Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  Jack glanced at her. ‘Do you wish me to come in with you? Or would you rather I took myself away?’

  ‘Stay. Please. I . . . am afraid, Jack. What if he is cold to me?’

  ‘I will be alongside you, sweetheart.’ He slipped an arm around her shoulder and ushered her across the thronged yard. As they went, she noticed a lady’s palfrey among the horses. It was one she had ridden at Wyberton, Jon’s favourite castle.

  She glanced at Jack, who had also seen it. He tightened his arm momentarily. ‘Do not forget now, you were summoned to Greenwich by the queen. It is the truth, so say it. And Henry instructed me to escort you back here.’

  She nodded.

  They heard Jon before they saw him. His voice, never usually raised, carried angrily from the great hall. ‘Dolt! Take better care!’

  On reaching the hall, where the wheel-rimmed candleholders from the roof cast a dim light that would soon need help from the wall torches, they found confusion everywhere. Jon had brought much baggage with him, and men and maidservants scurried, taking things to whatever room they were required. Cicely glanced around for any sign of a two-legged baggage, but saw no one.

  Her husband stood by the great fireplace, a mug of ale in his hand as he kicked at the logs, sending clouds of sparks up the chimney. She could see the turquoise ring she had given to him. It had once been her father’s, and she was glad he still wore it, for at least he had not rejected all of her.

  He still looked the same, except . . . Tom Kymbe was right, he was thinner. And he did not look his usual hale self, she thought, concerned. He was thirty-seven now, a fine-looking man of bearing and presence, with long, wiry brown hair that was fading prematurely to a great deal of grey at the temples. His was a tall figure, spare and not given to unnecessary movement—not unlike his half-nephew Henry in that respect—and he looked good in his old leather travelling clothes, with a wide, buckled belt at his waist. He wore most clothes well, from the plain and simple to even the most elaborate court robes.

  His nose was straight, his lips thin, and neither hard nor set, and his long-lashed eyes were an incredibly vivid blue that was discernible even across the busy, dimly lit hall. The fact that he was Margaret’s half-brother was difficult to imagine, for he bore no resemblance to her whatever. He had told Cicely he took after his father, Lionel, sixth Baron Welles, for whom Tom Kymbe had named his short-lived son. Hence Cicely’s son by Richard had taken the dead boy’s name and identity, and become Leo Kymbe.

  Cicely knew her husband to be adroit and very capable, someone to inspire confidence and trust. At least, he had been. She no longer knew how to regard him, for it seemed he had brought his new mistress to the house he shared with his wife. Even so, she wanted to run to him, and for everything to be as it had been before Winchester. Instead, confusion and unhappiness kept her in the doorway.

  Jack took her elbow. ‘We must go to him, sweetheart.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  The servants now realized she was there, and there was a discernible lessening of activity. It was a change that Jon could not help but detect, and he turned, his blue eyes coming directly to her. He neither greeted her nor acknowledged her in any way, he simply looked.

  Suddenly she wanted to leave, but Jack prevented her. ‘Accompany me to him.’

  Reluctantly, but holding her head high, she let Jack conduct her towards the fireplace. The servants parted, and there was whispering. They all knew Sir Jon and Lady Welles had been living separate lives since Winchester, and those who had accompanied Jon south from Lincolnshire had already begun to spread whispers about his mistress.

  Jack squeezed her elbow. ‘Do not make a scene, sweetheart, for that is what they all hope for. It is the nature of the servant beast.’

  Jon set his ale aside and faced them. His face gave nothing away, although he sketched a bow of sorts. ‘My lady. My lord of Lincoln.’

  ‘Sir Jon.’ Jack returned the bow with more generosity.

  Cicely gazed at her husband, unable to do anything else but stand there. The coolness in his eyes told her all she needed to know. He did not seek to restore harmony.

  The hall was utterly silent, and Jack cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I trust you had a good journey?’

  Jon glanced around at the watching servants. ‘Get about your business!’ he ordered gruffly. Everyone obeyed, but still kept glancing at the trio by the fire. Then his eyes swung to Cicely, indicating quite clearly upon whom he really wished to vent his anger.

  She went a little closer. ‘Do you intend to speak to me, Jon?’

  ‘Not unless I have to,’ he replied.

  She gazed at him, her chin coming up in a way he should have recognized. She was Plantagenet again, and not about to permit him to make her look foolish in a hall filled with curious servants. Without giving him time to see what was coming, she went close enough to kiss his cheek, and then whispered in his ear. ‘I am resisting the temptation to sink my teeth into you, sir. Welcome home.’ She smiled sweetly, knowing that to onlookers she appeared loving, and then she walked away towards the door that gave to the staircase. Her train hissed over the floor and her headdress veil streamed regally behind her.

  Jack watched her go. ‘You have a job on your hands, Jon.’

  ‘I can deal with it.’

  ‘One does not deal with Cicely.’

  ‘If I want your advice upon my marriage, Jack, believe me I will ask for it. Where have you been with her?’

  ‘The queen summoned her to Greenwich, and Henry instructed me to escort her home again.’

  ‘Home? I hardly think it is that. More should she have stayed at Greenwich. Wherever the king is, my wife clearly belongs as well.’

  ‘You do her an injustice.’

  ‘Do I? I could sense the cloves upon her, Jack.’

  ‘Did you actually smell them?’

  ‘I did not need to.’

  ‘She has been in my company, Sir Jon, so you should be able to sense thyme on her as well. And if you were to have embraced her just now, I do not doubt she would now be imbued with—’ Jack leaned closer and sniffed. ‘Woodruff,’ he finished.

  ‘No doubt at one time or another she has lain with most of the scents we men favour.’

  ‘That was a mean remark, and totally without foundation.’ Jack gazed at him. ‘You do not seem well.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong.’ But Jon’s tone was unnecessarily defensive.

  ‘You have lost weight and you are hardly glowing.’

  ‘Which is my concern, not yours,’ Jon snapped.

  ‘You are angry, I can see that, but . . . regarding Cicely . . . do not raise your hand to her. If you do you will have me to deal with.’

  ‘Do not fear for her safety, Jack, for she is safe enough from me. I do not intend to go near her.’

  ‘Do not insult her either.’ Jack was pricked by the other’s attitude.

  ‘You have appointed yourself her St George?’

  ‘Yes, if needs be.’

  ‘Has it not crossed your mind that she is the one who has insulted me? I no longer respect her, and I certainly do not respect the king.’

  ‘But do you still support him?’

  ‘You think to recruit me?’ Jon gave a short laugh.

  ‘No, Jon, I merely ask what the king himself is bound to wonder. So take care. You may not have time for your wife, but she has time for you. She loves you, and would not wish to see you fall into danger.’

  ‘She is Henry’s whore, Jack, and he is welcome to her.’

  Jack looked at him. ‘Do not judge her too harshly, for she is loyal to you. She defends you and thinks of you constantly.’ He glanced away, wanting to tell Sir Jon Welles exactly what his wife had been doing to protect him, but he knew that it was the last thing Cicely would wish. Especially now. So instead he said, ‘I tell you this, Jon, if she was my wife, I would never let her go.’

  ‘So, you want her as well? My God, and you have a nerve saying it to my face!’ Jon was pro
voked.

  Jack held his eyes. ‘There is a palfrey in the yard, Sir Jon. Did it convey your mistress from Lincolnshire?’

  Jon paused. ‘What business might that be of yours?’

  ‘I am Cicely’s cousin and the heir of her House. She must be my business. Well? Is your mistress in this house?’

  ‘Yes, my lord of Lincoln, she is.’

  Jack was appalled. ‘Dear God, you would actually install your leman in the same house as your wife? I thought you had more honour! Henry will have your neck, if I do not have it first!’

  ‘Perhaps you—and my nephew—should consider the fact that I really did not expect to find Cicely here. I believed her to be somewhere cosy with him. So do not lecture me. Least of all will I take it from a man who has cuckolded more husbands than he can even remember!’

  ‘I have not broken any marriage, sir. You are doing that.’

  ‘I think enough has been said, sir.’

  Jack was about to leave, but then looked at Jon again.

  ‘And know this too. If I could make Cicely mine, openly and without shame, I damned well would. Yes, I love her. Clearly much more than you do. But she is your wife. Send your mistress away and pay attention to your marriage bed. You have been granted the warmest, most utterly captivating woman in all England. Try not to lose her, for you will never find her again, because I will have carried her off.’

  ‘So, you have been bedding her as well? I begin to feel pure and innocent.’

  ‘Do not allow yourself that false luxury, Jon. And do not play the cur in the manger.’ Jack turned to leave, but then hesitated. ‘Strange to say, I do not wish this to destroy our friendship. Our dealings should not suffer because we both love the same woman.’

  ‘I do not love her.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Jon Welles. So, can we remain civil in all other respects?’

  Jon nodded. ‘Yes, damn you, we can.’

  Jack bowed again and then left Pasmer’s Place.

  When Cicely went up to the bedchamber she still regarded as hers, she heard raised female voices through the open door. One was Mary’s, the other of someone Cicely did not recognize.

  Mary was indignant. ‘You have no right to come in here and inspect my lady’s wardrobe!’

  ‘Why not? It is now my wardrobe too.’

  The second voice was haughty, insolent, and was an echo of Lucy Talby. So, Jon’s mistress was as arrogant and bold as her dead sister! ‘We will see about that!’ Cicely breathed, and swept into the room like an avenging angel.

  She only glimpsed Judith Talby, who was statuesque and appeared to possess sufficient bosom for three lesser women. The creature had the same flaxen hair as her sister, and wore an appropriately wanton red gown. Her face was beautiful but disdainful, and her manner was, if possible, even more assured and brazen than her sister’s had ever been. She was, Cicely guessed, about twenty years old, and clearly considered herself mistress of Pasmer’s Place. And of Sir Jon Welles!

  Cicely gave her no time to think, but seized her arm and bundled her forcefully from the room, along the passage. Judith struggled and screamed, taken completely by surprise, but then she recovered and a fight commenced, during which Cicely pulled the flaxen hair as hard as she could, succeeding in ripping out a handful. Judith shrieked with pain, tottered at the top of the staircase, lost her balance, and fell backwards down it.

  Mary came running, as did servants from the hall, and then Jon appeared as well. ‘What in God’s own name is going on?’ he demanded, halting on seeing his mistress sprawled at the foot of the staircase, her gown up around her waist, her nakedness on full display.

  Cicely raised her chin and tossed Judith’s hair aside contemptuously. ‘The second Mistress Talby appears to have lost her way, sir. She actually believed she was entitled to be in my room to use my property. From whom did she gain that notion, I wonder?’

  ‘Not from me, madam!’

  ‘Well, unless you wish for more undignified scenes such as this, I suggest you lodge her elsewhere!’

  ‘You could have killed her!’ he answered, relieved to see Judith sitting up, shocked, bruised and confused, but well enough. He was about to help her up himself, but then seemed to think better of it and gestured to a nearby manservant.

  ‘What a pity I failed,’ Cicely replied icily. ‘I must be losing my unerring touch!’ With a toss of her head, she stalked away to the bedchamber and slammed the door. Mary bent to retrieve the torn flaxen hair, tucked it swiftly in her purse, and then followed.

  Hardly had the maid joined her mistress than the door was flung open again to admit Jon. He glared at Mary, who hurried out again. Then he faced his wife.

  ‘That, madam, was an appalling display!’

  ‘Do not speak to me of appalling displays, sir! I found her in my chamber, going through my belongings. I pushed her out, we struggled and she fell down the stairs of her own volition, not mine. Although on reflection, it would have been good to have actually pushed her. And now here you are, having brought your harlot into this house, accusing me of appalling displays!’ She had never lain with Jack here, out of respect for this man!

  ‘Well, one harlot should surely feel affinity with another!’

  She ran at him and hit him as hard as she could on the cheek. ‘How dare you!’ she cried, and tried to hit him again, but he managed to seize her wrist. She could smell woodruff on his clothes, strong and fragrant. Why? Was it to ward off evil? Could it be that he feared his whore’s black arts?

  ‘It is my house, madam, leased and paid for, and you would do well to remember it!’ He still held her.

  ‘Oh, I do not forget it is your house, Jon Welles, for I have rattled around in it alone since October, like a lentil in a pan. But I am your wife, and have our marriage vows to prove it.’

  ‘Marriage vows? Are you quite sure our union stands in law? As I understand it, the matter is open to question.’

  She drew back, for the words cut deep. ‘I was never married to Ralph Scrope, and you know it, Jon.’

  ‘Do I?’ His vivid blue eyes were cool and so very hard.

  ‘So, that is what you really believe after all? That I married you bigamously, as my father did my mother?’

  ‘Why not? There is clearly a family precedent. Besides, what reason have you given me to hold you in any regard?’

  She gazed at him. ‘No reason at all,’ she answered quietly. ‘Very well, if that is what you wish, I will not stay beneath your roof. Your whore may sleep wherever she chooses, especially the privy, but she will not do it in my finery and jewels. I have been requested by the queen to join her household, and I will do so tonight instead of waiting.’

  ‘Well, I am sure Henry will move over in the royal bed to accommodate you.’

  ‘That will be for you to wonder.’

  ‘I will not waste my thoughts. Or perhaps you will go to Jack? He clearly desires you.’

  ‘Jack? Yes, I well might go to him. I know the way well, and already have my name carved upon his bedpost. He and I do such things. You liked those things too, did you not? Perhaps I should give your creature a few tips, for I doubt she is very inventive. I will warrant her lips do not know their way around your cock. You will never get those sweet attentions from her; she has no imagination.’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Unless you wish me to have you standing even more than already.’

  ‘I do not stand for you, Cicely. Not now. ‘

  ‘Liar,’ she whispered. ‘Call me whore if you wish, for it shows you for the fool you are. You have no idea why I have done anything. If you did, you—’ She broke off.

  ‘If I did?’

  ‘Please have someone escort me to Three Cranes,’ she said, turning away. ‘I will send for my belongings when I have been given accommodation at Greenwich. Do not let your hag near what is mine. She can have you, of course, because you are not my husband, are you? And you never have been. I have been bigamous.’

  ‘Cicely—’r />
  ‘The matter is settled, Sir Jon. I will no longer dishonour you with my presence, nor need you concern yourself with me. Our acquaintance, for it was clearly no more than that, is at an end. We will leave each other alone from now on.’

  ‘There is no need for this.’

  ‘Oh, but there is, sir, and if your damned witch-hag comes near me again, I will do more than simply watch her fall down the stairs, I will stick a knife between those great wobbling breasts that must surely hang down to her knees when she is naked. No doubt you have to fight for breath. Now, please leave, before I forget myself again.’

  He gazed at her, and then turned towards the door. She spoke again. ‘You will keep me informed of Leo? Or should I look direct to Master Kymbe?’

  ‘You may do both, for I will not forsake any promise I made concerning Leo.’

  ‘You have already permitted your strumpet near him. Please tell me she did not hold or even touch him. Tell me she had no reason to overlook him, as her sister would have done.’

  ‘Jesu, Cicely, what do you take me for?’

  ‘I no longer know.’

  ‘Judith Talby did not touch your child. She believes him to be Tom’s son and the Kymbes have made sure that is what the rest of the world believes as well.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He turned to go again, but then remembered something and fished in his purse as he returned. He took out a little lock of dark chestnut hair, tied with a green ribbon. ‘Leo’s first trim,’ he said.

  Her fingers trembled as she took it. Her baby’s hair. Richard’s hair. ‘What is he like, Jon?’ she whispered.

  ‘His father,’ he answered.

  For a moment she thought he was going to put his hand to her cheek, but instead he left her.

  She kissed the lock of hair and then sat on the edge of the bed, sobbing silently.