As she moved towards the tapestry, he spoke again. ‘Cariad … do not grieve for Lincoln. The fellow was not worth your tears. You are better off without him.’
She halted. With those few words, however intended, he had resurrected Knole again, and thus the question of his innocence.
He smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me, I merely sought to … comfort you.’
She did not answer, but drew the tapestry aside and slipped through the door behind it. But then she halted without closing it behind her, and listened as he went out to the main apartments. All conversation ceased in the outer room as a trumpeter announced him. Maybe if he had not made her think of Jack again, she would not have done anything more, but he had. And she did.
There was no time to think. She peered around the tapestry. The door had swung to, but not completely, and she knew that if she could get behind it, she would not only hear what was said, but see much as well. Surely no one would come into Henry’s bedchamber, except Henry himself, and she would have time to escape again. Would she not? She hesitated, but then gathered her skirts, holding them close for fear a fluttering hem might be seen, and emerged from hiding.
Pressing back behind the hinged side of the other door, she found the voices were indeed louder, but there were so many that it was impossible to understand anything. She peeped through the gap, and the first faces she saw belonged to Henry’s favoured advisors, Sir Reginald Bray and Edmund Dudley, who resembled a barn owl and popinjay respectively. The way they glanced around reminded Cicely of Henry’s ‘imp’, a little man who was like Mistress Kymbe, and could read lips and report everything that was being said, even if the conversation was taking place some distance away. Henry had no doubt learned a number of secrets that way, some of them dangerous to those who had thought themselves able to speak in confidence. Heaven protect all Yorkists if Bray and Dudley ever mastered that art.
The Frenchman Étienne Fryon stood with several other secretaries. He was dark, slight, expressionless and purse-lipped, with eyes like bright coals. His black robe had a collar of starched white pleats, and his flat-crowned hat was tied beneath his chin. But it was the tall man beside him whose presence made her heart lurch. Tal!
She was so startled that she jerked back, as if he might somehow see her. For a moment or two she struggled to control her shock. Had Tal been playing Judas all along? No, it could not be! He had been helping Jack to escape … had he not? Taking a huge breath to calm herself, she looked through the gap again.
He wore a slate-blue tunic, with a Lancastrian collar to which was attached an equally Lancastrian red rose pendant, and there was a hound brooch pinned to his black hat. That same hound she had seen on his blue silk book. Was he Henry’s agent after all? A cold finger now ran down her spine. No wonder he was so secretive! Was she in the utmost danger for having begun to trust him?
She had to know more, so she remained where she was, looking into the other room, which gradually emptied. She could hear the voices more clearly, but not Tal’s. Perhaps he had left without her seeing? She looked through again, moving from side to side as much as she could in order to see as much as possible. Then she glimpsed him, talking to a huge man whom she knew to be Sir John Cheney, and who had suffered the ignominy of being unhorsed at Bosworth by Richard, a much smaller man with—by then—a broken lance. Immensely tall and muscular, Cheney was about forty years old and very strong, with untidy, dark-blond hair that hung down to his shoulder blades, and a long face with cheeks that seemed to fold towards his nose. His silver bull’s horns badge depended from the front and back of his Lancastrian collar. She did not like him, for not only had he fought against Richard, but against Jack at Stoke.
Both men moved out of her sight completely, but she heard Cheney’s great guffaw of a laugh, and Tal’s quieter amusement. The room became quieter after that, and just as she decided Henry was on his own and might come back at any moment, he spoke amiably to someone.
‘Ah, Sir Humphrey, my Silver Hound, we are private at last. I trust Calais is in good order?’ The tone was amiable.
‘Calais thrives, Your Majesty.’
It was Tal’s voice at last. Sir Humphrey…?
‘And how is your wife now?’
‘Well enough.’
The brevity of the response was not lost upon Henry. ‘It is known that you have difficulties,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Cheney tells me she is no longer at your residence in Kingston l’Isle.’
‘No doubt he wonders if I have done away with her, Your Majesty. He is wont to make mischief. The truth is that she is now with my sister in Norfolk.’
‘I have learned to my own cost that rumour and innuendo are unavoidable crosses to bear.’
‘But at least you—’ Tal broke off.
‘At least I…?’
‘I would not wish to be misconstrued or deemed insolent.’
There was a pause. ‘Indeed not, but I am curious.’
‘I was going to say that at least you had pleasure before being talked of. I did not.’
‘Ah, yes, so I did, but the entire host of Winchester angels would fall from grace because of the lady in question.’
Cicely’s lips parted. They were referring to her! The court had been at Winchester for Prince Arthur’s christening, where she had carried the baby, and Henry had forced a passionate kiss upon her. To be fair to him, he believed they were completely private … but they had been discovered by Jon, Henry’s mother and Jasper Tudor! Jon had left her for some time after that, because she had lied to him about the nature of her closeness to Henry.
Now Henry spoke in Welsh. ‘Mae cariad yn holl-bwysig.’ Then he had an afterthought. ‘Coming from whence you do, sir, I wonder if you have Welsh?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ Tal replied dishonestly.
‘Perhaps it is as well.’ Henry turned briskly to documents before him. ‘You are Marshal of Calais, sir, do you believe there is anything there that is in need of my particular attention? My intervention even?’
So, Tal was a military man, Cicely thought, and an important one at that.
‘Calais is loyal, Your Majesty, and will always serve the king.’
‘As it served Richard and Edward?’ Henry asked quietly.
‘It honours the institution of the monarchy, whoever actually sits upon the throne.’
‘Well, as I am now your third king, I suppose I have to believe you. So, I trust you sufficiently to advise that my policy at the moment is to mediate between Brittany and France. My ambassadors are doing all they can to divert the prospect of armed interferences. I prefer peace at all costs, having had a surfeit of strife since Bosworth.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘If you have to wonder what my stance is on a certain matter, I wish you to bear this desire for peace in mind. I want you to attend to this list, wherever it is… .’ There was a slight rustle as Henry sought among the papers on his desk. Then he coughed. ‘Too much dust, I think,’ he said to Tal. ‘Ah, here it is.’ Papers rustled again.
Tal was sympathetic. ‘Heaven spare us all from the monstrous mountain of documents that looms on all sides, Your Majesty. Administration is self-perpetuating.’
‘Indeed. Now, I wish you to leave for Calais immediately. And as you have my undivided attention, is there anything else you wish to discuss?’
‘There is one thing, Your Majesty. A personal matter.’
‘Speak.’
‘I am considering another pilgrimage, and wish to approach you in due course regarding the granting of another licence. You were gracious enough to bestow one in April last year.’
‘Ah yes, piety.’ Henry exhaled. ‘You did not go to Rome after all, as I recall.’
‘No, Your Majesty. My duties prevented it.’
‘Is it Rome again?’
‘Mount Sinai. St Catherine’s Monastery.’
Cicely thought of the crucifix and St Catherine’s wheel.
Henry spoke again. ‘I see no present reason why
not. Just take care to have your duties fully covered this time. It would be a shame to have to abandon your second pilgrimage.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
‘You may go, then.’
Cicely hurried back to the tapestry and through the hidden door, which she closed as quietly as she could. She then fled along a secret passage, through a succession of short, confined ways, to another doorway at the bottom of a flight of narrow steps. There she stopped, for there was a trilling of female giggling on the other side. The ladies’ mirth was at the expense of an unfortunate young minstrel whose split hose had revealed an undergarment trapped between his buttocks. Finally, a more authoritative lady collected herself.
‘Come, ladies, to our duties. Lady Margaret will punish us if we are not there in time.’
There was a lot of throat-clearing, more smothered giggles, and then silence as they hastened away towards the nearby concourse. Cicely waited a minute or so, to be sure there was no one to see her creeping out, and then she opened the door. She was at the closed end of a brief side passage that adjoined the main concourse towards the river stairs.
But as she hurried along it, she saw Tal again. He was going the same way, carrying his cloak. Her dismay increased as he was accosted by Sir John Cheney, in a manner that revealed the two to be not merely acquainted, but good friends.
She considered turning back to use the entrance to the great courtyard, but as Cheney went swiftly on his way, Tal observed her. His dismay clearly matched hers, but he approached. She stood her ground stiffly, and as he straightened from a respectful bow, made sure he saw her glance lingering pointedly on his Lancastrian collar.
‘I have to leave for Calais on the next tide, my lady, but think we need to talk first.’
She said nothing as she permitted him to usher her into a deserted chamber. He was careful to leave the door wide open, for there was not to be any hint of anything untoward between the Marshal of Calais and Lady Welles, and there were too many people passing to and fro for them to be overheard.
To him it was just a convenient room, but Cicely had been there before. A minute or so, no more. With Jack. Stolen, hazardous minutes, because Henry was hunting him. Yet here he had been. Oh, her brazen, beautiful Jack. In this room they had exchanged their last words. Their last kiss.
But Tal did not know, and she did not intend to tell him. Confrontation was already inevitable, because of this man’s clearly Lancastrian connections, of which Jack could surely not have known. Could he? Suspicion and doubt ruled her now.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘I already know you are the Marshal of Calais, because I eavesdropped upon you with him this morning, and that you are Sir Humphrey … but what is your surname?’
‘You eavesdropped? From the bedchamber, no doubt?’
‘Where else?’ She held his gaze almost fiercely.
‘I am Sir Humphrey Talbot, my lady.’
‘Talbot? So that is why you are called Tal? Taliesin does not enter into it?’
‘Correct. The silver talbot hound—some call it a running dog—is my badge, and is why Henry is wont to call me his Silver Hound.’
‘He trusts you.’
Tal raised an eyebrow. ‘He also trusts you, does he not? I think you now understand why I wish my true identity to be concealed.’
‘Did Jack know?’
‘Yes.’
‘About … this?’ She indicated the red rose pendant on his collar.
‘Yes. I kept nothing from Jack, nor he from me. We were close and trusted each other. But I am always known as Tal to my friends.’
‘Among whom I now number?’
‘If you so wish it, my lady.’
‘I do not know that I wish it at all, sir, because you are also clearly friendly with Sir John Cheney, who is Henry’s man to the marrow.’
‘Cheney is my immediate neighbour in Berkshire. He usually resides in Kent, but also possesses, among others in the county, the manors of Compton Beauchamp and Bishopstone, only a few miles from Kingston l’Isle, where I reside. So he is right on my doorstep. I do whatever is necessary not to draw attention to my real allegiances, Lady Cicely, so I am all charm and reason to him.’
‘He also opposed Richard and Jack,’ she said then. ‘I suppose you can be all charm and reason about that as well?’
‘I have to be. What sense is there in being Henry’s secret enemy if I openly pick fights with those who support him? You are Henry’s lover, so perhaps I should quarrel openly with you as well. His good mood this morning was clearly because he spent the night with you. He all but glowed. You are very good for him. What would Richard and Jack think of that?’
Cicely conquered the desire to walk out.
‘My lady, if an opportunity presented to do away with Cheney and not even be suspected, I would do it.’
She saw how he fingered the crucifix around his neck. ‘So, you are after all a Crusader knight of sorts, are you not, Sir Saint? Another pilgrimage? One wonders for what dreadful sin you wish to be absolved this time.’
‘I hope it will be two sins, Lady Cicely. One long since committed, the other yet to be achieved. I will have much to atone for at the Day of Reckoning, believe me, but I will not wish either sin had never been.’
‘You speak so lightly of sin that I wonder if you are, after all, Jack’s murderer.’
‘You know I am not, my lady.’
She did not respond.
He glanced out at the concourse, but they were still not attracting particular attention. Those who looked saw only a conversation between acquaintances. ‘I can understand your anxiety, my lady, but wish to allay your fears. Perhaps we should talk in true privacy. May I conduct you home? We can talk on the river.’
‘Is it wise for us to be seen together?’
‘We have already been seen, my lady, but as it happens, there is no reason why I should not approach you like this today, because your husband and I are old acquaintances. We were in your father’s household together. So I merely offer you the use of a particularly elegant barge in which to return to the city. It is the least I can do on such a cold day. I am sure even Henry Tudor would understand that.’
‘Old acquaintances? But—’ Why pretend? She already accepted that Jon was hiding truths.
Tal smiled. ‘Oh, he recognized me. I should imagine he was merely interested to know by what name I had been introduced to you. You see, he has a secret too, Lady Cicely, one he and I share, but I doubt he will ever speak of to you.’
Chapter Eight
Tal’s revelation shocked Cicely. She thought back. Yes, maybe Jon had been seeking the name, she simply had not realized it at the time. But what was this new secret? Viscount Welles was going to be questioned!
‘And please do not call me Humphrey,’ Tal requested. ‘I cannot abide the name. It sounds like an escaping fart.’ He presented his arm, but no sooner had they emerged into the passage again than they came face to face with Henry’s formidable mother, who was accompanied by a flurry of ladies-in-waiting, whose giggling and whispering told Cicely they were the ones she had heard earlier.
The former Lady Margaret Beaufort had borne Henry when she was very young indeed—only thirteen, some said—and was still only in her forty-fifth year. Diminutive and decidedly rodent-like in appearance, with a thin face and pointed nose, she had sharp little eyes that were as hooded as her son’s. Her nose was as large and her eyebrows similarly arched. She even had the same small chin. No one could ever doubt that she was his mother, for they even shared many odd little mannerisms, such as rubbing an eyebrow, or putting fingertips together and tapping lips. For all her small size, she was a daunting woman, second in importance to Henry himself. Certainly he put her before his wife in all things. But did he put her before his lover as well? Cicely could not help but wonder.
Margaret always wore black robes and a white wimple, and was invariably found with a prayer book in her thin, quick hands. She presented an utterly pious face to the
world, but there was nothing she would not do for Henry, upon whom she doted to the point of obsession. Piety had no place in the way she had calculatedly schemed and plotted to see him on the throne, and it was mostly at her instigation—and Archbishop Morton and the treacherous Stanleys—that Richard met his death at Bosworth.
Thomas, Lord Stanley, was her fourth husband, now elevated to Earl of Derby. He had kept his forces from fighting at all that terrible day. Never had a fence been more surely balanced upon until the very last second. Henry’s life had been endangered, because Richard almost reached him, and Cicely wondered just how much of a grudge Henry might bear on account of it. And against Thomas’s brother, Sir William, who deserted Richard at the pivotal moment, and threw his considerable force on Henry’s side. But in Henry’s eyes they had both waited until the final seconds. It was said that the strange and wonderful beast called the elephant would never forget anything. Henry Tudor was just such a creature.
Cicely, too, could be an elephant, and would be avenged, no matter how long it took. If she ever learned anything to Morton’s or the Stanleys’ disadvantage, she would see that Henry was told.
Margaret halted, her clever eyes flitting swiftly from one to the other. ‘Sir Humphrey. Lady Welles.’
‘Lady Margaret,’ Tal murmured respectfully, bowing low.
Cicely curtsied. ‘My lady.’
‘I did not know you were acquainted.’
Tal smiled disarmingly. ‘I am escorting Lady Cicely safely home on such a very cold morning. She is, after all, the lady of my old friend, Lord Welles.’
Margaret’s face changed at the mention of her much loved half-brother. ‘You and my brother are friends?’
‘We served together in the household of Lady Cicely’s father.’
‘Ah, yes. That is not a time I wish to remember,’ Margaret answered, and then smiled pleasantly enough. ‘I bid you both good day,’ she declared, before walking on, her ladies hastening after her.
‘There, you see?’ Tal murmured. ‘Henry will soon learn of it, but will accept as she does. After all, I am too old a fellow to be a threat in the lists of love, mm? And I do know your husband.’
Cicely's Sovereign Secret Page 8
