Then, on the first day of February, when she had decided there would not be any mischief from Edmund after all, word arrived at Pasmer’s Place that His Majesty wished to see Lady Welles. The confrontation that ensued was a very sharp reminder of just how flawed Henry was, and how filled with hatred for the House of York.
When she was admitted to the royal apartments, he had been called away unexpectedly. Her grey velvet gown whispered over the floor as she took off her cloak and hood, and draped them over a chair. His half-empty silver-gilt cup of wine stood on the document-strewn table, and by the smell of snuffed candle and melted wax hanging in the air, he had not long departed. His infamous notebook also lay on the table, and she was tempted to peep inside, but it would be just like Henry to have left it deliberately, and in such a way that he would know if she had even touched it.
‘Eve in the Garden of Eden, my lady?’
He was in the doorway behind her, wearing black trimmed with royal purple. His face was so pale it resembled whey, and his eyes lacked their usual sharpness. She was dismayed. ‘Oh, Henry, whatever you take as a remedy, it is not of benefit.’
‘I am assured that dried bramble flowers and honey are the next resort.’
He crossed to the table of documents and began to sort through them in a studied way that sent a shudder through her. This was not to be a romantic assignation.
Finding what he sought, he placed a small handwritten note on top of all the papers. But it was of something else that he spoke. ‘My mother tells me you are acquainted with Sir Humphrey Talbot?’
Edmund might as well have breathed in her ear, but she was prepared for him. ‘Why yes, but only recently. When I left you last time, from here, he was kind enough to make himself known to me. He and Jon are old friends.’
‘So I am given to believe.’
‘I am sure you remember how very cold it was that day. He offered to convey me to Three Cranes in his sister, the duchess of Norfolk’s barge.’ Was she being too artless? ‘Why do you mention Sir Humphrey?’ she asked.
‘Oh, come now, I am sure you know.’
‘You have heard that I was at Flemyng Court?’ She gave him a slightly reproachful look. ‘Have you been ordering men to follow me?’
‘Why were you there?’
‘Certainly not to call upon Sir Humphrey, because he had gone to Calais, and I imagine that is where he is now.’
‘Then why … pray?’
Oh, that slight delay, so soft, so ominous. But his own health provided her with a suitable story. ‘Because I was in dire need of agrimony and wine, or any other suitable concoction to settle my, er, bowels. Do you wish to know the full details of my indisposition? I can be as graphic and descriptive as you wish.’
‘Facetiousness is not becoming.’
Except when you employ it, she thought.
The explanation was clearly not what he had expected. ‘You were alone,’ he said then, and it was an accusation.
‘No, I was not.’ she answered untruthfully, ‘I had Mary with me, and my escort from Pasmer’s Place. Henry, what is this about? I was taken very unwell and in urgent need of … well, the necessary facility. Would you have your sister-in-law squat at the side of Thames Street?’
‘Why Flemyng Court?’
‘Because it was there, close by, and I knew Sir Humphrey. I was admitted immediately, but was too unwell to merely halt a while and then proceed. So I stayed overnight, and yes, I slept in Sir Humphrey’s bed. On my own. Would you have had me settle for a meaner mattress when his capacious bedstead was not in use? And I was feeling too unwell to do anything at all, let alone make passionate love to anyone. Even you, Your Majesty, would have gone without that night, I do assure you.’
He said nothing.
‘Perhaps I was simply overwrought,’ she said then.
‘Overwrought?’
‘Well, you must know that Jon and I are not on good terms at the moment?’
Again the pause. ‘No, I only know that he requested permission to go about his duties as constable.’
‘Yes, well, he left without even speaking to me, and I think it will be some time before he does again.’
‘What has come between you? Or should I ask, whom?’
She held his gaze. ‘A misunderstanding.’ She held up her hand to display an amethyst ring. It was not Jack’s ring, but another that was very like it, purchased specially for the situation she had been in since Edmund saw the ring at Flemyng Court. For half a heartbeat she knew Henry was taken in, but then he realized it was not fine enough to be the enviable amethyst belonging to Lord Lincoln.
She raised her chin. ‘You see? Jon leapt to the same wrong conclusion. It is not my cousin’s ring. Whoever has informed you to the contrary has been misleading you.’ She hesitated. ‘But I … I have not told you everything about that night.’
‘Oh?’
He knew she had not, and was merely waiting to see if she would give herself away. How she hated him now. ‘Armed men broke into the house and came into the bedroom as I slept. They must have known Sir Humphrey was absent, and had come to rob him. Instead, they found me.’ She ventured a smile. ‘I was truly and alarmingly Plantagenet, and they ran off.’
She saw the glimmer of humour in his eyes. ‘Is there anything else you wish to tell me?’ he asked.
‘No. What is this, Henry? I would have told you it all before, but you have not sent for me.’
‘I have had a lot … on my mind. Including this. Do you know the hand?’ He pushed the handwritten note towards her.
She went to look, and knew instinctively that it was Edmund’s work. This whole matter had his stamp upon it. ‘No. Why?’
‘Because the writer appears to know a great deal about your sojourn at Flemyng Court.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Read.’
She met his eyes for a moment and then picked up the paper, which accused her of sharing a bed with Jack and helping him escape. The amethyst was cited as proof of her licentiousness and treason to the ruling monarch. She placed the note on the table again.
‘Well, I trust you know it to be falsehood from first word to last? How could I have been in bed with my cousin Jack? He is dead! Unless you know better?’ She managed to make her expression change to shock and disbelief. ‘You do know better? Henry, is Jack alive after all?’
‘No, he is not.’
‘Then why have you given any credence to this poisonous scribble?’
‘Because I knew there was a grain of truth in it. Some-where. Jack de la Pole was almost as close to you as Richard.’
‘Neither of them was my lover,’ she said quietly.
‘Do not lie!’ Henry was dangerous again. His eyes were frozen and his whole manner threatening.
‘I am not lying!’ she said dishonestly, meeting his gaze square on. But her heart seemed to have slowed its beats, and the sun streaming through the window overlooking the Thames was suddenly blinding.
‘You will never tell me the truth about your royal lovers, will you? First your fucking uncle, then your fucking cousin!’
Something caught inside her, snatching at common sense and fuelling everything with which she despised Henry Tudor.
‘How I loathe you!’ she breathed. ‘Was it not enough to have killed Richard in battle without lying about him ever since? And is it not enough that Jack was killed at Knole, without you accusing me of bedding him again? On your own admission you know he is dead, so you choose to believe this poison in order to bring about a confrontation. Well? Do I lie?’
He strode over to shake her until her head wobbled. ‘Hold your tongue! Do you hear? To whom do you think you speak? A stable boy?’
She did not submit. ‘You may be king, Henry Tudor, but you are unworthy of the crown!’
‘Unlike your precious uncle, I suppose!’ He struck her, grasping her with one hand and hitting her across the face with the flat of the other.
Her breath snatched, but her fury was such that, wit
hout hesitation, she gave him a ferocious blow in return. She would have given him another had he not caught her wrist.
‘Enough!’ he cried. Now he had her by both wrists, holding her away from him with as much strength as he possessed. She tried to kick him where she knew it would cause him most pain, but he evaded her. ‘For the love of God, find your senses!’ he breathed, his wintry eyes bright, his fingers like vices.
‘I will never forgive you for this, Henry. Never,’ she cried, tears wet on her cheeks.
‘And now you still expect me to believe neither of them was your lover?’
Sanity flew out into the winter cold. ‘Oh, they were my lovers! And Richard was the great love of my life. He took my maidenhead and carried me into Heaven itself. I will yearn for him—for them both—until the day I die. I adored everything about them, but I have never felt anything with you. Nothing! You have never meant anything to me, and you never will! Richard and Jack were my soul, and their kisses were ecstasy to me. Do you understand? This is the secret about Richard that you have always feared! I lay with my uncle, and if he were still alive I would do it again. And again, and again—’
The words were silenced as he slapped her again, as hard as he could. ‘You bitch!’
Her head was jolted, and his fingers left angry red marks on her cheek. She was silenced at last.
He closed his eyes, released her and turned away. He was as shaken as she, and his breathing was laboured. She heard him whisper of an inauspicious day, but then he spoke quite clearly. ‘Go,’ he said levelly, but she saw how his hand went to his abdomen, as if in pain.
‘You are contemptible, Henry Tudor.’
With an almost strangled cry, he whipped around again and forced her backwards until he had her pinned to the wall. ‘And you are the incestuous bitch who took her own uncle as a lover, and who rutted with him like a cheap bawd! Whores are taken against alley walls, madam, but here will have to suffice.’
She tried to wrench herself free again, knocking her headdress askew, but he pressed against her, forcing his lips upon hers and kissing her so cruelly that she could barely breathe. Her head was spinning with fear. She could taste almonds and wine on his lips, but no cloves. Not this time.
He hauled up her skirts, and then his right hand slid between her thighs. She was unspeakably distressed and frightened, and managed to tear her lips from his.
‘Behind this monster, do you still profess to love me?’ she cried.
The words found a target, for his grip relaxed, but only a little. She saw him close his eyes again, as if forcing himself back into control, and then he allowed her skirts to fall. But he immediately took her hands and stretched them down, hard. The act forced their bodies to touch, and she felt the arousal he was now able to suppress, if not entirely banish. He did not speak, he simply stood there, his face against the hair exposed by the unseating of her headdress.
He was breathing heavily, but no longer with anger and lust, only with stress and emotion. It seemed she could now smell cloves again. The scent should have repelled her, but it did not. She knew that if she whispered his name, and moved against him with even the slightest hint of tenderness, he would have been soothed. But, as had happened before at Huntingdon, and as Jon had more recently done to her, she offered only rejection.
Henry remained as he was, his fingers so tightly twined with hers that it was painful. She did not know what he was thinking, or what he might do, and it seemed her frantic heartbeats echoed through them both. She was drained of anger now; drained of everything but fear.
How she wished she had not confessed to a fleshly love for Jack, but above all she wished she had not confessed about Richard. What a fool you are, Cicely Plantagenet! Now Henry’s mind would almost inevitably turn to the little boy at Friskney, who not only had hair that resembled hers and Richard’s, but the latter’s clear grey eyes too. And who was surely the right age to have been fathered by Richard at Nottingham. Henry had already remarked that such was her ease and manner with the little boy that she might have been his mother.
He stepped away abruptly, avoiding her eyes and indicating the secret door behind the tapestry. ‘Get out.’ His voice was choked, he trembled visibly and his face was almost grey with strain.
She could not move.
‘Get out!’ he screamed.
She fled, leaving her cloak and hood over the chair. He slammed the door behind her, and shot the bolt across almost ferociously. As she ran she was sure she heard him cry out again and begin to cough, but she did not dare to go back to him. Nor did she want to.
Chapter Seventeen
Cicely tried to straighten her headdress and smooth her gown before seizing a quiet moment to emerge into the palace’s more public area. She also tried to look composed and relaxed, as if nothing whatsoever had happened, but knew she would not succeed. How could she when the mark of Henry’s hand was clear upon her face?
She was overwrought, and lacked her cloak and hood to fend off the bitter cold on the return to Pasmer’s Place. Then she remembered the safe pass Henry had given her. Perhaps the guards by the steps would find her a cloak and escort her home. It was all she could think of. How she wished she were with Jack now. His comfort would be such a loving balm.
Negotiating the main passage was always fraught with difficulties, and this time she came face to face with Archbishop Morton. He was lean and sallow, with a thin face that sagged from his cheekbones and chin, and very bony fingers. His rich vestments were gold and white, and his mitre was studded with jewels. He was followed by a small column of priests, all with hands clasped before them and eyes downcast.
It could not be said Morton walked; rather did he glide, his crosier tapping occasionally. Cicely almost expected to see a scaly tail protruding from his hem, and horns on either side of his mitre. He had been Richard’s remorseless foe, and was still the enemy of all Yorkists. Now he made much of halting and bestowing upon her the sign of the cross.
‘Peace be upon you, Lady Welles.’ His glance flicked curiously to her red cheek.
She was in no mood to be polite to him. ‘Why, if it is not the Archfiend of Canterbury. I trust you are not in good health?’ After Henry, it was some small revenge to be rude to this miserable, so-called man of God. She had no fear of Purgatory.
‘May God forgive your lack of respect, child. It is clear you are overdue a lengthy confession.’
‘Indeed so, but then, when I do confess, I tell the truth. Do you?’
His nostrils flared and bristling with loathing, he glided on without another word. The priests tripped after him like a flock of black geese.
But even as Cicely continued towards the river entrance, she was appalled anew to see Margaret and her ladies coming towards her. Had this day still not finished with her? The oncoming ladies were all well-covered from the cold of the Thames, but there was no mistaking Henry’s mother.
Nor could Margaret mistake Cicely. Gesturing to the ladies to stay where they were, she came to her. ‘My dear, what is the matter? You look as if you have fallen downstairs, or been attacked.’
Cicely could not speak. Her fleeting defiance towards Morton had now evaporated, and she bit her lip in a vain attempt to subdue sobs. Margaret was horrified.
‘My dear? Oh, I have to get you somewhere private. The queen’s apartments are close by; we will go there.’ She looked around and beckoned her ladies. Instructing them to surround Cicely, whose arm she supported comfortingly, Henry’s mother managed to escort her to Bess’s chambers, where they were admitted quickly.
Sending her ladies away, Margaret ushered Cicely into Bess’s presence. Annie was there too, having been permitted another visit. She was cool and pretty in a simple gown of salmon brocade, and her haughty lavender glance took in Cicely’s dishevelled appearance. She did not say anything, but her expression was disparaging.
Incongruously, Cicely noticed how straight and gleaming her younger sister’s hair was, so perfectly smooth that it looked like
fine strands of spun silver. Maybe it was spun silver, because the Lady Ann Plantagenet was surely not entirely human.
Annie’s ill-concealed sense of superiority did not last long, because she was dismissed by Bess, who was appalled to see Cicely’s state. Displeased and resentful, the girl got up, sank into a deep curtsey to Bess and then to Margaret in a way that could—just—have included Cicely, and then she stalked away.
But Margaret was a match for her. ‘Come here, girl!’
Annie turned apprehensively. ‘My lady?’
‘On your knees, this instant!’
There was no hesitation as Annie obeyed. Margaret moved towards her in a way that brought Henry into the room with them. ‘If you ever, ever insult my brother’s wife again, I will make you pay for it. Lady Welles is to be honoured and treated with respect at all times. If you fail to do this, I will see that you are punished until you wish you had never drawn breath.’
‘My lady.’ Annie’s eyes were like saucers.
‘And if I ever catch you approaching the king again, I will send you back to Sheen so quickly your presumptuous little backside will be in flames! Do you hear me?’
‘Y … yes, my lady!’
‘Now, get out!’ Henry was present again.
The girl’s feet flew as she ran from the apartments.
Margaret looked shrewdly after her. ‘That one will cause a great deal of trouble. It would be better if she did not come to court at all,’ she declared, before returning to assist Cicely into a chair by the fire.
Bess brought a cup of wine and pressed it into her sister’s hand. ‘Drink a little, Cissy, it will help to restore you.’ Her turquoise taffeta gown, beautifully trimmed with bronze cloth-of-gold, rustled as she knelt by the chair, her hand on Cicely’s arm. ‘Your face! What has happened, Cissy? Has someone dared to strike you?’
Cicely did not answer. How could she to Henry’s mother and his queen?
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