‘My future sister-in-law with but one single maid? I do not think that is very appropriate, do you?’
‘It is most inappropriate, Your Grace, but I am content for it to continue.’
‘And your contentment must be protected, of course. Very well, you may have your Mary Kymbe, if that is your wish.’
‘I am grateful, Your Grace, and mindful of the good will you show me.’ She had noticed another of his rings, a small gold signet ring on his little finger. It depicted a man—a saint—with a leashed dragon at his feet. ‘Who is that on your ring?’ she asked, rather forwardly.
He looked at her, in two minds about whether to satisfy such unbecoming impudence. ‘It is St Armel. I regard him as my patron saint. He was a Welshman who saved a Breton town from a marauding dragon. He led it to the top of a mountain and told it to jump off into the river far below. It did as he commanded, and was never seen again.’
She was about to ask more, but he changed the subject. ‘You do not conform, my lady, which makes you most thought-provoking. You loved Richard, did you not?’
The question seemed to slip in naturally, but it was intended to disconcert. And it did. ‘Yes, Your Grace. I loved him.’ If only you knew how much!
He paused, and the seconds hung. ‘My bride-to-be loved him too, or so I am told.’
Trepidation crept in. ‘She was his niece too, Your Grace, so of course she loved him. He was a difficult man not to love.’
‘Unlike me, is what I suppose you to mean?’
‘I do not know you, Your Grace.’ So you are aware of your shortcomings, she thought uncharitably.
‘Lady Cicely, the rumours that abounded at Richard’s court were conveyed to me. I know what happened. Your sister felt more for him than she should; perhaps she even went to his bed.’
‘No! No, Your Grace, you have my word that she did not. Richard saw her as his niece and that was all. How can I convince you I tell the truth?’
‘How vehement you are.’
‘Yes, because I do not want you to think less of my sister than you might otherwise. She did love my uncle, but there was nothing wrong in it.’ Oh, yes, there was, she thought, it had been very wrong indeed. As is my love for him.
His eyes were thoughtful. ‘I think the entire host of angels would find it hard to disbelieve you, Lady Cicely, but I am not—nor ever will be— an angel.’
‘I do not seek anything but to persuade you of the truth.’
‘You show no fear of me, my lady. Perhaps you should.’
She met his gaze. ‘I am afraid of you, Your Grace.’
‘There is far more to you than I am comfortable with, Lady Cicely. You were not commanded to come here, you simply took it upon yourself to do so. Tell me, do you come to make yourself a more attractive marriage prospect than your sister?’
She stared at him, so taken aback that she was lost for words, but then she found them. ‘No, Your Grace! Such a thing has never entered my head!’
‘And now that it has, you are appalled at the very notion. I had no idea the thought of my bed could be so abhorrent.’
It was a response that lost him the advantage, and she seized upon it. ‘You would not wish me in your bed, Your Grace, for no doubt I would talk you to sleep.’
His lips parted, and she could see that in spite of himself, he was amused. ‘You are talented at playing with conversation, Lady Cicely. You even play with me, and that, I can assure you, is not something to which I am accustomed or intend to become accustomed.’
No, but you enjoy it, she thought. Yes, he enjoyed her parries, even though he did not wish to. There was nothing sensuous in it—at least, she did not think so, although she suspected he was well acquainted with matters of the flesh. Yes, he took his pleasures, but she doubted if he considered his women, or bothered to share the final moments with them. He was no Richard. Henry Tudor would think only of himself. God help Bess.
Henry studied her. ‘If you were so very fond of Richard, should I be allowing you near me? You look at me and see his nemesis.’
‘What would you have me say, Your Grace? That I hate you for bringing about his death?’
‘Yes, that is indeed what I would have you say, my lady, for it would be the truth.’
He was being a cat to her mouse, and so she had to use guile of her own. Her conversations with Richard, so affectionate and quick, so witty and penetrating, so filled with shared secrets, had taught her well how to retort and deflect. Richard was her tutor in everything. Everything. ‘Then I say it, Your Grace. Yes, I hate you for what you did at Bosworth Field.’
Henry drew a long breath. ‘That’s better, Lady Cicely, for now I know where I am with you.’
He gestured to her to be seated, and that was when she knew she really had engaged him. He was intrigued, and now she could try to banish any suspicions he might entertain towards her.
‘My lady, I do not profess to know why you are really here, unless you have a dagger about your person.’
She smiled again, and more easily now because she had begun to get his measure. ‘No, Your Grace. I do wish to apologize about the ladies, and—’
‘And?’
‘I wished to know more of you.’
‘Ah, now we come to it. You fascinated one king and hope to fascinate his successor? Although, I imagine, not in a way that might lead to the royal bed.’
How right he was. ‘The royal bed is my sister’s destiny.’ She almost called it Bess’s awful fate.
‘I am relieved you are not the elder sister, my lady, for I escape lightly.’ He smiled, so fleetingly she wondered if she had seen it at all. Richard’s smiles never disappeared like that; they lingered and caressed her with their warmth. This man had no warmth, and gave the impression of knowing little of caresses, least of all those that lingered.
‘You veil your thoughts, my lady,’ he said softly.
‘You would not appreciate them,’ she answered, not realizing in her naivety how very great the consequences her rashness today would eventually be.
He was a little perplexed to be answered in such a way. ‘How very daring you are, Lady Cicely. I was told that you are more mature than your years, and it would seem you are. How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’ In my seventeenth year.
‘My mother gave birth to me when she was thirteen. My father was twenty-five, and apparently no respecter of age. But she has never hated him. Indeed, when the time comes, out of all her husbands, he is the one with whom she wishes to be buried.’
Something passed over his face, and she knew he was astonished he had said such a thing to her. She knew that look by now, for she had seen it often. People—men and women—found themselves confiding in her, and this king was no different. But just how close could she come to him? Into his confidence? It would be interesting to find out.
‘Do you prize honesty, Your Grace?’ she asked, still too bold for her own good.
‘Occasionally.’
‘I note the reservation.’
He rubbed his eyebrow again. ‘Who are you to note anything concerning me?’
‘Your future sister-in-law, Your Grace.’
‘How could I forget it?’ he murmured. ‘Well, do you know enough of me now?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks be to God. I had heard how great a store Richard set by you, and begin to understand why. Well, I will not be doing the same as him, my lady, because one day that dagger will be there.’
‘Not if you are a good king.’
‘More insolence?’
At last she was a little more careful with him, but not enough. ‘It is not insolence, Your Grace. At least, it is not meant to be. I admire honesty, and if you are indeed the king England needs, I will be glad.’
‘For which I am to be grateful?’
‘You would never bestow your gratitude upon me, Your Grace. You do not like or trust me, and why should you? I do not hide my support for my uncle, and if he were here again now, I would still g
o to him. If it is insolent—treasonous even—to say these things to you, of all men, then I cannot help it. I treasure sincerity.’ By now she knew she had gone too far, but somehow she could not help herself. Nor was she still naïve. She had put herself in this scrape and must now do what she could to find a little favour. She wished she had listened to Richard, because she really had been silly. And was continuing to be.
He gave a laugh that was neither filled with nor devoid of true humour. ‘Dear God, lady, I do not know whether to chop off your head or rush you to my bed!’
She did not respond. Neither prospect held any allure.
‘If you treasure sincerity, Lady Cicely, you may as well know that your betrothal to John of Gloucester, such as it was, is at an end. He has already been informed.’
‘I could not expect otherwise, Your Grace.’
‘You do know that he is in the Tower, along with Lincoln and Warwick?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Well, please remember that the Tower is a royal palace as well as a prison and fortress. I am sure Richard would have said he sent your brothers to the palace, not the prison.’
She looked away, for fear he would see that she concealed things.
‘You will no doubt be pleased to know Lincoln, Warwick and John of Gloucester will soon be given their liberty, because all three have sworn allegiance to me.’
‘They have?’ Even Jack?
‘Yes, my lady. Not everyone in Richard’s camp supported him to the abandonment of common sense. If they had, he would have defeated me. As I think I said before, he came within an inch of me. I have never seen such valour. For that I can only admire him. There was not much of him, but he fought like a giant.’
He was all that was admirable, she thought. Her beautiful, beloved, betrayed Richard.
‘Do I take it that I have praised him suitably?’ Henry observed her face.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Oh, Lady Cicely, there can sometimes be too much honesty. I am the king now, while he is very much dead. Remember that.’
‘Yes, he is dead.’ Something caught upon a nerve. ‘May I ask something of you, Your Grace?’
‘I do not care for the look in your eyes. I fear I am not about to like this question.’
‘Why did you let your men abuse his body?’
He was taken aback, and remained silent for a moment. ‘Would you believe me if I said I did not know until it was too late?’
She met his eyes squarely.
‘Ah, I see your woeful lack of faith. Nevertheless, it is true. He has been buried with due rites by the Grey Friars in Leicester. I intend to provide a proper tomb for him, one that will honour him as he deserves. Nothing can alter the fact that he was the anointed king.’
‘Yet you let them stab and desecrate his naked body, sling him hands-bound over a horse and then put him on display to be gaped at. It was cruel and ungracious of you.’
She knew she now went beyond all bounds of what she could and could not say to him, but she was unable to leave these things unsaid. At this moment, Henry Tudor brought out the very worst in her.
He put his hand to his chin and stroked his lips. ‘You take great liberties with me, Lady Cicely.’
‘I know. But this matters to me so much. Do you not see? I honoured him with all my heart, and cannot bear to think of how he died or what happened to him afterward. I crave your forgiveness for asking you about it,’ she added belatedly.
‘What you are saying is that your respect for me depends very much upon my answer.’
She lowered her eyes.
‘What happened was a victorious army’s euphoria. I truly did not know what was done to desecrate his body, my lady, but I stopped it once I learned. However, I did have him put on display, not his nakedness, for the lower part of his body was properly covered. It was his face that had to be shown, because the people had to know he was truly dead. I trust you will admit that he was very hard not to recognize. Slight he may have been, but with his crooked back and arresting features, forgettable he was not.’
She gazed at him, knowing he told the truth. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
‘I am not entirely bereft of conscience or chivalry, Lady Cicely, even though you prefer to think I am.’
‘I do not prefer it, Your Grace.’
‘Where are your brothers?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I do not know, Your Grace,’ she answered, truthfully enough. They had been sent to Burgundy, but she did not know if they ever arrived. ‘I believed they were still in the Tower,’ she added, with total absence of truth.
‘And I am expected to believe that?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she added, with apparent candour.
‘Oh, how charming and sweet you are when you wish to deceive. You know your brothers are not in the Tower, and I believe you also know their whereabouts. However, I will leave the matter for the moment.’
She was relieved, but again she hid it.
‘You may also care to know,’ he continued, ‘that my uncle, Sir John Welles, speaks as highly of you as you did of him at Lambeth. Such agreeableness between two opposites seems a little unlikely.’
‘Unlikely?’
‘Yes. You are so strongly for Richard, yet my uncle came to you from me. Hardly a recommendation in your eyes, I would have thought.’ He studied her again, with his disconcertingly inconsistent eyes. ‘He pleads that you be treated well, although why he should think I would do otherwise rather escapes me for the moment. My mother, whose half-brother he is, supports his request. She always supports him, for he is her favourite. After her only son, of course.’
Sir John Welles had done so much on her behalf? Maybe Richard was right.
‘I do not doubt that my other uncle, the Earl of Pembroke, would think highly of you as well.’
Jasper Tudor was the younger brother of Henry’s father, and had not only brought Henry up but had been in exile with him in Brittany. Jasper was also one of the few men Henry trusted. At fifty-five he was in his prime, was to be created Duke of Bedford and to be prominent at Henry’s coronation. He was one of the king’s councillors and would soon marry Cicely’s Woodville aunt, her mother’s sister, Katherine. Katherine was the widow of the traitor Duke of Buckingham, whom Richard had ordered beheaded in Salisbury market place. Jasper’s marriage was yet another attempt by Henry to join Lancaster and York. Honours would be heaped upon him, as Cicely supposed was only right for a paternal uncle who had been so unswervingly loyal throughout Henry’s entire life.
‘I have many questions to ask of you, my lady,’ Henry continued, ‘but now is not the time. Yes, you have caught me off guard, as I think you intended, but you may rest assured you will never be able to do so again. I now know what to expect where you are concerned.’
‘And I know what to expect where you are concerned, Your Grace.’ It was a flippant, immature remark that she regretted the moment it was uttered. She had never spoken to Richard like that, never been so idiotically childish.
‘Have a care.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I apologize. Truly. From my heart.’ There was nothing flippant in her words now. She should not have spoken as she did.
‘I rather like it when you are repentant, Lady Cicely, for it cuts you down to a more suitable size.’
She met his eyes, but held her tongue.
He trapped her gaze. ‘You are a challenge, and if you reply that you find me a challenge as well, so help me I will have your head.’
She remained silent.
‘I think you had better go, before you try me too far.’ He held out his hand to be kissed, and she got up to bow over it, but as she did, his fingers clamped cruelly around hers. The scent of cloves was suddenly not so pleasant. ‘Never do again what you have today, my lady. You will not be admitted to my presence in future unless I send for you. Attempt it and you will make a fool of yourself.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Would you have gone to Richard
like this, I wonder? Without his summons?’
She had praised honesty, and so she would not turn from it now. ‘Yes, Your Grace, I did. He never turned me away.’
There was the thinnest of smiles on Henry’s lips. ‘He ever was . . . fond of his nieces, shall we say? Or so I am given to understand.’
‘Do not say that,’ she whispered, ‘for he had such honour.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘Well, honour or not, my lady, he led you into bad habits where kings are concerned.’
Oh, such wonderfully bad habits, she thought, smiling inside.
Even now Henry’s gaze was sharp. ‘I will have those secrets one day, my lady. You may count upon it.’ He took his hand away, signalling her dismissal.
As she returned to her rooms, she thought of Richard. ‘You are angry with me, are you not,’ she stated unhappily. ‘I have been truly stupid.’
The empty air echoed with eloquence.
Chapter Three
Two days later, at mid-morning, Cicely was reunited briefly with her mother, the Queen Dowager, and with Bess, in whose temporary Westminster apartment the meeting took place. It became a confrontation of Cicely’s own making, because she again permitted impulsiveness to plunge her into difficulty. Richard’s death seemed to have robbed her of all maturity and common sense.
Bess’s apartment had last been occupied by Richard’s dying queen, Anne Neville. Cicely knew, as had Richard, that Anne had never loved him as completely she should, because her heart had always belonged to her brief but unworthy first husband, the Lancastrian Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI. She had been betrothed to Richard first, but for dynastic and political reasons had been taken from him when she was fourteen, and given to the arrogant, seventeen-year-old prince, who had not treated her well. But she had formed a passion, and lay willingly with him. It was a passion that had not faded throughout her life.
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