Margaret was not deceived, however. ‘Have you been with the king?’ she asked quietly, aware that Bess knew of the intimacy between Cicely and Henry.
Cicely closed her eyes and bowed her head.
Bess’s lips parted, and she protected the early curve of her abdomen. ‘Henry? Henry did this to you, Cissy?’
‘We had a terrible quarrel that did not stop at words.’ Tears wended down Cicely’s cheeks. ‘And when he hit me, I hit him in return.’
Margaret looked faint. ‘Holy Mother, preserve us,’ she breathed, and went to pour herself a cup of wine. Belatedly she remembered to pour one for Bess as well.
Bess was shocked. ‘You … came to blows?’
‘Feelings ran high,’ Cicely responded. ‘He accused me of … well, of having been Jack de la Pole’s leman and wearing his ring.’ She held up her hand. ‘It is not Jack’s ring, and Jack and I were not lovers.’ She did not glance at Bess, who knew otherwise. ‘Then he accused me of having been Richard’s lover, and … well, that was when it became much more than an exchange of words.’
Margaret studied her. ‘My son is irrationally jealous of Richard Plantagenet,’ she said quietly.
Bess sank back on her heels, and Cicely fell eloquently silent.
Margaret drew a long breath. ‘My dear, I do still have some influence with him, and maybe—’
‘Lady Margaret, what happened today cannot be undone. You see, I told him I had been Richard’s lover, and Jack de la Pole’s.’
Margaret gaped, and so did Bess.
‘I wanted to hurt him as he was hurting me, so I lied. I let him think that everything he feared was true after all.’
Margaret’s mouth opened and closed several times before she found her voice. ‘My dear, if you said that to my son—’
‘He was justified in hitting me? Is that what you are about to say?’ Cicely’s tone was challenging.
‘No man is ever justified in hitting a woman, my dear, I am simply trying to—yes, I admit it, to find a mitigating circumstance. I do not like to think my son can behave like this.’ Margaret put her cup aside. ‘I … think I should go to him. Cicely, do you wish me to mediate for you?’
‘No.’
‘My dear—’
‘No. But I do wish you to make him promise upon St Armel not to take his revenge upon Jon.’
Bess’s brow drew together. ‘St Armel?’
Margaret nodded. ‘His chosen saint. Very well, Cicely, of course I will exact his promise, for I too worry on Jon’s account. Although, I do not know what to think about him at the moment either. There was clearly more to his abrupt departure than he was prepared to mention.’
‘We are … estranged. And because of the same thing, the amethyst ring that was not that of the Earl of Lincoln.’ Cicely said it so sincerely that she almost believed it herself.
Bess was startled anew. ‘You and Jon are estranged? I had no idea …’
‘He left me after Esher, and I have not heard from him since.’
Margaret sighed unhappily. ‘My brother can be mule-headed at times, and sometimes it causes him such pain. As for Henry, well, I wish he was less like me and more like his father. Edmund Tudor was open, forthright and at ease with himself. Henry has been … made what he is. And I am greatly at fault in this. I will go to him now, and if I can help, you may be sure I will. Bess, I know that you and my son find each other abhorrent, but I also know that he shows a very different side of himself to your sister. I wish it were not so, but it is and there is no point pretending.’
Bess faced her. ‘You had best know that I do not wish it to be otherwise, my lady. I do not pretend, either.’
The two women looked stonily at each other, and then Margaret swept out. Alone with Cicely, Bess gave vent to her bitterness. ‘If there is a devil on earth, it is Henry Tudor. I hope he suffers.’
‘Suffers what?’
‘Everything awful under the heavens. Nothing is too atrocious for me to wish upon him. I hate him so, and am glad you hit him today. I wish you had been able to hit him many times more.’
‘I behaved very badly and very stupidly today, and brought a great deal down upon myself. I am not excusing him, just admitting to sharing the blame. Oh, let us talk of something else. I notice that Annie was her charming self again.’
Bess got up to replenish their cups. ‘Ah, well, Annie is in a quandary.’
‘Oh? In what way?’
‘She is besotted with someone other than Thomas Howard.’
‘Who is this new love?’
‘Well, there are two of them, actually, one of whom I know nothing at all, save that he exists. The other is the Breton boy, Roland, who looks as disagreeable as Annie herself.’ Bess took the other seat before the fire.
‘Roland de Vielleville,’ Cicely said, her heart sinking. Annie and Henry’s illegitimate son? Now that would indeed be troublesome! And from Margaret she knew the name of the unidentified love. ‘And our dear cousin, Edmund de la Pole, is the third fellow.’
‘Edmund?’ Bess’s mouth opened and closed.
‘Yes. Lady Margaret noticed and told me.’
‘A prospect made in Hell as far as Henry is concerned.’
‘That is what I thought,’ Cicely replied.
‘But Annie would find him alluring, I imagine. He makes me shiver. And this Roland, do you know him?’
‘I had to dance with him at Esher. Jon is to watch over him. Anyway, he is now with Jon, so Annie cannot see him for a while, only Thomas Howard and Edmund. Which is enough to be worrisome, without Roland as well, whom, incidentally, I am supposed to help become a courtier. Can you imagine it? But, Henry wishes it and we must hop to his tune.’ Hop. The word took her back to dancing with Henry at Esher. Hop, sweetheart, hop… . New tears stung suddenly.
Bess studied her. ‘Who is Roland really, beyond a name? You clearly know something you are not saying.’
‘No, Bess, truly. I only know that he is the son of a friend of Henry’s, who is now dead.’
‘Henry does not have friends,’ Bess observed acidly.
‘Well, I can only repeat what he said.’
Bess snorted. ‘I doubt if my royal spouse will be any more pleased about this than about Edmund.’ She was about to expand upon the subject when one of her ladies came scurrying in unannounced.
‘Beseeching your favour, Your Grace!’ she cried, sinking into a curtsey that was far too hasty to be elegant.
‘Speak.’
‘An urgent message for Lady Welles from Lady Margaret.’
Cicely sat forward uneasily. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘She requests your presence in the king’s apartments, without delay, my lady.’
Cicely remembered hearing him cry out and cough. Maybe it was of more consequence than she realized. She was alarmed, which she knew she would not have been if she hated him.
Bess waved the lady-in-waiting away. ‘So, Cissy, yet again you are needed by the king.’
‘By the king’s mother,’ Cicely corrected, distracted. Something was very wrong. ‘Forgive me, Bess, but I must go.’
Bess nodded. ‘I trust it is something serious, fatal even,’ she said, in the tone she would have used if choosing an apple from a bowl. Certainly she did not seem surprised by the urgency with which Cicely had been called away.
Careless of her appearance now, Cicely almost ran through the palace, slipping swiftly out of sight into the secret way to Henry’s apartment. She was locked out, of course, for she had heard Henry shoot the bolt earlier, but she knocked loudly until someone came. It was Margaret, whose face was much changed from before. Flustered and very worried, she almost pulled Cicely inside and then locked the door again. ‘Thank goodness you are here, for he is very ill. It is the same as before—I believe—but far worse.’
He had not been well since Esher. Cicely felt guilty for not realizing another episode like this was in the offing.
‘How bad is he?’ she asked.
‘C
lose to unconsciousness, with a fever … and that cough. But this time he has a violent headache, he vomits, and he soils himself. Oh, he would be so mortified to know. My poor son.’ Margaret’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Please, come to him. Comfort him, for he needs you.’
‘He may not wish me to be anywhere near him. Our quarrel was quite terrible.’
‘My dear, he needs you, believe me. He is not a saint, I know, but neither is he all sinner. I have sent for Master Rogers, but the fellow must come from Greenwich. In the meantime we must manage as we did before.’
Master Rogers was the physician and astrologer whom Henry trusted most, which was not saying a great deal. An elderly man, always clad in black, with a long white beard and a black skullcap, he was the only physician summoned when Henry had last suffered a calamity to his health. The planets and stars figured highly in Rogers’s diagnoses, and he divined things from urine and stools. Henry believed in astrology and all such arts. Spells and charms were within Rogers’s knowledge, to banish bad humours and aid recovery, but he disapproved of wisewomen like Mistress Kymbe, whom he regarded with disdain.
The apartment was as it had been when Cicely left, and her cloak and hood were still over the chair. The day was fading and shadows crowded in. All the light there was came from the fire and a single candle on the cluttered table. There were no servants. Henry would not have sent for anyone, nor would Margaret, because the delicate balance of his health was not to be broadcast, even though to keep it concealed was dangerous to him.
Margaret spoke again. ‘When I came into his presence, he was writhing on the bed with cramping pains, and complained of a violent headache that made him spew the contents of his stomach. He had no control, Cicely, and you know how that would distress him. A man of his character, grace and elegance, reduced to such humiliation. He hardly knew what was happening. I have managed to undress and clean him a little, and have just pulled the coverlet over him.’
‘Pains in the stomach and a headache? Surely that cannot be the result of his chest ailment?’
Margaret looked intently at her. ‘Did you take Richard as your lover?’
Cicely was wiser now. ‘No, my lady. I was so unspeakably angry that I would have said anything. Perhaps if you read the note on the table? The one on the very top?’
Margaret went to it, read, and then returned. ‘Do you know who sent it?’
‘No.’
‘I can understand how you felt when faced with such objectionable lies, my dear, but for pity’s sake, if Henry should awaken enough to speak to you, please reassure him about your dealings with your kinsmen, particularly Richard. The thought of it crucifies him inside, and to hear you say it was true was just too much for him today.’
‘You consider this now to be my fault?’ Cicely prepared to defend herself.
‘No, my dear, it is the fault of my son’s immeasurable jealousy and preparedness to believe anything with which to feed it. He tries to be strong, but he is not, and you are his greatest weakness of all. Whatever you may think of him, he is my son, my only child, the only tangible living memory I have of his father. You can help him now, and he will recover. One day in the future—may it be many years hence—he will not recover, but I wish to stave off that moment. Please. I implore you, soothe and reassure him. I am begging you.’
Cicely was deeply affected, and put a quick hand over Margaret’s. ‘I will do all you wish, I swear, but do not be surprised if what I said to him today has ended his fondness for me.’
She found Henry on the great four-poster bed as Margaret described. His hair was spread on the pillow in a way that told of Margaret’s attempts to make him as cool as possible. There was an unnatural flush on his cheeks, and Cicely rested a hand to his burning forehead. His breathing was laboured, his eyes closed, and he did not respond to her touch. She could see the blue veins in his eyelids, and the slight flicker of his lashes. As she looked he curled up tightly, clearly in pain.
For a fleeting moment she thought of the poetic justice of it, retribution for anything he may have done to Jack at Knole. But fleeting it was. He was helpless and ill, and his bewitchment enveloped her again.
‘Oh, Henry,’ she whispered as she hurried to get his half-drunk cup of wine. Then she sat on the edge of the bed to slide an arm beneath his shoulders to try to arouse him a little. ‘Henry, drink a little of this,’ she urged, raising his head and touching the cup to his lips.
He seemed to come to, but only just. His too-bright eyes opened a little, in a way that made them seem more hooded than usual, and he found it difficult to focus on her. But he knew her.
‘I told you to get out,’ he breathed, shivering even though he was so hot.
‘I am disobeying you, Henry. You will have to get out of this bed and throw me out. I did not mean what I said to you earlier. Truly. I was angry, that is all. So please, sweetheart, sip some wine. It will help you.’
She could not tell if her words penetrated. He tried to sip, but only dampened his lips. Then he coughed, that hollow, deadly, consumptive sound she had heard before. What miserable stroke of fate had brought these other afflictions upon him at the same time?
The coughing continued for a while, racking through him, but at last it faded and he lay quietly. He was losing consciousness again, and then his head slipped sideways as he returned to oblivion.
Cicely was about to put the wine aside when something—a hitherto unrealized sense, perhaps—made her sniff it. Maybe the faint drift of almonds had carried to her subconscious. Whatever, she was suddenly back at Wyberton Castle in Lincolnshire, learning of the poisoned damsons with which Jon’s vicious mistress, Lucy Talby, intended to kill the new Lady Welles and her unborn child. And she remembered too, tasting almonds on Henry’s mouth this very day.
Margaret looked on anxiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Sniff it, but please do not drink.’ Cicely held the cup out.
Margaret breathed the wine tentatively, and then drew back with a horrified gasp. ‘Poison? Someone has poisoned him? Sweet Mother, help him! And he abhors almonds!’ She hurled the cup away and sank to her knees to pray desperately.
Chapter Eighteen
As Margaret wept and begged for the Almighty’s intervention on her son’s behalf, Cicely went back into the other room to inspect the wine jug. Sure enough, the smell of almonds was easily detectable. And yet Margaret said he abhorred them? How could he not have smelled them?
But there was no point wondering that now, for the fact was he had drunk it, and had been doing so since Esher, when he discovered the new wine. A glass or two each day, sometimes a little more, certainly enough to gradually reduce him to the wretchedness he suffered now. A cold finger passed down her spine. Did poison, not Tal’s attempt on his life, explain the change in him?
Her hand shook as she replaced the jug. Who could be responsible? She did not want to think it might have been Tal, or even Jon, both of whom had committed regicide before. Nor could it be Jack, who wanted Henry and his line excluded from the throne for all time by using the enigmatic Roland. So who else hated Henry this much? There was Bess, of course. Her thoughts paused. Bess … who had not seemed at all surprised by the almost frantic way Margaret had sent for Lady Welles, and who had made such a casually spiteful remark. ‘I trust it is something serious, fatal even.’
Pushing the dark and shocking thought away, she returned to Margaret, who was still in anguished prayer, kneeling against Henry’s bed, hardly able to support herself for the dread that now filled her.
‘My lady?’ Cicely spoke gently. There was no response, so she touched Margaret’s shoulder gently. ‘My lady?’
‘What is it?’ There was anger because truly desperate devotions were interrupted.
‘I think this has been happening at least since Esher.’ Cicely explained about the change in Henry not only coinciding with the attack upon him, but with the new wine.
Margaret gazed at her. ‘Can we be sure?’
‘I can
not be sure of anything, my lady. Maybe Master Rogers will be able to confirm it is poison, and maybe he can aid Henry’s recovery. I may be wrong, but I think the poison might be something called Russian powder, which was administered to me at Wyberton. It too smelled of almonds.’
‘One of the Talby witches?’
‘Yes.’
Margaret rose, trembling. ‘Oh dear, sweet Lord, the poisoner must know that Henry cannot taste or smell almonds. But who? Who would do it?’
‘When did he lose his sense of smell and taste?’
‘He had an ague while on his victorious progress after Stoke. He has regained his taste and ability to smell since then, except with one or two things, including almonds, which he never cared for anyway.’
‘Who else will be aware of this?’
‘I do not know. Those in the kitchens, I imagine, for they were instructed not to serve almonds to him. But as to who else …’ Margaret shrugged.
‘My lady, you may love Henry, but few others do.’
‘Including you?’ Two words, but they fell chillingly into the silence.
‘So much for your friendship. It is only on the surface; prick you, and your gall soon flows. I have not harmed the king, he is guilty of far more sin against me. I have lain with him many times, but never once have I contemplated murdering him in his sleep. He has been at my mercy, Lady Margaret, and mercy is what has always prevailed.’
Cicely waited for a response, but there was none, so she spoke again. ‘My lady, if you really believed me to be guilty of trying to murder Henry, you would call for the guards. It would be to Hades with Henry’s desire for secrecy, and I would be hauled off to the same room in the Tower where my uncle Clarence was done to death. Or whatever other vile chamber you can think of. But you will not do it because, in your heart, you know I am innocent.’
Henry’s mother turned to look at him again, and put the back of her hand gently to his cheek. ‘I know I wrong you, Cicely, and crave your pardon. You are the only one who can help now, because you are the only one who is close enough to him. Help me, my dear. He is in no state to issue commands for the discovery of the culprit, or indeed to understand anything but the agony that overtakes him intermittently.’
Cicely's Sovereign Secret Page 19