Cicely's Sovereign Secret

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  She heard his breath catch as he reached a point from which there was no return. He was the prisoner of his own desire, and as he finally surrendered, his entire body flexed with pure physical reward. She accepted all, exulting in the moment, and weak with the fulfilment he gave. Her arms moved around his thighs, as she continued to glean ripples of joy from him.

  His fingers coiled lovingly in her hair as he let her take all she wished of his body. ‘Jesu, cariad, I think I have died in ecstasy,’ he said softly.

  She wondered how close this was to love. Now, when he was so warm and gentle, when they had shared such euphoria, and he trusted her so much, there was communion. She did not want to believe anything ill of him. Anything at all.

  He pulled her up into his arms, then took her hands to stretch them down as far as he could without forcing their grip apart again. The action brought them together, body pressed to body. He hid his face against her hair and swayed almost imperceptibly. It was so subtly and undeniably erotic that she could not have broken free, even had she wished to.

  It was some time before he released her again. ‘The comfort of the bed, I think, mm?’ He took her hand to lead her through the small lobby to the king’s bedchamber. Richard’s bedchamber, but everything was different now. Even the bed. Richard’s had been hung with murrey and blue, Henry’s was green and white, embroidered with bright-red dragons. It was grand and four-posted, carved and gilded, with intricate drapes that were almost closed upon the inviting hiding place within.

  She slipped through the gap between the curtains, and lay on her back, a hand stretched out to him. ‘Come, Your Majesty, I will permit you to lie in your own bed.’

  ‘Why, thank you, gracious lady.’ He tossed his robe aside and climbed in with her, leaning over her for a moment as if to say something important.

  The firelight caught his face, his eyes, and she saw something written there. ‘Henry?’

  But he lay beside her. ‘My dream is still to one day have you all to myself. No inconvenient uncles, cousins, husbands, only my good self to satisfy your sweet desires.’

  That was not what he had been about to say, she thought, trying to fathom the expression glimpsed in his eyes. What had it been? Something that caused him pain, she decided. Mental pain, not physical.

  He gave a quick laugh. ‘And instead of you, I have your sister, with whom I am as brief as humanly possible.’

  ‘Five strokes, I believe you once said.’

  He smiled again. ‘It depends upon how much thinking about you has preceded it. If I get myself to fever pitch, I can do it in three. Once there were only two. I do not think she knew I had been there at all.’

  ‘Poor Bess.’ But she smiled.

  ‘Poor Bess? Have you any idea how demeaning it is to have to bed a woman whom I loathe and who loathes me? It is my bounden duty to make her fruitful and hope for heirs, but there is no pleasure, love, tenderness, no joy or those sparks that can make my life so very worthwhile. Only you can grant me those things, cariad.’

  Without warning, he hauled himself up restlessly, and sat back against the carved headboard. ‘Do the people believe I am only king because I married your sister and put Edward IV’s blood back on the throne?’

  His voice had changed, and the abrupt question took her by surprise. ‘No! You are king by conquest, Henry, and have united York and Lancaster since then, through marriage. I should imagine everyone knows that.’

  ‘Do they?’ There was subtle warning in everything about him now. ‘I will not be known as her consort!’

  Alarmed, but endeavouring not to let him see it, she reached up to touch his cheek soothingly. ‘You are not known as that, Henry. You were the king before you married her, not because you married her.’

  His capacity for violence loomed over her again, that dark suspicion that often eclipsed his mood. Suddenly, he was the king who had tortured John of Gloucester and then paraded what was left of him in front of the entire court. The king who could well have taken pleasure in dislocating Jack’s shoulders as a prelude to murdering him. When this Henry was to the fore, there was no saying what he might do.

  As if to prove the point, he snatched her hair at the nape of her neck, and twisted it cruelly. ‘You fear me now, cariad?’ His eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  ‘Is this what you want of me? My fear?’ She was frightened, but her spirit rebelled. She would not bow to this! Her struggles were useless, because his grip only tightened, and she had to hold her hair to stop the pain. ‘I thought you wished me to love you, Henry Tudor. Instead, I am nothing more than your toy, to be treated with scorn whenever you choose! Especially after you have been lightened of your load!’

  ‘I can survive on your fear.’

  She stopped resisting. ‘You always swear that when you change like this, no matter what you say or do, beneath it all you still love me. Is it no longer true?’

  He gazed at her as if he did not understand.

  The hesitation gave her heart. ‘Please, Henry, you are really hurting me.’ Her eyes had never been larger or more brimming with tears. Richard had told her how devastating her charm could be if she really wished, and right now, she certainly wished, but she had no idea if it could possibly rescue her from further violence.

  ‘You cause me distress, every minute of every day, madam,’ he snapped.

  ‘And inflicting it on me instead will change that?’

  Again he looked as if he had not understood, but his grip relaxed.

  She tried to find her way to Harri Tudur, who was surely somewhere not far within. ‘Oh, Henry, if you distress me, you will find that when you want me again in a short while, I will indeed be that cold, limp codfish.’ She made herself give him a tiny conciliatory smile.

  She saw bewilderment flit through his eyes, before he released her, slowly, uncertainly. His confusion was touched with fear. Of himself? Did he even know what had just happened?

  But then it had all passed, as swiftly as it came. He leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. ‘Saints above, lady, you can always tame me.’ There was a long pause. ‘You play me on a line, I think.’

  ‘I do not play you, Henry,’ she replied untruthfully. ‘I only want you to be happy.’ You have no idea how much I wish it. When you are happy, I am not at risk!

  He looked at her again, his face still caught in the shaft of firelight. ‘Did I hurt you, cariad? Please, tell me.’

  ‘Do you know what happened, Henry?’ she asked gently, for his pain now was quite pitiable.

  ‘No. At least … but I can see by your face …’ He pulled her up into his arms, and kissed her with a different violence. The violence of a man who sought to put things right with the woman he loved. ‘Hold me, cariad. Show your forgiveness.’

  She slipped her arms around him in genuine reassurance, for how could any woman withstand such wretchedness? His distress was as much a chain around her as everything else about him.

  He sank his fingers through her hair again, but gently now, so lovingly. She knew it was not pretence. ‘I do love you, Cicely. How many times must I say it?’

  ‘As many times as you need to, Henry,’ she answered gently.

  ‘The darkness is upon me so swiftly …’

  ‘I know.’ She stretched up to kiss his mouth again, and a floodgate of emotion was opened as he returned it. Everything he was, every part of his being poured into that kiss. She could feel his strength and his weakness, his love and all that he tried so very hard to suppress.

  ‘I can only speak of this to you, my love,’ he whispered then. ‘You are the only person I trust with my private dreads. What might I do one day? I fear it so. If I ever truly hurt you, I would die of the wretchedness and guilt.’

  She moved her cheek against his. ‘I know your unhappiness, Henry, I understand it.’

  He drew away ruefully. ‘Except at Huntingdon.’

  ‘Your black self was in command that day.’

  They had kept an assignation at a
Huntingdon inn, and he had suddenly believed her to be part of a conspiracy to kill him. In his fear and rage, he had struck her to the floor and said such terrible things, before leaving. Yes, he had terrified her that day, but she could have stopped him from leaving. One gentle word, as just now, about the codfish, and he would have been in her arms again, craving the same forgiveness he craved now. He was crucified by himself. None other. And the time had yet to come when she could turn her back on him forever. Maybe it would never come.

  ‘Cariad, I believed I had lost you that day, and knew I had brought it upon myself. I have never felt so bleak.’

  ‘I am still here, Henry.’ She touched his face again. ‘Come, lie down with me again and hold me close.’

  Deep under the coverlets again, he gathered her into his arms. ‘I am so sorry you have finally lost de la Pole.’

  Her eyes had been closed, but now flew open again.

  He said no more, and she felt him settling and relaxing against her. Soon his breathing became regular. She lay there, gazing up at the elaborate folds of the bed canopy, caught in the moving shaft of firelight that pierced the crack in the curtains. It was a long time before she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Cicely and Henry were startled from sleep the following morning when someone knocked discreetly at the bedchamber door. Three, and then three again. A signal.

  Henry sucked in his breath. ‘Fuck Fryon!’

  Étienne Fryon was Henry’s secretary in the French language, and had also served Richard and Cicely’s father. She knew him by sight, but had never spoken to him. His presence this morning was evidence that at least some of the forthcoming royal business would be conducted in French.

  Flinging the bedclothes aside, Henry leapt out of bed, and then immediately doubled up, clutching his crotch. ‘Sweet Jesu, Mary and all the angels!’ he gasped.

  Cicely hastened to him in alarm. ‘Henry? What is it?’

  He recovered enough to look at her. ‘It would seem I have to admit that I suffered a more demeaning injury than the blow to the head. A damned hard kick up the arse. Well, not quite the arse, just halfway between it and my dick! It hurts first thing, but eases off when I have been moving around for a while. I tell you, if I ever catch that bastard, his cock and nuts will be sliced off and thrown to the dogs!’

  She hid her mouth with her hands, wanting to laugh but, unsure whether he said it with humour or not.

  ‘One laugh now, lady, and yours is the pretty arse that will be kicked.’ There was humour, albeit reluctantly, because he knew how he appeared, bent over, holding on to himself.

  She moved closer, and pushed his hands gently aside, to replace them with her own. ‘There, I am sure that is a balm, Your Majesty.’

  He met her eyes. ‘You think I cannot pierce you this morning because of an embarrassing little bruise?’

  ‘So now it is a little bruise?’

  ‘Kings brush pain aside.’

  ‘Do they indeed?’ She smiled and worked gentle fingers into him. ‘Hmm, I see that everything still functions as it should.’

  ‘It cannot help but do so when you are near.’ He relaxed a little, bent his head to kiss her, and moved himself sensuously in her hands. ‘Oh, I would dearly like to return to that bed, but I really cannot. It will take long enough to robe me, as it is.’

  She slipped a soft fingertip inside his foreskin. ‘Even when I do this? Are you sure?’

  He smiled. ‘No, although a good fuck would set me up for the day, but I have to act the king now, and need your help with my garbing. Then, when you are dressed too, you must leave by the door behind that blue tapestry.’ He nodded towards it and then went to rinse his face from a bowl.

  Her father’s many lady-loves had used that door, but Cicely knew that no such thing had happened here in Richard’s time. At Nottingham, however, there was another such door that she had used to go to him. If only she had realized sooner that she loved him so very, very much. How many more times might she have used that door?

  Henry had picked up a towel, but paused as he observed her thoughtfulness. ‘Your expression tells a story, Cicely. What is it? Did you come to Richard here through the same door?’

  ‘I did not go to and from my uncle at all in the way you suggest. Please do not spoil this, Henry.’

  ‘You have secrets that it drives me to lunacy to think of.’

  ‘Secrets that do not exist,’ she answered, appearing angelic. ‘The story behind my expression a moment since is simply that I was reminded that this and a similar door at Nottingham were indeed used by my father’s many doxies. And it was not my uncle who told me about it, but yours.’ She would have to be sure to warn Jon she had said such a thing to Henry.

  ‘My uncle? Jon Welles, I presume?’

  ‘Well, certainly not Jolly Jasper, who does not speak to me at all, let alone about such a subject.’ Jasper Tudor was Henry’s full-blood uncle, and had taken him into exile after Tewkesbury. Now Jasper was Duke of Bedford, and disapproved entirely of Cicely Plantagenet’s place in Henry’s life. ‘Jon was in my father’s household,’ she went on. It was true enough. Jon had even been one of the many present at her father’s deathbed, although she had only recently learned of it.

  Henry nodded. ‘Your father was excessively profligate, I grant you.’

  ‘Hardly a secret, and hardly an appropriate criticism when you are suggesting I follow in the same footsteps, creeping out secretly after gracing your bed. You, Henry, are the Tudor pot that accuses the Plantagenet kettle of being burnt, and are in no position to condemn my father, when you have gone even further and endeavoured to make his daughter your official mistress. Shame on you.’

  ‘Ah, you have a point, of course.’ He smiled again, and then glanced towards a window. Snow was falling, large, heavy flakes that descended almost vertically, because there was no wind.

  She took great care with his clothes, because a king had to be perfect in every detail. She had once dressed Richard, not in royal robes, for it had been at the hunting tower near Sheriff Hutton, when they had been together for the last time. But the emotion she had felt then had been almost intolerable. There was emotion now, but it was not the same.

  Henry smiled as she combed his hair with great care, trying not to touch the bruise left by the candlestick. ‘Have you no urge to scratch me with all the force you can muster?’

  ‘Not at all, although I will oblige if you so desire?’

  He put up his hand to rest it gently against her cheek. ‘I desire much from you, my love, but not that.’

  Next she brought his heavily jewelled, silver collar of pearls and rubies. It had a new pendant she had not seen before, in the shape of a solid silver dragon that coiled upon itself, biting its own back. It was both beautiful and cruel, and had diamond eyes that glittered wonderfully, as if the precious stones had somehow been miraculously cut to catch the light.

  Henry watched her studying it. ‘A perfect allegory of me, do you not think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are not supposed to agree.’

  ‘Then do not ask such questions.’

  He laughed a little. ‘I am put in my place again, I believe.’

  ‘Take care of yourself today, Henry.’

  ‘I do every day. There is no one more skilled at caring for his precious hide than me, I assure you.’ He gazed at her. ‘Oh, it grieves me to have to dress you, for to be sure you are a heavenly vision in all your God-given loveliness. Rich garments are not needed to make a joy of you, my Plantagenet princess.’ He proceeded to dress her in the plum brocade gown and then placed her hooded, fur-lined cloak around her shoulders.

  The signal knocks sounded again, probably with great reluctance, because delivering Henry Tudor a second reminder was not an enviable task. More voices were now audible in the outer room.

  ‘I must go,’ he said regretfully. ‘I will send for you when I go to Esher on 10 January. No doubt you already know.’

&
nbsp; ‘This is the first I have heard of Esher,’ she replied with saintly untruthfulness.

  ‘I thought maybe—’ He broke off. ‘Well, no matter. I will want you there.’

  ‘And I will come, you know that.’

  ‘Because you still wish to protect my uncle?’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I rely upon you to honour your word, Henry. You have me, and so will not harm Jon. Do you still promise me that?’

  ‘Yes. He will not come to any hurt at my hands.’ He went towards the door.

  ‘Nor the hands of any of your creatures,’ she added quickly.

  ‘How mistrustful you are.’ He turned, rubbing an eyebrow. ‘You have my word, Cicely. I will not be the cause, directly or indirectly, of anything ill befalling my half-uncle. There, is that specific enough? I would not wish you to suspect me of being snake-tongued. Now, I must begin my duties or I will still be doing them at midnight tonight.’

  ‘No, by then you will be poring over your accounts, which is a self-inflicted task.’

  ‘So I will and so it is.’

  ‘And your eyesight will continue to suffer for it. You really should let others do it for you.’

  ‘Never. Accounts and expenses I trust only to myself.’

  She smiled. ‘So, you are still as mean as they say.’

  ‘They had better not say it in my hearing, which is as sharp as ever it was.’ He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Do not return to Pasmer’s Place alone. I know you chose, foolishly, to come here unescorted, but I will not have it that you return in the same way. Which reminds me …’ He went to the table where he attended to documents, and hastily scrawled ‘safe pass’ and his initials on a piece of paper, sanded it, shook the sand away and then handed it to her. ‘Show this at the palace doors, and guards will see you safely home. And leave now, or you may be seen by the waiting crowds when I open this joining door.’