Cicely's Sovereign Secret

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  Nero became even more frantic, and the door jolted as men tried to force it open with their shoulders.

  Tal tried to half-carry, half-drag his wounded companion, determined to get him out of the casement somehow, but the injury was too painful. Jack had to stop again, wincing at the searing pain.

  ‘I cannot, Tal, I will hold you back. You will be caught trying to haul me through that window.’

  ‘I am buggered if I am leaving you here!’

  ‘You must! Do you want us both to fall into Tudor’s clutches?’ Jack glanced back at the door, as some of the Breton men from the quadrangle lent assistance. The battering redoubled, and it was clear the lock and wedge could not hold for long. He closed his eyes as pain engulfed him.

  ‘Sweet God above,’ he breathed, and then looked urgently at Tal, who was about to pull the dagger from him. ‘No, leave it. I will bleed like a stuck pig and leave a trail in the snow, even supposing we get that far.’

  ‘I can get you out!’

  ‘No. For fuck’s sake, Tal, be sensible. I am not going to be able to escape. It is too damned far to the horses. One of us has to get away with the knowledge we have gained tonight. It has to be you. Listen closely, Cicely’s son lives and is Richard’s. The boy may yet be York’s future, do you understand? His name is Leo Kymbe. Tell her you know. If I am eliminated, as I know I will be, Henry will remove my brothers as well. Leo could well become vital for York. Give me your word, Tal.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Your word!’

  Tal nodded reluctantly. ‘You have it, my friend.’

  ‘And tell her I love her. Now, get out of here while you still can.’

  The commotion at the door was tumultuous and the mastiff seemed almost demented. There were tears in Tal’s eyes as he ran.

  Jack watched the final flick of his cloak disappear into the room at the end of the passage, and then edged his own way into the first room he came to, leaving a smear of blood on the jamb. He managed to rub more orange oil over it, and then closed the door behind him. The room was illu-minated by the cold sheen of the moon and snow outside. He staggered to the window, wondering if he could get out somehow, but it was sealed, and he was in too much pain to struggle one-handed. So he turned back his heavy cloak as much as he could to ease the weight on his left shoulder, and leaned against a table, facing the door, his dagger beside him.

  At last the lobby door surrendered, and the chase streamed into the passage, led by Jon, who carried a torch. He was accompanied by the Bretons, and the baying mastiff with its handlers. The frantic hound avoided the orange oil and pounded on along the passage after Tal. Jack smiled.

  ‘I am back here, you stupid cur.’

  The clamour dwindled through the doorway at the other end of the passage, and then the great hound’s baying changed into apparent confusion. Had Tal’s scent been lost? Jack prayed his friend had made good his escape. He heard the chase move on, out of the passage and along towards the gatehouse. Then, a minute or so later, Nero’s baying carried from outside.

  Jack tried to gauge whether or not Tal might have eluded capture, but then it all seemed to die away, and into the silence there fell the soft tread of a single man. The steps faltered. Perhaps the bloodstain on the stonework had been noticed. Candlelight shimmered beneath the door, and an almost animal instinct told Jack who was coming. The door opened slowly, cautiously. The man appeared, tall, slender and graceful, clad in grey, with russet hair to his shoulders. Henry. He came into the room, the candlelight swaying over his face as he gazed at Jack.

  ‘I knew it was you, de la Pole. Soot cannot disguise you, or save your life now.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Jack’s brown eyes were dull with pain, but he picked up his dagger, so Henry knew he was armed. ‘What do you do now, eh, Tudor? Save me in the hope of extracting information? Or do away with me once and for all while you have the chance … and then pray Cicely never learns you took the life of her most beloved cousin? What a dilemma.’

  ‘No dilemma, my friend, for I do not intend to risk you being nursed back to health again.’ Henry placed the candlestick on the small mantelshelf. ‘I want to be rid of you, once and for all. England has only one sovereign, and that is me. York will never return. Never! My uncle’s dagger is about to make a much worse wound, so much worse that it will kill you. From loss of blood, if nothing else. He can take the blame, and I will reward him well for saving me. How he then deals with his wife is his business.’

  ‘You really have no soul, you Welsh tick. Well, get on with your unholy work, enjoy the sensation of driving into my flesh for a change.’ Jack tried to laugh.

  Henry’s face was stony, but his movements, hitherto slow and commanding, were suddenly swift and vicious. He seized a chair and hurled it at Jack who, caught off guard, moved aside too late. The dagger was jolted from his grip, and Henry was upon him in a second, grabbing him by the hair and jerking him forward to fall prostrate on the floor. Spots of blood scattered on decorative tiles, and Jack was in too much pain to fight back. Henry stood over him, a foot on either side, and reached for the dagger’s hilt, meaning to twist the blade cruelly before driving it further in. But then he paused, and decided to inflict even more pain first.

  Jerking Jack’s cloak aside and moving Jon’s dagger in the wound, he reached for his victim’s left arm and twisted it back cold-bloodedly, until it must surely dislocate. Or shatter. So excruciating was the pain that Jack screamed. Henry wrenched the arm again, and as the joint began to dislocate, Jack fell helplessly into a blinding light. Oblivion claimed him.

  Henry relished inflicting physical torture on the man he knew Cicely loved. White-hot jealousy like this had pushed him to consign Richard’s illegitimate son, John of Gloucester, into madness. Now Lincoln would suffer the same. Henry exposed Jack’s other arm. He would take his time, and do more damage.

  His back was to the door, and he did not hear Tal’s soft step. He knew nothing until he was clouted with the candlestick he himself had brought to the room. He felt a sickening pain, saw a blur of lights, and lost consciousness.

  Tal closed the door softly, and bent to Jack. He knew Jon’s dagger had to be removed, but not before due preparation. Seeing the partly dislocated left shoulder, he froze. The only wound Jack had sustained originally had been caused by the hurled dagger. Now he was in this pitiful state. Henry had been reaching for the other arm, having clearly already done great damage to the first shoulder. The intention had been to hurt Jack as much as possible before despatching him!

  Tal was tempted to put an end to the hated king there and then, but the time was not right. Instead he cut several strips from Henry’s fine silk shirt, and then contented himself by aiming a particularly vicious kick into the apex of the royal legs.

  Returning to Jack, he manipulated the left shoulder back into place, and as Jack stirred, clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘No squawking, my friend!’ he hissed.

  Jack had no time to think as the dagger was pulled swiftly out of his shoulder, and the pad of silk pressed down to staunch the flowing blood. Tal worked swiftly, tying the pad in place as strongly as he could, and finally making a sling.

  Jack sat up and saw Henry’s motionless figure. ‘Good God!’

  Tal was surprised by the reaction. ‘How much do you remember?’ he asked, pausing alertly as they both heard shouts outside, and the more distant baying of two mastiffs, but the sounds soon faded again. The house itself was as silent as the grave.

  ‘I recall being in the great hall. That’s all.’

  Using as few words as possible, Tal explained how he left the house. ‘I had to come back for you, my friend. So I left a trail in the opposite direction from our horses, until I came to a stream, then I waded back towards the house. I re-entered as I had left, and found Henry standing over you, about to maim your right shoulder, as he already had your left. I hit him as hard as I could with a candlestick. The bastard was having fun torturing you, and then I believe he meant to mur
der you. To rid himself of Cicely’s cousin and lover.’

  Jack was dumbfounded. ‘Have you killed him?’

  ‘No. That would let him off too lightly. I want slow revenge.’ Tal tested the window. ‘Damn it!’

  ‘We have to use the other window, as before,’ Jack said.

  ‘Can you manage?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  ‘I will support you, but if you give a single mew, so help me I will knock you unconscious again and bloody well carry you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  Helped from the floor, Jack swayed, requiring a strong arm around his waist, but he managed to walk to the door. Tal peered out into the passage, and then became motionless, his arm tightening warningly around Jack. He could feel that there was someone hiding nearby. But he could not see anything. The torches still flared in the quadrangle, the shadows loomed and then shrank again, but no one else seemed to be present. The feeling hung unpleasantly, and so did his heart, but then he decided to risk it and hurried Jack along the passage towards the end room. No one raised the alarm, and when he glanced back, no one appeared. Whoever it was clearly had as good a reason as theirs for staying out of sight.

  Getting Jack into the other room and closing the door behind took only moments, and once inside, Jack leaned against a wall.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tal asked anxiously.

  ‘Could not be better.’

  ‘You will do, my friend. Now, we are going to go through that window, and you will have to find the strength to help. I will climb out first. Then I want you to lean out and then down as far as you dare. You will begin to slip forward, but I will stop your fall and ease you down gently. I will see you safely away from here, I vow it. Thank God Almighty that Henry’s desire for secrecy means so few men on guard, eh?’

  Jack smiled weakly. ‘Just stop talking, and get the fuck outside.’

  Tal climbed easily onto the windowsill and pushed the casement to look out. The sounds of the search could be heard from two directions, too distant to be of immediate concern. Torches bobbed to the south, and there were lanterns to the west, but to the northwest, where their horses were hidden, all seemed quiet. Tal dropped down six feet or so into the snow, and then looked up, his breath silvery in the cold.

  ‘Now!’

  It seemed an age before Jack leaned over the ledge and did all he could to ease himself further and further out. Then, slowly and painfully, he lowered his head and shoulders until Tal could reach up to grasp him as he began to fall. It required all Tal’s strength to pull him down and support him without causing him too much pain.

  Jack took a few moments to recover, but then nodded. ‘I am ready.’

  Tal caught him around the waist again, and they started for a clump of bushes as fast as Jack could manage. If anyone came that way, the footprints to and from the broken window would be suspicious, but at least there was no blood from the wound, to identify the owners of the prints. Yet, at least.

  They reached the bushes, and Tal pulled Jack into cover, glancing around warily. The torches to the south were nearer now, and coming their way!

  ‘Diawl!’ he breathed. ‘We cannot linger like sweethearts.’

  ‘No stolen kisses?’ Jack grinned.

  ‘Not even one.’ Tal supported him again and then made a swift break for the edge of a small wood to the northwest, where their mounts waited.

  By the time they reached the sheltering trees, Jack was getting weaker. There was blood oozing from around the dressing now, and then, to Tal’s utmost dismay, approaching lanterns glimmered ahead. The wood was being swept from the far side! And there were more mastiffs, at least two! He redoubled his efforts, convinced they had time to get away. The horses waited patiently, with blankets over them to keep them as warm as possible. Tal brought the chestnut.

  ‘Can you manage if I shove you up?’ he asked quietly, urgently.

  Jack nodded, and Tal lifted him easily, but saw how he swayed in the saddle.

  ‘Hold on for dear life, damn it! I have not got you this far, only for you to fall off like some old woman!’ He turned the horse to face east, and the roundabout way they had chosen to get to and from London.

  But as he went to mount the second horse, a mastiff caught wind of them and began to give voice.

  ‘Fucking Nero!’ Jack breathed in dismay.

  ‘Get going! Now! You know the way!’ Tal slapped Jack’s mount on the rump, and it leapt away.

  The mastiff became more excited, and then its voice changed as it broke free of its handlers to give chase.

  ‘Sweet God above!’ Tal breathed, glancing after Jack, whose strength was doubtful for a hard, prolonged gallop.

  There was only one thing for it, the mastiff had to be confronted. Dagger drawn, Tal urged his frightened horse directly towards the sound of the great hound. He saw the creature bound out of the snowy darkness and prepare to leap at him. The horse was terrified, but Tal was a strong rider, and as the hound hurtled at him, he bent to not only meet it, but stab it in the neck as hard as he could. The animal yelped and fell away.

  Tal spurred his mount on again, in the opposite direction from Jack. He had to draw pursuit away from his wounded friend. The horse was not only relieved to escape, but also fresh and rested, and carried him through the trees swiftly. He heard shouts and knew the searchers had seen him. Some of them were riders, but Tal knew they would not catch him now.

  He prayed no one would see Jack, and after riding across some open parkland, where there were too many prints for his to be picked out, he reined by another small wood. To his utter devastation, he saw Jack’s riderless horse galloping past the front of the house. He recognized it by the long white stocking on its near foreleg.

  Rigid with dismay, he watched the lanterns bob through the other woodland and then the searchers emerge, some on foot, some riders, with the single remaining mastiff. One man was leading a horse, over which something had been slung. It was some distance away, a formless silhouette, but it looked like a body. As he watched, the horse stumbled and the body slipped sideways before falling into the snow, where it lay absolutely still. Jack? What else could he think? Salt stung Tal’s eyes.

  The body was gathered and tossed over the horse again, without respect.

  ‘That is the royal Earl of Lincoln, you ignorant clods!’ Tal breathed, painfully aware of the comparison with Richard’s fate after Bosworth, when he too had been thrown ignominiously over a horse.

  Choking back a sob for the Yorkist prince he loved as a son, Tal turned his mount to begin the lonely ride back to London.

  Chapter Three

  At two in the morning three nights later, when Christmas Day had passed, London was peaceful beneath the stars. It was bitterly cold, with hard-packed snow still lying in the ancient streets. Smoke ascended vertically from the countless chimneys cloaking Ludgate Hill, and church towers and steeples rose like spines. St Paul’s cathedral pointed skyward like a huge finger, while far below, the Thames at low tide was a narrow silver ribbon.

  There was little movement on the river, the close-to-freezing water having retreated from most of the quays and wharves. Even London Bridge was quiet, its tenements pressing together as if for warmth. Henry VII’s capital was a scene of night-time tranquillity, and all seemed well.

  Somewhere between the river and the cathedral, in the maze of streets and alleys of Cordwainer Ward, was St Sithe’s Lane, where stood Pasmer’s Place, residence of Viscount Welles and his lady. It was not the largest property on the lane, by any means, but it was certainly one of the most pleasing, set around a courtyard behind a protective wall, with a small enclosed garden behind. Named for its owner, John Pasmer, a prosperous merchant, member of the Skinners’ livery company and of the influential Staple in Calais, it was very comfortable and luxuriously appointed. Pasmer now chose to live elsewhere in the capital, and was often in Calais, so he derived a useful income by renting the mansion to the king’s uncl
e. He owned a number of properties in London and around the country, and had tenants in most of them, some very well-to-do. There was no doubt he would die a very wealthy man.

  Viscountess Welles lay alone in the bed she should be sharing with her husband, but he was still absent with Henry. She was small, with fair skin, dark grey-brown eyes and defiant, dark-chestnut hair that could so often become a tangle. Her rounded figure was narrow-waisted, with full breasts, and she was not what people expected of a Plantagenet. Her sister Bess was, being tall, lissom and beautiful, with straight red-gold hair to her waist.

  Cicely smiled in the firelight that shone through the bed drapes. Richard had been slight like her, with the same hair, but no one mistook him for anything other than a Plantagenet. She thought of the uncle for whom she would always feel such forbidden yearning and love. Neither of them had sought it … or been able to deny it. So much had been shared with him, and the sharing had been divine. She entered eagerly into every carnal delight, and it was at quiet times like this that she remembered him most, longed for him most, and could almost touch him again. This, in spite of Jon and Jack, both of whom she loved so much in the present. Especially Jack.

  Jon she cherished, steadily and truly. He had become her husband to save her from the ruin of bearing a child out of wedlock. Richard’s child, as Jon was well aware. For that she would always hold him dear, and be glad of him in her bed. But the desire she felt for him was not the almost ferocious passion first stirred by Richard. She had never expected to know such intensity again, but had found something very close to it with Jack, who had always been in her heart to one degree or another, since he rescued her from drowning in childhood. With him there was an echo of Richard, and a link to all the joy that had gone forever.

  She felt a sliver of guilt, for it was wrong to think of other loves while in Jon’s bed. Where was he? He and Henry had left Greenwich Palace for Kent six days ago, but no one at court seemed to have any idea of their purpose. Bess knew nothing, nor did Henry’s omnipresent mother, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Derby. Which suggested that Henry was up to something very devious, into which he had dragged his reluctant half-uncle.