‘He is no weakling, and has always struggled with what happened to Eleanor. He blames himself for not doing anything when your father treated her so badly, and every so often finds it too much to wait patiently for our plan to come to fruition. Today he erupted again.’
She remembered being aboard the barge with Tal, when he had told her of Eleanor. Yes, guilt and self-reproach cut very deep into him.
‘There was nothing he could have done against my father. And why is he back here so soon after going to Calais?’
‘Because he received word that I was still alive. He made every last-moment arrangement he could for his post to be covered, and returned on the first available vessel. Sweetheart, your husband will soon return to take you to Henry, so there is little time to talk now. Later, perhaps.’
‘I do not want to see Henry.’
‘You will like him again when you do. He is that sort of man, I fear.’ He pulled her close again. ‘I have come to you now in the hope that you may recognize Tal after all, and be able to talk him into sanity again. If he can be rescued before he does anything, I would feel a lot better. I love the old bastard.’
‘I have to tell Jon. He already knows I thought I saw Tal when we arrived. If I express anxiety, and can persuade Jon to help, he will have access to the whole palace without attracting attention.’
‘Do not mention me, sweetheart. I would feel safer if Henry’s uncle remained in ignorance. Oh, I know Jon would probably not betray me—or you—but nevertheless …’
She nodded. ‘How will I find you?’
‘Master Pasmer’s lodgings, which is where Tal apparently intends to hide after the deed is done. There is a secret space behind the fireplace. Pasmer found it by complete chance. I doubt anyone else knows of its existence. I have alerted Pasmer to Tal’s intentions. He had no idea about Tal’s true purpose, and was terrified when I enlightened him. Now he searches as well, but his access to the palace is limited.’
She turned as Jon’s voice carried from the top of the staircase at the far end of the passage. He was calling down to someone on the ground floor. She pushed Jack in the direction of Mary’s room. ‘Hide in there. When Jon and I have left, Mary can dress your wound again.’
He did not argue, but disappeared through the adjoining door, and Mary had already busied herself setting out a suitable gown for attending upon the king.
Jon knew nothing as he waited for his wife to be dressed in formal attire, and minutes later he escorted her towards the great hall. She wore cream, bejewelled brocade, her hair beneath a butterfly headdress. He was not at all pleased to learn of Sir Humphrey Talbot’s alcohol-stoked venture. He was even less pleased that Cicely had become involved, and that he too was dragged into it. Finally, he was not in the least satisfied with her tale of an anonymous note—since burned—that had informed on Tal. All these matters would be on the tapis later, and her ladyship would have some pertinent questions to answer.
Jack de la Pole had not been mentioned at all, nor did he cross Jon’s mind. To him, Jack was still dead.
Minstrels were playing, and the notes were sweet and accomplished. The hall was of older construction than the gatehouse and private quarters, and the modest court of about fifty, mostly men, was gathered beneath a grand hammerbeam roof. Henry’s hospitality was generous tonight. Apart from the minstrels, there were cavorting fools, acrobats, tightrope walkers and some children dancing with garlands. The aroma of good food was pleasing, and the atmosphere convivial.
Numerous torches and candles illuminated the scene, and behind the dais, where Henry sat alone, there was a huge fireplace. Cicely thought how isolated he was, framed against the flames. He was dressed in black, the richest of satin and velvet, with ermine at his neck and cuffs, and a golden circlet around his brow. He was lost in thought, toying with a glass goblet.
She was often struck by how pale he was, but this time he really did look close to white. There were shadows beneath his eyes and even though he tried to appear relaxed, she knew he was not. She wished that—in spite of Knole—she was not so acutely responsive to everything about him.
Her glance moved nervously around the hall. She did not really think that even under the influence of alcohol, Tal would be reckless enough to come where he would be in Henry’s sight. But she saw no one who might even remotely fit Sir Humphrey Talbot.
Then she and Jon were announced, and Henry’s gaze swung swiftly towards her, warming perceptibly. He smiled and beckoned. There was some whispering, because Winchester was far from forgotten, and the sudden lifting of his mood could not be mistaken. But the undercurrents were muted, and most guests were careful to continue with whatever they had been doing.
Lord and Lady Welles began to make obeisance, but he prevented it, and showed his favour by standing and coming around the table to greet them. His eyes were solely upon Cicely, and she was embarrassed, mostly for Jon, and she allowed Henry to see it. It was not difficult if she thought of the pain he had inflicted on Jack.
He took heed that she was not best pleased with him. ‘I have some new wine,’ he said briskly. ‘Perhaps you would care to try it? It is really very good.’ He nodded for a waiting page to bring two more goblets, and then smiled at Jon. ‘Uncle, I have a request to make of you.’
‘A request?’ Jon was wary.
‘Will you permit me to dance with your lady?’
Cicely was startled. Henry danced so seldom that it was almost never.
Jon was annoyed, but cleared his throat and indicated consent. ‘As Your Majesty wishes.’ The strict formality spoke volumes.
Henry moved closer to him and lowered his voice. ‘I know what I do to you, Uncle, and I am shamed, believe me. I will not be backward in showing you favour, because I do honour and respect you. None more so.’
‘Except perhaps when it comes to my wife?’
Henry nodded. ‘I fear so.’
Cicely returned her goblet to the page, and Henry’s fingers closed warmly around hers. ‘My lady,’ he said softly.
Touching him again made a maelstrom of her feelings. He was smiling at her, his eyes were steady and warm; he was Harri Tudur. Putting on a face had become second nature to her, and she squeezed his fingers to catch his full attention.
‘Henry, you do not look well.’
‘A dart? And here I am, putting myself out to be amiable to you.’
‘I mean it, Henry. Something is wrong. Tell me, please.’
‘I am well enough, cariad.’
‘You do not appear so,’ she insisted.
‘You, on the other hand, look exquisite in every way,’ he replied, ending the matter as he led her out onto the suddenly deserted floor, from where he gestured to the minstrels. Then he looked at her. ‘You are in a miff with me. May I ask why?’
‘You humiliated Jon a moment ago.’
‘And I apologized to him.’
‘It is not always enough, Henry.’
The dance, perhaps already agreed upon, was a measure that every now and then involved a little hop by both dancers. The entire hall fell silent, for the sight of Henry Tudor dancing was diversion enough, let alone seeing him hop as well.
He slipped his arm around her waist as they began to move. ‘There, is this not a novelty, my lady?’
‘A marvel.’ He was determined to make her smile, and she—fool!—was obliging.
‘I trust you will not embarrass me with your clumsiness, Lady Welles,’ he said then. ‘Oh, here we go.’
They both gave a little hop, and were in unison.
‘Will that do, Your Majesty?’ she enquired.
‘Not really, for I fancy that you presumed to hop slightly before me. That is strictly forbidden.’
They twisted around, his other arm moving around her waist.
‘I will endeavour to improve next time,’ she promised, knowing she was once again enjoying his company far too much. She simply could not help herself.
He nodded. ‘Very well. Here we go again.’
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She hid her unwilling laughter as they both hopped, this time on the other foot. This man could be so very, very engaging.
He tutted. ‘Now you are behind me, madam.’
‘I will not laugh out loud if that is what you seek,’ she said.
‘You are obstinate to your king?’
They turned again, and executed another hop.
‘You were late, Your Majesty.’
‘No, Viscountess Welles, you were precipitate.’
She eyed him, twisting around to his other arm. ‘What is this in aid of?’ she asked, raising her face as if to kiss him, but it was only part of the dance.
It was also part of the dance for him to pretend to return the kiss, which he did. Their lips came very close for a second. Too close, perhaps, but it was his doing, not hers.
He spoke softly. ‘Now why would you think me guilty of an ulterior motive, my lady? Mm? You imagine that I would have some dastardly reason for behaving as I do towards you?’
‘Well, the absence of an ulterior motive would be most unusual.’
‘I am dismayed that you have such an opinion of me.’
‘You dance very well.’
‘And you seem insultingly surprised.’
‘Well, you can hardly pretend to dance frequently,’ she responded.
‘Perhaps I have not had a tempting-enough lady with whom to tread out. Quick, hop!’
She almost stumbled, but managed a neat-enough little hop. ‘Do not do that, Henry, for it will not look good at all if I fall in a heap at your feet.’
‘I would spare you embarrassment by falling with you.’
‘That would spare me embarrassment? I think not, Your Majesty.’
‘It would be interesting, though. Here we go again. Hop, cariad, hop.’
They moved together, perfectly, and he gave her a sly look. ‘Hopping becomes you.’
‘Frogs hop, Your Majesty.’
‘True, but I would hardly liken you to a frog, or anything else that resides in a pond, except perhaps, the swan that glides upon it.’
She moved around him again, and he changed arms, but this time held her a little more tightly.
‘I do have an ulterior motive, cariad. I want to impress upon someone here tonight that you are very close to me and high in my favour.’
‘Who? Why?’
‘Do not question your king.’
She almost hesitated, but then a hop was required, and she did so, except that she was indeed too early, and they hopped one after the other.
Henry’s lips twitched into a smile. ‘So, you do not take everything in your stride, my lady.’
‘That point goes to you, Your Majesty.’
‘Does it also place you in my debt?’
She turned for another faked kiss. ‘I think I need not ask how I am to pay this debt.’
‘Now there is a thought. Quick now, for we have to hop again.’
They rose together in perfect harmony, and as the minstrels played the final note, Henry bowed low to her. ‘I trust I am incorrigible?’
‘Absolutely.’ She curtsied.
‘Do not be displeased with me, my love, for it grieves me to think I have transgressed.’
She rose from the curtsey, looking deep into his eyes, because she knew he meant what he said.
‘Henry, I …’ She faltered, because she really did not know what to say. So she spoke of something else. ‘I still think you look unwell. You have to try hard to appear light-hearted tonight.’
‘How could I not be light-hearted when I am hopping with you?’ He smiled again, a fact that was noted through the hall, and then he led her from the floor, pausing to kiss her hand before returning her to Jon. ‘Your lady has a very low opinion of me, I fear, but I will strive to endure.’ He snapped his fingers for the evening to continue, because except for the music, the hall had remained silent throughout the measure.
He included Jon in what he said next. ‘I have something I wish you both to attend to for me, something private and not for transmission to all and sundry. There is a young man here, the son of a late friend, and I wish him to be in the care of those whom I trust. Viscount and Viscountess Welles will be perfect. No, it is not nursemaiding, nor is it insulting.’ He exchanged a glance with Jon. ‘The father of this young man is—was—very dear to me and I am concerned that I choose his tutors with due care.’
Clearly it was Roland to whom he referred, and Cicely was a little troubled. ‘But, I am hardly old enough for the role you wish to assign to me, and—’
‘You are my choice, Cicely, because not only are you married to my uncle, but I know you to be of singular good sense. And perhaps your youth will be of advantage in this instance, for there can be no more than five years between you. He is to be under my uncle’s guidance, but there will be other things that perhaps a woman would be better placed to advise him. My decision will not be appreciated by the young fellow in question, but I deem him to be in dire need of discipline.’
You should be dealing with him in person, Henry Tudor, not absolving yourself of responsibility by making us do it all for you, Cicely thought crossly.
Henry looked at Jon again. ‘As you know, Uncle, he is not particularly amiable, so I allow you full rein. If he should transgress in any way, you are authorized to punish him. I wish only that you keep me informed of his progress. Do you understand?’
Jon inclined his head. ‘Of course.’
Cicely spoke again. ‘Who is he?’ She had to ask, even though she knew.
‘His name, here in England, is Roland de Vielleville. He is Breton, actually named Roland du Coskäer, but I wish him to use the French version. His English is good, but he is unconscionably arrogant. I do not think he is beyond redemption. Not yet, anyway. I have a future in mind for him, but first he must earn it.’
Cicely held his gaze. ‘I understand Jon is to go to his duties soon; what will happen then?’
‘The boy will accompany him, but you will remain behind.’
There is no need for me to be involved in any way, she thought. Henry was being his usual woodbine self. Perhaps he no longer knew he did it!
He beckoned a servant. ‘Bring Master de Vielleville to me.’
Chapter Thirteen
The man bowed low to Henry and then hurried away around the hall to the furthest corner, where two boys in their teen years were seated, heads together about something.
Cicely recognized one as Annie’s Thomas Howard, although she had not seen him in a while. He was a horse-faced, bony-nosed youth, with a lantern jaw, nondescript hair and a rather humourless expression. He was certainly not endowed with good looks and winning charm, so his hoped-for expectations were all that interested Annie.
There was no sign of Edmund de la Pole, but Cicely would have known Roland anywhere from Jon’s description. He pouted and adopted the air of a great prince. His long fair hair rolled around his shoulders in the single under-curl that was as perfect as a glued wig, and he was dressed in quilted russet silk that was embroidered with red lions. As he proceeded, nose in the air, towards Henry, he was observed with stifled amusement from all sides.
Henry was not impressed. ‘What an arse,’ he muttered, and when Roland halted before him, to make deep but supercilious obeisance, Henry was even less amused. ‘You may rise, sir, but had better do it with some respect.’
The boy’s cheeks went a deep, dull red as he straightened, and Cicely knew he was frightened of Henry but trying not to show it. Even so, he had clearly been brought up with an inflated opinion of himself. Why? Perhaps because he had been treated as a king’s son?
Henry presented him to his new tutors, through whom Roland looked as if they were not there. Henry was chill. ‘Sir, if you wish your ears to be boxed again—in public, this time—just continue the way you are.’
The boy flinched. ‘I apologize, Your Majesty, it will not happen again,’ he said politely. His English was good, Cicely thought, and with a not unattractive Breton accen
t.
‘Never forget that I am your sovereign lord, boy,’ Henry snapped.
‘Yes, Your Majesty!’ Roland’s eyes were bright, and Cicely could feel his almost animal dread of Henry, who was intimidating, it was true, but there was much more to it than that. Something terrible must have happened. But what?
‘Very well,’ Henry continued smoothly. ‘Now I wish you to dance with the Lady Cicely.’
Roland was appalled. ‘Alone, Your Majesty?’
‘How many partners do you imagine she has in a dance, sir?’ Henry was not amused. ‘Just do as I say, before I lose patience.’
Roland clearly knew better than to risk such a thing, and hurriedly extended his hand to Cicely. As they descended towards the floor again, she heard Jon distract Henry by broaching the subject of Master Pasmer and the white sables.
No one else danced at the moment because the minstrels were resting, and there were precious few ladies anyway, but the music recommenced immediately.
Cicely felt quite sorry for the boy, in spite of his overweening and rather idiotic self-importance. ‘Do you dance, Master Roland?’
‘No.’
‘No, my lady,’ she corrected coolly. ‘The king is right, you need to do better.’
‘You have no authority to—’
‘I have the king’s authority, and you had best remember it. Now, you are about to dance, and are to acquit yourself well in front of everyone. I think you probably know enough to follow my guidance?’
‘Yes, my lady. I have had tuition, but do not like to dance.’
‘You must make yourself like it, sir, because you are here to learn to be a courtier as well as a warrior.’
As the music commenced, she took Roland’s hand and held it aloft, making him walk forward. Then she turned, held his other hand aloft, and walked back again. He followed her step for step, and by his frown of concentration, was paying full attention.
It was not a difficult dance, lacking such complications as hopping, and the end was reached without Roland appearing clumsy. Clearly pleased with himself, he led her from the floor afterwards, and surrendered her to Jon before making his relieved return to sit beside Thomas Howard.
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