The prince had died at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, where Richard, naturally, had fought on the opposing Yorkist side, in support of Cicely’s triumphant father. Richard, so much the better man, had been the second husband, consigned to second place in all ways. And yet foolish Anne had believed he did not know it! Cicely, who had become quite close to Anne, could not quite forgive the ailing queen for this betrayal of his love. How could any woman not love him, and only him? But Anne herself eventually took second place. Cicely had him in the end, all of him, and the knowledge gladdened her heart.
But not even thoughts of Richard could make her feel well today. She had been sick again that morning, so very sick that she now felt drained and weak. Her maid Mary had tried hard to bring some colour to her cheeks, pinching and patting, but the awful pallor remained. Mary was young like her mistress, and rounded, kindly, with pretty brown hair and a pleasant face, and she had a considerable knowledge of herbs and other such things. She prepared Cicely a settling drink containing mint, but it had only been partly successful.
The Queen Dowager, wearing black robes and a tight white wimple—a harking back to Edward IV, not a sign of mourning for Richard—was anxious for herself as she took a seat by the smoke-blackened fireplace. She was not a woman to inspire affection in her children, being selfish, ambitious and false-hearted, but the beauty lingered that had brought their royal father to his knees. Now she was anxious because Richard was dead. He had forgiven her for so much, but Henry would not forgive her for coming out of sanctuary into Richard’s protection. Henry had planned to invade and be seen to ‘free’ Bess from sanctuary to be his wife. He would still take her as his wife, but would he ever forgive her, or her mother, or indeed Cicely Plantagenet, for turning to the man Henry wished to portray as a murderous tyrant?
Bess, regal in a midnight-blue velvet gown, her red-gold hair swept up beneath a delicate but cumbersome headdress, as if she were already married, spoke first. ‘Well, the only news I have is for you, Cicely. You and I are to be placed under Lady Stanley’s protection, at Coldharbour, our grandmother’s Thameside mansion in the city. Well, it was our grandmother’s house. Henry has turned out the College of Arms, which Richard permitted to be there, and has presented the property to his mother. Until I become queen, you and I are to stay there. Of course, no one must mention that such arrangements could legally be deemed to be abduction, and therefore a great impediment to marriage.’
Cicely’s lips parted in astonishment. ‘Really? This is true?’
‘So I’ve been advised.’
‘By whom?’
Bess shook her head. ‘It does not matter, but I know I could easily claim to being coerced. And so could you, of course, since you are still on his list of possible brides. However, it would only delay the inevitable, and cause even more trouble.’
‘Trouble? Bess, you seem to prefer going along with Henry’s wishes rather than fight for what is right! The throne belongs to York! To Jack!’
‘Enough, Cissy, my mind is made up,’ Bess replied, clearly wishing she had not mentioned abduction. ‘We go to Coldharbour and that is the end of it. At least, we will after the house has been completely renovated and refurnished from cellar to attic. Nothing but the very finest of everything for Lady Stanley.’ Bess picked up a candlestick, glanced at it as if assessing its value, and then replaced it.
Cicely’s heart sank. Bess had no intention of refusing, and now they both had to live under Margaret’s protection. The prospect was dire. Coldharbour was a fine house in the city, rising up from the Thames and fronting Upper Thames Street. Cicely had been named after her grandmother, Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, now in religious retirement. It was insulting that serpentine Henry, who had slain Cecily’s youngest son through treachery, had appropriated her house for his equally serpentine mother.
The Queen Dowager was anxious. ‘And what of me, Bess?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Jesu, how I fear a tread at the door, a visit in the night,’ her mother said, gripping the arms of her chair.
Bess paced up and down restlessly. ‘Well, Mother, I will warrant you now wish with all your self-centred heart that Richard were still king. You, who loathed him and plotted against him, now know him to be a far more honourable man than Henry Tudor.’
‘I admit it. I was wrong about Richard, but at least I have the comfort of knowing that I did tell him this. He did not die thinking I still hated him.’
Bess paused. ‘Mother, I doubt if you were anywhere near his mind at Bosworth,’ she said cuttingly. ‘As to whether he was delighted with your belated conversion, I should think it did not matter to him in the least. He was never concerned with you and your comforts, only with his nieces and nephews.’
‘Well, you did not behave like his niece, did you?’ the Queen Dowager countered. ‘As I—and the rest of the world—know well, you craved him so much you were incapable of making a secret of it. I wonder you did not attempt to fondle his cock in front of the entire court. Well, you had better make a secret of your ill-placed lust from now on, because Henry will not tolerate your stupidity, or your ungodly thoughts toward your own uncle.’
Cicely sat quietly, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped in the lap of her sage-green gown. If only they knew how very good ungodliness could be. One night of it with Richard was infinitely more exciting than the prospect of years of godliness with Henry Tudor.
She watched her sister. Richard was right, Bess was hard. It had commenced when her carnal desire for him had not been reciprocated. Desperate to win him, Bess had left her true self far behind.
The Queen Dowager sighed. ‘Well, Henry needs to say that Richard had my boys killed, but he is unable to prove it without bodies, and we know they were still alive when Richard died. I pray they are safe and in Burgundy, as Richard intended.’
‘How I would love to proclaim it from the steps of St Paul’s,’ Cicely murmured.
The Queen Dowager’s lips twisted, her attention still on Bess. ‘Well, your precious Henry is posed with a ticklish problem, is he not? I wonder he can sleep at night.’
‘He is not my precious Henry! He does not want me and I certainly do not want him. He is everything that is ignoble.’
‘No,’ Cicely found herself blurting.
‘No?’ The others’ eyes were turned upon her.
‘I . . . have spoken with him. At some length,’ she admitted, wishing yet again that she had held her stupid tongue. ‘I accused him of being dishonourable for treating Richard’s body as he did.’
‘Oh, my God,’ the Queen Dowager said faintly. ‘You actually said that? Jesu, Cicely, he will have your silly head!’
‘No, he will not, Mother. He told me he knew nothing of the treatment Richard’s body received until it was too late. He told me Richard’s nakedness was not displayed to all and sundry, only his upper body and face. And he told me Richard would have a fitting tomb, as became an anointed king. I believed him.’
‘How does it come about that you are so amicable with him?’ Bess demanded, a jealous note entering her voice. She did not want Henry himself, only to share his crown. Suddenly Cicely seemed a threat.
‘Does it matter how it came about?’ Cicely replied. ‘I spoke with him, that is all. He also told me that John of Gloucester, Jack of Lincoln and the boy Warwick have sworn fealty to him and will soon be at liberty.’
Bess’s eyes flickered in a manner not far removed from Henry’s. ‘My, little sister, you have been busy.’
‘It was nothing, Bess,’ Cicely protested, even though it had been something very much. She and Henry Tudor had tested each other, and neither had emerged entirely victorious.
Bess’s dark blue gown rustled over the floor and freshly strewn fragrant herbs as she resumed her pacing. ‘Well, I have not seen him at all. He rode at my side into London from Lambeth, and left me at the palace steps. He could not have been less courtly had he tried. I do not even know if he could see me at all. Only one of his e
yes seemed to function. The other floated whither it would. Oh, he repulsed me.’
The Queen Dowager’s lips pursed. ‘Well, Bess, his mind is the difficulty, not what his eyes do. He must know about your passion for Richard. There was talk enough. He probably wonders if you come to him as less than a virgin.’
Cicely stood. ‘Please, Mother, do not say such things. Richard did not do anything to Bess, and it is wrong of you to hint as much. Yes, Henry does suspect it, I know that to be so.’
Again her mother and sister stared at her, and Bess was furious. ‘You and he discussed my chastity?’
‘I reassured him that you were all you should be, Bess. And you are, as far as I know. I did not bring up the subject, he did. He interrogated me on many things, and I found out things from him. That is all it was: a probing conversation, I believe it could be termed.’
‘My, my, Cissy, how easily you find it to worm yourself into the confidence of kings,’ Bess breathed icily. ‘You always had much more of Richard than I did.’
You have no idea how much more, Cicely thought.
‘Where did this revealing conversation take place? Henry’s bed? You would have me believe you are well in with him. Such a tawdry little triumph, Cissy.’
‘It was a conversation, not a roll in the hay.’ Now Cicely was angry as well. ‘Actually, I think I can vouch that your initiation into his bed will not be long-lasting! He is a man who will take what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants. Your pleasure will not enter into it.’
The Queen Dowager chuckled. ‘You know nothing, Cicely. Henry Tudor is no different from any other man. They all think only of themselves.’
‘No, not all.’
Her mother looked intently at her. ‘And how would you know that? Do not tell me you have been foolish enough to spread yourself beneath that boy John of Gloucester. If you think you know about men, you must . . .’ She paused, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. ‘Or do you already have experience of men? Who was it?’
Bess was riveted, seeing her sister as if for the first time.
Cicely did not answer. She was in a pit of her own digging. As John had once said of his father.
The Queen Dowager sat forward. ‘Who have you lain with, Cicely?’ she asked again.
‘Do you really think I will tell you?’
‘And what if you find yourself with a whelp inside you?’ the Queen Dowager demanded.
Cicely fell silent.
Bess gazed at her, a myriad expressions crossing her pale, perfect face. ‘Was it Jack? When he failed with me at Sheriff Hutton, did he tumble you instead?’
‘There is no one,’ Cicely answered, resisting the almost overpowering urge to clasp her stomach, to protect her child from their critical eyes.
The Queen Dowager got up suddenly, and came to slip a knowing hand over Cicely’s belly. ‘Jesu, you are with child!’ she gasped, as if stung. ‘Please tell me it was not a common man!’
‘Neither of you need be party to my problems. When I leave this room, you can both forget it all. You can look Henry Tudor in the eyes and play innocent. I am not innocent, nor can I conceal it for much longer. I do not care what happens to me, but I do care about my child. If either of you does anything to jeopardize its safety or wellbeing, I will curse you both. So leave me alone. I love my child, and I love its father. More than either of you will ever understand.’
With that she left, and her mother and sister gazed after her.
Not long after noon of that same day, on her way back to her rooms after walking in the palace’s riverside garden, Cicely suddenly found herself face to face with Henry Tudor’s mother. As always, Margaret, Lady Stanley, carried a book of hours. This one was Richard’s, taken from his tent at Bosworth. How dare this toad of a woman even touch it!
Margaret’s small, thin body was swathed in black. She wore a wimple that pulled her face back, but unlike the Queen Dowager she had never been a beauty and did not cut an impressive figure. Merely a threatening one. Like her son, who had his hooded expression from her. But to Cicely’s astonishment, Margaret spoke warmly. ‘Why, Lady Cicely, I trust I find you well?’
‘Lady Stanley.’ Cicely managed a curtsey. Lord Stanley was Margaret’s fourth husband, and had turned traitor to Richard at Bosworth. Margaret had been born a Beaufort, the illegitimate line that had descended from John of Gaunt and which was specifically barred from the throne. It was through her that Henry Tudor had any royal blood. Bastard royal blood, and not even paternal.
Margaret was concerned. ‘Is something wrong, my dear? You are very pale.’
‘I fear it is the curse we have to deal with every month.’ The other’s concern seemed genuine, which bothered Cicely even more. Margaret had always shown her dislike for Edward IV’s two eldest daughters because of their adherence to Richard, yet now, suddenly, she was amiable. Such a change in this particular woman was alarming.
‘It is indeed a curse. Perhaps you should join me on this bench for a while?’
Without waiting for a reply, Margaret conducted her to a stone bench set against the wall, beneath a window overlooking the Thames.
Cicely was mindful of the shunned ladies. ‘Lady Stanley, I must crave forgiveness. Without thinking, I dismissed the ladies you so considerately provided.’
‘I believe you are content with a single maid?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Henry had to have told her.
‘If that is your wish, it is no insult to me.’
‘You are kind, my lady.’
‘My dear, you and I have perhaps not been as properly acquainted as we should have been. It is mostly my fault, I admit, for I took it as a slight to my son that you and your sister were so loyal to Richard. But I feel I do know you, if not your sister.’
‘You . . . know me?’ Cicely was increasingly uneasy. What was all this? Kind concern from Henry Tudor’s mother? What could Henry have said to her? It could not possibly bode well.
‘Well, I know more of you. My brother speaks in your favour.’
Sir John Welles again! ‘I am honoured, my lady. I confess I did not expect to like him so much. He has been all that is courteous and gallant toward me.’
Margaret almost preened. ‘He is an honourable knight, my dear, and dear to me. If he praises you, then that is good enough for me. I am sorry to have been disagreeable toward you in the past, and I trust you and I can forge a friendship in the days to come.’
‘I hope so too, my lady.’ No, I do not! But what else can I say?
‘I do not know if you have been told that you and your sister are to lodge with me until such time as your sister is married. I am to reside at Coldharbour. Well, this arrangement cannot take place until the house has been made habitable again, and in the meantime we all stay here. I look forward to us being together, Cicely.’
‘What of my mother?’
Margaret stiffened. ‘I think you will understand that the Queen Dowager and I do not like each other, my dear. Believe me, there would be bloodshed if she were beneath my roof. I do not know what is to become of her, but my son will treat her with due respect.’
Cicely gazed at her. ‘How can you like me, my lady? I am loyal to Richard, and nothing can change that.’
‘I have been in conversation with the king. It is not often that he is spoken to as you did. It did him good, I fancy. He can be . . . distant.’
And always would be, Cicely thought.
‘Henry knows of your unswerving allegiance to your uncle. He does not like it, but he accepts it.’
‘Accepts?’ This grew more unlikely by the second.
‘In as much as he can. My son is not a happy man, my dear, as I think you probably realized.’
Henry was unhappy? Yes, Cicely supposed he was, but she also supposed it was his own fault, for permitting himself to be so convoluted, and it was his mother’s, because her ambition and ruthlessness had done him no favours. He was also malevolent, and that came naturally. ‘The king has been very gracious to me, Lady
Stanley. He told me what he intended for my uncle’s tomb, and that had he known of it, he would not have permitted the desecration of his body.’ She was permitting her stupid tongue to rattle again. Because of Richard.
‘Your uncle still matters that much to you?’
Was there a narrowing of Margaret’s eyes? A slight pinching of her lips? ‘How could he not, my lady? He was my uncle and loved me as I loved him. He was kind to me, thoughtful and generous.’
Margaret gazed at her. ‘You have a very stout heart, Lady Cicely.’
Cicely felt the closeness of tears. Let Margaret and her chilly son think what they would; she was no longer able to dissemble. She felt completely out of sorts and strange, and secretly prayed it did not herald a problem for her baby. But she knew much of it was grief.
After a moment, Margaret smiled. She actually smiled. Cicely could not believe it. ‘When one’s loyalty is truly engaged, there is little one can do about it. I remain loyal to my first husband, my son’s father, who died when I was still thirteen and carrying his baby. He did not treat me as disgracefully as the stark facts might suggest, even though he was twice my age and should not have taken me to his bed. I was such a poor little thing, still a child, still frightened of everything. We may frown upon what he did, but he was kindness itself to me. He did not hurt me or treat me badly, nor was he a man who preferred children. Far from it. He had his reasons for doing as he did, and some of them were not entirely admirable, but he was not cruel or thoughtless. I adored him, Cicely, with all my silly child’s heart, and I grieve for him still. Edmund Tudor was a prince to me, and we women do not easily forget such men. Childbirth did me no favours, however, because my body was too small. I remain too small, so if childbirth had come later, I believe it would still have had the same result.’
Cicely was transfixed. Margaret, Lady Stanley, was confessing such intimate things to her? Was there anyone who did not feel the urge to confide their innermost secrets to Cicely Plantagenet? It was becoming a curse!
Margaret put a hand on hers. ‘I have misjudged you, my dear. My brother is not a man whose praise is easily won. That is enough for me. As is the fact that you quite confounded the king. Poor Henry, his is not an easy character. Not as was Richard’s. That man could wheedle the Arch Fiend into becoming Christian.’
Cicely's Second King Page 4
