Cicely's Second King Read online

  ‘I believe you.’ He smiled again. ‘You have a little of your father in you. I only wish the same could be said of me. I used to worship him, but he changed, which is why I spent more and more time in the north. I make no apologies for saying this of him, Cicely, because I think you know it anyway.’

  ‘But you remained loyal to him.’

  ‘Until he died and I learned of the pre-contract. I could not ignore the facts, or remain loyal after that. I certainly could not allow his illegitimate son to ascend the throne when there was a legitimate heir. Me. The crown was mine by right, even though it was not what I sought.’

  ‘The throne should still be yours now,’ she said quietly. ‘When I think of the king you would have been . . .’

  ‘Would I ever have been allowed to be the just king I sought to be? I think not. I wanted to do right by the people, which did not please an aristocracy that enjoyed immense powers and privileges under your father, and that now hopes to enjoy them again under Henry. I was not what they wanted at all. So, I will probably be vilified. It is in Henry’s interest to make a monster of me.’

  ‘It is unfair.’

  ‘What has fair to do with it? What is done is done, and now, for you, John, and the others, there is only survival. Bess will be Queen of England, I do not doubt it, and she will revel in it.’

  ‘She loves you.’

  ‘Not with her whole heart, not deep inside, where her real self is. Oh, she wanted me as her lover, but I do not think Bess can love truly, Cicely, not as you do.’

  The words made her feel guilty again. About John, whom she had let down so grievously.

  Richard knew her thoughts and pulled her near once more, to stroke her hair, which was so very like his own. ‘I led you into everything. I knew how you loved me, even if you did not yet understand the nature of that love. You were—are—young, still only sixteen.’ He paused and smiled. ‘No, forgive me, you are in your seventeenth year, I think.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled too, for he had teased her in the past, and it soothed her so much that he did so again.

  ‘Well, I was not that tender age, Cicely, I was considerably older and should have protected you. Instead I commenced your seduction.’

  ‘You did not. Not really. I did some seducing of my own, and I know it. You have always made such sweet love to me, Richard. That first night together, you were so gentle and exciting, you thought of me, you drew me on, taught me and cherished me. I do not think any other man could have introduced me to such pleasures in such an incomparable way. You are incomparable, Richard, and you are mine. The fact that you are my uncle does not matter. I did not grow up with you, or see you so frequently that our shared blood was a natural and undeniable barrier. You entered my life, and I entered yours. We were strangers, and neither of us could have known what would happen between us. Yes, you are my uncle, but no, I do not view you as that. You are the man I love; nothing else matters.’

  He kissed her lips again and then smiled. ‘I was certainly too knowing and experienced for you, Cicely, and only too well aware of how to make you desire me more and more.’

  ‘I may have been young and green, but I knew what I wanted. I had passions too, and did not know how to stop them. When my eyes were opened at last, it was like a great beam of light blazing through me. You hesitated, had second thoughts, did not want to commit the sin, but I made you give in to me, Richard, and I too knew what I was doing. I followed my heart and made you follow yours.’

  ‘‘And so we burn together, my sweet Cicely.’

  She caught his right hand and held it to her cheek. It was the hand with the shortened little finger, the result of a childhood accident. She put the finger in her mouth and slid her tongue deliciously over it, before holding it tightly in her hand and closing her eyes. ‘Oh, how I wish you had won the day at Bosworth, and—’

  ‘But I did not, Cicely,’ he broke in quietly.

  ‘Jesu, how I know it.’ She kissed that beloved little finger again.

  ‘Cicely, you still have me. You always will. I am here now, because you willed it. I am your imagination.’

  ‘No!’

  His hand moved softly against her skin. ‘Yes, sweetheart,’ he whispered, ‘and deep in your heart you know it well enough. I died at Bosworth, and so cannot be here with you now.’

  ‘But you are! I can touch you, talk to you . . .’

  ‘Maybe you are not ready to accept it, Cicely, but eventually you will have to. All you need to do is think of me, picture me, and what is not clear will become clear. You know me more than anyone else, you know how I would respond to something and what I would do as a consequence. Use this knowledge, but please, do not have my faults.’

  ‘You have none,’ she whispered, tears stinging her eyes again.

  ‘Oh, I do. Many. But there is someone you can trust here in this court. I speak of Sir John Welles.’

  Cicely drew back. ‘He seems to be a friend, but how can he be? He is Henry Tudor’s half-uncle.’ Henry had despatched Welles to Sheriff Hutton castle, and he had been courteous and correct throughout, unlike his companion Sir Robert Willoughby, who had been all that was disagreeable.

  She and Bess had been well treated, because Bess was to be Henry’s queen, but John of Gloucester had not. Willoughby had seen to it that John’s wrists had been cruelly bound for the long ride south, although Henry Tudor had personally cut the bonds when he saw. Henry had not been pleased. At least, it seemed so, but who could tell with him? His face seemed a mask, and his eyes were strange.

  Henry needed to know if Cicely’s brothers lived, because if he was to marry Bess, he had to change the law and make her legitimate again. That would legitimize her brothers too, and they would immediately have a far greater claim to the throne than Henry himself. If they were alive, a possibly unstoppable Yorkist rebellion would follow, so Henry had to be sure they were dead, preferably so that he could display their bodies. Should they be found alive, he would have to see to it they soon breathed no more.

  Richard watched her face. ‘Cicely, being Henry Tudor’s uncle—half-uncle—does not make Welles dishonourable.’

  ‘You think well of him?’

  ‘Did he speak badly of me?’ He already knew the answer, because she did.

  She thought, and shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Trust him, Cicely, for he is a friend. He thinks more of you than he wishes.’ Richard smiled again. ‘I more than anyone know how to recognize the signs.’

  ‘He merely tries to help me.’

  ‘Out of the goodness of his heart? It is far more than that, Cicely. He desires you. He knows you are with child and he is almost certain I am the father. It is very dangerous knowledge, yet still he keeps faith with you, showing friendship and concern. And he has offered the same advice I give now. You must disguise your feelings about Henry. Welles knows his own nephew, Cicely, so please heed what he says.’

  ‘Welles is Lady Stanley’s half-brother, they share the same mother, so how can you be so sure he is a friend?’ Margaret, Lady Stanley—born Beaufort—was Henry Tudor’s mother, and a more scheming, ambitious, conscienceless, supposedly pious woman had yet to draw breath. She was a snake, and hated Bess for preferring Richard’s court to staying in sanctuary to await ‘rescue’ by Henry Tudor. And she hated Cicely herself for daring to love Richard’s son. Margaret did not know that Cicely Plantagenet loved Richard himself a thousand times more. The Almighty alone knew how much greater the woman’s loathing would be if she did.

  ‘Cicely, I am you and therefore I know your exchanges with Sir John Welles, and I know you lay with John at Sheriff Hutton.’

  Her lips parted in dismay.

  ‘You did it to comfort him, and comfort yourself. I know that. You can never be disloyal to me. What you do with your body is one thing, but your heart and mind will always be true.’

  ‘I do love him, Richard, but—’

  ‘But you love me more.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had alw
ays been able to talk to him, for he was so natural with her, always gentle, always patient and always truthful. Always prepared to smile and tolerate. Never had there been such a king, such a man, nor would there ever be again. They were kindred, in spirit as in blood. Was that not what he had once said to her?

  ‘I also said that you are my soul’s mirror, Cicely.’

  ‘Can I hide nothing from you?’

  ‘There are no closed pages now, Cicely. Nor were there ever very many. You are my book, as I was always yours.’

  She smiled. ‘But now you have an unfair advantage.’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘How can I possibly go on without you, Richard? I know you say I must, but if I am your soul’s mirror, then you are mine.’

  He pulled her into his arms again. He had a way of doing it, an incredibly intimate way that was due to his distorted back. It made his embrace so wonderfully attentive and dear, as if he wrapped his whole self around her, not just his arms. He could not embrace in any other way, but it always made her feel so very precious to him. And so she was. So she was.

  ‘Be strong, my sweet Cicely.’

  ‘You are going from me now, are you not?’ She knew by his voice, by the note, that slight timbre, that she was about to be on her own again.

  ‘You will see me again. When you need me, I will come.’

  ‘Richard, I miss your physical love so very much.’

  His lips were on hers once more, yearning, tender, filled with desire and emotion, but as she tried to embrace him, to keep him with her, he was no longer there. Yet he was all around her.

  She could not—would not—believe he had not been real. She had felt him, kissed him and inhaled the scent of him. Surely mere imagination could not conjure such tangible things? She took a deep breath. Whatever had really just happened, the desolation of earlier had abated a little, and the draining sense of hopelessness and grief, of bewilderment and fear, had eased. She felt stronger, supported by his continuing love and understanding. Restored, but not entirely, because she could never be fully restored without the living man.

  She pressed her hands to her belly, where his child quickened within her. She would confront whatever lay ahead, her Plantagenet head held high. She smiled then. Well, perhaps not too high. She would dissemble, as Richard had warned her to do. And he was right, she would always know what he would say to her, no matter how difficult her dilemma. He would always sustain her.

  But she was not as strong as she thought, nor as composed and sensible. Nor did she remember to do as Richard told her.

  Chapter Two

  Cicely had always been one to follow her instincts, and now, bolstered by being with Richard again, those instincts urged her to seek an audience with Henry Tudor. Twice now she had been told to beware of him, but she needed to get her own measure of the new king, and learn how to temper her future dealings with the man who had usurped Richard’s throne.

  She hesitated, because although she had met him she certainly did not know him, only what others said of him. But Richard was right, at Lambeth she had permitted Henry to see too much in her eyes. He probably knew she wished him dead, so she had to convince him otherwise. There was enough danger for her already, because of her child, without facing his personal enmity as well. Maybe he would not receive her anyway. Why should he? He was the one with the power, and she was still only Edward IV’s by-blow.

  She made no attempt to change her appearance for going to Henry. There was little she could do. Stupidly, because she did not wish to accept anything from this new king, she had dismissed her new ladies on arriving, without knowing when her wardrobe would arrive from Sheriff Hutton. And so she brushed her hair and then studied herself in a mirror. She was not tall, and had a small but rounded figure. Her eyes were grey, like Richard’s, but hers were flecked with brown. Her hair was also his, a rich, deep shade of chestnut. In the sun, the glints of red and gold became apparent. She chose not to wear it fashionably shaven back from her forehead, because Richard had liked it the way it was. And so did she.

  Bess was more beautiful, at least in Cicely’s opinion, but there was clearly something about the younger of the sisters that men found alluring. Maybe they felt the challenge of her pride. She had certainly never lacked for attention. Not even from Henry Tudor, who had made far more of meeting her than he had of Bess. Maybe it was because he sensed she had secrets of great interest to him. He seemed intuitive, or so she realized now, when she thought of him again.

  Richard’s name reached through her again, and she opened the little decorated purse on the belt around her waist. In it was a letter he had given to her the last time she had seen him in life. An expression of his love, it made her weep then, and still made her weep. She took it out and read again.

  ‘My dearest, most beloved lady, I send this because I have to put down in writing the feelings I have for you. You are all around me, every moment of every day, and there is not an hour when I do not think of you as many times as that hour has minutes. Being parted from you is to be likened to purgatory, and I am but half a man because you are not with me. I am a king, yet lack that one jewel that will make me complete. I know that I am in your heart, and for this I cannot measure the honour I feel. Your sweet, forthright nature, your voice, your touch, your constant support, all of these make a slave of me. If our love is crossed by fate, I no longer care. It is an eternal love that will carry me to whatever lies ahead. No spirit could ever be more true than mine is to you. Be safe, my beloved. My heart and soul are forever in your keeping. Richard.’

  ‘And mine are in yours, my dearest lord,’ she whispered, folding the letter and kissing it before returning it to her purse.

  She left her rooms to go to Henry. Westminster Palace was where she had been born, but it was alien to her now. The very stones of the building had seemed to change with the ruling House. Her courage almost failed as she neared the royal apartments that had once been Richard’s, but thinking of him again renewed her courage as she reached Henry’s guards. They wore Tudor colours, green, red and white, with the red dragon of Cadwallader and red rose of Lancaster.

  ‘Cicely! Turn back, now! You will regret what results from it!’ Richard’s voice was within her—or was it her own belated wisdom?

  Pikes were crossed against her, and she halted. ‘I am the Lady Cicely Plantagenet, and humbly crave a moment of His Grace the king’s pleasure,’ she said in a clear voice, for the door was ajar and maybe someone could hear.

  For a moment there was silence, but then Henry himself answered. ‘Enter, Lady Cicely.’

  The pikes were pulled aside and she went in.

  It cut through her heart to see the royal apartments again. She had been with Richard here, and now strove not to look at the things that reminded her of him the most. Things she had seen him touch, places he had stood, where his smile had invited her to talk. The smile that had eventually invited her to do so much more.

  Henry Tudor was alone by a window, the sunshine pouring over him. As if it blessed him, she thought disgustedly, hiding her opinion behind her bland expression. He was taller than Richard, and at twenty-nine three years younger, but even so he seemed older, and not in a pleasant way. He had never known his father, who died before his birth, and he had been exiled in Brittany since the age of fourteen. The next fourteen had been spent avoiding capture by her father or Richard. All this had made him what he now was. Or perhaps there were other things too, for she already knew how very intricate he was, because she had seen it in his eyes at Lambeth.

  His hair was a nondescript reddish-brown, neither one colour nor the other, and fell in waves to the shoulders of a sumptuous purple doublet that was embroidered with gold and scarlet dragons. Richard’s hair was—had been—thicker and heavier; Henry’s seemed fragile, as if she could easily pull it from his scalp if she wished.

  He had a face filled with suspicion, hooded, watchful, and his thin, pale features had none of Richard’s appeal. His ch
eekbones were high and his chin small. His mouth was straight and wide, his lips thin. He would not have been entirely ill-looking, had not his nature so taken the upper hand. His clever, wintry-sea eyes were filled with distrust and guile. One of them had a disconcerting inclination to wander, but at the moment they both rested very levelly upon her as she sank into a deep curtsey and remained low, for she could not rise until he indicated.

  ‘You surprise me, Lady Cicely.’ He was quiet-spoken, his English accented with perhaps the slightest hint of French or Breton, but not greatly with Welsh. She was intrigued, for it was through his Welsh lineage that he sought to suggest descent from King Arthur himself.

  ‘Your Grace?’

  He still did not raise her. ‘You surprise me that you have the audacity to come here like this.’

  How should she answer? Follow your instincts, Cicely, she thought. ‘I wish to apologize most humbly, Your Grace.’

  ‘For coming here?’

  ‘For having seemed to reject your kindness. It was not my intention.’

  He left the window and came closer. ‘Really? What have you rejected?’

  The scent of cloves breathed over her as he put his fingers on her shoulder, a signal for her to stand, but he did not assist her as Richard would have. A hand beneath her elbow, a quick smile . . . Henry seemed devoid of such important little courtesies. The only king she could see in this room was Richard, and from him she gleaned strength.

  He met her eyes. ‘What kindness have you rejected?’ he asked again.

  ‘I have been disrespectful.’

  ‘I am usually fairly observant, my lady, but confess I had not noticed such a failure on your part.’

  ‘I dismissed the ladies you so kindly sent to me.’

  ‘Ah. Do you really imagine I concern myself with such matters, Lady Cicely? My mother sent them, so I believe it is to her you should apologize.’ He drew a long breath and turned away, rubbing an eyebrow as if deciding whether or not to believe the ladies to be her reason.

  He still wore the ruby ring that must have been taken from Richard’s dead finger at Bosworth. Resentment surged through her again, but she forced herself not to show anything at all. ‘Your Grace, it is just that at Sheriff Hutton I had a single maid, Mary Kymbe, whom I shared at first with my sister, but who eventually came to serve mostly me. I was very happy with her.’