
    “Most unbecoming, young lady,” Ralph said, chuckling, and then he began to wheeze and gasp for breath. He waved his hands, signifying the fit would pass, which it did, and he pushed himself up further into a sitting position. “That’s better. At times it feels as though I am drowning,” he said, patting his chest. “Now where was I?”
    “You asked if Cecily and I were contented with each other, my lord,” Dickon prompted. He reached down and took Cecily’s hand. “I cannot imagine a