Cicely's Second King

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘Dear God, Cissy, you are younger than me, but know so very much more.’

  ‘I am a whore. Does not our mother say so? She was always too cold with Father. Not that anyone could ever have kept him faithful anyway, I suppose.’

  ‘She had what she wanted, Cissy. She was Queen of England, and when it comes down to it, that really is all that matters. For me as well.’

  Richard’s words, Cicely thought. ‘Do you really believe that, Bess?’

  ‘Yes. It is all I want from Henry.’

  ‘Do you not want to find happiness, Bess? Or do you think you will never find it again because of Richard?’

  Bess was silent for a long moment. ‘I do so wish I had shared at least one kiss with Richard, Cissy. One kiss. Was it so much to ask?’

  ‘You were his niece, Bess.’ Somehow Cicely managed to look steadily into her sister’s eyes.

  ‘So were you, but sometimes . . . sometimes I thought I saw something in his eyes when he looked at you.’

  ‘Fondness. No more,’ Cicely replied. ‘He and I were friendly, Bess. We liked each other, we thought in similar ways. That was all.’ I am fit only to be Sapphira, she thought.

  ‘And you miss him as I do?’

  Cicely felt the prick of salt and blinked it back. ‘Yes, Bess, I do. So very much.’ In that moment it was so hard not to touch her belly, not to cherish the beloved memory she had of Richard.

  ‘So, you think I should apply your wiles on Henry?’

  ‘Not my wiles, Bess, your own. Relax with him, smile, think shockingly carnal thoughts, lick him, stroke him, caress and kiss those masculine parts of him that matter so much.’

  Bess gaped at her.

  ‘If you do not even try,’ Cicely continued, ‘you will never forgive yourself, never know the joys you are missing.’ Even with Henry, she thought, for there was something about him that suggested . . . she did not really know what it suggested, only that there was far more to him than appeared on the chill surface.

  ‘You . . . you could do that with Henry?’ Bess said faintly.

  Cicely thought of Henry Tudor, and smiled. ‘Yes. It would be quite exquisite to seduce him into giving himself. You look so shocked, Bess. This is the way I am made. I love it all. Do you not see? If you do nothing now, a chance of contentment may be passed by and lost forever.’

  ‘Contentment with Henry Tudor? Lick him? Kiss his . . . his cock? Never! I would be sick all over it.’

  Cicely smiled sadly. ‘Now that may indeed alienate him once and for all.’

  One of Bess’s ladies hurried to them, and dropped a deep curtsey to Bess. ‘My lady, the king has sent a page.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘The king sends for the Lady Cicely, my lady.’

  Cicely’s spirits plummeted, and Bess’s anger returned. ‘You see, Cissy? Always it is you!’

  Cicely was shown into Henry’s presence. It was the same room, and he even wore the same purple doublet, albeit with the addition of ermine trimmings. He was nothing if not determined to appear as royal as possible.

  She sank to her knees again, her emerald skirts billowing around her. How she prayed she was not destined to be his mouse again, but she already sensed his whiskers and claws.

  He came closer. She could feel his cool eyes, recognize his animosity. Although, was it animosity? She could not tell, only that it was something she did not like.

  ‘So, cariad fach, you have been keeping secrets from me.’

  ‘Secrets, Your Grace?’

  ‘Being so remiss as to give yourself to my uncle.’

  ‘I love him, Your Grace.’

  ‘Indeed? I doubt very much if my uncle sired your child, my lady; indeed, I doubt very much that he was anywhere near Nottingham in June. Go into the heart of Richard’s lair, risk all the gathering armies, capture and death in order to bed Richard’s favourite niece? That does not sound like the uncle I know. He has too much sense, even if the niece in question is one as seductive as you, my lady. Unless, of course, you lured him to learn my secrets?’

  ‘I wanted Sir Jon, Your Grace, not your secrets.’

  ‘If that were true, my lady, the poor bastard did not stand a chance. I wonder he has any balls left. You would still have me believe you fucked him?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘Well, I do not believe it. So, whose child is it? John of Gloucester’s? Do you carry Richard’s grandchild?’

  Oh, how good it would be to laugh in your face, Henry Tudor, she thought, but her eyes gave nothing away. ‘No, Your Grace, the child is your uncle’s, as he and I both affirm.’

  Suddenly Henry’s hand was beneath her chin, jerking her head up until she looked directly at him. ‘I am displeased, my lady.’

  ‘I do not understand, Your Grace! If I have angered you, I crave your forgiveness.’ Jesu, how he hurt her. She could feel his fingernails digging into her skin, feel the brutality with which he forced her to keep looking at him. He caused tears she struggled to hide.

  ‘Yes, you have angered me, more than I care to be. Who are you to think you can marry as you please? Who are you to get yourself with child and then dishonour my family? Dishonour my crown!’

  His family? His crown? ‘But Your Grace, it was while you were still in Brittany! Before Bosworth!’ Before you slew Richard and crushed my joy forever!

  ‘You think my being in Brittany makes a difference?’ He pulled her from her knees by increasing his grip on her chin.

  She saw him through a shimmer of tears, trying to think how to extricate herself. Would charm really work this time? She raised a hand and placed it around his, as he held her. Then she tried to convey so very much from the contact, tried to make all the wonderful, warm feelings she could muster pass from her hand into his. ‘Please, Your Grace,’ she whispered, ‘there was never any intention to dishonour you. You are my king, I am yours to do with as you choose.’ Oh, the current of emotion she strove to transfer to him.

  ‘But you are not mine, my lady. Not now. And I thought you such a virginal creature.’

  She continued to look up at him, the truth beginning to creep in. He had entertained thoughts of her, and in the belief he would be the first! ‘Please forgive me, for I cannot bear your anger. I would not displease you for the world.’

  He hesitated, his grip softened, and so did the anger in his wayward eyes. He released her. ‘Be seated, my lady, for I would not wish it to be said that I mistreated a woman who is with child.’ He linked his fingers again, and tapped his lips. It was a strange habit, calculated to give him a few seconds to consider a response. ‘I think you must forgive me, my lady. My conduct is reprehensible.’

  The unexpected apology startled her, even though she knew it was design. He frightened her, because it was not possible to know how he would react to anything. Although he had certainly seemed to respond to her touch. Or had she simply imagined it? Or maybe he was letting her think it? She could not read him.

  ‘My uncle pleads to marry you. You have him under your thumb, Lady Cicely.’ He went to open a cupboard, and took out something small. A folded cloth? Something of the sort.

  ‘Sir Jon is not a man to be under any woman’s thumb, Your Grace.’

  ‘Nor am I, my lady.’

  She managed to meet his eyes. ‘I do not presume to think so, Your Grace.’

  He stood behind a table, thus separating himself from her. But he was not far away. Perhaps six feet. No more. ‘Your ability to spellbind King Richard becomes more and more clear to me, Lady Cicely.’

  ‘He was my most beloved uncle.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You praise and support him, but you dare to question me.’ He placed what he had taken from the cupboard on the table before him. He did it slowly, deliberately, and with every intention of inducing her to look.

  She gazed at the familiar little embroidered kerchief she had given to Richard. It had been the first thing she had ever embroidered; its pattern was of the herb sweet cicely, and it was stained with b
lood. Richard’s blood. He had it with him at Bosworth! She made herself glance away again, as if the kerchief was of no significance.

  ‘Oh, neatly done, my lady.’

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Neatly stitched,’ he said, although she knew well it was not what he had meant. He referred to her self-control, not her needlework. She felt both hot and cold.

  ‘It was found on the usurper’s body, my lady. Next to where his heart should have been.’

  She looked at him, her face devoid of emotion. Charm was now never further from her mind.

  ‘Have a care, sweet Cicely, for you do not wish me to read you too well.’

  ‘You are a cruel man, Henry Tudor.’

  ‘Ah, I have touched a nerve at last. I feared you might elude me.’

  ‘You have achieved the effect you wished, Your Grace. I am more distressed than you can imagine, than you can have hoped. I make no secret that I gave the kerchief to my uncle, and if he had it next to his heart—his great heart—when he died, then I am glad. I trust it offered him comfort, as I would have done had I been there with him. You will never damn him in my eyes.’

  Henry did not move. ‘Such fervour, my lady? Such overpowering love? I cannot believe it was entirely platonic.’

  She gazed him straight in the eyes. ‘It was untarnished love, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then God help Richard III if you had desired his body, for I vow you would have devoured his flesh and left only his bones.’ He gave her a smile so thin it was almost emaciated. ‘I believe he was on the point of taking a Spanish wife? Or was it Portuguese? One or the other.’

  ‘No, Your Grace, he was not.’

  ‘How sure you are. Did he discuss it with you?’ He sat in the chair at the table, and sat back. His fluid movements trapped her attention.

  ‘Yes. He had no intention of taking another wife, Your Grace. His advisers wished him to, but I know he had decided he would not.’

  ‘His dynasty was to die with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He surveyed her. ‘You are always so convincing where he is concerned, my lady.’

  ‘Because I know—knew—him intimately. I was often with him and we were at ease together. As it should be between a good uncle and his loving niece. When you accuse him of wickedness, you practise deceit. He was not wicked.’

  Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you and Richard Plantagenet were intimate? Your word, I believe.’

  ‘Have you ever loved, Your Grace?’ She did not care if she went too far. Showing her the kerchief was callous and brutal, and if she had despised him before, she abhorred him now.

  ‘What has that to do with it?’ he enquired, rubbing his face wearily with both hands, to conceal the fact that his eye was wandering a little. When he took his hands away, the eye was steady.

  ‘If you have never loved, Your Grace, you cannot understand its amazing power.’

  He drew a long breath. ‘You begin to displease me, my lady. I am amusing myself with you, and you are endeavouring to spoil it.’

  ‘I am a toy?’

  ‘Maybe. Why not? I have nothing better to do today.’

  ‘Except rule your kingdom.’

  He paused. ‘I suppose I asked for that,’ he murmured, momentarily revealing again that he had some humour, although it seemed very dark.

  He spoke again. ‘You really are prepared to provoke me, are you not, my lady? Everyone else quakes at my glance, and so do you, to a certain extent, but then, if I prick you just a little, there you are, defiant and presumptuous.’

  ‘I am presumptuous?’

  He clasped his hands behind his head, and pushed at a table leg with his foot. ‘Now, what, exactly, did that remark imply? That I presumed to take Richard’s throne?’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Ah, so I am right. The fact that I conquered him in battle makes no difference. He is still your king. A little nonsensical, do you not think? A dead king serves no purpose to anyone.’

  ‘May I have the kerchief, Your Grace?’ Let us see how you enjoy being disconcerted!

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘In due course.’

  ‘And may I also have your uncle, Your Grace?’

  He took his hands from behind his head and sat forward again, his attention fully upon her. ‘Jesu, my lady, I do not think I have ever met anyone like you before. Crossing swords with you is remarkably stimulating. If you did not already carry my uncle’s child, you may be sure that you would soon be carrying mine. There, you see, I can do a little confounding as well. I am definitely to marry the wrong princess, and although you do not think it now, Lady Cicely, you and I could have done well enough together.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. You could not keep me here like this if it were otherwise. Therein lies your attraction.’ He treated her to another cadaverous smile, and rose. ‘You may have my uncle, my lady, although not until I choose to give you my royal consent. All in due course, mm? I trust he understands exactly what he is taking on. If I find you a challenge, he will find you an overwhelming battle.’

  ‘I will honour him as my husband, Your Grace.’

  ‘Maybe.’ His eyes were hooded. ‘And you may have your memento, my lady, blood and all.’ He pushed the kerchief across the table towards her.

  ‘May I say something, Your Grace?’

  ‘Please do, for I fancy it will be well worth the hearing.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Yes, I rather think you do, but oh, just imagine the joys of making you love me instead.’

  ‘There is very little to love.’

  ‘You might be surprised.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘So, you hate me, you are rude to me, and you hold me in just about every contempt it is possible to find?’

  She looked through him. If the cap fits, Henry Tudor, wear it, she thought.

  ‘You are not very respectful to your king, my lady.’

  ‘How can you expect me to be?’ she whispered. ‘How can you possibly imagine I will ever think kindly of you?’

  ‘Because I do not deserve so much malice, my lady. I am many things, and will, no doubt, be many more, but in this . . .’ He paused. ‘You should not be as you are, Lady Cicely, because if I get under your skin, you certainly get under mine. And I do not like it.’

  ‘Have I your permission to go, Your Grace?’

  Resentment flashed into his seascape eyes, and he got up. ‘No, madam! You may not! I should have left you alone. What is it that provokes me so? I have only to look at you and I behave very much out of character. You will run rings around my uncle.’

  She recoiled, for it was a phrase Richard had used. ‘Please, do not say that,’ she said quickly.

  In a moment Henry had come to her, his hands on the arms of her chair, his face close. ‘Why?’ Cloves drifted over her. ‘Why, my lady? What is it that affects you so suddenly?’

  ‘I will not tell you, Henry Tudor, not you!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You have to ask?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I cannot confide anything in you. You loathe me and I loathe you. You are my king now, and I will serve you as you should be served, but do not ever expect me to like you. You took away someone so dear to me that I feel I am only half alive now. I cannot forgive you. Do you understand? Please say you do.’

  He gazed at her, and then took her hand and drew her to her feet. ‘You actually shame me, Lady Cicely, and that is something I never expected to experience. I had none, and you hand it to me.’ He stepped back, looking closely at her. ‘Regarding your marriage to my uncle, my lady. Unfortunately, there is a little . . . difficulty. When is the child expected?’

  ‘March.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ He was enjoying himself again, at her expense, and she found she was holding her breath. He was going to mention the contract with Ralph. What else could it be?

  ‘There is undoubtedly some question about whether you and Ralph Scrope w
ere ever handfast in the strict meaning of it. Hmm. Now that is a point. Might he be the father of your child?’

  ‘You may be sure that Ralph Scrope has never been near enough to me.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I can believe that. However, the contract is rather awkward. Richard’s signature seems a little dubious, to say the least, but he did order the document and append his seal. Therefore I cannot give my consent until an annulment is forthcoming. I trust you understand?’

  ‘I understand how you rejoice in telling me this. You do know you condemn your own blood to illegitimacy?’ She regretted the words immediately.

  ‘Now that has a familiar ring to it, my lady. I seem to recall your precious Richard doing something of the sort.’

  ‘And how it curdles your spleen now. I wish you well of your search for my inconvenient brothers.’

  Henry scratched his nose. ‘Hm, you make a good argument, my lady. Let me think now. Ah, yes. Suppose I promise to destroy all record of the Scrope marriage and give you my consent, will you then tell me your brothers’ whereabouts? There, is that not a handsome offer?’

  She gazed at him. ‘I wish I could accept it, Your Grace, but I do not know where they are.’

  ‘What a little fibling, my lady. Tut, tut.’

  ‘Your Grace, I really do not know where they are.’

  ‘When did you last see them?’

  ‘I do not remember.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do, Cicely, you remember very well indeed. Was it at Sheriff Hutton?’

  ‘No.’ She looked him in the eyes again.

  For a very long moment he returned her gaze. ‘Oh, my lady, what a bedfellow you must be. If Merlin were here now, this Uther would definitely be turned into my uncle’s Cornwall.’

  ‘This Ygraine would throw herself from a turret.’

  He laughed, and it was a genuine laugh. ‘Dear God above, I am almost tempted to marry you no matter what. The thought of sparring with you every night appeals to me so much, you have no idea.’

  ‘The thought of there never having been a Bosworth appeals to me, Your Grace.’

  He nodded. ‘I do not think I need telling of that, Lady Cicely. Nor should you need reminding that I do not have to tolerate your attitude.’ His unsettling eyes looked deep into hers. ‘Because I have permitted liberties today does not necessarily mean I will tolerate them in future.’