Cicely’s
Second
King
A Story of
King Richard III
and
King Henry VII
Sandra Heath Wilson
Contents
Chapters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Author’s Note
By the Same Author
Copyright
Chapter One
September 1485
She was in Westminster Palace again, after the long journey south from Sheriff Hutton. It was the same room she had once shared with her older sister Bess. The palace was the same. London and the Thames were the same. But she, Lady Cicely Plantagenet of the House of York, had changed forever.
If only Richard were still here. Her king, her uncle and her lover. Her matchless Richard, father of the child she now carried so secretly. He had been the third King of England to bear the name, and now, at the age of only thirty-two, he was dead, betrayed and hacked to death in battle at Bosworth Field. Salt pricked her eyes. It had been barely a month since he was killed, but each minute since then had been as brutal as the very first. Would this insupportable grief relent?
He would always bind her to him with a love that was both earthly and divine, and she would always be glad of it. Always. To love her blood uncle like this was a sin, but she did not care. In the cause of Richard III, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, she would outface the Almighty and Satan combined.
Time was about to tell tales on her. She was already three months with child, and soon it would be impossible to hide her condition, even though it was the fashion for gowns to be full beneath the breasts. Everyone would know that the sister of the new king’s intended bride was paying the price of immorality. But they would not know it had been with her uncle, or how gladly and lovingly she had given herself. Nor would they know how she abhorred Richard’s conqueror, soon to be crowned King Henry VII.
Despair engulfed her, and she clenched her fists until her nails drew blood. ‘Why did you leave me, Richard?’ she cried. ‘Why? I need you. Oh, dear God, I need you . . .’
Her voice broke, and she had to lean forward, her hands on a chair back to steady herself. Feelings she had tried so hard to suppress were suddenly unmanageable. Every sense was in agony, and the desolation of bereavement was so raw that she wept unrestrainedly. Sobs were wrenched through her whole body, and she leaned weakly forward against the chair, overcome by sheer devastation. She wanted to go with him, and willed him to come back for her . . . beseeched him to.
‘Cicely?’
Her breath caught, for it was his voice, and it was not merely imagination. She really did hear him. But if she turned, how could he be there? Surely she was deluded, for it was impossible for him to be with her again . . . was it not?
‘Look at me, Cicely.’ His soft-spoken voice seemed to caress her.
She turned, and her heart almost stopped with the force of her love, for he lounged back against the wall in the way that had bewitched her from the first time of seeing him again after years apart. That had been the moment she left childhood far behind.
He was not a giant of a man, as her father, Edward IV, had been, more was he of barely medium height, slender and graceful. He would have been taller had he not suffered from a sideways curve of his back that caused his shoulders to be a little unequal. His long, dark chestnut hair clung about his sleeveless grey velvet coat, beneath which he wore a doublet, shirt, hose and delicately worked shoes that were pointed, but not by a great deal. They were the garments he had worn one Christmas, and even without the sovereign’s circlet around his pale brow, he was unmistakably a king. There was something about him that was beyond mere handsomeness. He was timelessly beautiful, his face fine-boned with compelling grey eyes, his lips sculpted and always ready to smile at her. And to kiss her. He surpassed other men, and was still the only true monarch, not Henry Tudor, the mean-hearted Lancastrian felon who now dared to replace him.
Richard smiled, and held out his hand. ‘I have missed you, sweetheart.’ His rings shone in the sunlight that streamed in through the window overlooking the Thames.
Still gripped by emotion, she took a hesitant step, gazing at him through tears. ‘Richard?’ she whispered.
‘Come.’ His hand was still extended.
Her legs would not obey.
He straightened. ‘Once again your king must come to you? But not as far as from Nottingham to Sheriff Hutton this time, mm? So be it, because one way or another I must embrace you. You need me, I think.’
He came towards her, his light tread made very slightly uneven by his back. Most people would not even notice, but she did. Because she was his lover and was sensitive to everything about him. Every sweet, beloved detail.
She was transfixed. He could not be here like this, it was impossible. But he was here, and as his arms enclosed her again, he took her effortlessly back into his spell. He held her to his body, his lips finding hers as they had in the past. She could feel the coldness of his heavy gold livery collar, smell the costmary on his clothes and taste the mint on his breath. Share his heartbeats. Know his love.
She closed her eyes, adoring him so much that it bruised her heart. His kiss was exquisite, for he alone knew her like this. No one else understood or held her as dear as he did, and now he had returned to her. How, she did not know. Nor did she care. It mattered only that he had.
He sank his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, and stroked her. ‘You have to be strong, Cicely,’ he said gently.
‘I cannot. I feel so lost and alone, and all common sense has gone. I will not be able to behave as I should. I know it so well. How can I be strong and logical without you?’ She blinked as more tears wended down her cheeks.
‘You must be resolute, Cicely, because you carry our child.’
‘You know?’ She pulled back to look at him.
‘Of course I do, sweetheart, for I am part of you. You must accept that I am. Death cannot stop my love. Or yours.’
She feasted her gaze upon him. He was as he had been that first night, when she and her sisters had still been in sanctuary at Westminster Abbey, and he had come to prove to her mother that her two sons were alive, not foully murdered in the Tower as his enemies would have the world believe. That was before he had been weighed with care and grief, when the lines and weariness had yet to show on his peerless face.
He was never meant to be king. Not at first. Her father died suddenly in April 1483, two and a half years ago now, leaving his realm to his twelve-year-old elder son. On his deathbed Edward IV named Richard, his loyal and only remaining brother, to be Lord Protector during the boy king’s minority. The queen, Cicely’s mother, had wanted her relatives to remain in the highest posts and appointments, and so fomented rebellion. She would have done anything to exclude Richard from power, but he proved his power and worth by easily overcoming the unrest and taking the new king, his nephew, into his protection.
The queen, fearful of his justifiable revenge, fled into sanctuary at Westminst
er Abbey, taking her younger son, the little Duke of York, always known as Dickon, and her daughters with her. Dickon had soon begged to be able to leave. And so he had, to join his elder brother in the Tower of London, which was as much a royal palace as it was a prison. They had been accommodated in comfort, as Richard had told Cicely herself. She also knew they had not been there for long, but had been taken somewhere else, to the Earl of Lincoln’s manor of Friskney, near the coast in Lincolnshire, a place of safety where they were protected and well cared for by the Yorkist Thomas Kymbe. Twenty-three-year-old Jack de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, was Cicely’s unhappily married cousin, eldest son of Richard’s sister, the Duchess of Suffolk, and had eventually been indicated as Richard’s heir.
The boys had still been housed at the Tower when, just before the new little king’s coronation, startling evidence emerged that Edward IV’s marriage was unlawful because of his pre-contract to another. A consummated pre-contract was as binding as marriage, which meant that Edward had married bigamously. Richard had been as shocked as everyone else by the revelation.
Cicely’s mother had never been queen after all, but merely Dame Grey, the widow of a Lancastrian lord . . . and Edward IV’s mistress. Her children by him, including Cicely herself, were declared illegitimate, and Richard, to whom the succession rightly proceeded, became King Richard III. Cicely’s brothers were not seen in public again, but Dame Grey and her daughters saw them, well and very much alive, before they were sent to safety at Friskney. Now it was being whispered that Richard had his nephews murdered in the Tower, and buried deep somewhere, never to be found again.
When Richard was killed at the Battle of Bosworth Field only last month, and Henry Tudor became king, Dame Grey was promised the title of Queen Dowager. This was because her marriage to Edward IV had to be acknowledged as legal after all if Henry was to honour his vow to unite the Houses of York and Lancaster by marrying Cicely’s elder sister, Bess.
Cicely should have felt loathing towards Richard III, but could not. How could anyone loathe this shining man? This perfect man whose body was imperfect, but whose heart was so great? He extended a hand of friendship to his brother’s daughters and their mother, and so Cicely Plantagenet had come to his court, there to fall more deeply in his thrall with every moment. Until, finally, she knew she loved him as no niece should ever love her uncle.
‘But you do love this uncle, sweetheart, and this uncle loves you,’ Richard said gently.
‘You could always read my mind.’
‘And now I can read it more than ever. I am within you, Cicely. This is not real.’
She would not let herself hear. She had not willed him into being, she had not! ‘What can I do, Richard? There is a usurper on your throne—’
‘Firstly, you must hide such hatred, Cicely. Look at me. You have to dissemble with a man like Henry Tudor, for there is no other way.’
‘As you would dissemble? Richard, I know you would not do such a thing; you are too incorruptible and true to yourself to ever stoop to it.’
‘Incorruptible?’ He laughed a little. ‘Maybe, but then I am not a young woman, with child, alone in a hostile court and needing her wits about her if she is to survive. Pay attention, Cicely, for I have to make you understand. You do not have the leisure of time. Plunging into the deepest of grief over me is not permissible. Do you not see? Henry Tudor sees demons in every shadow, and is lethally dangerous because of it. He has none of the lenience that brought me down, and as a king he is the better off for it. If he seems friendly, it is because he wishes to appear so, not because he is so. Today you sent away the ladies he provided. It was a mistake. You must welcome every such gesture. You are a king’s daughter, a king’s niece, and will soon be a king’s senior sister-in-law. You have to behave as such.’
‘I am also a king’s lover.’
‘Yes, you are that too, and always will be. This king would have had no other.’ He smiled. ‘Cicely, you must not think of me every time you see Henry Tudor, for he will know. He has already seen too much in your eyes.’
‘Not think of you? That is impossible!’ she cried, looking away because her tears flowed so hotly again.
He made her meet his eyes once more, and then touched her cheek, running a fingertip tenderly over her skin. ‘My sweet Cicely, I love you so much, but this is a different England from the one we knew together. You still live, and must not fail me now. Yours is the finest spirit God ever created, and you have always meant far more to me than you should have. I am your uncle, our love is wrong, yet it exists. You have my child inside you, and while I feel joy that it is so, I also fear for you. I have left you in danger, and there is nothing I can do to put that right. Except be here like this whenever you need me. But I am not real, sweetheart, I am you.’
‘Do not say that! You are real, and I need you!’
‘Our child has first call upon you now,’ he reminded her quietly.
‘And I cannot hide such a very physical secret forever, nor do I have anyone to turn to. I cannot tell my sister that I secured the heart, mind and body of the man she wanted for herself. Bess loves you as I do, and would never forgive me if she learned that you and I . . .’ Her voice trailed away. Poor Bess would now have to submit in Henry Tudor’s bed. Yet it was Richard she had always wanted. Only Richard.
Cicely thought of the sister who had not hidden her love for Richard, and had caused a scandal that was of her doing, not his. It had become so intolerable that he had been obliged to deny everything in public. He, who had so recently lost his wife and only legitimate child, and was beset by treachery and threatened invasion, had felt the need to clear his name of vile insinuation. And it had been vile, for he had been accused of poisoning his ailing queen, to replace her with Bess, who was said to already grace his bed. It was so unutterably cruel, and all without basis. What might it have been if the scandal spreaders had discovered that he did indeed love one of his nieces? Not Bess, but Cicely, with whom he had definitely not shared a single improper kiss until after the all-too-natural death of his wife.
Richard smiled a little. ‘I was an uncle beset by loving nieces, one I could only ever see as a niece, the other for whom I felt—feel—so much that it devours me. Bess is strong, Cicely. And hard. Oh, yes, there is something in her that almost makes me feel sorry for Henry Tudor. I still wish him in Hades, of course.’
‘Hades is too good for him,’ she said, managing a smile in return. ‘Richard, I cannot speak to Bess or my mother, nor can I speak to John, not about this. How can I when he must never know I betrayed him with you, his father?’
‘Oh, Cicely . . .’ He embraced her again, his cheek against her hair.
She knew it grieved him as much as it did her. John of Gloucester was her other love, her cousin . . . and Richard’s illegitimate son. She did love John, and had been promised to him in marriage, but it was a poor feeling beside the love she had for his father. What would John feel when her condition became known? He would certainly realise the child was not his, because she had conceived in June, and the only time she had lain with him had been at Sheriff Hutton on the late-August night they had comforted each other after learning of the tragedy at Bosworth.
Richard had sent his heirs and close blood to the castle in Yorkshire for safety, including her brothers from Friskney, with instructions that if Henry Tudor’s invasion succeeded, they were all to escape across the North Sea to another of his sisters, the Duchess of Burgundy. Another boy sent to Sheriff Hutton was Cicely’s cousin, the little Earl of Warwick, son and heir of the Duke of Clarence, who had been the middle brother between her father and Richard. Her father had executed and attainted Clarence for treason, and his children were excluded from the throne, which was why Richard, not Warwick, had been her father’s rightful successor.
Warwick and her brothers had escaped in time after Bosworth, in the charge of Jack de la Pole. But she, Bess and John of Gloucester had not gone too. It had been Bess’s fault, and hers, Cicely’s, but not
John’s. He had stayed behind to protect them, so they were all three captured by the men Henry Tudor sent to secure what was expected to be five fugitives. Henry had not known about her brothers having been there too, and he still did not know if they lived or not.
John had come south with Bess and her from Sheriff Hutton, but had been taken away after Henry Tudor greeted them at Lambeth. Only a few short hours ago. So very brief a time, yet already it seemed like weeks. She had since learned that John had gone to the Tower, where her other cousins, Jack of Lincoln and the Earl of Warwick, were already held, having been taken prisoner at Bosworth. They should not have been at the battle, because Richard wanted them safe in Burgundy, but Jack could not stay away from Richard’s side simply to save himself. Warwick had followed him. Of her brothers there was still no trace. Hopefully they were safe with their aunt, the Duchess of Burgundy.
‘Richard, will Henry have my cousins put to death?’ she whispered.
‘His nature is to bide his time, but he cannot take chances with high-ranking Yorkists who have better claims to the throne than his. He only holds the crown by right of conquest, for he certainly does not have the blood right. I can only hope they are preserved and that something will overthrow Henry. John is wise enough to appear docile, and God knows, Warwick is too small to be a hothead yet, but Jack is proud and may be defiant.’
‘If he is, he will not show it. I think you wrong him. He is careful and discreet, and was very kind to me at Sheriff Hutton. He guessed my secret and kept it close. I would trust him with my life.’ Jack had perceived her love for Richard, and its fleshly consequences. He had vowed his silence, and she knew he would adhere to it.
‘You hold him in such esteem? Well, I trust your instinct more than my own. I made him my heir because he has the legitimate blood. The rest is up to him.’ Richard smiled regretfully. ‘You always warned me about my ill-judged lenience with my enemies. I knew you were right, but I have never been a man to kill with ease, unless it was in the heat of battle. Or betrayal. I knew so much betrayal.’
‘I would have killed your enemies for you, in cold blood, because they wished you harm.’
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