‘It will fit, because it has been altered for you.’ He took the ring and pushed it on her right middle finger. ‘It is yours now, Cicely. No doubt he would have wished it.’
She was struck with emotion. ‘I do not know what to say, Henry,’ she said softly, ‘except, thank you. Thank you, so much. Yes, it does mean a great deal to me.’ The ring was warm already, but not from Richard. Not from Richard. She gave Henry a wicked look. ‘When it is my birthday again next year, I have a fancy for that handsome emerald you often wear.’
He looked at her, taken in for a moment, but then he laughed. ‘For your impudence, you damned well shall have it.’
‘And it must be warm from your finger.’
‘That can be arranged. If I thought I could ever get it off again, you could have it warm from somewhere else.’
‘I can vouch that you would never get it on that in the first place, let alone off again.’ She smiled at him. ‘You can be so endearing, Henry Tudor.’
‘So, you do not only pursue me for my rings?’
‘Certainly not.’
He slid lithely into the bed with her and lay back, his arms folded behind his head. ‘What were you and my queen laughing about?’
‘Laughing about?’ For a moment she did not know what he was referring to. ‘Oh, that! You really do try to confuse people, do you not? Believe me, Henry, you do not wish to know why we laughed. You are a man, and it was a very female joke.’
‘So, being male, I am incapable of understanding?’
She gazed at him. ‘On this occasion, yes, you are.’ She continued to gaze at him, remembering when Richard had happened upon an awkward scene in his queen’s apartments. The scene concerned bolts of cloth for Christmas gowns, and had happened at the height of Bess’s public infatuation for him. Poor Richard had made matters worse by unwittingly choosing the one bolt of cloth that would provide Bess with a gown so similar to Anne’s that it could only add to the unwelcome speculation.
‘Cicely?’
She came back to the present. ‘I was remembering something, when Richard arrived on a scene as you did with Bess and me. He did not have any idea about it either. Nor did anyone explain.’ She smiled, having no intention of telling him anything more. Reminding Henry of the rumours about Bess and Richard was never a good idea.
‘He will never be finally in your past, will he?’
She could feel his suppressed torment. ‘Henry, to put him finally in the past would be to forget him.’ She softened the response by taking his hand and kissing the palm. ‘You would think less of me if I could forget those who have meant so much to me. If I could do that, you would believe me capable of forgetting you as well. Which I will never do.’
His fingers closed around hers. ‘But will you ever speak of me with such love? I know you will not.’
‘You are my king, Henry,’ she answered softly, ‘and I am your lover. To be a lover, one must love. Is that not so? You already know that I love you.’ She diverted him by moving to sit over him, her knees on either side, her secret feminine parts resting warmly over his slumbering loins, which very quickly slumbered no more. She rubbed herself to him, and as he grew, so she was able to take him inside her.
‘How impressive you are, Your Majesty.’
His breath caught and he arched a little as she enclosed him completely. ‘Dear God, just how many muscles do you have in there?’
‘Ten for every year of my life.’
She relished his pleasure. Being joined to him now was to want to love him. But she could not, and never would, even though she had told him she did.
She clenched her muscles again, but in a very certain way. He gasped. ‘Sweet God above, Cicely, how do you do that?’
‘Practice.’
‘I will not ask with whom, for I believe I know already.’
‘Whoever it was, sir, he did not have your pleasure in mind at the time.’ She stretched down to kiss him.
He closed his eyes as she continued to move on him, but then ended the kiss on another gasp. ‘Holy bells of Hell, lady, you will stop my heart if you continue this.’
‘Will you come to me at Huntingdon wearing your crown?’ she asked playfully.
‘Certainly not. I will enter Huntingdon with all pomp and majesty, but I will enter you a little more discreetly.’
‘I believe you wished me to thank you for my birthday gift,’ she said softly.
‘So I did. How very ungallant of me. You have already fucked me to the brink of insanity, and it is actually your birthday, not mine,’ he said, and pushed her gently on to her back. His long hair fell forward as he moved to kiss the inside of her thigh. She lay there, luxuriating, as he made love to every inch of her, and when at last he penetrated her as she lay beneath him, the gratification was considerable. He thrust so deep she felt he sought to touch her heart. But Richard and Jack had touched that heart before him. And would always bar his way.
He left her before dawn to return to Sheen, where the preparations were well in hand for his departure later that morning. She was asleep, and did not see him dress or hesitate by the bedside. Her hand rested on the pillow, Richard’s ring plain to see. Henry gazed at her for a long moment, and then left.
The road to East Anglia took the royal progress right past the manor house, and Cicely was at the window as it approached. She knew Henry would look up to see her. The huge cavalcade reached the manor house and was a splendid sight, with banners and heralds, livery colours and badges, rich clothing, fine trappings, dazzling clothes and all the splendour of the monarchy. Henry rode a black horse caparisoned in gold, and he wore emerald green, not black for which she was thankful, because on such a day as this he needed colour and display. There was a shining brooch on his soft black velvet hat, his russet hair shone in the sunlight, and he was all that a king should be, she thought. Except that he was unsmiling and reserved, for he simply could not help it, but when he looked up and saw her, he did smile.
‘Oh, Henry,’ she murmured, ‘if only you would do that more often.’ But why did she care? Why care whether he was liked by the people, or hated by them?
He removed his right gauntlet to raise his hand. He wore the emerald ring she had teased him about, and she knew it was a promise.
She returned his smile, and watched him ride on until he was lost to view. Then she turned back into the room to go to the fire, and the new flames leapt and danced as she raised Richard’s ring to her lips. The light flashed and flooded through the ruby, as if giving it life.
Chapter Seventeen
Easter was over, and Cicely had reached Huntingdon, where she waited for Henry. Mary accompanied her, of course, and they were both under the protection of a small party of mounted men-at-arms Jon left behind for her protection. Henry’s great procession was near now, for his riders had already preceded him into the town, shouting as they heralded his approach. Richard’s ring was on her finger, she wore lavender brocade, and her hair was loose, as Henry would wish it to be. It would not be long now before he was here.
Huntingdon stood on the great road from London to the north, and was always thronged with travellers. The Crown was one of the most important inns, and was never quiet. It fronted both the High Street and Germyns Lane, and the galleried courtyard was reached from the latter. The streets of the town were crowded now, and fanfares were heard from the south, just beyond the fine bridge over the River Ouse.
It was 20 April, and the weather was beautiful. On such a day it seemed impossible to think that England was once again preparing for invasion. From her window she could look across the gallery and down into the yard to the archway, through which she knew Henry would come to her. Not as the king, of course, but anonymously. He would be hooded, even on such a day as this, and would give his name as Sir Jon Welles as he requested the room in which Lady Welles was accommodated.
Word had been sent to Jon that she would be here for possibly several days, and that she would tell him when she had arrived at Wyberton
. After that, within a day or so, she would see Leo at last. The prospect made her nervous and thrilled at the same time, because she knew that when she touched Leo, it would be like touching Richard again.
She sat with an open book, her wandering thoughts anywhere but on the page before her. She had not heard anything from Jack, but so wished to. To be able to put her arms around him again now would be to enter heaven again. Instead she waited for Henry, towards whom she did not really know how she felt. Of one thing she was certain . . . she was not indifferent to him, nor did she hate him as her conscience bade her. And at this moment, she was ashamed to know she was looking forward to being on a bed with him again. Did that mean she loved him after all? Sometimes her feelings were so strong and almost protective that she feared love was indeed not far away.
She did not want to think of such a betrayal of a lineage and past she had always honoured, and turned her thoughts to Jon instead. How would he be when she saw him again? She was worried for him, and bitterly disposed towards the hag who would rather see him dead than married to another. Surely she, Cicely, the obstacle in the witch’s path to Jon, should be the sole object of the evildoing, not Jon himself?
Mary had offered an explanation. ‘She hopes to frighten Sir Jon into giving you up, my lady. She did try to overlook you, my lady, but you found her spell and destroyed it, so she failed. Now she cannot harm you, but she can harm Sir Jon, because he will not set you aside, or worse. Judith Talby is ignorant, and blind with jealousy, and only when she has ended Sir Jon’s life will she realize she has left herself with nothing at all. She knows spells, but that is all. And, my lady, she can and will harm Master Leo, because he could not burn his hair himself. If he had, he too would be as safe as you. There is only one thing to be done. She must die, my lady. That is the only way to be certain of his safety.’
Cicely remembered being completely shocked by the calm way in which the usually gentle maid had said it. But Mary Kymbe had been in deadly earnest.
More fanfares sounded, in the town itself now, and soon she heard cheering and hooves, and knew how close Henry was. She set aside the book, of which she had read not a single line, and then waited for him to come to her. It was an age before she recognized his tread upon the gallery. She opened the door and he stepped swiftly inside, turning back the hood of his light summer mantle. ‘My lady?’ he said softly, teasing off his gauntlets and dropping them one by one.
‘Your Majesty.’
She would have curtseyed, but he held out the hand with the emerald ring, and she went to him instead. He kissed her palm and then held it to his cheek. ‘I have missed you so,’ he breathed, his gaze steady and even, his expression so warm and loving that she wished she could truly understand what she felt for him. And then follow that truth.
She was among cloves again as she reached up to brush his lips with hers and then brush them again before finally capturing them in a truly urgent kiss.
He returned everything with honest passion, and then moved his lips sensuously against her ear. ‘Sweet God, I have been longing for this moment,’ he whispered, his fingers twining into the silken warmth of the hair at the nape of her neck to pull her head back gently to expose her throat to his kisses.
Then he stepped towards the bed, lifting her in his arms and then putting her down on the coverlet. She caught his hand and pulled him down on top of her, wrapping her arms around him and holding him in a kiss that spread richly through them both until feeling her beneath him made his desire mount unstoppably. There was little finesse in the way he hauled her gown up and then undid his laces. ‘I have no gallantry now, sweetheart. I beg you to forgive me.’
‘I do not seek gallantry, only to be joined,’ she said, excited by his urgency.
He entered without further ado, almost ramming himself into her. The sensations were riotously pleasing. He abandoned himself in the welter of his desires. It was such lovemaking, the quenching of a thirst that had begun from the moment he last left her. She knew he had not lain with anyone else. He was the King of England, young, potent and skilled in bed, yet he only lay with her, and sometimes Bess. But he gave himself to his sister-in-law, and even if rebels were to storm the house now, it seemed he might finish making love to her before facing his enemy.
He came quickly, almost ferociously, and his breath snatched as his body jolted with protracted gratification. She shared his pleasure, because his emotion was so very eloquent and compelling, and then, when the last wavelet of his climax had washed into a voluptuous but calm warmth, he sank down gently against her to link her fingers and stretch her arms above her head. He pressed his face into her hair to lose himself in the aftermath of love, kissing her throat occasionally, and drawing her into his private paradise.
At last she moved a little to kiss his forehead. She did it gently, tenderly, and with great feeling, because these moments with him were always so rich and rewarding, so very close and tender.
He opened his eyes. ‘Something concerns you, does it not?’ he asked perceptively. He was always alert to her, seeming to sense every small thing.
She was honest. ‘How can it not be? Two men who mean so very much to me are to face each other in battle.’ It was painful honesty.
He released her hands and sat up, leaning back against the bed. ‘It is Lincoln’s fault, sweetheart. I treated him well, he swore fealty, and now he has broken his word.’
‘Were you about to have him arrested?’ She sat with him, pushing her skirts down a little over her thighs.
He held her eyes. ‘No.’
She looked at him.
‘No, sweetheart. I actually trusted his word. He is a prime example of why never to trust anyone.’
‘But why should he trust you, Henry?’ She knelt up, facing him. ‘You have deprived my mother of her freedom and her lands. You have locked up Dorset, and the Bishop of Bath and Wells, to say nothing of the countless others of lesser prominence you have seen fit to put away. Do you honestly believe my mother and half-brother would have anything to do with a plot to put the Duke of Clarence’s son upon the throne? She is Bess’s mother and your son’s grandmother. The only reason she would ever enter such a plot would be if the leader of it were to be one of my full-blood brothers.’
‘The only worthy thing your mother has ever done is give birth to you. She is a tiresome, interfering bitch, and I am not the fool Richard was. I intend to keep her in seclusion to prevent her from even thinking of dabbling.’
‘And you have taken her property for yourself. I was thinking of Greenwich.’
‘You think I do not have a right to it?’
There was a perceptible change in him, a subtle shade that made her wary. She met his eyes and knew a truthful answer would not be appropriate. ‘I would not presume to say.’
‘Yes, you would, you have simply thought better of it.’ He searched her face. ‘Your family will always be between us.’ He said it quietly, and not lightly.
At that unnerving moment came the sound of female footsteps hurrying along the gallery, then Mary spoke urgently at the door. ‘My lady? My lady? Sir Jon is here!’
Startled, Cicely drew back from Henry, whose fingers immediately gripped her chin as harshly as they had done once before. ‘What trap is this?’ he breathed, his eyes cold, wary and . . . dangerous.
She tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened. ‘What are you up to, madam? Have you thrown in your lot with Lincoln after all? You intend to do away with me?’
Her eyes were huge. ‘No! No, Henry! There is no trick! I do not know why my husband has come here.’
‘Then how is he even aware that you are here?’
She gazed at him. ‘Because I wrote to him that I would break my journey here. Oh, Henry, please do not think I have planned this! I would not do it, not to you, or to Jon. This town is filled with your men; only a complete fool would attempt to do anything to you under such circumstances. Or perhaps you think I have my cousin and a conquering army of Yorkists sur
rounding the town, about to fall upon you like ravening wolves? Perhaps my husband is here to face you in single combat for his marital honour?’
‘I do not believe you!’ he breathed, his fingernails digging into her chin until they drew blood.
Tears flooded her eyes and she was so afraid that she could not speak. She was with the other Henry, the one who was barely in control and who might be capable of anything. ‘You are hurting me, Henry,’ she whispered.
He relaxed his hold, but not by much. ‘What a fool you make of me, madam.’
‘Is this how you destroy love, Henry? Is this what you did to the lady of whom you will not speak?’
She did not see the blow coming, she only knew a pain so ferociously delivered by the back of his hand that it jerked her head aside and made her fall back upon the bed. He raised the hand to strike her again, but stopped himself, gazing down as she curled into a protective ball, trying to hide her face, where the emerald had left a scratch. ‘You go too far, Lady Welles,’ he breathed with icy control. ‘You are never to mention her again, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, even more terrified by his iciness than his rage. Finally she had been physically confronted by his uncontrollable flaws, by the demons he could not drive away.
Mary knocked again. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I believe it to be urgent.’
Henry got up calmly, almost as if nothing had happened, and as he began to straighten his clothes, Cicely was able to slip from the other side of the bed. ‘One moment, Mary!’ she called as she shook out her crumpled gown and then went tentatively around the bed, not knowing what to do. Henry was a complete stranger, and she was frightened of him.
‘What am I to say to you now, Your Majesty?’
‘There is nothing I wish you to say, madam.’ His eyes were like frost. ‘Should you not elicit what is so very important that your husband has deemed it necessary to neglect his royal duties at Bolingbroke?’
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