Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘You do not know that he has neglected anything.’

  ‘Do not answer back now, my lady, for believe me, it is the wrong time.’

  She searched his eyes, and then thought it wise to sink into a curtsey. ‘I crave your pardon, I meant no discourtesy.’ What was happening? She had not done anything, and yet suddenly it had come to this.

  ‘Attend to your maid, madam, before she attracts even more attention.’

  ‘May I rise?’

  ‘You have to if you are to obey my instruction, madam,’ he pointed out sarcastically.

  She went to the door and slipped out discreetly. Mary waited anxiously, her eyes widening as she saw the marks on her mistress’s cheek. ‘Forgive me, my lady, forgive me, but I encountered Sir Jon as he arrived. I think you should see him without delay. Something is wrong.’

  The fear sprang into Cicely that Leo was dangerously ill. Or worse! What else could it be? Jack? ‘Where is Sir Jon?’

  ‘I bade him wait in the private parlour.’ Mary pointed across the courtyard. ‘I told him you were indisposed with a headache. He seems a little better himself,’ the maid added. ‘Maybe the earl’s blue bead has helped.’

  ‘Thank you, Mary. Please tell him I will be with him directly. I—I cannot simply leave my room. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Not a word to Sir Jon about the king. Just tell him I will not keep him waiting.’

  As the maid dashed away again, Cicely went slowly, reluctantly, back into the room to face Henry.

  He was endeavouring to straighten an obstinate fastening at the throat of his doublet. His face was set with suspicion and wariness, and he did not look at her.

  She took the liberty of going closer. ‘May I speak, Your Majesty?’

  He looked at her then, his manner indicating consent.

  ‘Before leaving London I sent word to Jon, and said I would halt here for a day or so, then at Peterborough and Boston, with maybe other stops if the weather was adverse. I do not know what is wrong, please believe me. There is no plot, I do not mean you any harm.’

  ‘You have always meant me harm, madam.’

  Seeing how he still fumbled with the fastening, she dared to go close enough to do it up for him, and then spread her fingers on his chest. ‘Please do not go from me in anger. Whatever you suspect, you are wrong.’

  He glanced at the fiery mark he had left upon her cheek and the bloody dents of his fingernails on her chin. ‘Wrong to suspect a daughter of York? A woman who has openly told me she loves and supports my enemies? Why in God’s own sweet name would I suspect such a woman of anything?’

  ‘Please stop, Henry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do not presume.’

  ‘Presume? We have just made love!’

  ‘I serviced you, madam. That is all.’ He was cold, remote, unfeeling. And cruel.

  ‘If you wish to hurt me, Your Majesty, then you succeed well, both physically and mentally. I am glad that being in my arms has restored you as you wished, because Henry Tudor restored is clearly the real Henry Tudor.’

  He met her eyes again, and then snatched up his light mantle and raised the hood to conceal his long russet hair, which would not stay obediently out of sight.

  Once she would have tucked it away for him, but not now.

  ‘I will summon you if I ever require you again, Lady Welles, which is unlikely, and I warn you to not even think of approaching me uninvited. You are no longer of any consequence to me, is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly. But I must ask if you mean to punish your uncle.’

  ‘I am considering it.’

  Anger blurred her common sense. ‘Then you confirm how paltry you really are! Not only do you strike women, but you punish your own innocent kin. No wonder there are so many who would rise against your reign. How low you have sunk, so much a victim of your own dreads that you cannot even make a rational judgement. I no longer love you, I despise you. There, is that not a fine example of how spirited and direct I am? Of how I will tell unwelcome truths to your face?’

  Silence hung. She knew the enormity of such audacity, and awaited his violent response. She felt sure he would hit her again, perhaps more than once, but her Plantagenet pride allowed nothing less than confrontation. The savage change in him had been too arbitrary, too disturbed and disturbing. From being loving, in the space of a heartbeat he was the personification of hatred and mistrust. And it was due to something entirely innocent and beyond her control or causing. Well, she would not pander to him. By doing this today he made her adherence to Jack so very much easier.

  When he did not move, she sank into a deep, insulting obeisance, from which she did not want him to raise her. Let him strike her again if he would, let him do whatever he wished, she would not try to soothe or comfort him. He could go to the Devil.

  His hesitation in those seconds sucked all the violence from him. She knew that if she said one gentle word, he would gather her to him again. It was in his eyes, but now that he had laid his hand upon her so brutally, she wanted him gone. Never to return to her. ‘I believe you were leaving, Your Majesty,’ she said, outrage still ruling her.

  He strode to the door and left it swinging wildly as he departed. He was still all around her, though, as were the cloves, the fading warmth, and the memory of how he could make love to her.

  That was all it would be now. A memory.

  Minutes later, Cicely paused at the door of the inn’s private parlour, where Jon awaited. She still wore the lavender brocade, and Mary had pinned her hair beneath a headdress. The door was slightly ajar and she could see him lounging wearily in a chair, his head flung back, his eyes closed. He still looked unwell, but Mary was right, there was a slight improvement. Only a little, but it was there.

  She went to him. ‘Jon?’

  He started to his feet, and had to steady himself on the back of another chair. ‘Cicely?’ His gaze flew to the marks on her cheek and chin. ‘Jesu, sweetheart, what—?’

  ‘You seem a little better,’ she interrupted. ‘The bead has helped?’

  ‘I believe so. Cicely, who did that to you? Henry? Is he the reason for your headache? I know he is here in Huntingdon.’

  ‘I . . . cannot speak of it yet, Jon. Please.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, now you know him, I think. I despise men who lay violent hands upon women. And do not say again that he is excused because he is unwell.’

  ‘I was not going to.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘Because he thought your arrival was a plot to kill him.’

  Jon stared at her. ‘You jest!’

  ‘No. Well, I have now discovered how justified everyone has been to warn me against him. A late lesson, but one well learned all the same.’

  He indicated Richard’s ring. ‘Well, he has certainly left you with a very handsome bauble.’

  ‘For my birthday.’

  ‘Richard’s ruby? I would have thought that the very last thing Henry would give to you.’

  ‘I would have thought so too,’ she replied ‘Nevertheless, he gave it to me.’ She lowered her eyes, remembering how loving Henry had been on that occasion.

  Jon came to put his arms around her. ‘I am so sorry, sweetheart, for my unwitting part in it and that my nephew has been such a brute.’

  ‘It is not your fault, Jon,’ she replied, returning his embrace, which always felt good. And right. What she felt for this man was different from her love for Richard and Jack, but still very strong.

  He touched her scratched cheek. ‘Sweetheart, there is an important reason for me to come in person like this. It concerns a matter that is confidential between us.’

  A sudden chill swept out of the hitherto warm air. ‘Leo?’ she whispered.

  ‘He is ill.’

  Her mouth ran dry and she found it hard to speak. ‘How ill?’

  ‘Mistress Kymbe fears it may be the plague. Only fears, I hasten to emphasize, for she is not certain. He shows t
he symptoms, and there are always agues and intermittent fevers in the area because of the low land. But there is plague around Grimsby, on the coast further north. We should leave for Friskney as quickly as may be done, sweetheart.’

  She was stricken, but then felt another dread. ‘Perhaps it is not the plague, but your hag’s work?’

  ‘Mistress Kymbe believes his ailment to be of natural causes, Cicely, but nevertheless has him protected with every beneficial agent known to wizard or witch. I have even left the blue bead beneath his mattress. But your presence is required, which is why I came here in spite of risking Henry’s finding out. Some things are too important.’

  ‘Thank you, Jon. Thank you so much.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘I will stay with you at Friskney if bad news awaits, but if it is good news, as I trust, then I will have to leave again almost immediately. I would be mad to desert my duties for too long at a time like this.’

  She tried to assemble her thoughts. ‘What . . . what will you tell Henry? He has mentioned your apparent neglect of your duties.’

  ‘Along with my treasonous intention to kill him? His terrors are not confined to the dark, mm? I will deal with whatever he says or does, when he says or does it. In the meantime, we should prepare to set off, sweetheart. Leave Henry to me. And to Margaret.’ Jon smiled. ‘She is my great weapon where Henry is concerned.’

  ‘Henry will want to know why you came here,’ she warned.

  ‘To intercept you and prevent you from going to Wyberton, where I have been told the plague has broken out.’

  ‘And has it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What a pity.’ She was thinking of Judith. ‘And if Henry decides to verify the claim?’

  ‘Why, then I was told it in error. Mistakes are made.’ He smiled.

  A little later, accompanied by his small company of mounted men-at-arms, and followed by Mary and the escort from Pasmer’s Place, Sir Jon and Lady Welles rode out of Huntingdon. Their route took them past the royal progress, which was already preparing to leave. Cicely glimpsed Henry, stern-faced and remote. She knew he saw her at the last moment, and that he paused to watch her leave. Did he regret allowing his fear, temper and jealousy regain such an upper hand? Did he wish he had not struck her? Perhaps he was indifferent.

  The seventy miles to Friskney could not be accomplished in a day, and one of the halts along the way was Peterborough. The weather had changed to a fine drizzle that soaked everything, and Cicely was glad to reach the Cross Keys, a welcoming hostelry in the shadow of the great church of St Peter’s. She and Jon had separate chambers, at his insistence, although she wished it were otherwise, because it would have been a great comfort to sleep in his arms. Just for the consolation.

  But if she had been with Jon in his room at the rear, facing towards St Peter’s, she would not have heard the drunken but excellent singing in the street, or looked out to see who owned the fine voice. The song was ‘The Ballad Of Good King Richard’, all about the Lionheart and Robin Hood, but such a title drew her to the window like a magnet. It was late evening, the light was fading, and the continuing drizzle turned everything to a dismal monotone.

  The man who sang was Jack de la Pole! At least, she was sure it was Jack. Hooded against the soaking drizzle, he had Jack’s wild tumble of dark curls to his shoulders, and he moved like him as well. And when he looked up at her and raised a hand, she was convinced it was him. Who else did she know with such hair? Who else would wave to her like that? Who else would sing of ‘Good King Richard’? Why was he here? Why was he not in Ireland?

  Collecting her summer mantle from its hook behind the door, she ran from the room, down through the inn and out into the wet street. The man was just disappearing down a narrow alley between two buildings opposite, and she did not hesitate to follow. Steps echoed in the confined space, and she could hear him ahead. He was only humming now, but it was the same song. She gave no thought to danger, so certain was she that Jack was only just ahead, but as she reached a high garden wall where a willow overhung the alley and thick, unrestrained ivy rambled thickly, someone stepped out at her, clamping a hand over her mouth and pinning her to the wall.

  She was terrified, fearing rape or robbery, perhaps both, but then a voice she recognized spoke softly. ‘It is all right, my lady, it is only your friend from Shropshire.’

  Tal? She stopped struggling and he released her slowly. Smiling, he threw back his hood to snatch off the wig that had given him Jack’s hair. For a moment she saw his topaz ring in a dim slant of light from a window that overlooked the alley. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I had to lure you out. I have been following you since you left London, waiting for a chance to catch your attention. I almost came to the Crown at Huntingdon, but decided not to risk Henry. And then your husband went there as well.’

  ‘I am relieved you stayed away. Henry was angry enough about Jon coming to see me.’

  ‘I saw him leave in a fury.’

  ‘Do not ask me to explain, for you would not believe it if I told you.’

  He smiled. ‘I know of Tudor’s, er, oddness, my lady.’

  ‘So do I. Now. I fear I may no longer be of use to you and Jack, for I will not have Henry’s ear, or any other part of him,’ she added, again feeling the urge to shock this enigmatic Welshman.

  Tal gazed at her. ‘I saw his face as he left you, my lady. It bore the anguish of a man still in love with you. You will hear from him again.’

  ‘Is it your Welsh feyness telling you so?’

  ‘No, my lady, just the knowledge of a man who has been exactly where Tudor is now. I recognize it only too well. Although the lady in question was not you, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ His answer surprised her, for she could not imagine him in a towering emotion about anything, let alone a woman. She glanced along the alley. ‘Is Jack somewhere nearby? Please say he is.’

  Tal kept his voice low. ‘No Red Lion this time, my lady. Jack will be in Dublin by now. I was put ashore in Pembrokeshire, to make my way back across England on various fund-raising errands, twisting wavering arms, securing Welsh support, and fomenting rebellion wherever I can. I am rather good at that. Then I go to Calais. But first, I have a letter from Jack to deliver into your hand. It is not an urgent matter, nor is anything wrong, he has merely taken the opportunity to write to you. A love letter, I would imagine.’

  Shoving the wig into the depths of the ivy, he reached into his mantle for the letter. Even in the fading light she could see the seal had been pressed with Jack’s amethyst ring; she recognized the shape and size.

  She took it, and then looked at Tal. ‘How is he?’

  ‘In excellent spirits, my lady, save he misses you. A great deal. It does not do for him to have a little wine, for then he misses you even more.’ Tal smiled. ‘He loves you very much, my lady.’

  ‘As I love him.’ She paused. ‘I have spoken like this once before, with Sir Robert Percy, about King Richard, whom I still love so very much. Richard did not return from battle with Henry Tudor.’

  ‘But Jack will return to you, my lady. Never have a doubt of it.’

  At that moment they both heard footsteps approaching from the other end of the alley. Male footsteps, with a chink of spurs. Tal considered ushering her back towards the street, but there was no time, and so he pressed her into the ivy, put his arms around her with mock passion, and pretended to be kissing her passionately. He acted instinctively, as did she, for she did not struggle or protest, but went along with him.

  The man to whom the footsteps belonged faltered on seeing them, but then walked on. Tal glanced at him over his shoulder and saw him to be elderly, stout and nondescript. Whoever it was did not look back, and clearly accepted having happened upon lovers.

  Tal drew quickly away from her. ‘Forgive me, it was all that came to mind.’

  ‘I see only Sir Galahad, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, I must see you safely back to the Cross Keys and then be on my way.’ />
  Raising his hood, he ushered her back towards the inn, and on reaching the lantern-lit courtyard he took his leave. She slipped back up to her room, took off her damp mantle and then lit a candle to read Jack’s letter.

  Sweetheart,

  I have to write this in a hurry because our mutual friend is about to depart. It was a last minute decision and so I have not had time to compose a poetic tribute to my love for you. I miss you so much that I cannot sleep for thinking of you, and the obnoxious fellow who forces you to his will. If I can soon end your torment, I will. Believe me. You are all that really matters to me. I pray I could have you as my lady before God, but we have obstacles. Always there are obstacles, and it is made worse because I hold your lord in high regard. And so I must yearn for your kisses, and take them as I can. Know that I worship you, my dear love, and the world is only sweet because you are in it. Be sure that when we next meet, I will make such love to you that you will know you are the only woman in my life. The only one. Be safe for me, and pray for me. My heart is forever yours.

  J.

  Tears were wet on her cheeks as she read it a second time, and then a third. And then, as she had countless times with the letter Richard had given her at the hunting tower, she kissed this one too, before folding it carefully and putting it in her waist purse, along with the other souvenirs of Richard and the past that she always kept close. She had not always dared to have them with her because Bess, in a fit of jealousy, had threatened to burn everything. But they were loving sisters again now, and the purse and its contents were safe once more.

  How she wished Jack were with her now, and they were about to share the bed that seemed so very empty and lonely. Another night in his arms was all she asked. Instead she would curl up alone, unhappy, anxious and fearful of the coming months.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The weather deteriorated the further into Lincolnshire Sir Jon and Lady Welles rode until finally, as they attempted to reach Boston for their final night before reaching Friskney, it became impossible to continue. They were in a flat landscape of marshes—called fens hereabouts—meadows, pastures, small clumps of woodland, decoys and fisheries—and a great deal of it would be inundated throughout the winter. The sea had once ventured further inland than it did now, and there were salt works, some of which dated back to the Romans.