Cicely's Sovereign Secret

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  It was very unusual for Jon not to tell her where he would be, and he had promised to be home for Christmas Day, but she had celebrated alone. Henry, on the other hand, was wont to disappear from time to time, but not even Sir Reginald Bray knew where this time. Nor did the ambitious Dudley, while Morton looked as if he had been forced to eat a mess of feathers. These men defended their powerful positions jealously, but Henry was not a king who could be controlled, and they were forced to work very hard to stay in favour.

  Cicely wanted Jon home again. Henry could stay away forever as far as she was concerned, because his return would mean a summons to his bed, which she did not want. Conscience made her pause. She was unfair to him. Yes, he had made her go to his bed, and yes, he had taken Richard from her and thus destroyed her happiness, but when she was with him there could be such tenderness and pleasure that she despised herself for it. She was prey to her own senses, and to his. Henry Tudor was a thoughtful lover, sensual, skilled and subtle. How she wished it were not so, but she revelled in fleshly joys. Even with him.

  A lone horse entered the courtyard from the lane. Jon? She slipped from the bed and went to fold the shutters back and breathed on the frosted lattice. Yes, it was him! After brushing her hair, she dabbed rosewater on her skin and then donned a warm robe to wait for him by the fireplace. But he did not come. Puzzled, she lit a candle and went down to the deserted great hall, where she soon saw him by the fireplace.

  His one hand was on the mantel, and in the other he had a cup of wine. He was gazing down into the blaze he had clearly just revived. His cloak and hood lay over a bench, and he was unaware of her. There was an air of complete dejection about him, as if his spirit had been crushed.

  What was wrong? ‘Jon?’ she said, and the hall picked up her voice.

  He turned in dismay. Without the direct firelight his face was pale and distracted, and she saw his cheeks were wet.

  Appalled, she discarded the candle and ran to him, but he shook his head and held up a hand. ‘Leave me, sweetheart. Please.’

  ‘Not when you are like this, Jon.’

  ‘Now is not the time, Cicely. I must compose myself.’

  ‘Tell me what is wrong.’ She went closer to put a gentle hand on his sleeve.

  He pulled away. ‘I will tell you in due course, but please, leave me for now.’

  ‘Is it Henry? What has he done?’

  ‘He did not do anything. I did.’ Jon tossed his untouched wine into the fire, where it hissed and frothed violently.

  Then, to Cicely’s astonishment, he hurled the cup as well. She saw how his shoulders shook as he wept silently. It was terrible to see such a strong man so shaken by … grief. Yes, it was grief. Moving behind him, she embraced his waist and rested her head against his back.

  ‘Please tell me, let me comfort you.’

  His hands gripped hers, and she could feel his struggle to regain composure. It was a minute or more before he turned. ‘I would never have harmed him, you know that. I would not do such a thing to him. Or to you.’

  ‘Who are you talking about, Jon? Has something happened to Henry? Is that it?’

  Jon gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Jesu, if only it were, unless you count a good kick in the crotch and being knocked out for a while by a blow to the head, neither of which affected him much, except in his temper and pride. No, sweetheart, it is not Henry.’ He gazed steadily and eloquently into her eyes.

  Awful realization began to slide coldly over her. ‘Jack?’ she whispered.

  ‘Forgive me, Cicely. Forgive me …’

  ‘He is hurt? I must go to him!’

  ‘You cannot, sweetheart.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Jack really is dead this time, and I killed him.’

  She stepped back involuntarily. All sound seemed to stop, as did the air itself. It was Sheriff Hutton again, and the moment she had learned of Richard’s death. The same disbelief and pain, the same vacuum and inability to think or accept; the same conviction that it was a nightmare from which she must awaken at any moment.

  ‘No. I … do not believe it.’ Her voice seemed to echo from within.

  ‘Do you think I would lie about such a thing? To you, of all people? I know what Jack meant—means—to you, but he is dead, because of my dagger. I swear I did not know it was him. I thought it was an attempt to assassinate Henry. There were two of them, both in black hoods and cloaks, their faces blackened, but I believe now—by his height and build—that the second man was that meddlesome bastard … Tal.’

  He hesitated over the name in a way she noticed, even in her state of distress. Jack had introduced Tal to her as Taleisin ap Gruffydd, which she did not believe was a real name at all. Did Jon know it was false? The only occasion at which she knew Jon had seen Tal was briefly, by torchlight on the river stairs of Westminster Palace, when he had asked her who Tal was.

  ‘Why did you think it was Tal? You only saw him that once, and—’

  ‘It was him, Cicely.’ Jon’s tone was level.

  She breathed in deeply, to make herself concentrate, but Jack was smiling at her again; she could hear his laughter, feel his touch, share his kisses and know the joy of being one with him. He was still here. He had to be! But the awfulness tightened within. She would never see him again, and the heartbreak was almost insupportable.

  Jon reached out. ‘If I could take back those seconds, I would. I know he was your lover, and that you felt towards him almost what you felt for Richard.’ His next words distracted her. ‘Sweetheart, I may have thrown the weapon, but I would have sworn the blade did not penetrate enough to kill him. To slow his escape, yes, but not to take his life. With care and attention he would have survived, yet he was found dead. And no, I do not think it was Tal’s work,’ he added, ‘unless he feared Jack might be “persuaded” to talk to Henry.’

  ‘Tal would never do that.’ She closed her eyes, her hands clenching into tight balls as she willed Jack to walk into the hall and prove it all to be untrue. But he did not.

  Jon was answering her. ‘Maybe he would wish to save Jack from Henry’s merciless attentions?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I will not believe it. Who found him?’

  ‘The searchers roused to comb the grounds retrieved his body, but Henry found him before then.’

  Her thoughts paused. ‘Henry?’ she repeated slowly, suspiciously.

  Jon hesitated, and then drew her to a chair by the fire and sat down to pull her onto his lap. He put his arms around her, and she leaned against him. Intimacy was established. At first he could not find words. Jack’s death had shaken him to the marrow, and so had his own guilt.

  She spoke first. ‘I know you would not have hurt Jack deliberately, but you must tell me everything. I owe it to him. Where did it happen? Why were you there?’

  ‘I cannot tell you everything, sweetheart, because I am sworn to secrecy by Henry, and believe me, it is something so dangerous that you should not be exposed to it. But I will say that it happened in Kent, a meeting about something of infinite delicacy that Henry only partly confided in me, and I wish he had not. But somehow an inkling of it must have been discovered by Jack and Tal.’ He described everything again, speaking of Roland only in passing, as simply ‘a Breton boy’. He ended at the moment he wounded Jack and the two intruders had made their escape. ‘Both of them got away, it seemed, but later it turned out that Jack had not.’

  ‘And Henry was the one who found him?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, and I know that is suspect in itself, but he was not to blame, for he suffered an assault that could not have been self-inflicted. He said he was searching within the house, while the main chase was outside in the grounds, and he entered a room to find Jack already dead. But then he was hit on the back of the head with a candlestick and knows nothing more. He awakened to find half his shirt cut away. Jack’s body had gone, but there was blood where he had lain. His accomplice—Tal—must have come back for him. There is no other explanation.’

  ‘I am loath to
take Henry’s word for anything.’

  ‘Subsequent events convince me he was telling the truth. There was a thorough search of the grounds, although there were not many men to do it, and a single horseman was seen escaping. He disappeared into a wood and was not seen again. I believe it must have been Tal. He managed to kill a mastiff, and shortly afterwards, Jack’s riderless horse was found by the house. I know it was his because there was blood on the reins, and … this was caught on the pommel.’ He took out a small pouch, in which were some strands of long, curly, almost-black hair.

  Jack’s hair. Salt pricked Cicely’s eyes, but the tears did not fall.

  Jon replaced the hair in the pouch, and pressed it into her hand. She pushed it into her purse, along with all the other precious mementos of her loves. She only dared to carry them in the house now.

  ‘Where did they find him?’

  ‘In the woods somewhere. I do not know exactly where. At first I only knew about the horse, but then saw a body being brought back to the house, flung over the back of another horse, but I did not go to inspect it. I could not. I preferred to remember Jack de la Pole alive.’

  A sob choked in Cicely’s throat, and she slipped her arms around Jon’s neck to hide her face in the crook of his neck.

  ‘Anyway, Henry was in no condition to leave for London as originally planned, nor was he to be for several days, so we tried to sleep for what was left of the night. I could not, and paced the passages. That was when I saw …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A body, wrapped in a shroud, being carried across the quadrangle and out beneath the gatehouse. I went to another window and saw it being taken to a hollow, where a grave had been painstakingly dug. Not easy, the ground was frozen. The body was placed in it and covered. Then, well, there was a willow overhanging the hollow. Need I say more?’

  ‘A stave through the heart?’ she whispered, remem-bering Jack’s supposed makeshift burial on the battlefield at Stoke. Someone else’s body, mistaken for his, had been placed in an unmarked grave and pierced with a willow stem. Now, that same dishonourable burial had been re-enacted, but truly this time. How like Henry to condone it. No, worse, he would have ordered it!

  ‘So, my love,’ Jon continued quietly, ‘Jack really is dead this time, and as I was the one whose act brought it about, I have to take the blame.’

  She hugged him tightly. ‘Where did it all happen? I need to know where he lies.’

  ‘So that you can go there and weep over him? If you do that, Henry will know that I have said things to you that he has expressly forbidden. It is best you do not know.’ Jon took her hand to be sure she paid full attention. ‘Cicely, this secret of Henry’s is one thing for which he will put himself first. First. Do you understand?’

  Cicely sat up on his lap as her thoughts raced back into the summer just past. ‘This boy of whom you are being so careful to say nothing … Henry once almost blurted to me that he had two children, not only Prince Arthur. You told me then never to mention it. Your warning was that he would not hesitate to forfeit me to save himself. I must now put two and two together, and—’

  Jon interrupted her urgently. ‘Do not make that connection, sweetheart! Please. It’s dangerous.’ He paused. ‘Did Jack or Tal ever mention this secret meeting to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You would not deceive me?’

  ‘No! I never spoke to Jack again after that night at Westminster, when you and I saw him with Tal on the river stairs. When you affected not to know Tal, although now I suspect you did.’

  He ignored the last sentence. ‘I would dearly like to know how they learned enough to be there that night, sweetheart. Henry was meticulous about keeping it covert.’ Jon touched his fingers to her cheek. ‘I repeat, you are not to mention to anyone that Prince Arthur is not Henry’s only child.’

  ‘Why does Henry not simply acknowledge this boy? There is no shame in siring a child before marriage, least of all for royalty and the nobility.’

  Jon met her eyes squarely. ‘That is up to him, and remember, we do not know who the mother might have been. There are any number of reasons why such a child might remain unacknowledged. You are to heed my warning, because when Tal approaches you—’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Do not be artful, my love. You know he will want to tell you about Jack, if only to incriminate me to the full.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’

  He evaded the question. ‘And if, by any chance, you have been dabbling in more than you should, then Tal is even more likely to be in contact. Is there a set plan to topple Henry?’ he asked then.

  ‘A goal, maybe, which all true Yorkists share, but I do not know of any firm, organized plan.’ She spoke almost absently. Her thoughts were wandering again. Remembering. Seeking a reunion that was impossible …

  ‘My sweet Cicely, I fear to lose you now.’ Jon’s blue eyes were anxious.

  She put her arms around his neck again. ‘Never think it, Jon Welles. My regard for you burns as steadily as ever.’

  But my heart breaks for Jack.

  Chapter Four

  Cicely heard from Tal the next day. Snow was falling heavily, and she was in the parlour with her maid, Mary Kymbe, disentangling embroidery threads, a task that did not require concentration. Christmas had lost all meaning and joy, and the garlanded leaves and other decorations seemed almost spitefully incongruous. Cicely dared not display mourning, and wore bluebell velvet trimmed with white fur, a gown Jack had admired.

  The emptiness within was so like that other emptiness, when she had lost Richard, and she remembered a poem he had written as a very young man. He had realized his wife, Anne, loved her dead first husband more than him, but now the words meant so very much to his niece.

  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 fumbled with the colourful silks, and Mary glanced at her sympathetically. The maid was one of the Kymbes of Friskney manor in Lincolnshire, who cared for Leo, under the guise of him being the son of Mary’s brother, Tom. Elderly Mistress Kymbe, Mary’s aunt—who had been deaf for many years now, but could read lips—was the midwife and wisewoman who delivered Leo, and now played the role of grandmother to him.

  The maid was pretty, with soft brown eyes and brown curls, and was of an age with Cicely. She was gentle and kind, and her loyalty to Cicely was unshakeable. There was no sweetheart in her life, not from lack of offers, but because Mistress Kymbe, who had ‘the sight’, predicted that a true and lasting love would come to her, and his name would be the periwinkle flower. Mary believed the cryptic statement.

  There was much more to Mary than appeared, for she was the old lady’s pupil, and very receptive and accomplished indeed. She knew all the medicinal herbs and beneficial flowers in her aunt’s garden at Friskney, where there were also plants of a more arcane degree. Charms, cures, salves, potions and many other strange things were to be found in the old lady’s casket, and now Mary had a similar casket that was filling slowly as she acquired new skills. Apart from ‘the sight’, Mistress Kymbe had another great gift, ‘the cunning’, and she perceived both to be slumbering in her niece. She foretold that one day Mary would possess greater knowledge, power and skill than her own.

  Cicely was glad of the maid’s quietly comforting presence, because Jack’s death had sucked her vitality away. She was desolate, and wished Jon did not have duties today. When he was with her it was easier to bear, but Henry had come upstream to Westminster from Greenwich that morning. He came alone, and summoned Jon. Did it concern the same secret from Kent? Henry Tudor’s reluctant lover did not care if he had a thousand secrets to try to hide, or if they brought about his downfall.

  A page came in
with a sealed note. ‘An urgent message for you, my lady.’

  Urgent? Cicely read quickly. It was brief. Now. As before. T.

  Earlier in the year, Tal had waited in the lane to take her to Jack at the Sign of the Red Lion in nearby Budge Row. It had been the eve of Jack’s flight from Henry’s closing net, and they had made love for the last time in a dingy upstairs room at the rear of the premises. She rose quickly to look from the window, but the snow was so heavy that everything beyond the courtyard wall was obscured. Tal was waiting out there again now, but this time it could not be to take her to see Jack… . Her lips pressed together as she fought back the ever-close tears. She told Mary she would go alone. Whatever Tal had to say was for Lady Welles alone to hear.

  His imposing figure appeared out of the swirling snow as she emerged from the courtyard, a lonely figure in hooded cloak and pattens.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘If you think to take me to the Red Lion again, I—’

  He interrupted quietly. ‘The landlord asks no questions, my lady. I fear it must be the same room, too, because it is all he had. Forgive me, but we must talk privately, preferably in some comfort. A fire will have been lit, and there is a chair.’

  And a bed, she thought, but no Jack to warm it. She signified consent. What else could she do?

  ‘My lady, last time we pretended to—’

  ‘Be sweethearts? Yes. I agree to that as well.’ No one glanced twice at cloaked lovers.

  He slipped an arm around her shoulder, and she rested her head against him. It was oddly reassuring, but as they walked towards Budge Row, it seemed that Jack’s shade walked with them. She even glanced down at the snow, but there were only two sets of footprints. Soon they neared the court of shops, where stood the wooden, red-painted lion from which the small inn, really little more than a tavern, took its name. The hostelry was thronged inside, but no attention was drawn as they threaded their way to the staircase at the far end of the taproom. The innkeeper, having already been paid, did not even glance up.