Cicely's King Richard

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘It’s nothing, Mary. Just my foolishness.’

  ‘I see no foolishness, my lady. I see only great sadness.’ The maid put a soft hand on her shoulder. It was brief, a daring to touch, but it was heartfelt.

  Later, when Mary had gone, Cicely lay down on the hard board that was the bed. She listened to the steady patter of the rain outside the narrow window, and the drips that struck the ivy leaves against the wall. The priory was in a clearing, with the forest banished some fifty yards in all directions, but the wind so soughed through the trees that it sounded like the sea. The sharp smell of wet moss soothed her, and she closed her eyes, to drift away into Richard’s waiting embrace. She knew that whatever he was doing now, he would be thinking of her. Take my love with you, and always keep it close, for it can never belong to another. . . . His love was with her now, and the knowledge was so good.

  How long she slept she did not know but it was dark when she awoke suddenly. It had almost stopped raining but the clouds still rushed across the sky, breaking now and then to allow swift shafts of moonlight to slip across the room. Someone was in the room! But it was only Mary, standing by the narrow window, looking out intently.

  ‘What is it, Mary, can you not take your rest?’

  Mary turned, startled, and bobbed a curtsey. ‘My lady! I thought you slept.’

  ‘A miracle on this horrid plank.’ Cicely smiled. ‘What is so interesting outside?’

  ‘I am not really sure. The window looks to the edge of the forest to the south, and a moment ago there was moonlight. I thought I saw something move, but the bushes were heaving in the wind so it seemed but a trick of the eye. And yet . . .’ The maid looked out again.

  ‘What do you think it was?’ Cicely asked, slipped from the bed to join her.

  ‘A horseman, but if so he is well hidden in the bushes and wears a hooded cloak that hides his face.’

  Could it be the man who had followed them out of Nottingham? Cicely searched the edge of the trees. Were they discovered? The moon emerged again, and sure enough, there was a rider among the bushes, his cloak billowing in the wind, his muffled face turned towards the buildings. As they watched he turned his horse away and rode slowly into the forest, leaving behind only the empty bushes, where torn leaves scattered like emerald rain. Then clouds covered the moon again.

  Cicely was disturbed. Who was he? Not a friend, for a friend would have come to the abbey. Who then? She caught up her skirts and ran to find the others.

  They left the priory before dawn, slipping out quietly and riding once more along the bed of the stream. Behind them no hint was given of their departure, of them ever having been there. Whether the lone horseman had been friend or enemy, he would have to find them again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The beautiful old city of York was crowded, its bustle and noise scarcely less than London itself. It was evening as they rode under the southern gate and into Richard’s beloved city of the north. Cicely looked up at the towering minster which hung above the narrow cobbled streets and was visible from every corner. To her delight their arrival in the city did not attract much attention, for they rode without banners or signs to reveal their identity. The clatter of their horses against the smooth stones was barely audible as they rode past the clutter of market stalls and pens of animals. Street traders of all sorts shouted their wares, jostling with each other for customers.

  Soon the riders passed into the shadow of the minster itself. The hot, dusty sunshine was suddenly eclipsed by the mighty church, which cast a blessed coolness. Cicely looked up at the carved walls and arched doorways, and finally at the three towers reaching up to the very heavens above. Richard’s city was dear to his heart, and Cicely could understand it. He had prayed here, listened to the music, was its patron. She could almost feel him. York would always support Richard III, its beloved Duke of Gloucester.

  Beside her, Bess rode without looking to left or right. She had said very little since leaving Nottingham, and Cicely no longer felt able to speak to her in confidence. It was impossible now that Richard stood between them, even though Bess did not know he was there. Cicely’s sister was enveloped in her own unhappiness, and it would not have occurred to her that she was not alone in the misery of having left him at Nottingham.

  At last they rode out of the city, beneath the ancient north gateway, and Cicely was relieved because they were now embarking on the final stage of their long journey to Sheriff Hutton, some ten miles ahead. Soon the dusty road led downhill through the Forest of Galtres towards a small village on the bank of a wide, deep, fast-flowing stream that was spanned by a narrow stone bridge that had no parapet. Next to the bridge was a sprawling tavern with a creaking sign depicting Richard’s white boar badge. Some hundred yards or so beyond the bridge the dense forest continued.

  It was as the little party descended towards the bridge that Cicely had a very disagreeable feeling of being watched. There had been nothing since the horseman at the priory, but now she was sure secret eyes were upon them again. She was about to mention it to Bess when Mary urged her pony alongside. ‘My lady, do you recall the horseman at the priory?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I pray you, look just beyond the tavern, to the horse beneath the ash tree.’

  Cicely put her hand up to shade her eyes from the dazzle of the sun, and saw the ash tree. Her brow creased, for at first there seemed nothing to see, but then came a flicker of movement as a horse lashed its tail at flies. There was a man standing with it, although he kept in the shade. He might have been anyone but instinct told her it was the same man. He had to be tracking them, and knew their only route north was across this bridge.

  She shivered in the warm evening air, and moved her palfrey between John and Jack, who was steering his mount around a pair of mangy hounds that snapped and snarled at each other in the middle of the street. He cursed as his steed reared but then smiled at Cicely.

  ‘You find me in poor shape, I fear, Cousin,’ he said.

  As his horse became quieter, Cicely looked from him to John. ‘We are no longer alone.’

  ‘Have you seen someone?’ John asked quickly, the concern in his grey eyes a reflection of his father.

  ‘Yes. Down there, beneath the ash tree.’

  Jack scowled. ‘Damned maggot,’ he breathed.

  John glanced around. ‘Do you think he is alone?’

  ‘How in God’s own holy carcass should I know?’ Jack snapped.

  John pulled a face. ‘What a dear fellow you are today.’

  Jack was a little contrite. ‘Forgive me. I awoke this morning filled with resentment that you and I are here on this dairymaid errand.’

  Cicely flushed. ‘Thank you, Coz.’

  He drew an irritable breath. ‘Very well, I apologize to you as well, but none of this will help our difficulty. The king has charged me to get us all safely to Sheriff Hutton without Henry Tudor knowing, but it seems the Welshman’s grubs are aware of us and seem to have been since we left Nottingham! That blood-sucking turd Stanley is behind this. Securing Richard’s heirs, especially Bess and Cicely, is the Tudor’s principal purpose, and so I imagine that by now there are many more than just one horseman. They will be waiting in the forest, where our capture is less likely to be witnessed.’

  John was looking at the bridge as he answered Jack. ‘Jesu, why do you always see the dark side of things? Have some optimism. Look, we have to use the bridge, the stream is too hazardous. The bridge is dangerous as well, of course.’

  ‘And you say I am the pessimist?’ Jack growled.

  ‘I have a plan, Jack, so hear me out. The road forks some fifty yards beyond the bridge, to the right leading to Sheriff Hutton, to the left further to the north-west, but they both enter the forest, which gives excellent cover. If we could get across and take the road that leads away from Sheriff Hutton, we could follow it for a mile or so at a good speed and then cut across through the trees to rejoin the road we want. It has t
o be possible, if we simply complete the triangle.’

  Jack remained irascible. ‘Oh yes, it will be so easy even a babe could accomplish it.’

  ‘My father has other castles and numerous manors here in Yorkshire, we could be travelling to any one of them. Whoever follows us will not know which. Sheriff Hutton is no more likely than any other. With God’s help, we will evade pursuit and soon be safely within its walls. There is a garrison there, and Stanley will need a large force if he is to have any hope of taking it. Yes, our whereabouts might be discovered, but capturing us will not be possible. If you have a better plan, Jack, by all means let us share it.’

  ‘You can be an impudent pup when you choose,’ Jack muttered. ‘I do not have another plan, if you must know, but I do see a flaw in your reckonings. What do you imagine the unwelcome tail will do while the dog makes a run for it? He will be immediately behind our flea-bitten arse all the time.’

  ‘If you will but look behind us, I see something that will delay any follower quite considerably.’

  They turned and saw a woodcutter’s fully laden cart, drawn by two oxen, lumbering carefully down the slope behind them.

  John continued, ‘When it is on the bridge there will be no room for anything else, and I believe the oxen will take some time to negotiate such a narrow way. I suggest we pause at the tavern, as if to rest, and that as soon as the cart is within yards of the bridge, we mount and make a dash. We could go over just in front of it, and our follower will have to wait. He would have to be a very brave rider and his horse particularly strong and fresh to try the water. It would mean we gain several minutes’ grace.’

  Jack’s troubled eyes brightened. ‘You are right. Damn your boots, you have your father’s military guile after all! Come, we will ride on, but slowly, and on reaching the tavern we will halt, but the ladies will not dismount. Do you hear? Nor you, my lord Warwick,’ he said to the little boy, who said so little and obeyed the Earl of Lincoln without question. ‘John and I cannot be lifting you all on to your horses and hope to get to the bridge before the cur’s tail wakes up enough to wag.’

  They continued downhill with the woodcutter’s cart rumbling behind them, the oxen straining to hold the weight back. John watched the man by the ash tree draw his horse back into the shadow of a hut as they approached. ‘Jack, he has to be in Stanley pay, yes?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Jack replied, ‘because if we can send him off on the wrong road, I think he would rather tell Stanley he followed us to some fictitious destination rather than admit he had lost us! I know I would. Stanley sets my bowels griping. Let him believe we have gone anywhere but Sheriff Hutton. God knows, Richard holds such great tracts of this land, Stanley’s men could comb back and forth and still not be sure if they had missed us. Let them go around in circles, because while they are here in the north, they cannot act against Richard.’

  The man kept well out of sight as they reined in at the tavern. John and Jack dismounted, and they gathered as if at ease and simply resting; the ladies and little Warwick remained mounted, but relaxed. The cart rolled slowly onward, the yards between it and the bridge closing so slowly that Cicely held her breath. What if they did not all get to the bridge before it?

  The moment came at last, John slapped Bess’s horse and that of Warwick, while John did the same for Cicely and Mary. Then the two men climbed swiftly into their saddles and urged their mounts in the wake of the others. Bess and Cicely crossed the bridge and continued riding, with Mary and the little earl right behind. Jack was hard upon their heels, but John only just made the gap before the ox was upon the bridge and the cart blocked all pursuit.

  He glanced back. The watching rider had been caught off guard and had only just remounted. He had no chance of crossing the bridge. His hood fell back. It was Ralph Scrope!

  The fleeing party reached the fork in the road and bore to the left. Soon the Forest of Galtres closed upon them, shutting out the dying day and cooling the air with ever lengthening shadows. There was a scent of evergreens as they galloped further and further from the bridge. Surely their pursuer would have crossed by now?

  Jack called out. ‘To the right! Now!’

  They turned, leaving the road and riding almost silently on a carpet of pine needles. Only the jingle of harness told of their presence, and shrill birdsong drowned even that. They reached a dip in the land, and Jack drew them all into the shelter of a thicket. They listened, and after a moment heard the faint clatter of hooves along the road they had left. On the hoof beats went, and soon disappeared into the distance to the north-west.

  John grinned at Jack. ‘Not a bad plan after all, eh, Cousin?’

  Jack sniffed. ‘I suppose so, but we are not there yet. Come on, because if I do not reach Sheriff Hutton soon, I vow I will lie down and die!’

  ‘Well, do not succumb just yet, for I know who our follower is. Ralph Scrope.’

  Cicely’s lips parted. Ralph’s hatred for her, and for Richard, who had taken her side and prevented the match, had become so poisonous that he had turned upon the House of York.

  John glanced at her. ‘For what it is worth, I have always suspected that deep within he was of a Lancastrian persuasion. It was so vague a suspicion that I did not really take notice. Now I wish I had.’

  Jack breathed out heavily. ‘Scrope would be lying in an unmarked grave if I had anything to do with it.’

  John glanced at Cicely. ‘And I am sure you would help to dig it, mm?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  They found the other road without trouble, and followed it out of the forest over open moorland that was shaded to purple in the twilight. The dark forest clustered all around in the valleys and clefts, and lapwings tumbled high overhead in the last of the light. Eventually the village and castle appeared ahead. Dust flew again as they rode through a street that was sunk between its cottages, worn away by the frequent traffic to and from the great fortress. At the castle gateway both Jack and John were recognized and the small party was allowed entry. So, at last, the weary travellers passed over the drawbridge and into the bailey. They were safe.

  John dismounted swiftly and came to assist Cicely. She slipped down from her palfrey and he held her close. ‘Journey’s end, sweetheart,’ he said, kissing her forehead.

  ‘Hold me tighter, John,’ she begged ‘Hold me tighter.’

  His arms enclosed her more, and when she raised her mouth, he kissed it. His lips were hot from the frantic ride, and she could feel his heart thundering. She now knew what she should not, the difference between the kiss of a boy and a man. John was young and ardent, as she herself had been, but he was not Richard. She made herself kiss him as she would once have done, eagerly and without hesitation, but he drew back to look deep into her eyes.

  ‘You do still wish to marry me?’

  ‘Of course. What makes you ask?’ She had to know if she had already given herself away.

  ‘You seem . . . changed. Maybe you have cooled towards me?’

  ‘No! No, of course not. I love you, John.’ She was so anxious to reassure him that she knew her reaction seemed all it should be.

  ‘You were going to return my ring,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I was so upset about everything — leaving Nottingham, the danger the king is in, the upset with Bess . . .’ Oh, how despicable you are, Cicely Plantagenet.

  He smiled. ‘It has not been easy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I will make it better now, I swear it.’

  She held him again, defying herself to cry for the wrong reason.

  Suddenly he caught her firmly and swung her up from her feet and twirled her around. ‘I love you, my lady, and I do not care who knows it!’

  She laughed, for there was exhilaration in the moment, but then he stopped twirling her. ‘I have an ulterior motive, of course,’ he said, lowering her to the ground again.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I want to make love to you.’

  ‘Fie on you, sir.’

>   He grinned. ‘Is it not said that honesty is always the best course?’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘It cannot always be the best course, John.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cicely and John were alone together in a small anteroom at Sheriff Hutton. The life of the castle went on all around: the training of the men-at-arms, the sound of horses and hounds, shouted orders, everything that was always associated with a great fortress.

  They had been at the castle for a week now, and the princes had yet to be brought from Friskney. There had been no word from Richard and Jack’s mood was still as angry as it had been on leaving Nottingham. He would never take kindly to inactivity, but especially now. There was no sign of any enemy. It seemed they had definitely fooled Ralph Scrope, who might, as Jack had said, have told his shifty Lord Stanley anything at all but the truth — that he had lost his quarry somewhere in the Forest of Galtres.

  John was seated in a chair in their sun-filled room, and Cicely was on his lap, her black skirts tumbling to the floor, her arms around his neck. Their heads rested together. It was a quiet moment they both wanted and were content to share it in silence. But then, as had happened two years ago in Westminster Abbey, a conversation was overhead. It was one that kept them as still and quiet as it was possible to be, because Jack was pleading with Bess for her favours.

  ‘Sweet lady, will you not be a little kind to me?’

  ‘My lord of Lincoln, you have a wife who will be kind to you, that should suffice!’ Bess was stiff and cold, clearly resenting being lured into the adjoining room on whatever pretext he had invented.

  Jack was impatient. ‘My wife is far away and cannot relieve my misery of mind and body.’

  ‘Then send for her.’

  Cicely and John had to press their hands to their mouths as they pictured the scene.

  ‘Oh, come now, Bess, do you not find my hapless existence appealing?’ Jack was at his most pleasing and attractive, which was quite considerable. There was a pause, and then the sound of a sharp slap.