Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  Jasper Tudor and his duchess were also present. Jasper’s face seemed set in a permanent sneer, and he did not look at the bride at all. He was clearly there under duress. Henry, Cicely thought.

  Henry was splendid in purple cloth-of-gold, and his face was thoughtful throughout, giving nothing away until Cicely caught his eye and he smiled. Such a warm smile, filled with longing and regret for what might have been.

  The wedding band was upon her finger again, and she raised her lips to Jon’s, before taking his hand, kissing the palm and whispering, ‘Now we have another marriage night to enjoy, Viscount Welles, and I trust we will make better use of it than last time.’

  ‘You may count upon it, Viscountess Welles,’ he said softly in return.

  Henry came forward. ‘You are now, without question, Lady Welles,’ he said softly, and in front of everyone he pulled her closer and kissed her on the lips. Then he released her and smiled at Jon. ‘What a pity the days are gone when I could have claimed feudal rights to the bride.’

  Bess caught Cicely’s dismayed glance, while Jon looked his nephew in the eyes. ‘Do you wish to claim such a right of your aunt and sister-in-law, Your Majesty?’

  A hint of amusement crossed Henry’s face. ‘I think not. It was but an idle remark.’ He glanced at Cicely again, and his eyes gave the lie to the words. Then, in front of everyone, he took off the emerald ring, which now fitted his little finger, not the index upon which he had always worn it before, and pushed it on to her finger, where it fitted snug, warmed by the blood flowing through his veins. ‘It is a lady’s ring now, because I have had it made so.’

  There was something of a commotion among the guests as Jasper left, almost dragging his Woodville wife with him. Cicely heard him say something foul in Welsh for Henry’s benefit. Henry’s smile froze, but he said nothing as Jasper stomped out of the chapel like an avenging angel.

  Cicely hoped attention had been drawn away from the ring, but Henry would not allow it. ‘I trust you are pleased to now possess what you have coveted for so long?’

  The hush and interest descended in a moment. She did not know how best to react to a gift that must seem to everyone present to be a lover’s gift. A lover’s very costly and personal gift. The emerald was so magnificent, the light slanting through it in rays of such exquisite greens that its beauty caught her breath. ‘You honour me greatly, Your Majesty.’

  The continuing rustle of whispers was silenced immediately as Henry glanced around. Then he looked at Cicely. ‘You have a winning hand, Lady Welles. One wonders what fabulous trophy you will acquire next.’ He met her eyes, his love so blatant that it could not be misinterpreted. Those in the room could only believe that the notoriously intimate kiss at Winchester had not been the last the apparently chill, undemonstrative King of England had shared with his wife’s sister.

  There was reproach in the look that Cicely returned to him, for this was not well done at all. Such a gift should have been given in private, certainly not in front of everyone when she had just repeated her vows to his uncle. And certainly not in front of his queen. Henry knew it as well as she did, but there was no repentance in his response. He had not forgiven Jon for Stoke Field, or Bess for all the insults she had dealt him.

  He spoke again. ‘Well, my lady, I believe you and my uncle do not wish to linger, but return to Pasmer’s Place without further ado. It would seem the marriage bed beckons.’

  ‘It does,’ Jon replied, perhaps a little more bluntly than he meant to, for it made his feelings as plain as Henry had made his.

  Henry returned the look, and in the same vein. ‘It is a little chilly today, I think,’ he murmured, and then offered his arm to Bess, whose face was devoid of any expression at all.

  Jon watched the king and queen return to the royal apartments. ‘Plague take him,’ he muttered.

  ‘I am sorry, Jon.’

  ‘It was hardly your fault. He made it far too public.’

  They left through the crowded royal apartments, for there was no other way. Cicely saw Henry standing alone before a fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, making it plain he was taking a moment or so to himself and was not to be approached. However, when a messenger brought him a sealed document that seemed to be of some urgency, Henry’s attention was suddenly fully engaged upon its yellow-wax seal, which he touched for a moment between his finger and thumb.

  Cicely halted, watching, making Jon stop too. She was sensitive to everything about Henry, and knew he had seldom been more guarded or tense than in this moment. The impression increased as he broke the seal and read the document. It was brief, because almost immediately he crushed it into a ball and threw it on the fire. As he did so, the broken seal was dislodged and fell to the floor, striking his foot before rolling on to the hearth, where it lay in two pieces. Henry did not notice, for he was suddenly beset by coughing.

  The whole room turned to look as he struggled to control himself. For the splitting of a second his eyes met Cicely’s, and she felt the force of feeling that suddenly gripped him. Then he mastered himself, turned on his heel and strode from the room. There was a startled stir, because many people present had hoped to secure his attention the moment he indicated he could be approached again. Instead, he had left.

  The document was burning, shining and twisting into nothing on the blazing coals as Jon went swiftly to the hearth to retrieve the seal. He shoved the halves into his belt purse and returned to usher Cicely from the royal apartments.

  They hurried to the accommodation that had always been Cicely’s here at Westminster, and where their outdoor clothes waited, but as the door closed upon them, Jon immediately removed the pieces of yellow seal and pushed them together again on a table.

  For a moment, fleeting but very poignant, she thought it was Jack’s seal. But it was no more than a brief impression, gone in a moment. She pressed her lips together as her emotions threatened to grip her again.

  Jon understood, and squeezed her hand. ‘Jack will be safe, sweetheart. Look again. It is nothing like his seal. See? His seal bears a Moor’s head, this is a mythical creature of some sort.’

  Something in his voice caught her attention. ‘You know whose it is, do you not, Jon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar,’ she breathed. He did know, she could see it on his face. ‘Well, it certainly means something very important to Henry. He was as if struck by lightning.’

  Jon nodded.

  ‘It means trouble, does it not?’ she observed softly

  Jon nodded again. ‘Do not ask me about it, sweetheart, because it is, quite literally, more than my life is worth to tell you. Come, let us return to Pasmer’s Place. I want to kick my heels free of my cursed nephew.’

  But as they hurried through the palace, she remembered leaving her hood behind. Jon would have gone back for it, but she told him to wait by the entrance, and hastened back herself. Then, clutching the hood, she retraced her steps, but as she passed an open doorway she heard a beloved voice.

  ‘Coz?’

  She whirled about, her heart leaping. ‘Jack?’

  He moved into sight within the doorway, and held out his hand. She ran to him, flinging herself joyfully into his arms and losing herself in his kisses. He held her to him, devouring her with his lips and making love to her with his caresses. They were moments of ecstasy, of a dreamed-of reunion that was suddenly wonderful fact. Tears soaked her cheeks, and her mouth trembled to his. Her whole body yearned for him, and so did her spirit.

  He had to hold her away gently. ‘Sweetheart, I cannot stay. I saw you and had to speak.’

  ‘Why are you here? It is perilous for you to be in the centre of Henry’s—’

  ‘It is the last place he would expect to find me.’

  She gazed at him. He wore a nondescript cloak over . . . she did not know, for the cloak hid his other clothes. But he did not wear the thigh boots. He was thinner, and the wound to his forehead had left a scar. His hair was growing again, but was fa
r from the length it had once been. His dark eyes were filled with love, and his smile touched her heart.

  ‘I love you, Jack de la Pole,’ she said softly.

  ‘And I love you, Viscountess Welles.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I was taken at Tal’s behest. The men he engaged thought they were apprehending an escaped felon. Which, I suppose they were. I am safe, and that is all you need to know.’

  ‘No, I deserve to be told a little more. Stoke Field was not the end of it for you, was it? There is something else set to happen. Please tell me, Jack. I may as well worry for what I do know as what I do not.’

  He hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Henry has a great secret, Cicely, one of such import that if it should become known, he will of a certainty lose the throne. Every Yorkist in the land will rise against him, and so will many Lancastrians Well, he now knows that this secret is in the wrong hands. All we lack is evidence, but we will obtain it. And soon.’

  Her mind raced. ‘Have you sent him a letter with a yellow seal?’

  ‘Yes. How—?’

  ‘Jon and I were there when he received it. He was utterly shaken.’

  ‘As well he might be.’

  ‘What is the secret?’

  He shook his head. ‘It is too dangerous for you to know, Cicely. I have already endangered you by speaking to you now, but I could not be so close and not even touch you.’

  ‘Hold me,’ she whispered, wanting it to seem he would never release her . . . or go from her again.

  He crushed her to him, and she lifted her lips for another kiss. Thyme surrounded and filled her. Oh, how she worshipped him, how she needed him and wanted to stay with him. She had to end the kiss, for it invaded her too much. ‘Why have you not sent word to me?’ she whispered, not without accusation.

  ‘To protect you, sweetheart. Henry knows I am alive and his weasels follow me everywhere.’

  ‘He is having you followed? He said he did not know anything of you.’

  ‘Another Tudor fibling. At least . . . so far Tal and I have been one step ahead all the time. Henry is afraid, and understandably, given what he has to hide.’

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘I will twist the throne from beneath him yet, Cicely.’ He caressed her cheek with soft fingers. ‘He has you again?’

  She held up her hand.

  ‘Ah, the emerald. Did I not tell you?’

  ‘Please stay away from him, Jack. Henry will do anything to keep the throne. Believe me, I know how iron a will he has. I know him. Corner him and he will fight viciously. Leave England, be safe somewhere across the sea. I can exist if I know you are safe from him. Please, for I love you so much.’

  He kissed her softly, playing his lips to hers. ‘I will be safe, sweetheart. But now, if I stay with you, you are the one who will not be safe.’

  ‘Send me word, somehow. Anything to tell me you still live.’ More tears welled from her eyes. There was so much feeling within her now, so much devastating emotion that she had to grip his cloak. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

  There were tears in his eyes too, and he kissed her again. ‘I will. You have my word.’ Then he released her. ‘I must go. Tal is waiting at the steps.’

  She could not turn to watch him leave, but stood there, head bowed, trying to compose herself. At last she mastered her tears enough to follow him towards the entrance, where Jon waited, and by his agitation she knew he had seen Jack.

  ‘Cicely? What in God’s own name. . . ?’

  ‘I did not know, Jon. Truly.’

  He looked at her tear-stained face. ‘Oh, sweetheart. Damn his hide!’

  ‘Did you see him, or did he. . . ?’

  ‘He spoke to me. I would not have known otherwise, for his hood was raised.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me to care for you. Damn his impudence. That is all. Why is he here?’

  ‘The message Henry received was from him.’ She moved even closer, and told him what Jack had said. ‘You know this great secret. What is it?’

  ‘I only know some of it. Sweetheart, I will not tell you, and so I ask, seriously, for you not to question me again.’ He took her arm and made her walk towards the river steps. There was a press there, of people and craft, and everyone was huddled to keep out the winter chill. Christmas greenery was being unloaded from a large skiff — holly, mistletoe, ivy — and torches smoked and flickered.

  She saw Jack and Tal waiting near one of the torches, but only knew them by Jack’s cloak and the fact that he had said he was with Tal. Jack turned as Tal pointed her out, and although most of his face was in shadow, his lips were not, and she saw him smile.

  Jon’s fingers tightened on her elbow, to be sure she did not do anything foolish. ‘He is mad to come here,’ he muttered. ‘Who is he with? Do you know?’

  ‘He is Jack’s friend, called Tal. His full name is Taleisin ap Gruffydd.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘Not well. He has brought me messages from Jack. He has something to do with Calais.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Jon looked thoughtfully at Tal.

  A large party of young courtiers and pages disembarked from a barge, and as they streamed noisily past, Jack and Tal hastened down the steps to enter a small vessel that had just arrived to one side of the stairs. It was a costly craft, clearly private and yet oddly anonymous, and as it was manoeuvred away from the steps, Jack stood at the stern, gazing back at her. He raised his hand. A small salute, but a huge acknowledgement of everything.

  More tears shimmered in her eyes as the vessel disappeared into the flying snow.

  Jon put his arm lovingly around her shoulders. ‘Take heart, sweetheart. He is alive and clearly well. There is nothing you can do. Do you hear me? Nothing. And I want you to keep out of it. If you receive any communication from him, you are to tell me. Please tell me you understand, and that you will do as I ask.’

  ‘I understand, Jon, and will do as you ask.’

  Jon drew her hand over his to descend the steps as a skiff became available. They climbed into the rocking craft, and as the boatman poled it away from the steps, she toyed with the emerald ring and looked back at the palace. The breeze caught the falling snow for a moment, lifting it like a curtain, and she saw Henry’s standards and red dragons flying from the roofs. Then the snowy curtain fell again, and everything was obscured from view.

  Jon put his arm around her shoulder again. ‘Leave the past where it belongs, sweetheart. We have our future to look forward to now. Ours, no one else’s.’ He removed his gauntlet to put his hand to her chin and raise her lips to his. They kissed, and the snow eddied around them as the skiff skimmed downstream towards Pasmer’s Place.

  Author’s Note

  As with the two previous books in the Cicely series, this is also a work of fiction. I have used history and actual people to weave a story that ‘might’ have happened.

  Bearing this in mind, when I give Cicely her royal lovers, I am inventing such affairs. I am a staunch supporter of Richard III, and will remain so until it is proved beyond all doubt that he was a monster. As far as I am concerned, he was an honest and honourable man caught up in events from which he had no escape. Were it not for treachery, he would have won the Battle of Bosworth. That he did not was, in my opinion, a tragedy for England. Given the chance, I truly believe he would have been a great king. But he was not given that chance, and now we will never know how his reign might have developed.

  Richard was Cicely’s uncle and I do not think for a moment that he really did share an incestuous love with her. There were rumours about his oldest niece, Bess, who is supposed to have loved him in such a way, but rumours were all it was, and he strenuously denied it. That his nieces held him in high regard, in spite of being declared illegitimate when he became king, I base on the fact that they never once, throughout the reign of Henry VII, said anything to criticize or blacken Richard’s name. They certainly
had the opportunity, and I do not doubt that Henry would have been pleased if they had used it. They did not.

  It is therefore pure conjecture that Cicely may have had a child by Richard III, who would probably have been appalled to know that all these centuries later someone would still be perpetuating the calumny that he liked his nieces a little too much. But it is not unknown for an uncle and niece to love each other in such a way. That does not make it right, but perhaps more understandable if true love really is involved. As far as I know, there was no such child as Leo Kymbe, or any child at all of Cicely’s by her uncle. Leo is fiction.

  Nor do I have any basis at all for the continuing love affair between Cicely and Henry. But why not? Why should he not fall in love with his wife’s sister? From all accounts, he was not an easy man, and certainly he was damaged by the circumstances of his upbringing. He spent a large part of his early life in hiding in exile, staying out of the way of the Yorkists, who would prefer to have been rid of him. He was highly intelligent, with a secretive, cunning nature, and would eventually succumb to tuberculosis (consumption) at the age of fifty-two. His illness had affected him off and on for many years, seeming to be seasonal, and I have chosen to introduce this aspect of his life a little earlier than it is mentioned in historical sources. But that does not mean he was free of it in 1486/87. The early signs may well have been in evidence when he was a young man. In his later reign Henry became a terrible tyrant, cruel, avaricious, indifferent to his subjects and much hated. He was never a popular monarch, and his nature played against him. He died a very rich man . . . and his son, the truly monstrous Henry VIII, promptly squandered it all.

  I must be clear that although Richard III’s illegitimate son, John of Gloucester, was supposedly kept at the Tower until his believed execution in 1499, I have no justification at all for claiming he was tortured by Henry VII. This is my fiction.

  So too is the suggestion that Ralph Scrope turned coat against Richard III or claimed falsely to have been married to Cicely. There is evidence that a marriage of some sort took place, but it was set aside by Henry VII so that she could be given instead to his half-uncle, Sir Jon Welles. The real Ralph Scrope did not die horribly on the marsh near Wyberton, but lived to become 10th Baron Scrope of Masham, dying in 1515. I apologize to his memory for turning him into such a scoundrel.