Cicely's King Richard

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘You presume, my lord of Lincoln!’

  ‘God’s blood, woman, are you made of granite? A kiss is not an assault upon your virtue! ‘

  ‘It is from my viewpoint. Do not trespass further! Your person is not of the slightest interest because I love the king — he is my only joy in this world, and will always be.’

  ‘Then you are doomed to a lonely life, my lady. You will never have Richard.’

  Cicely could not look at John.

  Jack laughed. ‘I will have you, Bess of York, on that you may count. Oh, I would take your sister first, but unfortunately her heart is already engaged.’

  Steps were heard and then the outer door closed.

  John leaned his head back and smiled. ‘Jack was ever the faithful, loving husband, eh? I doubt he was true to his wife on their wedding night. I did not know you would be his first choice.’

  ‘Nor did I. He will never win Bess over. No one will take her mind off your father. No one. He is impossible to forget or replace.’

  ‘Good God, Cicely, not even my father can be that much of a paragon. I no longer think I envy him, but have become downright jealous.’

  She managed a laugh. ‘Well, you have no need to fear because I am just another of his nieces and therefore prohibited.’

  That night Cicely’s sleep was disturbed by the dull, groaning sound of the drawbridge being lowered, and then a company of horses clattered over the drawbridge into the confines of the castle. She heard a voice she recognized.

  ‘Tell the Earl of Lincoln that Sir Francis Lovell is come from the king with my lords Edward and Richard of York!’

  Cicely gasped and peered out. She saw Francis’s silver wolf banners floating in the moonlight.

  The following morning, her brother Edward proved to still be disagreeable. He was rude, condescending and superior, even when addressing Jack. The first hint of his hauteur came when they all awaited him at breakfast in the great hall. The minutes dragged but still he did not attend, even though Jack had sent peremptory word that his presence was required without further ado.

  Dickon was very different, and seemed set to grow up in the very image of his father, Edward IV. He was strongly built with the blue eyes and pale coppery hair of the Plantagenets, and his manners and disposition left little if anything to be desired. Like the young Earl of Warwick, he had swiftly formed a devotion to Jack, and imitated his every gesture and action. Jack of Lincoln was everything such boys would worship.

  Francis, who sat beside Cicely, smiled at her. ‘Your beauty grows with each passing month, Lady Cicely. Who would have imagined that the little, dark-haired, freckled girl I once knew could become so lovely?’

  ‘Why, thank you, sir, but please do not mention the freckles. They only come in summer, and I hate them.’

  ‘They are charming.’

  She changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the king? I would know how he is.’

  He met her eyes. ‘As well as might be expected without you,’ he answered softly. ‘But I left Nottingham only two days after you.’

  ‘So you know my secret too?’

  ‘Robert Percy and I are in his confidence. He knew we had realized the truth at your leave-taking.’

  She looked away. ‘I pray nightly for him. No, I pray more often than that.’

  ‘He would be glad to know it, I am sure.’

  She smiled. ‘I wish a thousand plagues on Henry Tudor, and upon every deceitful Yorkist and treacherous Lancastrian. If the earth were to open up and swallow them all I would gladly brandish the shovel that buries them.’

  Francis pretended to be startled. ‘And you look so gentle and amiable.’

  ‘I would strike down anyone who betrayed him, or who even thought of betraying him.’

  ‘Perhaps the white boar is not a fierce enough emblem for him. Mayhap your kerchief would serve better.’

  ‘I would give him a thousand kerchiefs if I thought that was so.’

  At that moment there was a stir, and all eyes moved to the far end of the hall. There stood her brother Edward. He was tall and angular, his thin face hollow-eyed and almost chinless. His dull hair hung limply to his shoulders and he gazed down on them now, his complexion sallow in the morning light. He looked quite dreadful, and yet had clearly not been mistreated. He was simply very unwell.

  Edward descended the steps, an insolent expression upon his face, and they all observed in awful silence. He walked serenely past the benches of onlookers, nodding his head briefly to his brother and sisters and halting at last next to Jack who, naturally, sat at the head of the table.

  Cicely’s fascination was tempered with horror. His voice proved as shaky as his appearance. ‘You dare to break bread without me, my lord of Lincoln?’

  Jack’s nostrils flared at such insolence. ‘Dare?’ he repeated in a dangerously controlled tone.

  ‘Aye, my lord, I had thought the King of England would sit at the head of a table and not one of his subjects.’

  Jack folded his napkin and began to dip his fingers in the finger bowl proffered by a page. ‘Sir, in case you are not aware of it, the King of England is not present, only his heir.’

  ‘If you speak of my uncle, the usurping Duke of Gloucester, then of course he is not present. I speak of the true King of England, my father’s trueborn son. Myself.’

  Jack surveyed him. ‘Oh, I am tempted to fling you over my knee and thrash you for the tyke you are.’ He dried his hands on a napkin and then rose until he towered over the boy. ‘I do not dispute that you are your father’s son, but your uncle is the rightful, anointed King of England. If this is to be a sample of your manners then I think your Woodville tutors were grossly at fault. In this hall there are seven members of the House of York, and of the seven I am the head! I am legitimate and have the blood and rank. Next follows my lord John of Gloucester, son of the present King of England, then you may take your true place in this hall! But you may be sure that if you continue in this vein, I will consider the Earl of Warwick to outrank you, attainder or not. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘You lie, my lord, you are merely the son of my aunt and the Duke of Suffolk, no more, no less. My father’s marriage was true and I am the rightful monarch.’ Edward was clearly a little frightened of Jack but to his credit stood his ground like a lanky young cockerel, but then his fear made him cough. It was a hard, dry cough that brought echoes of the late queen.

  Jack exchanged a glance with Francis, for it was clear that the one-time Edward V was very ill indeed. Jack lowered his head for a moment, and when he addressed Edward again it was in a kinder tone. ‘My lord Edward, I forgive you your breach of manners. If you will sit with us now I will say no more.’

  Edward’s chin, such as it was, was raised pugnaciously. ‘I will not sit unless it is in my rightful place.’ And with that he turned and stalked away again.

  A nerve twitched at Jack’s temple.

  Francis looked at him. ‘I fear, Jack, that your patience is going to be sorely tried.’

  Jack found a little humour. ‘And let us be honest, Francis, I do not possess an abundance of it in the first place.’

  ‘That, unfortunately, is true.’

  ‘Are you sure I cannot persuade you to stay? I know you like hawking, and I am determined to risk detection today by flying my favourite white hobby, which is kept in the mews here.’

  ‘You feel able to take such a chance?’ Francis was surprised. ‘That damned hobby is as conspicuous as your horse. If it is seen overhead it will be known from whose wrist it flies.’

  ‘I believe our presence here is unknown, and I intend to go to the north, an area where I doubt there will be anyone watching.’

  John looked at him. ‘Then you go without me. I do not intend to invite an arrow because you wish to look splendid.’

  Jack was not pleased. ‘Oh, very well. We will go hawking, but without my hobby. Will that do?’

  ‘Yes. A little disguise and caution, and it will be a welcome diversi
on.’

  Francis folded his napkin and dipped his fingers into the little bowl of water provided. ‘I wish you well of your sport, but fear I cannot take you up on the invitation, tempting as it is. I must leave for the south coast, having been diverted to Friskney. Placing me there is not likely to make the slightest difference, because I do not believe Tudor will arrive there. He will land somewhere else. Wales, in my opinion. However, Richard has to take all precautions. I wish you all farewell. May our next meeting be under triumphant circumstances.’ He bowed to them all, and then hastened away.

  Jack caught Dickon’s eyes. ‘Please reassure me that you are everything your brother is not.’

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  ‘Thank God for that small mercy.’ But Jack still held his eyes. ‘Are you for King Richard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without hesitation?’

  ‘Yes, for I have known nothing but kindness from him. If I were older, I would ride with him against Henry Tudor.’

  Jack smiled. ‘That is what I like to hear. You are a good fellow, Richard of York.’ He raised his cup of mead and drank it all in one.

  The following day, when Francis was well on his way south again, and they were all closeted in the solar, a messenger arrived from Richard. It was Sir Robert Percy and, incredibly, he came alone, without even a few mounted men-at-arms for protection. It was strange that he should undertake the role of messenger when Richard had many trained riders and horses at his disposal.

  Robert was closeted with Jack for a while, and then both men joined the others in the solar. They were all—Cicely excepted—to go hawking a little later, as Jack had planned, but Robert had declined to join them, stating he had other tasks to attend to before riding back to the king. Cicely was not going hawking for the simple reason that she did not like it. She preferred to stay behind and read, for she had discovered some of Richard’s books, and because he had read them, she wished to as well. She longed to question Robert, to learn of Richard, but as yet there had been no opportunity. At least, not one that was sufficiently private.

  Jack, it seemed, had already enquired after the king, for it was not long before he mentioned Richard. ‘I find my uncle an enigma. He can be provoked into punishing those who warrant it, but the prodding has to be almost savage to bring him to that point.’

  Robert nodded. ‘I do not think he will ever change. Mercy is generally part of him.’ He glanced at Cicely. It was a strange glance, seeming at once casual and yet deliberate.

  She did not notice, for she was reading. A younger Richard had signed his name inside the book. Ricardus Gloucestre. Loyaulte me lie. He had also written a poem, although whether it was his work or simply something he liked, she could not tell.

  To be without you is to fade a little within

  To not hear your voice is to lose the sweetness of music

  To forfeit your smile is to be plunged into darkness

  To never feel your touch is to lose all sense of being

  To know you have gone forever is to steal away all joy.

  She ran a finger over the long-dried ink. If he had composed it, which, knowing his skill with words, he well might have done, who might it have concerned? Someone he had lost some time ago. John’s mother? Possibly, for it was surely a love poem.

  The words brought a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. She put the book hastily aside and rose to go to the window, there to compose herself before facing her sister and cousins again. She longed to simply ride back to Nottingham to be with him again, to confront the odium, simply to be in his arms. She gazed towards the dark blue-green of the forest shimmering in the haze of summer. Larks fluttered and warbled against the sky, and the call of a curlew echoed across the wooded hillside to the south. The air was warm, and insects droned sleepily against the warm stone. It was all so peaceful and serene, and it was all Richard’s England.

  Leaving the others, Robert came to her side and lowered his voice. ‘I have a message for you, my lady.’

  ‘A message?’ She searched his earnest eyes. ‘From . . . ?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh, do not fear that your confidence will ever be betrayed, for I am a man of honour.’

  ‘I had already guessed that you knew,’ she answered. ‘And I am aware that Francis does as well.’

  ‘I trust your love is truly given, my lady, because it will surely destroy Richard if it is not.’

  ‘Never was love more truly given, Sir Robert. I would die before I failed him.’

  He smiled. ‘Then I am charged to take you to him.’

  ‘To Nottingham?’ she gasped, but then for some reason her glance fell upon the letter Jack had received. It was so fresh, so uncreased, and the seal was as bright and crisp as if it had only just been pressed with Richard’s ring. ‘He is not in Nottingham, is he?’

  ‘No, my lady, although no one but you and I know it. It is believed he is indisposed and confined to his apartments. In fact he and I left Nottingham at dusk yesterday, and we have used fast relay horses to come here. Eighty miles is a long way for horses that have not been so trained.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he is the king! How could he put himself in such danger? He has so many enemies.’

  ‘He would rather face any number of hazards to be with you than stay where he is without you, even though it can only be for a few hours.’

  ‘Oh, Richard.’ Tears shimmered on her lashes. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘But half an hour away to the south. There is an old hunting tower.’

  ‘I believe I know it . . . I have seen it above the trees.’ He was so near? How had she been so unaware? How had she not sensed his closeness?

  ‘Never did any man need his lady more.’

  ‘He is well?’ she asked quickly, alarm springing.

  ‘As well as could be expected. He is not ill, but he is under a great strain. It would be better for him if you were still in Nottingham, but that cannot be. And besides, there are . . . obstacles for you both.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Sir Robert. No one could be more aware.’ She had to take a deep breath to compose herself. ‘When may I see him?’

  ‘Are you still to stay behind when everyone else goes hawking?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack must have told him.

  ‘Do you know which way they go?’

  ‘North.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, perfectly sure. I think it probable they will stay overnight at one of the manors. I do not know which one. Jack is determined it is to be quite an outing, even without his white hobby. I wonder he does not wear white as well,’ she added.

  ‘So virginal a colour for Jack of Lincoln?’ Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘However, if everyone is to be away from Sheriff Hutton today, and if they know you do not like hawking, perhaps you and I could ride together? I am sure I will be regarded as a harmless escort.’

  She smiled. ‘You are a gentleman, Sir Robert. The king would not send you to me if you were not.’

  ‘I am first and foremost his friend, Lady Cicely.’

  ‘And for that, I hold you in great respect.’ She smiled sadly. ‘If only I were not his niece . . .’

  ‘My lady, fate has dealt him so many blows that I wonder he does not break beneath it all. He is but human, and his life is filled with sorrow. Except for you, Lady Cicely, because you have warmed his heart again, and for that alone I am your most willing servant. No one deserves happiness more than he. He is the most loyal and supportive friend any man could have.’

  She looked at him. ‘He is well? You would not deceive me?’

  ‘He is well, my lady, as you will soon see for yourself. The long ride caused him pain, but he was bathing when I left. Warm water eases the discomfort, although it does not banish it, of course.’

  ‘I . . . I cannot believe he is near.’

  In the room behind them John laughed at something Jack said, and she lowered her eyes
guiltily. She was making arrangements to go to Richard while John was in the same room. It shamed her, and yet she could only place his father first.

  Robert saw. ‘It is not easy for you, I think.’

  ‘In the end, there is no choice. It will always be Richard. It can never be anyone else.’

  She turned towards the room again and felt Jack’s eyes upon her. His fingers rapped quietly upon the king’s letter and he smiled. He knew.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The hunting tower stood on a hillside, its parapets above the trees. When it was built there were not any trees, and those who stood on its roof would watch stag hunting across the valley below and the hills beyond. A brook trickled down the slope against its eastern walls, and everything was very quiet. There were no horses, no sounds. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney of one of the low outbuildings that clustered against the tower’s uphill wall, for there was a keeper and his wife who took care of everything no matter if there was hunting or not.

  It was the middle of the afternoon and the air was very warm and still as Robert and Cicely rode up towards the tower. Harnesses jingled, and their mounts trod easily on the soft mossy track that wound among the trees.

  Cicely’s heart was pounding with such hope and anticipation that it seemed set to burst. She too had bathed, and then chose a gown of honeysuckle gold silk that she hoped would brighten Richard’s heart. Her hair was free about her shoulders, without even a small cap to control it, and her skin was sweet with rose water.

  When they were almost there, she glanced at Robert. ‘Please tell me I will not suddenly awaken and find myself back at Sheriff Hutton.’

  ‘It is real, my lady. He awaits you. This is no jest or deception. He has come all this way, risking much just for a little while with you.’

  They reined in close to the brook, and he dismounted to help her down. Then he nodded at the doorway, which was reached up a flight of stone steps against the tower wall. The door stood open. ‘Go to him, Lady Cicely. You will be alone together, for the tower keeper and his wife are loyal and I will busy myself elsewhere.’

  Cicely hesitated in an agony of breathless excitement. In a few moments now she would be with him again. With Richard. She caught up her skirts and mounted the steps. Her gown rustled, her hair moved in the light breeze and her heart thundered in her breast. She took a step inside, where the air was noticeably colder. Little warmth penetrated the thick stone walls. There were more steps, leading steeply up to the floor above. She climbed slowly now, her eyes upon the shadows ahead. At the top she found light from a single narrow window. It revealed a wooden-floored chamber with a beamed ceiling, a huge stone fireplace where the hearth was black with soot and ash, and shadowy furniture, chairs, a settle, a table . . . upon which she saw his hat and gauntlets.