Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  He raised her hand to look at the ruby ring. ‘It is good that you have it now,’ he said, drawing it to his lips.

  ‘Put it on again, Richard. Please. Let it come direct from you, that I see it on your finger and then on mine. I know you are not real, but I want to imagine it so very much.’

  ‘It is that important?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took the ring and slipped it on the shortened little finger of his right hand. He left it there for a few moments, and then returned it to her finger. ‘There, now it is direct from me to you.’

  ‘I miss you so much, Richard.’

  He put his hand to her cheek and caressed her with his thumb. ‘You have living lovers now, sweetheart, Jack and your husband. Leave me in the past, where I should be allowed to stay.’

  ‘But not at times like this, when I am to see Leo again. You are the only one who should be with me now.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so too. At least, my second self should be with you now.’ He took her hand again. ‘Come, we will see our son together.’

  He held the curtain aside for her to go into the nursery, where a fire burned in the small hearth, and more light was shed by a night candle on a small table. Leo slept in his cot, his dark hair tousled, his plump little cheeks flushed.

  Tears welled in Cicely’s eyes. ‘We did well, did we not?’ she said softly, as Richard had said to her on the night Leo was born.

  ‘Yes, sweeting, we did.’ He glanced down at Leo again. ‘Pick him up, hold him a while.’

  ‘Do you think I should?’ she asked nonsensically.

  ‘You would come all the way here and not hold him?’ Richard smiled, loving her with his eyes. Those wonderful eyes, so grey and expressive.

  She bent to gather the sleeping child into her arms. He was warm and cosy, stirring a little and stretching, but he did not awaken, instead he snuggled closer, his little face turned towards her, his long dark lashes resting against his cheeks. He was delicately made, like his father, and could not fail to be in the same image.

  Richard put his arm around her again, so that Leo was almost between them, and then he rested his forehead to hers. ‘He is well cared for, Cicely, because he is surrounded by those who love him.’

  ‘But I am not here with him, Richard. I am not here.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘Who can say what will transpire?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only that we do not know what the future holds.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Not even what will result from this rebellion.’

  He put his hand to her chin. ‘I think you do know, sweetheart, you simply do not want to confront it. That is why you speak of it to me, so that I will tell you.’

  ‘Then do not say it, please.’ She had been refusing to face it, but now she had to.

  ‘You do not think Jack will succeed in this, Cicely. You felt it at the outset, and in your heart of hearts nothing has changed. You are desperately afraid for him, but nothing you could have said or done would change him from his course. Look at me, sweetheart. You know this. Tell me you do.’

  Her lips remained firmly closed.

  ‘Say it, sweetheart,’ he said gently.

  ‘I know it,’ she whispered, fresh tears running down her cheeks. Yes, she had only put her own fears into Richard’s mouth. She did fear her cousin’s defeat. Henry appeared to live a charmed life, and would remain in the ascendant. ‘I love Jack so, Richard. Henry will overcome him, and I will lose another man who is precious to me.’ She held Leo even closer, her body trembling as she tried not to sob aloud and awaken him.

  ‘The wheels turn, Cicely. Fate has already brought you here to Friskney, and Jack will come here. He felt it too, or he would not have made such a point of telling you. He will be a defeated man, in danger of his life, sought by Henry’s men. There is nothing that can change it. Jack has thrown the dice and must now play the game. All you can do is wait here for him.’

  ‘But what is there that I can actually do for him?’

  ‘Help him to leave the country.’

  She gazed at him over Leo’s head. ‘But it may not happen, Richard. Jack may overthrow Henry.’

  ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘Henry is the Devil’s own.’

  Richard nodded. ‘Do I not know it,’ he said softly.

  She felt him begin to alter . . . to fade. She always felt it. ‘You will come to me again?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, because you need me.’

  She gazed at him. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.

  His lips were warm and pliable, tender and loving, and she slipped into his matchless spell, but then, gradually, she could no longer feel him. Or see him.

  She cuddled Leo, and after a moment began to hum a little lullaby. Her eyes were closed as she rocked gently. She was holding her son, Richard had been with her, and for a few moments they had been parents with their child. Oh, such brief conjured moments, but incredibly important to her. Leo stirred again, and slowly opened his big grey eyes. Then he smiled, made a little cooing sound and stretched up a plump little hand to touch the rich embroidery on her gown.

  Jon slept with her that night, for the first time in months. He held her lovingly, his arms closed around her, his face against her hair. They were together, tender and filled with affection. Just that. They did not make love, they simply lay lovingly together. She was as glad of him now as she ever had been. His breathing was steady and deep, but she knew he dreamed. Of what? The coming conflict? Unable to stave off her fears, she wriggled around to face him, hold him tightly, and breathe the male scent of him. He drew her near instinctively, not awakening.

  At daybreak, as the morning sun fingered subtly into the room, casting the first beams of muted light across the colourful tapestry on the wall, Sir Jon and Lady Welles made love again, slowly and sweetly. They did not know when they would be together next, because he and Tom Kymbe would be leaving for Bolingbroke as soon as everyone had broken their fast.

  She watched from the solar window as they rode out of Friskney at the head of the large group of mounted men-at-arms that Tom had raised in the villages around. Hooves clattering, Jon’s banners streaming, they passed beneath the gatehouse, over the bridge, and away towards the north-west, where Bolingbroke was a mere ten miles as the crow flew.

  She was afraid for them, and for Jack, whose devotion to Richard and the House of York had led him into what she dreaded would be utter folly. She lowered her eyes, because she above all creatures understood what it was to be devoted to Richard Plantagenet, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland.

  Her conscience would always weigh that she had complied with Richard’s order to go to Sheriff Hutton. Her place had been at his side, and she should have defied everything to be with him on the eve of Bosworth. That same cruel guilt and emotion filled her again now. Her place was with Jack, but here she was in Friskney. Another Sheriff Hutton, where she endured new anguish for a beloved Yorkist prince.

  Chapter Twenty

  News of the approaching conflict only trickled to Friskney, always arriving many days after it had happened. They learned that Henry had been at Coventry, but then moved to Kenilworth, where, clearly intending to indicate to the populace that he was relaxed and not in a state of panic, he had summoned his wife and mother. No, Cicely thought wryly, it would be his mother and then his wife.

  Jack, Francis Lovell, Robert Percy and their forces had reached Ireland to join forces with Irish lords and supporters, who adhered to the House of York. The mysterious Lambert Simnel was lauded, for he was handsome, courteous, knowledgeable and poised, and gave every impression of being lordly and highborn. He was also said to greatly resemble his ‘father’, the Duke of Clarence, who had been only slightly less tall and attractive than Cicely’s father, Edward IV.

  Certainly the boy did not seem to be the son of an organ-maker or joiner from Oxford, or whatever was the latest fame according to Henry’s stratagems. He was convincing enou
gh for there to be a coronation at the end of May, where at Dublin Cathedral he was crowned Edward VI, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland. Jack was present, together with all the other English lords and gentlemen who had joined the conspiracy. When the rebel army crossed to England, many, many more would join them. The question was, would there be enough?

  On first learning that his enemy was gathering in Ireland, Henry mustered his closest forces and marched swiftly to Leicester, and then to Nottingham, where he was joined by Lord Strange, the son and heir of Margaret’s husband, the Earl of Derby. Strange brought six thousand men. These were not the only forces to flock to the royal banners, or the only forces still expected, which included Jon’s ten thousand. Henry Tudor would have a superior army, as Richard had at Bosworth, but would he also suffer the same devastating defections?

  Cicely could only imagine the horrors of the sleepless nights Henry endured now, but somehow he would show a calm face to the world. Even feeling about him as she now did, Cicely had to admire the fortitude and determination she knew he would find from somewhere. He had been hunted for much of his life, evading Yorkist foes, and he would continue to survive.

  After the Dublin coronation at the end of May, the invading Yorkist army landed on the Lancashire coast on 5 June and immediately began to march east into Yorkshire, Richard’s heartland. They reached Masham on the 8th, from where letters were sent to gather further support. From there Jack also sent a brief letter to Cicely, whom he knew to be at Friskney because on the day that Jon and Tom left for Bolingbroke, a man from the village had also left, to join the rebels, apparently fully aware where they intended to land in Lancashire. On reaching them, however, he became involved in a brief skirmish with Lancastrian supporters and received injuries that rendered him incapable of fighting. He had no option but to make the long journey back to Friskney, but before leaving he was well questioned by Jack about the defences and activity on the land he had passed through. Thus Jack learned that Lady Welles was at Friskney and Sir Jon gone to support the king.

  Jack’s note to her was necessarily hasty:

  It has begun, sweetheart, and I am confident of victory. I wish I could be in your arms, but perhaps ridding England of Henry Tudor must be given precedence. We will be together again soon, that I swear to you. I need your kisses, and to hear your sweet voice. My only consolation is that my route must necessarily bring me south and therefore closer to you. No doubt my forces will converge with Henry’s somewhere in Nottinghamshire. Instinct tells me it will be somewhere near Newark, although I confess this is no more than a feeling. Wherever it is, it will not be near enough for me to steal some time with you. But I will be with you in my heart, never think otherwise. Please, always love me as I love you. Loyaulte me lie.

  J.

  Then he added: Francis and Robert require me to extend their warmest greetings.

  She tried not to cry as she folded the letter and then kissed the broken seal. How she wished she could give him those few longed-for hours. Not to do so would surely be to repeat the guilt of the past.

  Her distress was evident as she went to the nursery. Mistress Kymbe was there, and spoke kindly. ‘You must not grieve for what has yet to happen, my lady. Here, take your son and find solace in him.’ She lifted Leo to give him into his mother’s arms.

  Cicely gathered her baby close, and smiled as he reached up to touch her face. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, kissing the tip of his nose. It always made him laugh, a funny little trembling laugh that seemed to come from his very toes. He looked up at her with Richard’s eyes, and the likeness was a reminder so acute that she knew she had to go to Jack. Somehow. She could not stay away from him as she had from Richard.

  Mistress Kymbe watched her face closely. She knew from whom the recently delivered letter had come, and could interpret so much from simply observing. ‘You wish to go to Lord Lincoln, my lady?’

  ‘Yes, even though I know I should not. But I do not know where he will be or when he will be there.’

  ‘It will be dangerous, too. Had you thought of that?’

  Cicely nodded. ‘He needs me, Mistress Kymbe, and I will not be able to forgive myself if I do not go to him. What if history should repeat itself? My uncle—Leo’s father—died when I was far away from him. Now the same may happen again. I could not bear it.’

  ‘Then go to him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This morning, when you broke your fast in the great hall, I made it my business to examine the crumbs on your plate. Do not tell me the name, just whether or not Lord Lincoln mentions a town.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Is it Newark?’

  Cicely gazed at her. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘The breadcrumbs spelled that name, my lady. They also revealed an arrow pointing to the west, and the word “stay”. I believe they foretell that you will find him west of Newark, at a place that includes “stay” in its name.’

  ‘Do you believe such things really foretell the future?’

  ‘I do, my lady. They foretold your brothers’ arrival here, and that Good King Richard would be betrayed. Now they foretell that you will find Lord Lincoln somewhere west of Newark.’

  ‘Do they foretell his victory?’ Cicely asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  ‘Only that there will be a terrible battle. The outcome is not shown.’ The old lady looked earnestly at her. ‘My lady, if you wish to see the earl before that battle takes place, you must leave today. It is a long ride to Newark, and then you must find the place to go. You cannot go alone. Mary will accompany you, and so will some of the men Tom has left behind. It will be dangerous where you go, and you must have protection.’

  Cicely knew the sense of the advice, and nodded. ‘Very well. Please see that preparations are made.’

  ‘My lady.’

  When Cicely and her small party reached Newark, there was news of Jack’s progress from Lancashire. Although York was still faithful to Richard’s memory, Henry’s bribes had secured the city against Jack. He had been refused entry or succour, even though he was Richard’s loyal nephew and heir. It was a blow, but Jack did not waste time trying to coax the city fathers, instead he marched on south towards Tadcaster. On the 11 June, he came upon the forces of Henry’s supporter, Sir Henry Clifford, and there was a decisive skirmish from which Jack, Francis and Robert emerged victorious. It was not news Henry wished to hear, but as word spread like ripples in a pond, it gave great cheer to all Yorkists.

  Newark heaved with alarm and unrest because the king’s army would advance up the river from Nottingham, which lay south-west. The rebels were on the other side of the river, approaching through Southwell to the west. Henry had reinforced Newark, and the bridge over the Trent was garrisoned, which meant that Jack and his host would not attempt the crossing there. Jack’s intended destination was unknown, but when Cicely heard mention of a small village named Staythorpe, west across the Trent, she knew where he would go.

  And so it proved. The rebel army camped at Staythorpe while Henry was still near Nottingham, but the king despatched an advance force towards Newark, under the command of the formidable Lancastrian commander, the Earl of Oxford. The forthcoming battle seemed so close now that it could almost be heard in the still summer air.

  Late in the evening of Thursday, 14 June, in perfect weather, Cicely crossed the Trent by a rope ferry not far south of Newark. The raft was large enough to accommodate her, Mary, and two armed escorts from Friskney. One was named Daniel Green, a burly forty-five-year-old with a shock of red hair and a beard, the other was Rob Haydon, in his thirties, long, lanky and already balding. Both were guards at the Kymbe house, and were considered by Mistress Kymbe to be well capable of protecting Lady Welles. They were all, with their mounts, taken easily across to the far bank.

  Now Cicely was only a mile or so from Jack. And Francis and Robert, whom she longed to meet again. The landscape was wide and low, undulating slightly, except on the eastern bank, whe
re wood-cloaked contours rose along the river. There was a huge sky, flawless and blue, and wild flowers were in full bloom, filling the air with their scent, especially the honeysuckle that blew so freely in the hedgerows. Whitethroats and dunnocks sang their hearts out, and it seemed so very beautiful and peaceful that Cicely found it very difficult to believe she was actually caught between two great armies that were on the point of battling to the death.

  On reaching the other bank, she was dismayed when the ferryman made haste to haul his cumbersome craft back again. He was not about to wait and risk the means of his livelihood being commandeered. The closer she drew to the village of Staythorpe, the more she knew Jack was near as well. The glint of sunlight on weapons was ahead, and she could hear the noise of countless men and horses as the great force he, Robert and Francis commanded prepared for the night.

  Staythorpe manor belonged to the Cistercian Abbey of Rufford, and there was a large and prosperous grange, but otherwise it was little more than a small gathering of cottages on the road to the larger villages of Rolleston and Fiskerton, further to the south-west. On the flat, open land beyond, the rebel encampment seemed to stretch for well over a mile.

  At last she encountered scouts who halted her party, demanding to know who she was and what purpose she had. She lowered her hood to face them, revealing not only her face but her costly headdress. ‘I am Lady Lincoln, and have come at my lord’s request,’ she said clearly, having decided this to be an almost certain way of being taken to Jack himself, without revealing her true identity. Daniel and Rob had been advised of her intention, and although they had exchanged glances, they had said nothing more. They were to look after Lady Welles, and if she wished to say she was the Countess of Lincoln, they would support her.

  The scouts were startled by her title, but neither of them knew the real countess by face. One of them, more aggressive and suspicious than his companions, demanded proof, and she removed Richard’s ring. ‘Show this to Lord Lincoln, and if he is not able to be contacted, then show it to Lord Lovell or Sir Robert Percy.’ They would certainly recognize Richard’s ring.