Cicely's Second King

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘I do not wish it at all, sir, you do.’ Oh, you liar, Cicely Plantagenet.

  ‘There is no answer to that.’

  ‘I am sure you can think of one,’ she answered.

  He raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Yes, so I can, but this may not be an opportune moment.’

  She hesitated. ‘I know I cannot trust you in this, Henry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I fear you may tell Jon. Please, Henry, swear to me that you will not.’

  ‘You think me that ignoble? Who could possibly have made you so cynical? Your charming uncle, perhaps? Now there was a man who could probably inveigle his way around Medusa.’

  ‘Whereas no one would credit you with similar talents,’ she answered, intending to provoke him.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Such a thought would so beggar credence?’

  ‘You know it would, but then, who again would believe you were blackmailing me into your bed with threats to the lives of others? Who would possibly imagine that cold, emotionless Henry Tudor would be so besotted and libidinous that he would do anything he could to get on top of me? It does not chime with the Henry everyone sees, the one who has to handle his horn every night to gain some relief from it. His Majesty the King, so silently threatening, so devoid of human kindness and so twisted by his own darkness that he can hardly bear to look into the light.’

  ‘An amazingly incisive assessment. You are wrong about the horn, however.’

  She looked at him. ‘I will sing hosannas when Satan hauls you down to join him.’

  ‘But in the meantime, Satan will have to wait, because you are going to make sweet love to me. I beseech the Great Lord of the Dark to make you as rewarding an armful as even he would wish.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am such an armful, Henry. I love the pleasures of the flesh, Henry, I love its enthralment and its exquisite gratifications. Does that excite you? Oh, yes, I can see that it does. You do have human blood in your veins after all. So, come to bed with me, Henry, and let me show you what I can do.’ She climbed on to the bed and lay back. ‘I dare you, Henry Tudor. I dare you to take me and think you can do it solely on your terms. King you may be, but not tonight, even in your own bed.’ Such bravado, Cicely.

  ‘You begin to terrify me.’

  She glanced down at his loins. ‘Terrify? I think not, for you throb before my very eyes. Come, Henry, let us start with a kiss, and not one of your clever, scheming busses that mean nothing at all, even to you.’

  ‘I have yet to buss you. I would not be so disrespectful.’

  ‘You would be as disrespectful to me as you pleased, whenever you pleased and however you pleased. I am not such a gull to think otherwise.’

  He got on to the bed and leaned over her. ‘If you only knew how often I have been here in this bed with you, Cicely Plantagenet.’

  ‘And now you are, in the flesh, and your right hand may have a rest.’

  He smiled. ‘What an embarrassing thought.’

  ‘But true, I fancy.’

  ‘Make love to me, Cicely,’ he said softly.

  She hesitated, for to touch him now would be to commence the lovemaking that both tantalized and filled her with detestation. Then, slowly, she slipped a hand behind his head and drew his lips towards hers. Desire flooded through her the moment their mouths touched. She was not repelled at all, she really and truly desired him! Her hands moved over his pale body, and she fondled him, lured him, gave him delight with skills that were both natural and learned. And as she adored Henry with her caresses, her kisses threatened to draw his very heart from its place. If he had a heart. Well, something was beating in his breast, so she could only suppose he was mortal. Whatever his form, she worshipped him with her body, played havoc with his senses, and showed him what a kiss could be. Not that he needed showing, for he returned her skills. He could never aspire to be Richard’s match, but came closer than she would ever have credited him capable.

  She lost herself indulged in the giving and taking of pleasure, moving sensuously against him, loving, exciting offering him delights. And she moved down his body, for that one magical intimacy, the worshipping of his masculinity. She adored it with kisses and caresses, loved its taste and the thought of its potency, and the texture . . . warm iron within warm velvet. She assaulted it with sensuousness, and each pleasure she gave him was echoed within her own body. She abandoned herself to the ecstasy of things that should never be shared with Henry Tudor. She heard him groan with the relentless gratification. He was so hard he seemed almost in pain from it, and he succumbed to his senses as she caressed him to the very edge of endurance, before pausing, only to do it again. And then again.

  He not only withstood the tender onslaught, but was able to sustain the enjoyment, until at last he pleaded with her to stop. ‘For pity’s sake! And you accuse me of cruelty?’

  ‘I told you I would make you beg, Henry,’ she whispered, her lips against the tip of his erection. Oh, how her tongue worked upon him, how her lips played and kissed, how her fingers teased and stroked. But she too found erotic luxury in these minutes, because he was a generous lover, taking care to pleasure her as she pleasured him.

  At last she had to kneel up. Her eyes were dark and her final need so great that if he had denied her now she would have wept of it. ‘I think, Your Majesty, that the House of York should ascend the throne again.’ She bestrode him, a knee on either side of his hips. ‘There, the white rose is supreme once more, Henry. Where is your red rose now? Your red dragon? Your royal standard? Ah, yes, I believe I have found the royal standard.’ Her breath caught as she felt him against her secret places.

  ‘Yes,’ he gasped, ‘you would indeed appear to have found it. God’s blood, woman, you do enjoy this!’

  As she eased herself onto him, until he was deep inside her, she had to close her eyes to savour every sweet, trembling sense of it. Such delight, such heart-stopping delight . . . When she thought of how cold and distant he had been at first, it was almost beyond credence that he was now beneath her like this. Beneath her, inside her and returning her caresses. She moved slowly up and down, each movement drawing him towards the peak he tried so desperately to delay. ‘Do you not enjoy it too, Henry?’ she whispered, at last bending down to whisper against his ear, while continuing to move slowly on his virility.

  ‘I will tell you, if I live long enough,’ he replied softly, his fingers pushing lovingly into her hair.

  ‘Take me now, Henry,’ she breathed, ‘make love to me now, for it is your turn to do the pleasuring. Do what you will with me.’

  He slid her over until she was on her back, spread-eagled and at his mercy. ‘The House of York appears to be overthrown yet again, my lady,’ he breathed.

  ‘So it does. Just how ardently are you going to complete the defeat?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, I think I will decide as I proceed,’ he said softly, bending to kiss her breasts. It was not simply a kiss, but an act of love in itself, as was the way he kissed her abdomen and then the springy hair at her groin. Then . . . then he moved further down, kissing every part of her.

  It was so good to acquiesce, to let him take her over completely. His lips and tongue were as knowing and fulfilling as hers, and the way he stroked her body made her feel he stroked her soul. What a fool she had been—and Bess still was—to ever think Henry Tudor would never think of the woman to whom he made love. How wrong she had been, for he possessed such sensuality that she felt he truly loved her. That she was all that mattered to him. She almost felt the same towards him. If it were not for Richard, perhaps she would.

  This Henry Tudor was very far from being a brute, and she could not hate him. But she could—and did—hate herself, because traitorous, unacceptable, perfidious, irresistible reward undulated relentlessly through her. That familiar, exquisite, rippling joy, known first with Richard, shared again with his son and then with her husband . . . but now with Richard’s conqueror! She should push this man away, deny him the climax he sought, deny
herself that climax. But she could not, because she wanted to share it with him. Share every second of his surrender to her. And hers to him.

  And when at last he entered her, there was no selfishness for he made sure he did not forsake her or leave her behind. And when he knew she was at a peak, he prolonged it for her. But at last he had to come, and the emotion was so intense that he cried out. His eyes were closed, his face flushed, his hair damp, and like Richard at this same moment, he was beautiful to see. She felt everything with him. Everything.

  Eventually, the acute gratification began to die away, and he sank down against her, stretched her arms above her head and linked his fingers tightly between hers. Then he buried his face in her hair. It was so tender and revealing, telling her that Henry Tudor was not as invulnerable as he pretended. And that perhaps what he felt for her really did go beyond mere desire. Certainly, for these moments, he sheltered honestly against her, and she, God help her, felt honest enjoyment in such closeness to him.

  He lay thus for a long while, but then found the will to move, and lay on his back beside her. ‘That was, without question, the best fuck I have ever had,’ he said at last.

  ‘Should I thank you for the compliment?’

  He looked at her, and touched her dishevelled hair. ‘No, but it was a compliment.’

  ‘And so gallantly said.’

  ‘I am not a man of gallantry.’ He waited, and when she did not answer, he smiled. ‘Now you disappoint me again. Where is the stinging retaliation?’

  ‘You delivered it yourself. You are not a man of gallantry.’ It was not true, for the consideration his lovemaking had just shown her had been very gallant indeed.

  ‘That is more like it.’ He glanced at her. ‘You are right, you were born for pleasure, your own as much as that of the fortunate fellow you lie with.’

  ‘I still despise you.’ Oh, Cicely, that is no longer true either . . .

  He nodded. ‘At least I know you enjoyed it more than you wanted.’

  She looked away. ‘I marvel at your stamina.’

  ‘So do I. Jesu, woman, you know how to make love.’ He looked at her. ‘It was Richard, was it not? The man you lay with first? The one who wrought all this in you?’

  ‘Do you wish for the truth, or would you prefer me to lie?’

  He did not say anything for a moment. ‘What a very willing pupil and niece you were, to be sure.’

  ‘That would be to say he was the most exquisitely talented, unbearably desirable and unbelievably gratifying of teachers, would it not?’ She smiled. ‘Maybe he was, but I would be deceitful to claim such intimate knowledge of his carnal talents. I have no idea what he was like in a bed. Or against a wall. The truth is that I did not give myself to Richard. Nor did he show any such interest. I do wish you would believe me and stop suggesting I was guilty of repeated incest.’ Such blatant, blatant lies! ‘Was that my attraction, Henry? The fact that you thought I had lain with my uncle? I am sorry to disappoint, but at least you have only discovered the unexciting truth after I have shown you what it is to bed me.’

  ‘I bedded you? That is not quite my recollection.’

  ‘I did warn you.’ And you warned me. Yes, I know it, Henry.

  ‘Yet you look so sweet and innocent.’

  ‘I cannot say the same of you.’

  He smiled a little. ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘You have a cold, vulpine, tight-mouthed, mean face, Henry.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘And I hope my sister buys a hundred greyhounds and loses a very great deal at cards.’

  He looked at her again. ‘She certainly does the latter. The former has not yet become too ridiculously costly. I imagine you would purchase every greyhound in England, even the ones with three legs, and then lose much more at cards, just to spite me. You would probably wager Westminster Palace itself on the turn of an ace.’

  ‘For spite? Oh, yes, I would.’

  He reached to take a strand of her hair, and she pulled sharply away. ‘No! Do not do that!’

  He leaned up quickly. ‘This is where we were once before, as I recall. Who was it, Cicely? Why does it affect you so?’ He watched her carefully.

  ‘My father. He used to do it to annoy me.’

  ‘Your . . . father?’ Quite rightly, he did not believe her, for it had Richard of whom she was again reminded. As Henry suspected, but she would never admit.

  ‘Yes.’

  He got off the bed. ‘Come, I will dress you.’

  ‘I am dismissed?’

  ‘I have had enough honesty, Cicely. For the time being.’

  She got up as well, and he turned suddenly, pulling her close and kissing her almost tenderly. Yes, it was tender! Their lips melted together again. She could not resist him, because she did not want to. He had made love to her, not simply taken her, used her for his own satisfaction. He had made love, and he was very, very good at it. Who would ever have thought that Henry Tudor had such erotic talents? Who would have thought so much about what had happened here tonight?

  He smoothed her hair back from her face and ran a gentle fingertip down her cheek. ‘I am sorry for the hurt I have done you, Cicely, but I would not undo it. Do you understand? I would face Richard at Bosworth again, and if it took renewed treachery to defeat him, I would still accept the victory. But I do wish it had not hurt you so. You are unique, as the owner of this cold, vulpine, tight-mouthed, mean face knows well. I will not hurt Lincoln or my uncle.’

  ‘But you will keep the threat to hand.’

  ‘Of course. I would be foolish not to. As for my queen, I will be kinder, and not continue to treat her as I am at present accused of doing. Provided she spares my purse. I will do it for you, not for her, because her deep animosity has probably alienated me forever.’

  ‘Make love to her as you made love to me tonight, Henry, and she will soon not hate you.’

  ‘I will do my duty, that is all.’ He turned to gather her gown from the floor. ‘Does that make me a good little Henry, or a bad little Henry?’

  ‘Neither. You are simply the king. And a shabby one at that.’

  ‘Shabby? Now what have I done?’

  ‘You have insisted that I carry Bess’s child at its christening. Why, Henry? To make me hold a baby when you know I have just . . . lost my own?’

  He looked at her. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘What else can I think?’

  ‘Perhaps that I simply wish to see my baby, my son, in your arms?’

  Her lips parted. ‘No.’

  ‘Then give it a little thought. I want you to carry my son at his christening. It matters to me. That is all. The rest of it is of no consequence.’

  ‘And you are the king.’

  ‘You had noticed?’ He began to help her with her gown.

  ‘I have noticed much about you, Henry, and much of what I see is not admirable. I have just lain with you to save the lives of my husband and cousin. I did not lie with you out of affection or even anything approaching it.’ But I lie to you now, because already I want you to kiss me again, hold me again, make such love to me again.

  ‘I know exactly how you felt with me not long since. What you still feel now. You may not like your reaction to me, but you cannot deny it. You need what I can give you, cariad, just as I need what you can give me. Put us together and fire is kindled.’ His hands paused upon her naked shoulders, and for a moment she was in the hunting tower again, and Richard was attending her. The salt of guilt stung her eyes and she closed them, because tonight she had found immeasurable physical reward in the arms of his adversary. She had been unfaithful to Jon, after promising him fidelity, she had pushed thoughts of Richard aside, and John of Gloucester. And she had played Bess false. Again. With this second king.

  ‘Tears? Surely I was not that overwhelmingly pleasing?’ Henry closed the fastenings of the gown, and then studied her. ‘There is so much I wish to learn of you, Cicely, both inside and out. All those secrets that I kno
w you keep close to your sweet breasts.’

  ‘I have no secrets. You know everything.’

  ‘You surely do not expect me to believe that!’ He began to dress himself again. ‘One thing puzzles me,’ he said then, as he attended to the comfortable arrangement of his spent loins. ‘You have omitted all mention of John of Gloucester.’

  She turned slowly. ‘You enjoy being hurtful, do you not? You gave away too much of the real Henry Tudor on that bed, and so you punish me. God forbid you should punish yourself. I loved Richard and his son, and lost them both because of you. Richard I can almost bear—almost—because he died honourably and with great courage, in battle, defending his realm and everything else he held dear, but John was your personal victim, Henry, and is now what you have made of him. There was no glory, no battle, no clash of weapons, just your inconceivable savagery and lack of conscience.’

  ‘Cicely, there was nothing calculated about what I did to John of Gloucester. It was on the spur of the moment, an act that was not in my character, no matter what you may think. It was monstrous jealousy, and it poured like acid through my blood. It corroded my judgement and made me less of a man for it. I regret it. He had been granted your hand, Cicely, you loved him—he had probably fucked you!—and I could not see clearly because of it. And although I know you do not want it, I do offer my apology.’

  ‘Apology? Of what use is that to him?’ Tears filled her eyes again.

  He folded his fingers together and tapped them to his lips. ‘I believe enough has been said, my lady.’

  ‘Now the distance is put between us?’

  ‘You put it there.’

  ‘No, you did, Henry. You had to be despicable again, did not you?’

  ‘Perhaps because mine is the conscience, Cicely. I will not let you know me. I will keep you out. Oh, I have given myself away in many instances, mostly tonight, I realize that, but then so have you, I think. I will not let you go. I will want you again, and again, because you light such a flame in me that I rejoice in the scorching heat.’

  ‘And if I refuse you?’