‘Henry Tudor, do you really think I mean to go around with a bell, telling the world I am too intimate by far with my nephew and forthcoming brother-in-law?’
‘When the forthcoming brother-in-law happens to be the man you hate most, you may well feel so tempted. What an opportunity to destroy my reputation.’
She gave him a look. ‘And you, Henry, know all about destroying reputations, do you not? Just look what a fine job you have made of Richard. If I did try to do the same to you, it would be no more than you deserve.’
‘That, unfortunately, is true.’ He tilted her chin. ‘You could become an obsession, sweetheart. Perhaps you already are.’ He kissed her softly, working his lips to hers, drawing little responses she tried hard not to give. Experience marked everything he did now. Her senses swam, her body came to familiar wanton life, and desire almost overwhelmed her. Perhaps it would have done, had he not suddenly moved away from her.
He paused, his back to her, and drew a long steadying breath, which told her he had felt everything as she had. And was as shaken. ‘The anticipation of being truly in your arms will surely kill me,’ he murmured, and glanced back at her. ‘I look at you, cariad, and see my fate.’ Taking up his hat and gauntlets from the table, he went to the door, where he halted again.
‘I wish you well of Lincolnshire, Cicely, for I do not think it will be the reassuring refuge that you expect. From me, maybe, but not from others.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I will leave it to your husband to explain. He should have done already, I think, but clearly he has been a little remiss.’
‘Riddles, Henry?’
‘Not quite. Ask him, Cicely. Ask him why a daughter of York will be so loathed on his lands.’
She gazed at him. ‘And that is all you will say to me now?’
‘No, I will also advise you not to consider escaping me by dying in childbed, for I swear that if I have to exhume you in order to have you, I will.’
‘More limp, lifeless flesh, Henry?’
‘Better than no flesh at all, sweetheart. I bid you farewell, and God speed. I cannot tell you how much I look forward to your return. In the early summer, no doubt.’ He inclined his head, and then strode out, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.
Chapter Fifteen
Wyberton Castle was one of the seventeen or so Lincolnshire manors held by Sir Jon Welles, and it was only a mile ahead as he and Cicely rode slowly through the bitter January twilight at the head of the train that had left Pasmer’s Place. Jon’s colours fluttered proudly above the riders, and the slow clatter of hooves was almost drowned by the noise of the weather. Mary Kymbe rode behind her mistress, keeping a watchful eye, because Cicely had found the journey more difficult than expected. The final weeks before the child was born promised to be trying.
This land was not welcoming, especially on a winter dusk. It was flat, the darkening sky was huge, and there was no shelter from the elements. Snowflakes were flung on the breeze from the bleak expanses of the nearby Wash, the stream alongside the slightly raised road was noisy and overflowing, and the dry reeds rubbed together like thrifty old hands.
Jon reined in, his entire manner suggestive of a heavy conscience. ‘Cicely—’
He was going to tell her at last. She could almost feel his inner struggle and reluctance. ‘Please tell me, Jon, for it is clear you feel you must.’
He leaned across to take the bridle of her palfrey and then manoeuvred them both out of the way of the train. Mary waited discreetly nearby, beyond hearing as he dismounted and lifted Cicely carefully down, holding her arms until he was sure she was able to stand alone. She had fainted once since leaving London, giving him as much of a fright as she had herself.
‘You are steady?’ he asked anxiously, gazing at her as the breeze fluttered the hood over her headdress, and several snowflakes caught on the fur-covered shoulders of her cloak.
‘Yes.’ Her gloved hand rested on his sleeve. ‘What is all this, Jon?’
‘I should have told you before, sweetheart, but turned craven, I fear.’ His dark blue eyes were oddly tentative. ‘Cicely, no lady who is staunch to York by birth and loyalty could ever be welcome here.’
‘Why?’
‘You are aware my family is Lancastrian? My father died in 1461 at the Battle of Towton, which, you know, was won by your father. My elder half-brother succeeded to the title and lands, but in 1470, when I was twenty or so, he and his son were beheaded at your father’s command, and it was because of a plot that was all Yorkist scheming.’
‘What happened?’
‘They were at the centre of a rebellion that originated in the dislike, quarrelling and rivalry between my Lancastrian family, which had supported the old Earl of Warwick against your father, and a neighbouring Yorkist family, the de Burghs, who were always your father’s allies. My brother was fool enough to put a de Burgh manor to flame, and de Burgh went to the king, whom he had once helped to escape from Warwick’s clutches. Your father summoned my brother for an explanation. My brother went, having first instructed his son, my nephew, to cause as much trouble as possible if anything should happen to him.’
Cicely was astonished. ‘What did he imagine his son could do against my father’s power?’
‘I have no idea what he imagined, Cicely, except that my nephew stirred up rebellion because my brother was thrown into the Tower. Lincolnshire was soon at the point of boiling over, and then everything fell under the manipulation and power of the Earl of Warwick, the so-called Maker of Kings, and also under the influence of your late uncle, the Duke of Clarence, who was, of course, Warwick’s son-in-law. They meant to preoccupy your father with the rebellion, and then strike at him themselves, the intention being to remove him from the throne and replace him with Clarence. At least, that was what Clarence believed; in fact, Warwick had other plans. It was not until the rebellion had become truly dangerous that your father realized these lords’ involvement. He outmanoeuvred them, and they did not get the support they hoped, because very few men wished to replace Edward with his untrustworthy brother. Warwick and Clarence were forced to flee, and my nephew’s motley army had to face your father on its own.’
‘What did you do during all this, Jon?’
He paused. ‘I absented myself from the proceedings. I thought my family had behaved with great stupidity and wished nothing to do with it.’
‘I imagine you were wise.’
‘I am still alive, if that is what you mean.’
‘What happened next?’
Jon pressed his lips together ruefully. ‘My nephew had mustered thirty thousand peasants, armed with staves and farm implements. They found themselves up against Edward IV’s full might, including artillery. It was a foregone conclusion.’
Cicely was appalled. Thirty thousand might seem like a large force, but not when it was ill-equipped and facing her father.
‘The battle, such as it was, took place in the next county, at Empingham in Rutland, and did not last long,’ Jon went on. ‘The royal cannons were fired and your father’s army charged. The peasants scattered, discarding their coats because they displayed the badges of Warwick, Clarence and Welles. That is supposedly why the battle was known as Losecoat Field. Some believe it was a reference to the ancient Saxon name for the place. Whatever, it was nothing but slaughter. A large number of Lincolnshire men died that day, and there are many families who lost fathers, sons, uncles, nephews . . . and friends. It was fifteen years ago, but as fresh here as it was on the day. The quarrel between Welles and de Burgh had been taken over by a plot to replace one Yorkist brother with another, and the fates of the unfortunate Lincolnshire men embroiled in it all was of no consequence at all. The House of York is hated.’
‘I was a baby at the time, Jon, yet must take the blame for the whole of my House?’ She was indignant.
‘I should have warned you before, but, well, I did not. I hoped to avoid bringing you here. Rockingham, maybe, but not Wyberton.
But it is where I have important business to attend to, and thus you are here anyway. Now it is almost journey’s end before I find my tongue.’
‘Is this what you shrank from telling me the night you took me from court and back to Pasmer’s Place?’ she asked.
Again the hesitation. ‘Yes.’
‘Even Henry knew of it and would not tell me. I explained that he came to Pasmer’s Place on the day we left.’ She certainly had not related everything. ‘He warned me that there was something you were not telling me. Is there anything else, Jon? Because if there is, I would rather know it now.’ She smiled, for was this not a reversal of their conversation on their wedding night? But he was spared the need to answer because something else occurred to her. ‘If you have only just had the return of your lands, and you have been in London, does it mean you have not been here for some time?’
‘Well, not entirely. I was here when I should not have been, if you understand me. I had joined Henry in Brittany in 1483, after being in the Buckingham rebellion and the attempt to get your brothers out of the Tower, but I returned secretly eight months ago. Which is why I could safely say I was with you in Nottingham in June last year. I could well have been, you see. I made it my business to be here, there and everywhere, but always returning to Lincolnshire. I was sheltered by the people here while I found out all I could that might help Henry. I rejoined him when he invaded.’
‘So . . . you plotted against Richard as well as fought against him at Bosworth?’
‘Yes, I did, sweetheart, and I was one of Henry’s captains at Bosworth. I cannot alter anything. Your father left me no choice but to remain Lancastrian.’
‘You should have approached Richard. He was not my father.’
‘He had nothing to do with those events, for he was far away in Wales, but he was still a Yorkist prince, faithful to Edward IV. Richard was about eighteen in 1470, already with a reputation for justice, but I did not intend to test him. With a name like Welles, how could I? And when Richard ascended the throne, he had me arrested for acting against him. I was not his supporter, so why should he lift a hand to help me?’
‘He would have heard you honestly, and did eventually release you.’
‘He took my property in 1483, and I did not regain it until after Bosworth, from Henry. But we will never know what Richard may or may not have done after Losecoat Field.’ He put a gauntleted hand to her chin and made her look at him again. ‘All you need to remember is that I did not personally hack Richard to death. I was there, but I did not kill him. I was not even near him.’
‘Did you see him die?’
‘No, nor would I describe it to you if I had. Battles are grim, sweetheart.’
‘You fought and schemed to put Henry on the throne of England, even though you knew he was . . . “uneven”, as you term it?’
‘Sweetheart, his problem has only recently become so apparent.’
She understood only too well. ‘Since me, is that what you mean?’
‘He was like it before, Cicely, but finds the throne no easy place to be. His whole character is against him. And yes, there is you. He is very susceptible to you and he really is not accustomed to emotions of the heart.’
Oh, yes, he is, she thought. Henry Tudor was far from inexperienced. Very far. But she could hardly say so to Jon. And so she returned to the subject of her reception at Wyberton. ‘Does anyone here even know you have married me?’
‘Word has been sent ahead, yes.’
She looked away. ‘And the fact that you did not support your brother and nephew is not held against you?’
‘No.’ But again there was a hesitation.
She took his hand. ‘I am your wife, Jon, but I will not be untrue to myself. I will not stand by in silence if offensive things are said of my family.’
‘Nor would I expect you to. Jesu, Cicely, if you are prepared to confront Henry, you are bound to confront the lesser mortals here. All of them at once, no doubt.’
She smiled. ‘You will have my loyalty, Jon. I will never speak out against you.’
‘Cicely—’ He struggled with something else after all.
‘Yes?’
He met her eyes, words clearly burning on his lips, but then he smiled. ‘Nothing. It is not important. Come, we must reach Wyberton. You need to eat and then rest.’
‘Do you promise the castle will not be as cold inside as it is out here?’
‘I trust so.’
‘Jon . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Please hold me.’
He pulled her near and embraced her. She slipped her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Will we ever be truly man and wife?’
‘When you are ready, sweetheart, but not until then. Richard has you still, and I will not battle him.’ He made her look up at him. ‘But I do desire you, if that is what you wonder. I have never made a secret of it.’ He bent his head to brush his lips over hers.
She clung to him for a long moment, because he was so strong and reassuring, and because she really wanted to. Then she kissed him fully, and it was no mere brush of the lips. ‘I will have you in my bed, Jon Welles,’ she said then.
‘I hope so. But please. Cicely, remember that it will not be before I can be sure Richard is no longer in the way of our true felicity. Promise me you will remember this.’
‘I promise.’
He assisted her back on to her palfrey, and then remounted. They moved to the front of the ponderous train, and he called for some mounted men-at-arms, under whose protection Sir Jon and Lady Welles rode on ahead to Wyberton. Mary followed. The snow swirled around them, hiding everything but the causeway immediately ahead.
The moated castle lay within a large enclosure half a mile east of the village of Wyberton, and presented a virtually impregnable curtain wall that guarded what lay within. Jon’s fortress was forbidding as it rose above the flat landscape, with his banners still just visible in the almost faded light. Torches smoked, the flames torn by the breeze, and the gatehouse was well guarded as they crossed the drawbridge.
She was to learn that Wyberton Castle was damp and cold, its old walls soaking up the moisture from the wet land upon which it had stood for several hundred years. Sometimes, when the wind blew in freely from the North Sea, the draught seemed to find its way through every room, and at other times, after much rain, part of the fortress was prone to be flooded. But the sumptuously furnished private apartments she would always find pleasing. She knew she would not be popular here, but at least she had Mary’s friendly face. And Jon’s, of course.
They rode into the castle yard, where there was shelter from the blast of cold air. Jon dismounted and again helped Cicely from her palfrey. The lord of the castle and his lady were welcomed inside, and there seemed no outward hostility towards the new Lady Welles, although certainly some eyes avoided hers.
Jon was detained by his steward, a sturdily built, middle-aged man named Edward Grebby, always known as Ned. There were pressing matters, and Jon requested Cicely to retire to the rooms that had been prepared for her. ‘You are tired now, and I do not wish to expect too much of you, sweetheart. Refreshment will be brought to you. There will be time enough tomorrow to present to you those you need to know.’
She waited deliberately, and when he did not move, she whispered, ‘Are we not husband and wife, Jon? Do you not wish us to be affectionate in public?’
He smiled, took her hand and pulled her to him, raising her lips to meet his in a kiss to show all onlookers that Sir Jon and Lady Welles were in love.
Cicely closed her eyes, for it was pleasing. Perhaps she felt more for him than she realized. Or perhaps she would respond to any man who kissed her like this. Maybe she could not be saved.
He drew back, and whispered, ‘Will that do?’
‘It will.’
He drew her hand to his lips, turning it palm uppermost as a lover would. ‘Sleep well, my lady.’
‘Jon—’
‘I have to attend to things, Cicel
y.’
It was a dismissal. Of sorts. Maybe it was not meant to be unkind but somehow it was. She could not help drawing back, a little wounded. It was foolish, and unreasonable, because she knew how important it was for a lord to oversee his estates. She could only blame her weariness and the heaviness of her child.
And so she and Mary followed the respectful manservant who conducted them to the upper floors of the south tower, where the private apartments and solar were situated. But something made Cicely pause to look back.
A young woman stood gazing up from the foot of the staircase, and she did not flinch from meeting the new Lady Welles’ gaze. She was about twenty-five, tall and full-figured, with flaxen hair that was clearly visible because her head covering sat well back from her hairline. Her clothes were not rich, a dark green kirtle and a plain grey gown, but she carried herself like a queen. Her face was haughty, and her eyes conveyed a sense of . . . ill intent. Everything about her issued a challenge, and far more. Then she turned to walk away, her hips swinging, her hair briefly brightened by the light of a torch.
Cicely remained where she was for a moment, not realizing she was protecting her unborn child with one hand while the fingers of the other were crossed among the folds of her cloak. Who was the woman who was bold enough to confront the new lady of the castle? Was it simply on account of someone lost at Losecoat Field? Or something more? Something personal? Cicely sensed it was the latter.
Mary touched her arm. ‘Take no notice, my lady. She does not matter.’
‘She does, Mary. Whoever she is, I must beware of her.’
‘You are tired, my lady. You should eat and drink, and then retire for the night. You will feel better in the morning.’
A good fire danced in the hearth of Cicely’s bedchamber. There was handsome furniture, rugs on the floor, tapestries on the walls and candles readily available. The large bed was hung with yellow-gold silk curtains, embroidered with a frieze of small black lions, and looked inviting after the journey. Boards and hangings at the narrow windows kept out the bitter cold of the Lincolnshire night, and two upright armchairs were by the fire. Cicely sat in one of them when she had changed her travelling clothes for a loose robe. The chair was hard, with much carving, but it still seemed comfortable after riding for so long.
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