Cicely's Sovereign Secret

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  Margaret took Henry’s hand, and bent to kiss it tenderly. The depth of her love almost warmed the air. ‘We will not divulge to anyone that poison has been administered to my son. Let the poisoner think himself still undetected.’

  Guilt seeped chillingly through Cicely, because she had told Jack of Henry’s physical weakness, and Tal knew as well. Henry’s enemies were therefore already aware of his unsound health, and she was to blame. Jon knew too. She soaked a napkin in cold water from the hand bowl that was always available and took it to Margaret, who laid it across his forehead.

  ‘Lady Margaret, keeping silent about Henry’s health is all very well, but if you had not come here now—and if I had not gone to him when it happened before—how long might it have been before he was found? And this time it is different anyway, because he has to fight his ailment and poison.’

  ‘The last thing he would want is for it to be known that he was almost poisoned to death itself. Of course … this may yet end his life.’ Tears ran down Margaret’s cheeks.

  Cicely hesitated, but then went to put her arms around the older woman. ‘I am sure you found him in time, my lady.’

  ‘I so want to believe it.’ Margaret returned the embrace for a moment, and then looked at him again. ‘He looks so frail.’

  Cicely looked too, and wanted him to be as he was when they danced at Esher. Hop, sweetheart, hop… . She collected herself.

  ‘We must hope Master Rogers will not be too long,’ she said, and meant it. Then she thought of Mary. The maid would surely be able to help until the physician came!

  But when it was suggested, Margaret was appalled at the mere idea. ‘A village wisewoman? Are you mad? I will not hear of it!’

  ‘Mary Kymbe knows old ways, Lady Margaret, and often the old ways are the best. She has learned of a nine-herb charm that protects from poison and will not harm the person to whom it is administered. She may well do him much good. Please, let me send for her.’

  ‘Charms? Protection? You speak of witchcraft!’

  ‘No, I speak of doing everything possible to help Henry.’

  Margaret gazed at her, and then at him, so pale and deathly. Love overcame religious objections. She nodded. ‘Very well.’

  Mary came as quickly as she could, the casket held tightly, and Margaret scowled at her before retreating to a curtained prie-dieu, thus washing her hands of whatever followed. The maid was fearful of even touching the king, let alone treating him. But then she caught Cicely’s anxious gaze, and knew she must do what she could. She bent over him to sniff his breath, and then straightened swiftly.

  ‘It is Russian powder, my lady.’

  Cicely nodded. ‘Yes, I thought so too.’

  Opening the casket at the bedside, Mary began to prepare the mixture of selected herbs, all boiled when the moon was waning. Placing them in a small pestle and mortar, she worked them into a paste, blending in a little apple juice now and then, and whispering rhythmically as she mixed it all into a salve.

  ‘A snake came a-crawling, and bit a man from under,

  But Woden took nine glory-twigs and smote the snake asunder.’

  Over and over she repeated the charm, until she deemed the mixture to be perfect, and then scooped the salve into an old, cracked dish, and gave it to Cicely.

  ‘It is not right that I should touch His Majesty’s nakedness, my lady. You must do it. Just smooth it all over him. It will fight away the poison and aid his recovery, and will do far more good than any physician, alchemist or astrologer.’

  ‘Woden’s charm?’ Tal’s wife crossed Cicely’s mind.

  ‘It is but a name, my lady. The charm is very old indeed, since before there were Christians. That there is no Woden does not mean the charm will not work.’

  Cicely accepted the salve before permitting the maid to leave again. ‘Mary, you may return to Pasmer’s Place, for I may be here some time and I know Tom and Mistress Kymbe may arrive at Hallows Lane at any time. You would rather be there than waiting around here for me.’ She indicated that no mention should be made of Leo within Margaret’s hearing.

  ‘They are here already, my lady. I had just received word from Tom when your message arrived as well.’

  ‘Then you must definitely return now. Please convey my greetings to your brother and aunt.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. I will bring word of them, you may be sure of that.’ Mary returned the meaningful look.

  ‘And please, be so good as to embrace Mistress Kymbe for me.’ Cicely could almost hear Margaret’s nostrils flare with outrage at such familiarity with a low countrywoman.

  Mary bobbed a curtsey, collected the casket, and then hurried away.

  Margaret emerged immediately, proving she had been listening to every word. ‘How very vulgar, speaking of embracing such a person,’ she sniffed.

  Cicely smiled. ‘Mistress Kymbe is a very kind and gentle woman, my lady. I could not have wished for anyone better or more knowledgeable at my lying-in.’

  Margaret’s lips twitched, and she transferred her disapproval. ‘Woden indeed. All this reeks of witchery and wickedness,’ she muttered, crossing herself several times.

  ‘It is but herbs and apple juice, Lady Margaret. No harm will come to Henry from its ingredients, but I do believe they will help him.’ Cicely put a hand tentatively on the older woman’s arm. ‘I would never do anything that would hurt his health and well-being. You know that.’ Liar, liar, for you love and help his enemies… .

  Margaret looked at her and then nodded. ‘Yes, I know.’ And she said nothing more as Cicely smoothed the salve into Henry’s pale skin, working it gently and continuously, until somehow—impossibly—the green disappeared. And that did indeed seem like magic.

  It was close to midnight before Master Rogers arrived and immediately expressed outrage that a pagan charm had been applied to His Majesty. But he clearly knew its beneficial properties, because he did not order that Henry should be washed forthwith. It was Cicely’s opinion that if—when—Henry recovered, the herbs would not be credited with anything at all, only the matchless skills of the exemplary Master Rogers!

  Before the physician’s arrival, she and Margaret had been doing what they could to keep Henry comfortable. They managed to persuade him to drink a little wine that had been brought from Margaret’s apartments, because it was safe. He was conscious enough to push the cup away as Cicely tried to coax him into drinking more. The quarrel was clearly not forgotten, because resentment darkened his eyes.

  ‘Leave me,’ he breathed. ‘Get out of my sight. I never wish to see you again.’

  She had not moved. ‘Make me go,’ she replied, as she would have had he been well. She would always confront him and speak her mind. ‘You may count upon it that when you are nimble enough to get off that bed, Harri Tudur, I will be even nimbler as I leave of my own accord. So put up with me, Your Majesty, because at the moment I rather think I have the upper hand.’

  He gazed at her for a long moment, his brows drawing together as if he thought this nightmare was just that, a nightmare. Then his eyes closed. His lips moved again, but she heard no words.

  The physician came to the bedside. ‘If it were only the same affliction as before, I would by now be certain of his recovery, but there is the poison to consider. I believe it to be a white powder from Russia, produced from the stones of various fruits. It dissolves easily in wine, and is only detectable by its smell and taste. If the victim can no longer respond to those telltale properties—as is the unfortunate case with His Majesty—’ He paused, and turned to Cicely. ‘I have often wondered if your late father died of this very thing, my lady. My cousin was in attendance and the symptoms were the same as this, including the smell and taste of almonds.’

  Margaret eyed him. ‘Are you saying that your cousin attended the Yorkist king? I perceive a certain conflict of loyalty in your family, sir.’

  ‘No conflict, Lady Margaret. My cousin would readily and honestly serve King Henry. We serve England’
s monarch, whatever his House.’ He looked at Cicely again. ‘I believe that his liberal ingestion of garlic will bring him to recovery.’

  Garlic? Cicely almost wanted to laugh.

  ‘There are few more sovereign remedies than garlic. Once he is able, His Majesty must be made to consume it.’

  ‘But, he dislikes garlic even more than almonds,’ Margaret observed in puzzlement.

  Cicely whispered what Bess had told her.

  His mother’s lips twitched. ‘I do not know which of them is worse,’ she muttered.

  ‘Nor do I.’ Cicely turned to the physician. ‘We will see that he eats garlic,’ she said.

  Margaret and the physician adjourned to the other room, deep in conversation, but Cicely remained with Henry. She gazed down at him. Please let this not be Tal’s work, or anyone else she would wish to shield.

  A spasm of pain twisted through him, and he doubled up, awakening as the agony overtook him. She managed to push a small bowl to his mouth as he vomited. He clutched her hand as the retching continued.

  Master Rogers hastened back, with Margaret at his heels. Cicely would have moved aside, but Henry’s fingers were like claws. The empty retching continued to rack his body. Yellow bile was all he brought up, and he lost control of his functions again. He was in such griping pain that he almost wept of it, and Cicely could have wept with him.

  She doubted if he realized that he held her hand or even that he gripped a hand at all. It clearly helped him to endure what was happening, and so after several attempts to free herself, she moved a little closer, to let him gain what relief he could, even though she felt her bones would be broken.

  Margaret could not bear his misery, and sank to her knees again with his prayer book and rosary.

  When the spasms ended Henry’s grip on Cicely’s hand tightened cruelly. ‘Get out,’ he whispered. ‘Get out, I do not want you here.’ Then he released her.

  She glanced unhappily at Margaret and the physician. ‘I must go, I think. My presence may do more harm than good. I will not return unless I am summoned.’

  Margaret was dismayed. ‘I am so sorry, my dear.’

  Gathering her skirts, Cicely took her outdoor clothes from the chair and left by the back door, which Margaret came to bolt behind her. Once in the passage, Cicely pulled the cloak around herself and eased the hood into place as well. Then she went down through the palace, towards the route to the river. She could have used the safe pass, and in view of what was soon to befall her, it would have been wiser to have done so. Instead she chose to be alone. But there were great dangers awaiting a woman alone in London after dark.

  The night air was cold, and torches smoked and danced as a slight breeze wafted upriver from the distant sea. Everything was that odd grey-white hue caused by snow, and tonight it was almost ghostly. No one glanced at her when she hailed a skiff at the stairs and accepted the boatman’s hand to step into it. The little craft was poled away from the shore. Cast adrift, she thought wryly.

  When the skiff reached Three Cranes wharf, and she was helped to the lowermost step because the tide had only just turned, the almost deserted quay gave her pause to wish she had used Henry’s note after all. Suddenly it seemed a long way to St Sithe’s Lane, with shadows and alleys where footpads and other villains might lurk. But the skiff was already sliding away again, downstream towards London Bridge. She had no option but go on.

  She hastened across the quay and into the narrow way that led up towards Thames Street. Everything was quiet, except for the few taverns she passed, including the Mermaid in Gough’s Alley, a blind way where she had saved Jack and Tal from being overheard by one of Henry’s spies—the same whore who had accosted Jack on the Three Cranes steps.

  St Sithe’s Lane was a long, steady climb, especially in the dark, but just as she came in sight of Pasmer’s Place, there was a swift tread behind her. She whirled around and in a blur saw a man, his arm raised to strike. Her brief scream for help was cut short as he chopped the side of his hand against the back of her neck. A truly sickening pain engulfed her, she slumped awkwardly and heavily to her knees and then to the freezing ice-streaked cobbles, striking her forehead in the fall. He caught her ankles and dragged her to the side of the street, where a deep-set, disused doorway offered him the privacy he wanted. The pain was nauseating, but she was too dazed to fend him off as he undid his hose and dragged her skirts up.

  He was heavy and malodorous, with a big belly and unshaved chin, and his breath stank of stale ale as he tried to force himself into her, but then someone, another man, began shouting. Frightened, her attacker scrambled to his feet again and fled as the shouts redoubled.

  Footsteps ran towards her, and a second man crouched. ‘Sweet Jesu, it is Lady Welles!’ he cried out in dismay as someone else joined him.

  Cicely thought she recognized his voice, but her consciousness was receding, and she knew no more.

  A woman spoke right next to her. ‘My lady? My lady, can you hear me?’

  Confused and a little disturbed, Cicely tried to open her eyes. At first they would not obey, but then she was able to see again. She was in bed at Pasmer’s Place, with a pleasant herbal scent enveloping her. The bedchamber was warm and firelit.

  Mary was relieved. ‘We thought you would never awaken, my lady.’

  What was she talking about? Cicely gazed up at her, still halfway between unconsciousness and awareness.

  ‘Do you remember what happened, my lady?’ Mary asked, her voice oddly echoing. ‘You were attacked in the lane.’

  Awful remembrance returned, and Cicely tried to sit up, but blinding pain drove through her head and she fell back. ‘Sweet Jesu …’

  ‘Try not to move, my lady. My aunt says you will be well again soon, but in the meantime, you are not to move any more than you absolutely have to. She has been to attend to you, and has left a little phial of her strongest poppy juice to administer when you awaken and feel pain. She says it will help you to relax and rest.’ The maid held up a little spouted cup. ‘Will you take some, my lady?’

  Cicely sipped it several times.

  Mary smiled. ‘That’s good. Oh, Tom waits, in case he should be of use to you.’

  ‘Was it Tom who came to me in the lane?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. He was bringing me back here on his horse when we heard your scream. We saw the man running off. We had stopped him from … well, I think you know.’

  ‘You say Tom is here? Please bring him to me.’

  ‘To your bedside?’ Mary was a little disapproving.

  ‘How else may I thank him? I can thank you now, Mary, and do so from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘I will bring him, my lady.’

  Mary’s brother was in his thirties, tall, sturdily built, clean-shaven and good-looking, with a complexion that was weathered by constant hours in the brisk, open air of Lincolnshire. His long hair was the colour of hazelnuts, but of late had taken a golden tint at the ends. His eyes were hazelnut too. Kind, trustworthy, strong eyes. Like all of him, Cicely thought. He was dressed in black leather, but modestly, without adornment, and his manner was always reassuringly good-natured and calm.

  He waited patiently for her to speak, but she was struggling to concentrate, because the poppy juice was beginning to take effect. ‘It is good to see you again, Tom-m.’ Her lips were unwilling to obey, and he seemed to be fading, as if into a fog.

  ‘The compliment is returned ten times over, my lady.’ He bowed over her hand.

  She tried to answer, but an incredibly pleasant sense of lethargy was spreading through her. It was delicious, all her aches were melting, and she was drifting away. She was vaguely aware of Mary addressing Tom.

  ‘It is our aunt’s most powerful poppy juice, Tom. She will soon be well again.’

  ‘I pray so, Mary, I pray so. When she awakens, will you tell her I have sent word to Lord Welles?’

  ‘I do not know that he will respond.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  S
everal days later, Cicely was able to sit by the fire in her bedchamber. She wore leaf-green velvet, there was an ugly bruise and swelling on her forehead and the back of her neck, and her knees were sore because she had slumped on them. But she was improving. Her hair was not confined in a headdress, because the weight made her neck feel even worse.

  Tom had brought Leo to visit Pasmer’s Place several times, ostensibly to see his ‘aunt’, Mary, but really to see his mother. Cicely was astonished by how much her son had changed in the months since she had last been with him. He was now very close to his second birthday, and less of a baby, more a little boy. To look into his grey eyes was to be with Richard again. So much of him was his father that she wept a little after each visit.

  Jon’s response to news of her injuries was perfunctory. Writing from Bolingbroke, he said he would await more information before abandoning his duties to return to London. It was a cold, formal letter, and did not merit the dignity of a reply. Let him stay there forever, Cicely thought, hurt. After this, she would never let him know she cared.

  Henry’s illness had not become common fame, and in the absence of any word from Margaret, Cicely had no idea how he was now. She might not have heard anything at all, had not Bess come to Pasmer’s Place—in a litter, because of her condition, but still with such royal splendour she almost brought the streets of Cordwainer Ward to a complete halt.

  The Queen of England entered Cicely’s parlour, a vision in jewels and crimson trimmed with ermine. The delicate veil of her wired headdress billowed as she gestured to Cicely to remain seated, and then bent to embrace her warmly.

  ‘Oh, Cissy, how dreadful a thing to have happened to you. Thank goodness your Master Kymbe was close by!’

  ‘I am recovering well enough, but know I look as if I have been dragged through a hedge.’

  Bess inspected her forehead. ‘You would not fib to me about recovering?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Bess took a seat. ‘Are you not going to ask me how Henry is?’