Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘This is a confrontation?’ He spread his graceful hands.

  ‘No, because you are clearly in a good mood. But even so, you sent an armed escort to force me here.’

  ‘With all due respect, I sent an escort to see you safely here. There is a difference.’ He regarded her, and then linked his hands together and tapped his mouth thoughtfully with his forefingers. It was one of several little ways he had, and that his mother had as well. ‘Cicely, would it assist my cause if I apologized again for the discourtesy you consider me to have shown today? And for Winchester?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cariad, I was hardly to know my mother and both my uncles would walk in at that particular moment!’ The Welsh in him was evident in his slight annoyance.

  He had only two uncles, Jon and Jasper Tudor, now Duke of Bedford and married to Cicely’s Woodville aunt, Catherine. Henry had never known his own father, Edmund Tudor, who died before he was born, and Jasper, Edmund’s younger brother, had always taken care of him, first in Wales, and then in exile in Brittany. It was Jasper’s influence—as much as Henry’s mother’s—that had crippled Henry’s emotions and made him the tormented man he now was. Cicely did not like Jasper Tudor, and he did not like her. It was almost virulent.

  ‘Even if you had known, Henry, you would still have kissed me. And you had already made a public scene because you learned my husband had made love to me over a table. In private, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Fucked you over a table,’ he corrected.

  ‘And very good it was too. I am sorry if my marriage is so offensive to you, but it is my marriage, not yours. If Jon were here now, I would do it again. Right in front of you.’

  ‘I can believe that too. And I can assure you that he would not long be perched on top, because I would finish the job for him. There is nothing I want more right now than to drive into you until your pretty teeth chatter, my lady!’

  ‘I am cross with you, and so would just lie beneath you, like a dead codfish on a slab.’

  ‘No, you would not, Cicely, because you enjoy lovemaking far too much. Even with me.’ He changed the subject again. ‘What do you know of this pretender in Burgundy? This Lambert Simnel? Is he your brother, the Duke of York?’

  If he meant to unsettle her, he succeeded.

  Chapter Four

  Although frightened, Cicely managed to maintain the spirit she knew Henry liked so much. ‘I know nothing, Henry, as I have already told you. But you had to make my brothers legitimate again, did you not? How you must be praying they are dead. Instead, in the absence of bodies or any proof of any kind, you have made for yourself two possible challengers with a much better claim to the throne than you. You have done well.’

  He heard her out. ‘And you, sweet Cicely, never miss an opportunity to goad me about it.’

  ‘You surely cannot expect anything else.’

  He gazed at her. ‘It would do me no good to expect anything of you. But I can hope, which is entirely different.’ His lips pursed, and then he returned to the matter of Lambert Simnel. ‘What of your cousin, Lincoln? Dare I trust him?’

  ‘I am not close enough to Lord Lincoln to be so much in his confidence.’

  Henry raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. ‘No? Is he not your dearest Jack?’

  ‘You are my dearest Henry, but you do not tell me your secrets.’

  She was rewarded with the ghost of a smile. ‘That is true. So, can I trust Lincoln?’

  ‘He may have fought for Richard at Bosworth, but he has sworn fealty to you since then, and he remained at your side during Lord Lovell’s recent rebellion.’

  ‘Indeed so, and in return I have been generous to him, considering he was, to all intents and purposes, Richard’s heir. How close are you to him, sweetheart?’

  She met his shrewd, watchful gaze. ‘Not in his bed. Nor has he dibbled me against the nearest wall.’ She was reminding him of his first encounter with Bess, which had been before he married her and had been an unmitigated disaster, but which had resulted in Prince Arthur, a remarkably large and healthy ‘eight-month’ baby.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, if Lincoln has not had you yet, he will be thinking about it.’

  ‘He can think as he wishes.’ She smiled, using her charm. ‘Henry, I do not think my cousin knows whether Simnel is my younger brother or not, nor do I think he cares. I am sure he is your man now.’ Lying to this king was always a hazardous exercise, but she had no choice. Jack was now more important to her than ever.

  ‘Hmm.’ Perhaps he was convinced, perhaps not. ‘The fact that Simnel claims to be your younger brother suggests Edward V is no longer with us.’ He invited her opinion.

  ‘I have no idea, Henry. Truly I do not. You are the one with the army of spies.’

  He began to cough suddenly. Or was he clearing his throat again? Cicely had been puzzled by these coughs for some time, because there was something odd and rather tortured about the way he struggled to quell the spasm. ‘Henry, have you consulted your physicians yet?’

  ‘It is nothing.’ He put up a hand and after a while overcame whatever it was, but he had gone a little pale, and she knew something was wrong.

  ‘Henry, you are—’

  ‘Enough, cariad.’ He cleared his throat a last time and then resumed speaking. ‘I was about to say, it would seem I have to take this Simnel threat seriously.’

  She gazed at him. ‘I think you would be very unwise not to. What is wrong, Henry? That is not an ordinary cough.’ The possibility that was creeping into her mind was ominous, and she did not like to think of it. Not consumption. Please. Whatever she thought of Henry, she did not want him to suffer such a horrible, lingering death.

  He squeezed her hand briefly, naturally, thoughtfully. It was a reminder of how disarming and gentle he could be. ‘I am perfectly well, sweetheart. About Simnel. . . ?’

  ‘You will always be beset by such rebellions, and you know it. How can it be otherwise when you have invaded with foreigners, added English and Welsh traitors to them, and killed an anointed king of pure English blood and royal descent, in order to usurp his throne? Most of those who supported Richard at Bosworth will continue to oppose you, no matter how compliant they are on the surface. And no matter how you have sought to unite York and Lancaster by marrying Bess, seeing me married to Jon, and Jolly Jasper married to my aunt.’

  He ignored the jibe at Jasper. ‘Which means Lincoln will break his word as easily as he breaks wind.’

  ‘Henry, you suspect everyone and everything. You cannot help yourself. It is why you always look so sly!’

  ‘Oh, how darling you are.’ He paused. ‘You will never forgive me for Richard, will you?’ he asked with another swift change of subject.

  ‘No, I will not.’ If Henry VII hoped the carnage of Bosworth had rid him of Richard III, he knew better now, for not only did Richard haunt him as a king and a man, but also as the keeper of her heart.

  Henry put a hand to her chin to make her look at him again. ‘You should never have come to me that time without permission. Here, in this room. You came simply to assess me, but found more than you bargained. If you had not been so bold and insolent, I might never have begun to want you so much. Might never have so despised every man who comes near you.’

  ‘Insolent? I am a king’s daughter, Henry.’

  ‘And I am the king himself, Cicely, and so I eclipse you,’ he answered softly.

  ‘You think so?’ She bestowed a caressing smile upon him. Yes, Richard was right, using her charm came so easily she hardly knew she did it.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm, well, I suppose I would be wise to leave the point open for discussion,’ he murmured, his humour still evident. His strange eyes rested thoughtfully upon her. ‘Perhaps I already wanted you, before you came here. I think from that first moment at Lambeth, when I went out to welcome you and your sister at the end of your ride south from Sheriff Hutton. To my capital. After the triumph of Bosworth,’ he added deliberately.
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  She did not react. This time he would not get the fiery response he sought.

  He smiled. ‘Oh, please do not fail me, Cicely. I am only happy when I am sparring with you. Or fucking you.’

  ‘Take yourself to Hell, Henry.’

  ‘Ah, you could not resist it! You answered me back. You do it so splendidly that I could almost hug myself. And please do not tell me that I am the only one who would want to hug me. Besides, I refuse to go to Hell unless you come with me.’ He paused. ‘Cicely, I am sorry for what happened at Winchester. You wrong me greatly if you really think I would have kissed you anyway on that occasion. It was not my intention to let anyone witness it.’

  ‘No? I do not entirely believe you, Henry, because by forcing yourself between husband and wife, you think you have made the wife needier. Perhaps she will turn to you after all, and become your mistress, bound only to you. Why, you probably have another Rosamund’s Bower ready and waiting.’

  ‘A bower? Waste time finding my way around a fucking maze? I think not. When I want you, I want you. In a straight line. As for manipulating you into a corner from where there is only one way out, no, Cicely, I had no such plan. I wanted to kiss you, I needed to kiss you, and so I did. The outcome was not of my seeking or intention. Please believe me.’

  ‘I will not fall prey to that, Henry. I know your notion of winsome appeal. How you emphasize the word ”please”, how you speak so softly and a little regretfully. How sad and dear-little-puppy your eyes become. Not in unison, of course, but eventually they focus together.’

  ‘I did not know I possessed any winsome appeal, or that I was seducer enough to lure you into kissing me again. Is that not what you always tell me? That I am totally bereft of redeeming features? You have a way of insulting me, Cicely, a haughty, seductive way that tells any red-blooded man, especially this one, how unbelievably exciting you are in a bed. I vow you are a succubus, and have ravished me in my sleep. There cannot be many men who have looked at you and not wanted you. Even your sainted uncle Richard III.’

  ‘My uncle did not view me as anything other than his niece,’ she answered with monstrous dishonesty.

  ‘The child you bore was his, not that of Sir Jon Welles. Admit it, Cicely. The child is dead, Richard is dead, so why will you not tell me you lay with him?’

  ‘Because I did not give myself to him, nor did he seek such a thing. It is the truth, but you choose not to believe me.’

  His eyes encompassed her again. ‘I choose much that I cannot have. I do not care if your sister has given me a male heir, or if she gives me twenty more. I do not like her. I married the wrong sister. She is the eldest, but you are the one I want.’

  ‘You could not have married me because when we first met I was already with child by Sir Jon. And since then I have been barren, and therefore not at all suited for the role of producing countless Tudor children.’

  ‘I know.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Cicely, I also know what I am . . . what I may become. You do not hesitate to point out my faults, and I need that. Every king should have one such as you. You are the only living soul who dares to criticize me to my face, and I love you for it. How else can I say it?’

  She looked at him. ‘I do not know, Henry, for I am wondering if you have prepared a second little speech should this one not have the desired effect.’

  ‘Duw, you can be so damned infuriating, Cicely. By now you should be able to tell when I am being sincere.’

  ‘That Welsh word did not sound very polite.’

  ‘It was restrained, believe me.’

  ‘Well, it is impossible to always tell when you are being sincere, Henry Tudor, because you can entice like the Archangel Gabriel but fib like Beelzebub.’

  He laughed. ‘I am flattered.’

  ‘I still refuse to be your mistress, Henry. I will not be so labelled. I will not be demeaned by allowing you to boast that I have sunk to becoming your kept whore.’

  ‘Sunk? Whore? I believed it was an honour to be a king’s acknowledged mistress. And boasting is not in my nature. I have many failings, but not that particular one.’ He was clearly perplexed. ‘Cicely, I fail to see why this is so important. You have been in my bed numerous times, and you do not recite a catechism while there, so. . . ?’ He spread his hands enquiringly.

  Richard would have understood in an instant. But he would never have asked this of her in the first place. ‘Henry, I have come to your bed, but secretly. To become your mistress will be to screech aloud that I part my legs beneath you. That I am your latest doxy.’

  ‘Latest? Cicely, how many doxies do you imagine I have? There are no doxies at all.’

  ‘Except me.’

  ‘You are not a doxy. Cariad, after Winchester, everyone knows we are lovers.’

  ‘It was a kiss, Henry. We were not discovered writhing on the floor in the throes of fornication. I have been shamed, but no one can say for certain that I have lain with you. They can think all they wish, but they do not know. It makes a great difference to me.’

  He touched her cheek again. ‘The throes of fornication? Hmm, an agreeable image to keep my right hand busy. Very well, I will not mention the word “mistress” again. I swear it.’ He hesitated. ‘Now, can you please forget Beelzebub and believe in Gabriel for a while?’

  ‘I will keep both in mind.’

  He regarded her. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked then. ‘There is a change in you.’

  She was a little shaken, having thought she appeared the same, but his question was direct, not teasing. A convincingly reassuring—yet at the same time diverting—answer was needed. ‘I . . . I am upset that you continue to think I committed incest with my uncle. Henry, my child was not by Richard. He would be as appalled to hear you say it as he was about the false rumours spread concerning my sister’s purported feelings for him. It is all untrue.’

  And may the saints forgive her. Because of Bess’s lack of discretion, the whispering about Richard had become insufferably dangerous and widespread, even to the point of claiming he was poisoning his dying queen, to hasten her to death in order to marry Bess, whom he had already deflowered. He had been forced to deny it all publicly. When he first kissed Cicely Plantagenet, he was a widower, fond of but long out of love with the wife who had already died slowly, but naturally, of consumption.

  ‘What did Richard have that was so irresistible, Cicely?’

  What a fool she was to divert him from one thing, only to fix him upon something worse. Now she had no choice but to continue. ‘He was simply an extraordinarily attractive man, attentive, kind, brave, admirable, thoughtful, cultured, clever and amusing. Shall I go on?’

  ‘So, he was all the things you think I am not.’

  ‘Well, you said that, not me.’

  ‘I must learn to guard my tongue.’

  ‘Shall I tell you what else there was about him?’ she went on, unable to prevent herself. ‘Once seen, he could never be forgotten, which is why you put his poor, broken body on display after Bosworth. You showed him no honour or respect, Henry, and I still think you so base and unchivalric for it.’

  His eyes flickered, and she knew she had touched a nerve. ‘Well, Cicely, it was not only his face that was memorable, was it? His bent back and uneven shoulders rather stayed in the mind as well!’

  The words whipped her, and her poise was suddenly demolished. In its place was a very unwise, very bitter fury. ‘And you, Henry, will be memorable for your total lack of honour or scruples . . . and your divergent little eyes!’ she cried, forgetting everything but the need to defend Richard. ‘He was the anointed king, the rightful king in every conceivable way, and so dear to me that I could scratch your eyes from their sockets, because you took him from me. From England. Will you be such a king as he? No, of course you will not. You are too begrudging, contorted, scheming and suspicious a man to even come close to him. I wish you had died at Bosworth. I wish he had returned triumphant and continued the reign that would have made him one of England’s gr
eatest kings, if not the greatest. So do not denigrate him when I am near!’

  Her chin was raised challengingly, and her Plantagenet eyes flashed. ‘Do you still enjoy sparring with me?’ she breathed, but already knew how very far beyond the boundaries she had trespassed. Her eyes closed and she bit her lip. Then she sank to her knees. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’

  He rubbed an eyebrow, taking time before responding. ‘Yes, Cicely, I do still enjoy sparring with you, although I am not sure sparring was exactly what you had in mind with that tirade.’

  ‘I showed you no respect.’

  He raised her again. ‘True, but I provoked you a little too far. Beelzebub, not Gabriel, I fear.’

  He forgave her? ‘I should not have said those things.’

  ‘Indeed, and in due course I will be expecting a truly grovelling, truly erotic apology.’ He smiled.

  Oh, those smiles of his. When they reached his eyes, as now, they weakened her resolve. She had come here thinking she would need to force herself to respond to him, but he would not let her force herself to anything. He was now making himself so likeable that she knew she would still find pleasure with him. She could not escape her own nature.

  He searched her face. ‘Why, why do you persist in denying your physical love for Richard? You kiss him again and again with every word, and become so passionate, so savage when you defend him, and so aglow with emotion you might as well be fucking him in front of me.’

  She strove to compose herself again. His calm response to all her insults was almost as unsettling as if he had been furious. ‘We were not lovers,’ she said. ‘We were not!’

  ‘I envy him so. He will always be precious to you, because he is framed in time, an eternal portrait. He will never grow old, never fail you, never become the fiend you are so sure I will be. Instead he will always be beloved, always have your heart and never relinquish it. Sir Jon Welles cannot compete. Nor can I. But he has gone, Cicely. I am the king who needs you now.’

  ‘The king who uses me.’

  ‘Because I love you,’ he whispered, drawing her close to put his lips to hers.