Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘Merlin.’

  ‘Indeed? You have need of a wand to cast your spell?’

  ‘You are the best one to answer that,’ he replied, smiling warmly.

  ‘And you know the answer. Oh, how I love you, Jack. The more I have of you, the more I want. I am dependent.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Why should it all be one-sided?’ He smiled again.

  Her glance was drawn to the dais suddenly. Henry was coughing. It was not a spasm as she had witnessed before, but it was enough to concern her.

  Jack followed her glance. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing of importance.’ But she continued to observe Henry. He was now a little agitated. Was that too strong a word? Perhaps, but he was no longer at ease. Certainly he was not himself, because when Margaret turned to speak to him, he had to ask her to repeat herself. Margaret did not seem to notice anything amiss, Cicely thought with some surprise, having expected his doting mother to be alive to every small thing where he was concerned.

  Jack could not help but observe her preoccupation. ‘Is something wrong with Henry?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘I am still here, you know.’

  She looked at him quickly. ‘Forgive me.’

  He smiled. ‘I forgive you everything.’

  At that moment Henry got up. Cicely could see how he struggled not to cough or draw any attention to his indisposition as he inclined his head to the hall in general. As he left, he waved the merrymaking to continue.

  She looked swiftly at Jack. ‘I have to go to him.’

  ‘Why?’ He was clearly puzzled.

  ‘His leaving is a signal.’ Everything she said these days was a lie of one sort or another. And she did not want to lie to anyone. Certainly not to Jack, who was not deceived anyway.

  ‘I will find out what is going on, Cicely. You are quite clearly bothered about him, and he does not seem well to me. Not well at all.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with him that I know of,’ she replied, but the lie was in her eyes.

  Jack smiled. ‘We are too much alike, sweeting. You cannot fool me. You will tell me, for I will get it out of you, whatever it is.’

  ‘Please let it be, Jack.’

  He smiled again. ‘Go to Tudor, sweetheart. I will see you later.’

  ‘Later?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Cicely knew Henry would have gone to his private apartments, and intended to approach him uninvited, something he had expressly forbidden her to do. She turned her veil back as she approached the entrance to the royal apartments, but in spite of knowing who she was, the two guards in green and white immediately crossed their spears to bar her way. Their orders were to admit no one, but she caught them unawares by ducking swiftly beneath the spears and into the private rooms beyond. They came after her, of course, but Henry saw and dismissed them with a flick of his hand. He was seated by the fire, and indicated she should not kneel, but then gripped the arms of the chair as he struggled against the urge to cough.

  She went to him and put a hand on his forehead. Jesu, he was hot! Even the scent of cloves seemed heated. Yet he also seemed so oddly calm. It was not an ordinary fever, and she was sure he was worse than he himself suspected.

  He took a deep, laboured breath. ‘I have had enough of tonight, and will be well enough in the morning.’

  She was afraid of him and for him. Her secrets were such that he must never know them, and she dreaded that he would, but seeing him like this now still affected her. Perhaps she had enjoyed his lovemaking a little too much. ‘Please let me send for your physicians, Henry.’

  ‘No, cariad,’ he said again, but weakly, his eyes closed. His lips moved, as if he still spoke, but there was no sound. Then he looked again, and smiled weakly. ‘I love you, sweetheart,’ he murmured.

  He did not even know he said it, she thought, getting up slowly. Her feelings were utterly confused in those seconds. Richard’s motto had been Loyaulte Me Lie—Loyalty Binds Me— and if she broke her word on this, she would fail him as well as Henry. A true vow should never be broken, least of all if it was made upon the honour of a man like Richard. But she had to tell someone, because Henry was King of England and he needed attention.

  Then she knew what to do. She would not disobey Henry by sending for his physicians, or even his astrologers, but she would tell his mother. Let Margaret make any necessary decisions about her son!

  She ran out to the guards. ‘Tell the king’s lady mother that he requires her presence. Urgently!’ They hesitated, and so she called upon her formidable Plantagenet lineage. ‘Do as I say, or you will rue it! Now!’

  As one hurried away, she returned to Henry, intending to stay with him until Margaret arrived. She was alarmed to find him slumped in the chair, his head fallen to one side. A strand of his hair clung to one of his cheeks, and she pushed it back anxiously. His breathing was laboured, and his lips moved again, although she was sure he no longer knew she was there.

  She knelt by his side again, her hand over his, and that was what greeted Margaret as she swept in like a black thundercloud. ‘Lady Welles! How do you have the gall to be here?’

  ‘I have the gall because the king is unwell, my lady,’ Cicely interrupted, getting up so that Margaret could see fully how Henry had collapsed in the chair.

  ‘Sweet God! Not again!’ his mother cried, and hurried forward to feel his burning neck, where the racing of his pulse was easily discernible.

  Again? Cicely was startled. The coughing spasms were not the only thing to afflict him? He had actually collapsed like this before? She knew he was not physically strong, not in the way most men of his age were. He was active enough, but did not indulge in jousting or any other truly strenuous, dangerous pastimes. She had thought it was because he took care not to endanger his life, but maybe it was also because he knew he was not vigorous enough. ‘He is often ill like this?’ she asked.

  ‘It is no concern of yours,’ was the ungracious reply.

  Cicely was anxious. ‘I wanted to send for his physicians, Lady Margaret, but he forbade it, and so I sent word to you.’

  ‘You were correct,’ Margaret replied grudgingly.

  ‘Together we can manage him to his bed, my lady’, Cicely ventured, ‘and loosen his clothes, for he needs to be cool again.’

  ‘Well, it seems you are still accustomed to helping him undress, Lady Welles.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Derby, I am. My closeness to the king has never ceased. Clearly that is something else you have failed to observe.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘You failed to see he was ill tonight. I saw and I followed him here. He was conscious when I arrived, and he admitted me, so I have not entered these rooms without his permission, should you imagine I did,’ she added.

  Margaret flushed, and was on the offensive again. ‘You have no shame!’

  ‘I have the king’s affection, Lady Margaret, and for that I feel no shame.’ Oh, but you do, Cicely Plantagenet, you do!

  ‘Even though he is your sister’s husband?’

  ‘That fact does not seem to concern him, my lady.’

  Margaret flushed again. ‘Men are men, Lady Welles, so the blame lies with you.’

  ‘As it lay with you for consummating your marriage when you were too young? You were a child temptress?’

  ‘How dare you!’ Margaret quivered from head to toe.

  ‘I dare while you do, my lady.’ Cicely confronted her.

  ‘I had not realized how much of a harlot you are.’

  ‘If lying with your son makes me a harlot, Lady Margaret, then so be it. But now, perhaps we should not claw each other, but help him?’

  Margaret simmered, but indicated they should try to raise Henry by supporting him under his arms. It was a struggle, because they were both small women, but he was slender enough, and not too heavy.

  He was totally oblivious, and a dead weight as they struggled to get him across to the archway that led into his bedc
hamber.

  ‘No doubt you have been here with him as well,’ Margaret said, gritting her teeth as they hauled him up on to the high mattress.

  His breathing was husky, and when he lay there at last, propped against the rich pillows, Margaret gave in to her maternal anxiety, tears filling her eyes as she pressed her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, Henry, my son,’ she whispered, the words muffled against her fingers.

  ‘Lady Margaret, it is clear from what you have already said that the king has been like this before. What is it? What illness does he have? I have seen him coughing, but this is not the same.’

  ‘You seem almost concerned, my lady.’

  Cicely looked at her. ‘Because I am.’

  ‘Why? Do you hope he suffers for the defeat of your uncle and the torture of John of Gloucester?’

  ‘I am not of the House of York in this, my lady. Your son is my lover, and I have given him my word to keep his secret.’

  ‘Since when could the House of York be trusted to keep its word?’

  ‘My uncle was the House of York, my lady, and you could never accuse him of dishonour, because honour was one thing he possessed in plenty. You, who know more of deceit than any other of God’s creatures, gave Richard III every cause to find you guilty of treason, but he never once raised his hand against a woman. You were a Medusa to him. And you carp about the House of York keeping its word? You astound me. And is this really an appropriate time to resort to such pettiness? I have made a promise to the king, and if it is good enough for him, then it should also be good enough for you.’ Cicely was astonished by her own audacity, but she was angry, and dismayed that Margaret of all people was failing to act in what was a hazardous situation for Henry.

  Too outraged and insulted to reply, Margaret busied herself by unfastening Henry’s cloth-of-gold doublet. But then her emotions steadied. ‘This distemper has beset him before,’ she said, more evenly. ‘His lungs are not strong. He is strong enough in everything but this. But, if it should be fatal, it will be many years yet before it prevents him from ruling effectively. For now, he is still young and fit in every other way, and it only affects him in the cooler months. Battles are seldom, if ever, fought in the winter, and there is nothing wrong with Henry in the summer. So his illness is not yet of any interest to your Yorkist friends.’

  Cicely went to dip a fresh napkin in the water bowl on a side table and returned to wipe Henry’s face gently.

  Margaret watched her. ‘And where does my half-brother rank in your overflowing heart, my lady?’

  ‘As my beloved husband. Oh, do not smirk like that. I do love Jon, very much indeed, but the king matters to me as well.’

  Margaret straightened from undoing the many little fastenings of Henry’s doublet. ‘So, you would have me believe you came here as an angel of mercy, and not for a Hallowtide dally?’

  Cicely continued to wipe Henry’s face, and then his exposed chest, from which she could feel the heat of his fever. She could also hear how he wheezed. ‘Lady Margaret, whatever the king may wish, I think you have to send for his physician immediately. He cannot be left without any assistance. You have made no promise to him, so please send for whichever physician is considered the most discreet.’

  Margaret looked at her son again and then nodded. ‘You are right. Master Rogers should come, for he is both physician and astrologer, and I know the king holds him in great trust.’

  Trust? That did not sound like Henry, Cicely thought, wishing she could glance down and find his eyes upon her, alight with amusement about some small thing. But his eyes were closed, and he did not move at all, except to breathe heavily.

  Margaret looked at her. ‘Tell a guard to summon Master Rogers,’ she said, asserting her authority.

  Cicely did not argue but went quickly to the door and instructed the same guard who had brought Margaret. Then she poured a small cup of wine and returned to sit on the edge of the bed. Putting her arms around Henry’s neck, she gently tilted him in order to offer the cup to his lips. ‘Henry? Sip this, for it will help make you feel better.’

  His lips moved a little and his eyelids fluttered, so she knew he was aware of something. ‘Please, Henry,’ she pleaded. ‘Try for me.’

  His eyes opened a little. ‘Cicely?’

  ‘Please, sweetheart,’ she begged, using the endearment for the first time, and doing so in front of his mother.

  ‘I had to sink to this to drag a loving word from you?’ He only just managed to speak, but it was with his endearing humour.

  She smiled. ‘Do not expect it too often. Now, please, take a drink.’ She touched the cup to his lips again, and he drank a little. Two mouthfuls, maybe, no more, but then he closed his eyes again.

  She laid his head gently back and set the goblet aside. Not caring that Margaret was there, she ran her fingers gently through his hair, to cool his head a little. He was so unknowing and without defence.

  Margaret watched. ‘Perhaps you should leave now, my lady,’ she said coldly.

  ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  Cicely started to get up, but Henry seemed to have heard, and roused a little. ‘No. Stay.’ He did not open his eyes, and his hand moved as if seeking hers. So she linked his fingers. She looked at Margaret, ready to defy her, but Henry’s mother did not say anything.

  He coughed a little, that dreadful hollow sound that Cicely remembered from Richard’s queen.

  At last Margaret perceived her anxiety to be no act. ‘He recovers each time, Cicely.’

  ‘But is each time worse than the one before?’

  ‘Not as yet. I do not think it is true consumption, just a weakness of his chest.’

  Cicely was ironic. ‘And to think it was Richard who was so slight and seemingly delicate, yet I do not recall him ever being indisposed.’

  Much later, when Master Rogers had attended Henry, who slept comfortably, Cicely returned secretly to her own rooms, candlelit and warmed by the dying fire in the small hearth, and found Jack waiting. Mary had admitted him, and stood nearby anxiously, but Cicely knew it was not the maid’s fault. Jack de la Pole could wheedle his way past any woman.

  As Mary went to her own bedchamber, Jack smiled at Cicely. ‘I promised I would see you again later, sweetheart. And with Tudor clearly indisposed, I thought we should take the chance to enjoy some time alone together. I hardly imagine he is interested in my whereabouts at the moment.’

  His smile. She felt its warmth, even its caress, and her loyalty to him was suddenly of too much importance. She had information about Henry that Jack should know, even if it would not help him yet. But she had made a vow to Henry.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Jack looked at her.

  She hesitated, divided by conscience. But she was not divided by love. When it came to love, this cousin was all that truly mattered. ‘Jack, if you had made a vow on Richard’s honour, would you stand by it?’

  His lips parted. ‘Of course. What manner of question is that?’

  ‘I have made such a vow, Jack. So look at me. Read me. What is it that you wish to know?’

  His shrewd dark eyes searched her face.

  ‘Read me,’ she repeated softly.

  ‘About Henry?’

  She gave the merest nod.

  ‘Now is the time to show how very close we are in every way, mm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He leaned back against a table and folded his arms lightly. His amethyst ring caught the candlelight. ‘He is ill?’

  She gave a barely perceptible nod.

  ‘Seriously? I hope.’

  She pursed her lips.

  ‘Not seriously.’

  She held his eyes intently and could feel his concentration.

  ‘So, not yet, but it may become so?’

  Again the tiny nod.

  ‘Well, he looks thin and pale, and has certainly lost weight recently. He sometimes seems older than his years, and almost frail.’ He studied her again. ‘Is it a steady decline? No, I can read not. Possibly p
rogressive? I see I am right. Well, he seems hearty enough in the summer. So, it is periodic. Possibly the cooler months?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And when it strikes, it lays him very low?’

  Another nod.

  He gazed at her. ‘When he coughed you were almost scalded, sweetheart. You were close to Richard’s queen, and I know how it distressed you. Do you suspect Henry has consumption?’

  She looked at him, recalling how she had felt to see Henry so ill. She felt guilty for betraying him.

  Jack smiled a little. ‘Poor Cicely, you cannot help liking him, can you?’

  ‘I have affection for him, Jack, but I love you. Never suspect otherwise.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart. So, Henry has some consumptive ailment that strikes him down in the cooler months, and which may be progressive, or may not. Whatever, the winter is when he is likely to be weak. Am I right?’ He saw her nod. ‘And when it strikes him, he really is incapacitated?’

  She nodded again, trying not to picture Henry as he lay on the bed, his hand reaching out in search of hers.

  Jack straightened from the table and came to embrace her. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you are so torn. Your poor little heart is too soft.’

  ‘But I am of York, Jack, and I will never forget it. Henry knows it too.’

  ‘Does he? Then his love for you is clearly very great. I would never have thought Henry Tudor had such intense emotions.’

  She pulled from his arms a little unhappily. ‘I have broken my word to him, and wronged Richard’s memory.’

  ‘Jesu, sweetheart, look at me.’ Jack made her face him again and then raised her chin. ‘What have you said to me? Mm? Nothing. I merely jumped to conclusions. That is all. You have not sullied Richard’s name or broken the terms promised to Henry, which, I imagine, were not to tell anyone anything.’

  ‘Or write it, draw it . . .’

  ‘And you have not. Not one betraying word passed your lips, sweetheart. I love you, Cicely, and you love me. Our lineage is close, we are close in spirit and in heart, close in every way, and so I was simply able to infer everything. So rest easy, my darling. You have kept faith.’