Cicely's Sovereign Secret Read online

  Jack indicated the wax to Tal. ‘That cannot possibly be coincidence! This meeting has to be about the boy,’ he whispered, and then the scent of Christmas pine and yew enveloped him as he slipped behind the dais to the other side of the hall. Tal followed, and they settled to observe.

  Henry seated himself in the chair, and stretched his long legs towards the fire. His cloak, sleeveless coat, gauntlets and soft velvet hat had been tossed carelessly on the floor. He wore a grey doublet slashed with purple, and clinging hose that disappeared into thigh boots. It could not be said he was handsome, but he was certainly memorable, with long, reddish hair, high cheekbones, a long, prominent nose, narrow chin and pale complexion. His mouth was straight and wide, and his eyebrows arched above strangely hooded eyes, the left one of which had a cast that made his gaze unnerving.

  His elbows rested on the arms of the chair as he gazed into the fire, his hands together as if in prayer, his fingertips tapping idly to his lips. He seemed relaxed, but the air he exuded was of icy unapproachability. Henry Tudor’s emotions were always hidden. Stifled even.

  His blood right to the throne was paltry, and came through an illegitimate royal line, the Beauforts. He also claimed dubious descent from Cadwallader, the last king of Britain. His emphasis on his Welshness had brought him support and a clear passage through Wales to confront Richard at Bosworth. Much good it had done his homeland, for he had done nothing to improve its lot.

  Jon Welles paced nervously. He too had removed his outer clothes, revealing a sleeveless wine-red coat over a brown doublet and hose. The spurs on his thigh boots jingled now and then, and as he ran a hand through his hair, Jack noticed the turquoise ring Cicely had given to him. It had belonged to her father, King Edward IV.

  The secretary cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty, I crave your leave to speak.’ At Henry’s nod, he continued. ‘Your Majesty, you indicated as urgent the writ for the apprehension of certain murderers and robbers. It has now been prepared, and I have taken the liberty of bringing it for your signature and seal.’

  Henry’s uneven eyes swung to him for a moment, and then he nodded. Everything was placed before him, and he read the writ with the help of a magnifying glass produced in readiness. His eyesight was not that of a young man, probably due to too many nights spent in candlelight, perusing complicated accounts into the small hours. He was known for his parsimonious diligence.

  ‘Damn all villains,’ he muttered. His voice was soft, his accent tinged with Welsh, and occasionally with French or Breton. Accepting the proffered quill, he wrote his signature with great care—as he did everything—and then the secretary held a stick of wax to a candle. Finally the royal seal was appended.

  Jon Welles observed Henry. ‘You need spectacles,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘I am not an old man yet.’

  ‘Then permit me leave of absence the next time you hunt.’

  ‘Er mwyn y Tad!’ Henry responded, annoyed.

  Tal translated for Jack. ‘ “For God’s own sake!” ’

  The spurt of anger caught at Henry’s chest, and he coughed hollowly. Consumptively. Gripping the chair, he strove to overcome a threatened paroxysm. At last he succeeded, and waved the secretary from the hall. ‘Go, and do not return unless sent for. And be sure to close the door.’

  The relieved secretary obeyed, and Henry nodded at Jon. ‘Close the other door as well, we need privacy.’

  Jon did as instructed, and returned to the fireplace. ‘Why this elaborate theatre, Henry?’

  ‘Partly to tweak Morton’s self-important nose, partly to intimidate my guests, who will be confronted by a huge empty palace, firelight and me at my grimmest. Such drama, do you not think?’

  ‘Drama? We have sneaked away from court like naughty children.’

  ‘It pleases me to keep them guessing. My advisors think they are in command. It does them good to find they are not.’

  ‘That is all very well, Henry, but this is not wise. Morton’s palace? An isolated cottage would surely have been more sensible?’

  ‘I cannot impress in a cottage, and the thought of Morton having to relinquish his palace is pleasing. Besides, if there are interlopers, the mastiffs will sniff them out.’

  ‘You play with fire.’ Jon came to stand across the table from him, his tall figure outlined against the flames. ‘I think you are making a grave mistake. You should have left it all well alone.’

  ‘I have responsibilities.’

  ‘Maybe, but in this instance they are not here in England.’

  Henry leaned back in his chair. ‘You think I am foolish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe, but the decision is made.’

  Jon leaned his hands on the table. ‘You do know that this whole business is high treason?’

  Jack and Tal looked at each other. Treason?

  ‘Against whom, Uncle? Well? Who is the king? Me, and I can hardly commit treason against myself.’

  ‘You can commit high treason against England,’ Jon replied levelly. ‘That is what you are expecting me to condone.’

  Henry’s strange gaze was upon his uncle. ‘Are you about to be difficult? Because if so, let me remind you that you have a delightful wife.’

  Jon froze. ‘You threaten Cicely?’

  ‘Of course not, Uncle. I treasure her even more than you do.’ Henry smiled, but it did not reach his wintry eyes.

  ‘So, that is why I am suddenly in favour again? Because you can use Cicely to ensure my discretion and obedience?’

  ‘Take it as you please.’

  Jon returned to the fire to kick a partially burned log.

  Henry watched. ‘Oh, dear, I think you are out of sorts with me.’

  ‘I dislike you when you behave like this.’ The log received another kick.

  ‘Have a care, uncle mine, for although I may occasionally permit Cicely to be rude to me, you do not merit such latitude, even if you are my mother’s beloved half-sibling.’

  There was silence, during which the fire crackled and despatched sparks up the vast chimney.

  ‘Where is Lincoln?’ Henry asked suddenly.

  ‘Lincoln? The earl?’

  ‘Well, strangely, I am fully cognisant of the whereabouts of the city and county,’ was the sarcastic response.

  ‘I have no idea where he is. You and Cicely tell me he survived Stoke Field, and I must believe you both, but I certainly have not seen him since he fled the country in February.’ This was a very great lie indeed, as the two eavesdroppers knew well.

  ‘Cicely has not confided more?’ Henry was disbelieving.

  Jon looked at him. ‘Cicely does not know any more, save that he survived Stoke, but badly wounded. Then he was abducted, although why or by whom is still unknown. You are aware of all this, so why question me more?’

  ‘Because I want to know just how close she was to Lincoln,’ Henry said quietly. ‘She does rather love her close relatives, mm? She certainly loved Richard far more than a niece should her uncle. As my dearest wife did too, of course. But in Cicely’s case, Richard reciprocated, did he not? I firmly believe that her short-lived child was his, not yours.’

  Jon was not cowed. ‘Henry, I can tell you here and now, upon mine own honour, that Cicely and Richard were not lovers.’

  Tal’s face had become quite a picture. This was the first he had heard of Cicely and Richard. Or of a possible child.

  Jack knew that Richard had been Cicely’s lover, and that the union resulted in a son, Leo, of whom Richard had never known. Jon Welles had protected her through marriage, but then fate intervened and it became expedient to pretend the boy had died within hours of his birth. Now almost two, he was known as plain Master Leo Kymbe, and was being brought up by the family of that name in the countryside of Lincolnshire. Being Richard’s son, he was now the only person for whom Jack de la Pole would be prepared to give up his own claim to the throne.

  Tal whispered. ‘Is this true, Jack? About the Lady Cicely and Richard? And a child
?’

  ‘No.’ Jack would never divulge Cicely’s secret. Not yet, anyway.

  Henry was still fixed upon the thought of Cicely and Richard. ‘It was incest,’ he breathed, sitting forward, his body suddenly as taut as whipcord. ‘Damn his soul, he bewitched her, seduced her, satisfied her and taught her everything she knows of making love. And she knows so very much, does she not? She adores to be adored and to adore in turn. And it is because of him. He brought her to life, and made her the marvellous creature she is now. I know he did! He haunts me, and sometimes I feel him watching me, laughing. He is still with me, Uncle. Still!’

  Chapter Two

  Jon gazed uneasily at his royal nephew. ‘Sweet Jesu, Henry, you make him sound like a wizard.’

  ‘He was!’ Henry struggled for composure, and became level again. ‘Jealousy is the ravening wolf within, is it not?’

  Jon did not answer.

  Henry closed his eyes. ‘I make love to her, but know she does not love me. Physically maybe, but not in her heart. You have more of her than I ever will, yet even you do not have as much as others, mm? Richard will always have the lion’s share, and then, perhaps, that tomcat Lincoln. No, do not deny it to me again, for it is the truth. Have you seen her when she defends Richard’s memory? She shimmers with love, and for him she would challenge Beelzebub to mortal combat. I want that love from her, but know I never will. Even a king cannot have everything he wants.’

  ‘What do you expect when you have forced her into your bed? Yes, she loved Richard, and will always be loyal to him, but that is not the same as the love you suspect existed between them.’ Jon was the soul of reason. ‘I promise you her child was mine, conceived in Nottingham, in June 1485, and born a month too early in 1486. St Valentine’s Day, no less. Richard was not wizard enough to divine what was happening under his nose.’

  ‘Richard initiated her,’ Henry insisted, ‘then you had her, and then Lincoln, who is risen from the dead to haunt me!’

  ‘You lash yourself, but do not actually know anything. No matter how many times you make love to her, no matter how skilled your caresses, she will always be York.’

  ‘Oh, do I not know it.’

  ‘Either accept it, or leave her alone. But please do not whinge about it, least of all to me. She is my wife and I intend to keep her. And while you harp on about incest, it does not seem to prevent you from flouting the Bible yourself in order to commit adultery with her. She is your wife’s sister and your half-uncle’s wife, yet I believe you even went so far as to want to set her up as your official mistress, in spite of the uproar that would cause.’

  ‘Was that why you did not support me at Stoke Field?’ Henry’s left eye wandered a little until it gazed as steadily as its fellow.

  Jon did not flinch. ‘It was not possible to wade 10,000 men through that flood at Huntingdon. Otherwise I would have been there.’

  ‘On which side, I wonder?’ Henry murmured, and moved on before Jon could challenge the remark. ‘Why have you not confronted me over her?’

  ‘You think I would defend my honour at the expense of hers?’ Jon replied. ‘She wishes me to say and do nothing, and I am sure enough of her love to do as she requests.’

  ‘How craftily you insert that last. Small revenge.’

  ‘But revenge for all that,’ was Jon’s response.

  Henry gave the ghost of a smile. ‘True. Oh, I know my madness over her. She is my full moon, and I bay. How I wish she was the daughter of York I vowed to marry, not her sow of a sister. God fuck Edward IV and his bigamy! And to make her legitimate, I was forced to make her missing brothers trueborn too. I actually returned to them their better blood claim to the throne than my own!’ How it curdled his blood to even think of it. ‘Just what in the name of Hell itself happened to those boys after Richard sent them away, mm? Where? I can claim that he had them murdered in the Tower to secure his stolen throne, but I know he did not. Does Richard’s sister have them in Burgundy, waiting to spring an invasion upon me?’

  ‘I cannot answer that, Henry. And without their bodies, you cannot point a convincing finger.’ Jon could almost sympathize with his half-nephew’s quandary, but the fact still remained that the children were all illegitimate, and Richard had become the rightful King of England. The repealing of Richard’s title to the throne did not really make any difference in the eyes of many, including Henry himself, although he would never admit it.

  Henry unfolded from the chair as fluidly as a cat, but then turned as perhaps a dozen horses entered the quadrangle. He glanced urgently at Jon. ‘What happens now is of vital personal importance to me, and I know how much I ask of you.’ Then he smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, changing him completely.

  Watching from the dais, Jack observed that suddenly irresistible charm, for it coaxed forgiveness from the unforgiving. This other side of Henry Tudor sometimes tore Cicely’s heart.

  Voices were heard at the far door from the quadrangle, and Henry spoke again. ‘We will use Breton, it is less likely to be understood by unwelcome ears.’

  ‘As you wish, but my Breton is poor. I was not there as long as you.’

  Behind the dais, Tal breathed out heavily. ‘Shit. I only have a smattering of Breton.’

  ‘I have none at all,’ Jack replied.

  Henry had spent the first half of his life in Wales, and the second half exiled in Brittany and France. He was fluent in all three languages, and in Latin.

  Footsteps approached, and then a burly, middle-aged man in a fur-lined leather cloak entered the hall, his arm around the shoulders of a boy of fourteen or so. The man’s square face was ruddy, and the scarf of his swathed grey hat was wrapped several times around his throat.

  The boy was tall and strong for his age, with a haughty demeanour. He had fair hair that hung low around his neck in a continuous under-curl, and his royal-blue cloak was embroidered with gold. But everything about him was somehow displeasing, including the sullen set of his mouth.

  The man made low obeisance to Henry. ‘Your Majesty, I am Guillaume de Boulvriag, tutor, your obedient servant. I bring you the boy—’

  ‘Speak Breton!’ Henry ordered sharply.

  The man flinched, but then bowed again, and reintroduced himself in his native tongue, which, while not being the customary language of the Breton nobility—French being preferred—was still much used in the west of Brittany, where Henry had been kept under house arrest.

  The tutor ushered the boy forward, bowing frequently as he introduced him as Roland, with a surname that sounded like ‘du Coskerr’, but Roland himself did not bow or speak at all. Instead, he treated Henry as an equal.

  Henry’s face was a mask as he addressed the boy, but the only answer was a hoisted chin. The king proceeded to prowl slowly around the pair, like a patient predator. He surveyed Roland from head to toe all the time, before halting in front of him and speaking in a reasonable tone that would have been a grave warning to those who knew Henry Tudor’s ways.

  De Boulvriag hastened to speak in Roland’s defence, but Henry held up a hand, still awaiting a polite response from the boy. When there was none, he suddenly cuffed Roland’s ear, hard, causing him to stagger back and clamp a protective hand to the side of his head. Sinking belatedly to his knees, he bowed his head.

  Henry spoke sharply in Breton.

  Jack thought it was akin to ‘I am the king, and you will show me complete respect!’ Although, perhaps not as politely put, because Henry’s language was often colourful.

  ‘Well, Tal? Is it the same boy?’

  ‘Yes. The boy’s surname is probably du Coskäer, a noble Breton family. They also call themselves de Cosquer or de Vielleville in French, all of which I believe will more or less translate as “old town”.’

  Henry and de Boulvriag conversed, but too quietly for their words to carry. Their manner gave nothing away. Roland continued to kneel, his head hung obediently, although there was still a touch of arrogance about the set of his shoulders.
r />   All was suddenly forgotten as an inner door burst open and Nero dragged his unfortunate handlers into the hall. The great mastiff was fawn in colour, speckled with dark grey, and slavered as it pulled towards the group by the fireplace, but then it halted, its black-masked face alert, its flopped ears suddenly pricked as it looked towards the dais. An ominous growl throbbed deep in its throat.

  Jack’s spirits plunged, and he put a wary hand on Tal’s arm.

  Jon’s attention flew towards the corner as well, and he approached the dais, drawing the dagger on his belt. The mastiff began to give voice—loud, savage baying that resounded between the hammer beams overhead. Henry was taut with alarm, while Roland scrambled fearfully into de Boulvriag’s protective arms.

  As one, Jack and Tal bolted for freedom, black-shrouded figures dashing towards the door Jon had closed. As they struggled to pull it open again, Jon hurled his dagger instinctively, not knowing at whom he aimed. It pierced Jack’s left shoulder and managed to embed itself, forcing him to grunt in pain. The door opened, and Jack ran on in agony, to the staircase lobby and then into the passage opposite. Tal paused only to shove the wedge back into place, to delay pursuit. He did the same with the passage door, which he locked and bolted for good measure. After kicking the wedge to jam it, he heard Jon, the mastiff and its handlers bursting out of the hall.

  Tal ran to Jack, who had halted only yards away, leaning his right shoulder weakly against the panelled wall. ‘Come, Jack, I will help you.’ He put a supporting arm around Jack’s waist, and hauled him along as quickly as he could.

  Shadows loomed and shrank in the torchlight from the quadrangle, and shouts and Nero’s racket filled the air. Jon shouted furiously behind them, ‘Fuck the archbishop! Just beat the bloody door down!’