He came suddenly to put his hand to her chin and make her look at him. ‘You know nothing? Is that the truth?’
‘Yes, Henry, it is. Please, you are hurting me!’
He released her as if stung, and so many emotions flitted through his wintry eyes that she could almost share his distress. Distress? Yes, that was what he felt now, and the emotion was so powerful that it almost daunted him.
‘I never wish to hurt you, sweetheart. Never. Yet I know I do.’ The words were uttered on an oddly subdued note, as if he confronted himself for the first time. Or so the thought occurred to her. An unseen clock seemed to tick in the silence that fell between them. The air was still, and yet teemed with his unspoken thoughts. He wanted to say so much, but could not.
‘Tell me what it is, Henry,’ she said, as always caught up by his struggles with himself.
He closed his eyes, and she saw him surrender to whatever it was that weighed upon him. ‘Being without you is crippling me.’
‘Please do not do this to me.’
‘I have to, cariad, because you are the only one to whom I can turn. I know that today I prey upon your warmth and love, but I must, because if I do not, I may lose you forever.’ He indicated Richard’s ring. ‘You cannot begin to know how much affinity I feel with him. He needed you, he turned to you and could not do without you. It fractures me, Cicely, because he haunts me. I cannot rid myself of him, because he has you. His legacy is all around me, all the time. I stole his throne, and I accuse him of crimes he did not commit. I paint him black, when I am the man in black, am I not? Now he is reborn as Jack de la Pole. Over and over I fight Richard Plantagenet. Will it never stop? Will I ever know peace, my own peace, within me?’
‘You stole Richard’s throne, murdered him through treachery, and come to me for comfort and understanding? I loved him, and can never forgive you!’
‘Yes, I come to you. I always will, because you mean everything to me. Richard has his revenge, for I am bereft without you. Only half a king.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I know, in your eyes I have never been much of a king anyway.’
‘You are my enemy, Henry.’
‘And you are mine, but that does not prevent me from loving you. If you think I say it lightly, then you have never understood me.’
‘I know you mean what you say.’ He was finding his way through her barriers again. God curse him, he was reaching her . . .
He saw the breach and lifted her hand to kiss the palm. ‘I love you, Cicely, but know I do not deserve a single kind thought.’
‘Humility does not suit you.’
‘I wear it anyway.’
‘As you wear the crown?’
‘Yes. The crown is mine now, Cicely, and will remain mine. I have defeated your cousin, and the House of York is in disarray. Now you can hate me even more.’
‘Is Jack dead?’ She already knew the answer, but was curious to know what Henry would say.’
He released her and moved away. ‘The Earl of Lincoln is either dead and buried on the battlefield, or he is alive and free. I do not know which.’
So, her judgement had been right, he really was not sure.
‘I cannot help you, Henry. Jack has certainly not come to this house.’
He glanced at her. ‘He may yet. If he lives, of course.’
‘Why are you unsure? If he is dead, you will have his body to prove it.’
‘Which proves that I have a body, but am not sure it is his. I am told it is him, and yet I have also been told the body may be that of a certain Paul de Wortham. If it is de Wortham, then the Earl of Lincoln has yet to be found, dead or alive. I swear, Cicely, that I issued orders that he was to be spared. I did not break my word to you.’
She knew it was the truth. ‘I believe you, Henry. So, Jack may still be alive?’
‘You are probably delighted to know it.’
‘Yes, of course I am. I love him as I loved Richard. Lying about it would be pointless.’
He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Do you wish to know about the battle?’
‘Yes.’ Would he continue to tell the truth?
‘It was at Stoke Field, by the village of East Stoke, just south of Newark. I was not actually there until afterward, but it has been described to me.’ The account he then gave was accurate, even to Paul de Wortham’s death. ‘His demise sent everything into chaos. It was a moment of utter lunacy. If he was your cousin, why then did he suddenly appear? The battle had been in progress for several hours before he appeared, and Oxford told me that Lincoln had been on a dun horse, unmarked, and fighting in the midst of it all. Then, all of a sudden, he wears every identification imaginable, carries his colours and rides his damned white horse as if in the lists? It is not tenable, and yet his forces believed it. They fled and were slaughtered. Now all I have is a dolt named Lambert Simnel, a tool in Lincoln’s hands, and I have consigned him to the royal kitchens.’
If Henry had sent ‘Lambert Simnel’ to the royal kitchens, he made the real Earl of Warwick into a cook-boy, and was keeping a changeling in the Tower.
Henry spoke again. ‘I still believe your cousin wanted the throne himself. Well, that little dream is at an end now, and if Simnel sits any throne, it will be in a privy.’
‘What of Lord Lovell and Sir Robert Percy?’
‘Percy is dead, killed in battle. As for Lovell, I do not know. Some say he drowned in the Trent, I say he could be anywhere. He has escaped capture too many times for this to be any different.’
So, Francis might still be alive as well. She prayed so. ‘What has my cousin’s ring to do with it?’
‘Simply that it was not on the body that was shown to me as de la Pole’s. Its absence leads me to suspect he lives.’
‘I cannot help you, Henry.’
‘Nor would you if you could.’
‘Nor would I if I could.’
‘I admire you so, Cicely. You still confront me, still defy me. You are the king the House of York should have had.’ He took her face lightly in his hands and kissed her lips.
It was the sort of kiss that resurrected so much that was sweet about him, so much that was good and gentle. She was still trapped, but no longer feared his hands around her throat. Instead she feared her own weakness, because this was Henry Tudor at his most irresistible.
‘Please, Cicely,’ he breathed. ‘Please . . .’
His arms slid around her, his kiss warmed into an urgent desire that provoked a response she wished was not there. But it was there, because she would always find pleasure with him, and her body always craved pleasure. She was with a powerful man, a king who was crippled by his own self, and his appeal in those moments was so intense as to be impossible to withstand.
‘Let me love you, sweetheart,’ he whispered.
She could not prevent herself from being swept along. He was Henry the man, loving and needing her, and she had to twine with him, because it was impossible to twine against him. She could feel his gratitude that she did not spurn him now, when he knew she had every reason to do just that. There was no artifice, nothing to suggest he manipulated her or used her. But she knew that something slight could ignite him again, and these gentle new moments would be destroyed.
And she knew that he feared being the way he was, that he did not know how to counter it, and that even though he had turned upon her, she remained the only person to whom he could look for reassurance.
‘Love me,’ he whispered again, ‘for I need you so.’
She kissed him, her arms linking around his neck, and he lifted her to the table, easing her skirts up to expose her to the apex of her thighs. He moved his hands lovingly over her skin, venturing partly between her legs, but then he looked deep into her eyes. ‘I will stop now if this is not what you want. I do not wish to do anything at all to alienate you again. This matters too much to me, sweetheart, and I know how much you have to forgive.’
‘I forgive you for hitting me and saying such terrible things, but do not expect me to forgive yo
u for Richard, or for defeating Jack de la Pole. Those things I cannot and will not forgive, but when you are like this, I can feel for you the way you want me to. If that is enough, then do not stop now.’
‘It is enough, sweetheart.’
She gazed at him. He was the King of England, triumphant from battle, and safe on his throne, at least for now, yet he begged for her love. Slowly, and without any more hesitation, she reached to the front of his hose to undo his laces.
He closed his eyes as she touched him, and his lips parted on a soft gasp as she stroked him, but when he finally pushed inside her, it was Jack of whom she thought.
Jack was making love to her now, knowing her, possessing her and promising her a devastatingly ecstatic peak of pleasure. And that was what she had. Henry came, but it was Jack de la Pole that she received.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was inevitable that Henry would remain overnight, and that Cicely would sleep at his side. What else could she do?
But she was still Plantagenet and Yorkist enough to take any measure to protect what she held dear. She knew Tom Kymbe kept Lancastrian banners, including the red rose, which would certainly be all the warning Jack would need to keep away from Friskney. There were always lit torches on the tower, so the banner would be visible even in the darkest hours, and Henry could surely not find it suspicious that the badge of the House of Lancaster was draped from the residence of a Lancastrian supporter. Could he?
Please let her be doing the right thing, because she had used banners this way before, but unwisely, and with unfortunate results. She had raised Richard’s colours at Sheriff Hutton after Bosworth, to show defiance when Henry’s representatives, including her husband-to-be, Sir Jon Welles, approached Sheriff Hutton to secure the persons of Richard’s heirs. All she had succeeded in doing was convincing John of Gloucester his father had won. He had ridden into the castle, and been taken prisoner. It had been her fault. All her fault. Now she did all she could to prevent Jack de la Pole from suffering the same fate.
But something happened during the small hours of that night that might easily have put Leo in the utmost peril. The room where she slept with Henry was close to the nursery, and a strong breeze had sprung up, blowing freely from the sea across the flat Lincolnshire landscape. It found its way into the house, and opened a creaking door with its draught. The sound groaned through the silence, and the draught rattled the door of their firelit bedroom as well, making her sit up with a gasp.
Someone was coming in! But then she realized it was no such thing. The draught sucked through again, and then she heard a little cooing sound in the passage. Leo? There was no nurse’s voice, only another little baby noise. Getting out of the bed, she put on a robe, for she and Henry were both naked, and hurried to open the door. A wall lantern cast a dim glow as she heard little pattering steps from the direction of the staircase. Pulling the door to upon Henry, who still slept, she hastened towards the sounds.
There her little boy was, alone in a nightshirt, rubbing his eyes and then gurgling with pleasure as he saw her. He staggered towards her, arms outstretched, and she lifted him. Laughing and squirming, he played with her loose hair, and she held him close, indulging in the delight of it. He was part of her, and part of Richard, and her love for him knew no bounds, for it was a mother’s love, even though she could not acknowledge it.
She carried him back towards the nursery. ‘What are you doing out here, sweetheart?’ she said softly, but the draught had crept strongly through the house again, and she had not completely closed the door of the room where she slept with Henry. The creaking hinges had awakened him, and on seeing her absence and the open door, he got out of the bed, his body pale and lean in the borrowed light from the passage.
He saw her and she halted, for she dared not do anything else, but her arms were so very protective of her baby.
Henry came towards her and looked at Leo, who gurgled again and instinctively held out his arms to be taken. Henry took him, and not awkwardly. ‘Well, little Master Kymbe, and what are you doing wandering around in the middle of the night, mm?’
Cicely’s heart tightened unbearably. Henry Tudor was holding Richard’s child, her child, and he had no idea of it!
Henry glanced at her. ‘Do not look so terrified, for I do know how to hold a child. I am a father twi—’ He broke off, and returned his attention to Leo, who seemed to find him fascinating, grabbing at his hair and tugging it.
She wondered what Henry had almost said. A father twice? She tried to smile, and hoped she seemed natural and unconcerned. ‘This is a draughty house, and the wind has blown doors open.’
‘In my Garden of Eden nakedness, I am well aware of draughts,’ he answered with feeling, still amusing Leo by offering his little finger. The little boy tried to chew it, and Henry smiled. ‘Ah, he teethes.’
Cicely watched his face. He was genuinely pleased to hold the little boy, and his fondness for children was evident in everything about him. But what if he were to realize whose child this was? ‘I . . . I should return him to his nurse,’ she said.
He did not immediately take the hint. ‘Children are so pure and innocent, with no hint of the slyness that comes with age.’
‘Are you saying that Prince Arthur will be sly?’
‘Well, perhaps sly is not the word. I was thinking of the less agreeable traits that come with adulthood, and with which you will no doubt say I abound.’ He gave Leo back to her. ‘And tell the nurse to take more care or I will see she is punished. That should cure her of future neglect.’
His concern was so kind and honest that it plunged a knife through her. ‘Perhaps you should go back into the bedroom, for you have the royal jewels on full display.’ She smiled at him.
‘So I do. Well, at least it proves I have some.’ He went back into the room.
She breathed out with relief, and held Leo close as she hurried to the nursery, where the maidservant who replaced Mistress Kymbe at night slept on, unknowing. She was awakened by sharp words and the threat of royal displeasure, and then Cicely hastened back to Henry, being careful to close the door and wedge it.
He was lying back against the pillows, covered to the waist, his hands behind his head. ‘The child might almost be yours,’ he said then, his eyes reflecting the firelight.
‘Mine?’ She froze.
‘His hair and something in his face. The eyes, maybe.’
‘I assure you I have not lain with Tom Kymbe.’
Henry smiled. ‘I did not for a moment think you had. I was merely commenting.’
‘Leo has his father’s colouring,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Really? I thought Kymbe was a lighter brown than that, and very curly. Still, what does it matter?’ He held out his hand, the one upon which he wore the emerald. ‘Come to me again, Cicely, for I cannot look at you without needing to hold you, at the very least.’
She removed her robe and went to the bed beside him, to link her fingers through his. ‘Cicely, I must leave at daybreak. I should not have come here at all, but I had to, for my own sake.’
‘I will warrant Jolly Jasper did not approve.’
‘Jolly Jasper does not know where I am. I endeavour to avoid arguments with him. His Welsh is far cleverer than mine.’ He smiled, but then sighed. ‘I really do not wish to leave you. Right now I believe the life of a Lincolnshire squire, with you as my wife, and ten children like Leo Kymbe would be pure heavenly bliss, but I am not a Lincolnshire squire, and must continue on a triumphant progress of sorts. I have to show my face around the land, make my victory plain and distribute reward or punishment wherever either is warranted. I have to weed out all those who supported the rebels.’
‘The obligations of a king.’
‘I know. Please, do not say anything now that will raise ghosts between us. There are things I must do to consolidate my hold upon the throne, and I know how it places me on the wrong side in your eyes.’ He put a gentle palm to her cheek. ‘It grieves me,
truly it does, because I love you so much. Although you no longer love me, do you? Huntingdon put paid to me.’
She had to put her hand over his, but she did not say anything to contradict him. And she saw the disappointment in his eyes. No, it was more than disappointment, it was ill-concealed distress. And hurt.
‘Cicely, I may not be back in London until late autumn, but when I am . . .’ He paused. ‘I will have to consent to my queen’s coronation; in fact, I already have. I have sent word that preparations are to be put in hand for the twenty-fifth of November. I am secure on the throne now, I do not need her birthright for anything, and so am able to allow this without any accusation of reliance upon the House of York.’
‘Such indisputable logic.’
‘I am known for it.’
‘Are you still cold with Bess? Did you send for her at Kenilworth out of affection?’
‘Yes and no. I do my best by her, Cicely, but it is not easy when I feel nothing for her and she feels the bloodiest of hatreds towards me. I know she wishes me dead. The role of Queen Mother in Arthur’s minority clearly holds great appeal.’ He drew a long breath. ‘I have tried imagining she is you, but although it enlivened me for a few nights—during one of which I appear to have impregnated her again—I can no longer hoist anything with her.’
‘Not that you will attempt to until she is delivered of the child and churched.’
He smiled in the candlelight. ‘You remembered that, mm?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Mind you, it would be very difficult indeed to observe such a rule if the lady in question were to be you.’
‘You resisted well enough that day at Pasmer’s Place.’
‘You have no idea how close I came, sweetheart.’ He held her hand and smoothed the palm with his thumb. ‘Things must be as they were before, you know that? I will want you to be in London—yes, at Pasmer’s Place with my uncle, if it so pleases you—but I must be able to send for you whenever I need you. Which will be often. I do not care if I put my uncle’s nose out of joint, for he failed me at Stoke Field. I made an agreement with you before—apparently with his consent—that I could send for you whenever I needed you. That must hold true again now.’ He smiled a little ruefully. ‘I do ask you, of course.’
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