occasions. “He said a lot of things that he ought not when we went hunting.” She giggled. “He even tried to tell me about . . . um . . . well . . . where . . . how . . . babes are made,” she finished, using the knife from her belt to cut a daffodil to give to him. “He did not succeed,” she admitted, “and so I still do not know.”
Richard was now embarrassed. “By my troth, I shall not tell you. ’Tis for the countess to inform you. Or you could ask Rowena—she seems nice.” Hurrying her back to the door that led into the hall, he abruptly dropped the subject.
Not wanting to let him off the hook that easily, Cecily plucked up her courage and asked, “Do you know, Dickon?”
She was rewarded with a young duke’s open-mouthed and reddened face, and she laughed delightedly at him. “Nay, you do not, do you?”
Richard hastily hailed a comrade looking for a seat and quickly invited him to join them, thus ending the awkward topic. The very next day, he and Richard Neville left London for Leicester, gratefully relinquishing the business of birthing to the women.
I T WAS A LICE , not her mother or Rowena, who instructed Cecily about carnal knowledge. For the three weeks leading up to the birth of her second child, Alice was sequestered in her shuttered room, as was customary. The young woman, who was as industrious as she was intelligent, chafed at her lying-in, and her favorite companion became the inquisitive Cecily. Merry laughter and confidential whisperings marked Cecily’s long visits to the wood-paneled chamber in the west wing of the house.
After a visit from the nursery by the Nevilles’ first-born—named Joan for her grandmother and nicknamed Jane—the two would snuggle up together to read Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, a book Cecily had smuggled in to Alice at the older girl’s request.
Cecily’s eyes widened as Alice, reciting with relish, came to the advice of the Wife of Bath on marriage:
Tell me to what conclusion or in aid
Of what were generative organs made?
And for what profit were those creatures wrought?
Trust me, they cannot have been made for naught.
Argue as you will and plead the explanation
That they were only made for the purgation
Of urine, little things of no avail
Except to know a female from a male,
And nothing else. Did somebody say no?
Experience knows well it isn’t so.
The learned may rebuke me, or be loath
To think it so, but they were made for both,
That is to say both use and pleasure in
Engendering, except in case of sin—
Before she could finish, the curtains were flung aside by Joan, who snatched the book away, with several stern admonishments to the elder girl about immorality and being a bad influence. “He may have been my uncle by marriageand your step-grandfather,” Joan had exclaimed, “but that does not mean I must approve of Master Chaucer’s words.”
Alice and Cecily had collapsed into quiet laughter after Joan left the room, and Alice whispered, “I wonder if Countess Joan has read his Troilus and Criseyde? Now there is a piquant piece about love.”
An only child lacking companionship, Alice now loved having a sister, despite Cecily’s youth. Cecily’s lack of shyness and brimming confidence made her seem far older than her years, Alice thought, and she soon was treating the younger girl as a peer. And after closing the bed curtains, Alice decided to educate the curious Cecily as to what happens when a man takes a woman between the sheets. Cecily, rendered speechless for several seconds when her sister-in-law had finished, soon let fly with questions.
“Do you enjoy the act?” she demanded in an urgent whisper. Rowena Gower and Alice’s tiring women were always present in the room, but Cecily hoped that as they had their own conversation to accompany the never-ending embroidery, they would pay no heed to what went on behind the velvet bed hangings.
In the light of a candle set in a sconce upon the bedpost, Alice
Richard was now embarrassed. “By my troth, I shall not tell you. ’Tis for the countess to inform you. Or you could ask Rowena—she seems nice.” Hurrying her back to the door that led into the hall, he abruptly dropped the subject.
Not wanting to let him off the hook that easily, Cecily plucked up her courage and asked, “Do you know, Dickon?”
She was rewarded with a young duke’s open-mouthed and reddened face, and she laughed delightedly at him. “Nay, you do not, do you?”
Richard hastily hailed a comrade looking for a seat and quickly invited him to join them, thus ending the awkward topic. The very next day, he and Richard Neville left London for Leicester, gratefully relinquishing the business of birthing to the women.
I T WAS A LICE , not her mother or Rowena, who instructed Cecily about carnal knowledge. For the three weeks leading up to the birth of her second child, Alice was sequestered in her shuttered room, as was customary. The young woman, who was as industrious as she was intelligent, chafed at her lying-in, and her favorite companion became the inquisitive Cecily. Merry laughter and confidential whisperings marked Cecily’s long visits to the wood-paneled chamber in the west wing of the house.
After a visit from the nursery by the Nevilles’ first-born—named Joan for her grandmother and nicknamed Jane—the two would snuggle up together to read Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, a book Cecily had smuggled in to Alice at the older girl’s request.
Cecily’s eyes widened as Alice, reciting with relish, came to the advice of the Wife of Bath on marriage:
Tell me to what conclusion or in aid
Of what were generative organs made?
And for what profit were those creatures wrought?
Trust me, they cannot have been made for naught.
Argue as you will and plead the explanation
That they were only made for the purgation
Of urine, little things of no avail
Except to know a female from a male,
And nothing else. Did somebody say no?
Experience knows well it isn’t so.
The learned may rebuke me, or be loath
To think it so, but they were made for both,
That is to say both use and pleasure in
Engendering, except in case of sin—
Before she could finish, the curtains were flung aside by Joan, who snatched the book away, with several stern admonishments to the elder girl about immorality and being a bad influence. “He may have been my uncle by marriageand your step-grandfather,” Joan had exclaimed, “but that does not mean I must approve of Master Chaucer’s words.”
Alice and Cecily had collapsed into quiet laughter after Joan left the room, and Alice whispered, “I wonder if Countess Joan has read his Troilus and Criseyde? Now there is a piquant piece about love.”
An only child lacking companionship, Alice now loved having a sister, despite Cecily’s youth. Cecily’s lack of shyness and brimming confidence made her seem far older than her years, Alice thought, and she soon was treating the younger girl as a peer. And after closing the bed curtains, Alice decided to educate the curious Cecily as to what happens when a man takes a woman between the sheets. Cecily, rendered speechless for several seconds when her sister-in-law had finished, soon let fly with questions.
“Do you enjoy the act?” she demanded in an urgent whisper. Rowena Gower and Alice’s tiring women were always present in the room, but Cecily hoped that as they had their own conversation to accompany the never-ending embroidery, they would pay no heed to what went on behind the velvet bed hangings.
In the light of a candle set in a sconce upon the bedpost, Alice
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