You, Henry Tudor, are the one to have taken liberties today, she thought, remembering he had used her roughly. No doubt her chin still bore the marks of his fingers,
‘My offer will not be long upon the table, my lady. Your child’s legitimacy for your brothers’ last-known whereabouts. I think it a reasonable enough bargain, under the circumstances.’
‘I do not know where my brothers are, Your Grace, only that my uncle would not have done away with them.’
‘And you know your uncle so well.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would that be in the biblical sense?’
‘No, Your Grace, it would not.’
‘What a pity I do not believe you. About your brothers’ whereabouts, I mean, of course.’
‘Of course.’
They looked at each other, the power and cunning of the House of Lancaster, and the proud defiance of the House of York. The House of Lancaster smiled. ‘You are dismissed, Lady Cicely. No, one moment.’ He turned, took the kerchief from the table, and pressed into her hand. ‘It is yours, my lady. Now you may go.’
She curtseyed again, as deeply and reverently as even Henry Tudor could desire, although in her heart she insulted him. But he matched her by walking away as if he had already forgotten her. And so she rose and began to return to her own rooms.
She tried to walk sedately, but the kerchief burned in her hand. It was hardened with blood, and through it she felt as if she too died with Richard. At last she halted, to press it to her shaking lips.
‘It did comfort me, Cicely.’ Richard’s voice was inside her. ‘It was from you, and so it meant everything.’
‘But it did not protect you,’ she whispered, aloud, not within.
‘It gave me strength, sweetheart.’
‘Not enough. Not enough!’
‘That was not your fault, it was mine.’
‘Are you angry with me for speaking to Henry as I did today? Yes, of course you are. I did not heed your words. I defied him, was rude to him, and I defended you too much. Far too much. I simply could not—would not!—ignore the way he slighted you.’
‘No, sweetheart, I am not angry. He left you very little choice. He sent for you with every intention of provoking another skirmish. He wanted you to defy him. And you did. He loves the novelty you present, he made that plain enough. And he felt so much through your hand. He actually felt it. Now do you understand about your gift? You actually have him, you do know that? If you were to be his queen, he would have you making your vows with the bed waiting alongside.’
She wanted to give him a cross look, but he was not there to bestow it upon.
‘Cicely, if it were not for my libidinous attentions, you would be his queen. I told you how strong an attraction you present, and how you make men want you. Henry Tudor is living proof of it.’
‘I would rather he were the dead proof,’ she replied. ‘I would trip a rejoicing measure around his tomb, provided he had one, because if the cost came from my purse, he would be chopped up to feed the pigs. Boars. White ones.’
‘I do love you, sweetheart.’ She heard the smile in his voice. And the farewell.
‘No! Do not go . . . !’ But she was alone. Again.
Chapter Nine
Henry’s offer to Cicely was retracted only a day later. She had not told him about her brothers, when he suspected she at least knew something, and so he did what he could to make certain her child was born illegitimate. The Scrope contract was examined for its legality, and Henry privately instructed that it be found debatable and the outcome delayed as long as possible.
His decision to give the document even this much credence had not only dismayed Cicely and Jon, but Margaret as well. She did not wish her half-brother’s child to be born out of wedlock, and pleaded with Henry to reconsider. He told her he suspected Cicely to be lawfully married to Ralph Scrope and with child by him, and so full examination of the contract was necessary. In this spitefulness he was encouraged by his other uncle, Jasper Tudor, who did not like his nephew’s interest in Cicely Plantagenet. In fact, Jasper did not like anything about Cicely, and the antipathy was more than returned. From the moment they met, there had been instant suspicion between them.
Ralph, naturally enough, took mean pleasure in asserting the contract to be true. In Henry Tudor he had found a master after his own heart. Not that Henry had confidence in him. This new king suspected everyone. He could not help himself. His ability to trust had long since been stolen away.
Now, because of Cicely, Henry was also vindictive for the sake of it. He really resented the effect Richard III’s second niece had upon him. She treated him as no other dared, and her spirit made him want her. Henry’s natural state was to be measured, secretive, spidery and menacing. These were cool attributes, and they had served him well. But Cicely had made him confront his other side, which was jealous, curdled, rancid, perverse and passionate, all uncontrolled aspects of himself. Such disagreeable insight angered him, and if there was anything he could do to obstruct her happiness, he intended to do it.
Nor did Jon Welles escape his nephew’s ire. If Jon loved Cicely, and if he had not only enjoyed her body, but been the first to do so, Henry had no intention of allowing them an easy path to the marriage bed. He despatched Jon to Norwich on a trumped-up errand, with instructions that he was to return on the eve of the coronation at the end of the month. Thus the new king ensured there could be no further anticipations of conjugal bliss.
Henry lodged at the Tower in the days before his coronation, set for the thirtieth day of October. It was a tradition to stay at the Tower; Richard had done the same. The coronation ceremony at Westminster Abbey was to be on Sunday, and on Saturday a great procession progressed from the Tower to Westminster Hall. There was tremendous pageantry, with fanfares, banners, horsemen, display and grandeur. Henry was bare-headed, wearing a long gown of purple velvet trimmed with ermine and a rich ornamental belt over his shoulder and down to his waist. He was preceded by two mounted noblemen, the newly created Earl of Derby—formerly Lord Stanley—and the Earl of Nottingham. Behind Henry were two more mounted earls, Oxford and Jack, Earl of Lincoln, Cicely’s cousin and Richard’s intended heir. Henry’s armed courser of state, trapped in cloth-of-gold, followed.
Jasper Tudor was prominent as well, a dark-complexioned, dark-eyed Welshman with an air of assurance born of having dissimulated successfully for so many years. He wore dark blue, his hair was black and so was his horse. He bore no resemblance whatsoever to his royal nephew, who was like his Beaufort mother.
Henry did not look regal, only unsmiling and cold. Richard, slightly built or not, had great presence, and it had been clear to all that he was royal. He had never been cold. Born to high station, he had been the favourite, most trusted brother of Edward IV, and regality came naturally to him. Henry Tudor had not been born to such very high station, yet in a day’s time he would be the anointed king, with Richard’s crown upon his undeserving head. Henry still needed to assert himself, and so had let it be known he was no longer to be addressed as merely Your Grace, but as Your Majesty.
He was so occupied that Saturday night of 29 October 1485 that he did not notice his half-uncle’s failure to return from Norwich at the appointed time. He had no idea that Jon was already in London, and on the point of entering into a secret marriage with Cicely. It was a marriage for which a royal licence was required, and Henry had said that the union could not take place until such consent had been granted. He could change his mind, he could do anything he pleased, and both Jon and Cicely knew they gambled a great deal on his ultimate response. In the meantime, even though it was not strictly necessary to make their vows before a priest in a house of God, they felt it best so to do. And so the Almighty oversaw their nuptials, even if Henry Tudor did not.
The clandestine little ceremony took place at the church of St Anthony, on the northern corner of St Sithe’s Lane and Budge Row, in the heart of the city. The church was close to Jon’s residence
at Pasmer’s Place, which was in St Sithe’s Lane, and was where the new Lady Welles would spend her first few hours with her husband. It could only be hours, because Jon preferred not to further disobey Henry by failing to go to him at all.
Nor did Henry know his mother was a witness to the nuptials, as was the Queen Dowager, who had not wished to be anywhere near but had been commanded by Bess. It no longer did to defy Henry VII’s future queen, who adopted more airs and graces by the day. Bess herself was not present because Henry kept her under constant watch, being ever hopeful of discovering something to give him an irrefutable reason not to marry her. She gave him no such excuse, but his agents watched her nevertheless.
It was hazardous to flout Henry Tudor’s express wish, but as Cicely entered the church she knew it was right to become Lady Welles. Her dark chestnut hair was completely hidden by a gable headdress, and she carried a posy of late roses. There had not been a hard frost as yet, and the bush grew in a sheltered place that caught the sun. They were white roses. She would not have carried anything else. Nor would Sir Jon Welles have expected otherwise. He was marrying a Yorkist bride. But then, so would his nephew be, of course. Eventually.
She wore a new grey velvet gown that was based unashamedly on the clothes Richard had worn that Christmas at Westminster; the clothes she had ‘seen’ him wearing again so very recently. His white boar emblem had been judiciously replaced with the white rose of York, but the boar was there, she had stitched it herself, and it was hidden in the rich folds. The knowledge that it was all for Richard made her feel guilty to wear it to wed Jon, but the gown had been made for Henry’s coronation, as an insult to him.
Richard was with her in other ways too, because in the new white velvet purse on her belt she had his letter, the bloodied kerchief and a little sapphire ring once given to her by John of Gloucester. She had tried to leave them all behind for this particular occasion, but could not finally bring herself to the point. Sometimes, just to touch Richard’s letter made her feel strong again. And if she needed hatred to sustain her against Henry, she had only to touch the bloodied kerchief. For fond memories of a more innocent past, of young sweet first love, she could slip John’s little sapphire on to her finger.
But there was another ring in the purse tonight, heavy and gold, and fixed with a large, very rare turquoise. It had belonged to her father, and left to her. She intended to put it on Jon’s finger as they made their vows. Maybe it was a very Yorkist ring, but Jon, even though Lancastrian, was her beloved lord.
The church was only lit by a few candles , the sounds of the city were dulled by the thick walls, and the air was very still as she walked towards Jon, who waited at the altar with the priest, Margaret and the Queen Dowager. Cicely’s mother suspected her child to be John of Gloucester’s, and did not think of Richard, which she certainly would have done had it been Bess.
Margaret smiled, convinced the bride’s baby was that of Jon Welles. She would have preferred the vows to have come first, but all would be well. She was confident she could bring Henry around. She could always bring him around. Besides, Henry himself would soon have a Yorkist bride, and with luck that union would also prove immediately fruitful. Two marriages that joined the Houses of Lancaster and York into the House of Tudor. Three, if one counted Jasper and Katherine Woodville. Margaret had only ever imagined and plotted for one such coupling.
But then Cicely halted, because she felt Richard so very strongly that she knew he was here. Her glance was drawn directly to him as he leaned against a pillar, facing her, wearing the very clothes she had copied so diligently. She gazed at him again, unable to do anything else. The posy fell from her fingers, and her heart so turned within her that she felt she would die of it. The violence of her love swooped out of the shadows to engulf her again. ‘Richard?’ she whispered.
He smiled, put a finger to his lips and then wagged it with mock sternness. His rings shone in the candlelight, as did the gold embroidery on his clothes. Surely everyone could see him? But there was only silence, and then a small stir from those near the altar.
‘Cicely?’ Jon came to retrieve the posy. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’
Still she looked at Richard, who nodded towards Jon. ‘You have a husband to wed, sweetheart.’
Jon was anxious. ‘Cicely, if you are unwell. . . ?’
She looked quickly into his dark blue eyes. ‘It is nothing. A trick of the shadows. I thought I saw . . . the king.’ She glanced back at the pillar, knowing Richard would not be there now. She was right.
‘Do you have the sight?’ Jon teased.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Neither do I, my lady, so when I look over there and see no one, I am content there is no one.’
‘Forgive me.’ She took the posy from him, and for a moment his fingers wrapped around hers.
‘Cicely, if you wish to withdraw from this, you can. I will not hold you to anything. But once our vows are taken—’
‘There will be no going back. I know that.’ She stretched up to kiss his cheek.
The priest waited nervously. He was a Lincolnshire man with connections to the Welles family, and if Sir Jon wished him to perform this ceremony, to which the only impediment was the king’s full consent, then perform it he would, before getting himself swiftly out of London.
Jon put an arm around Cicely’s shoulder and conducted her to the altar, where they took their vows. In the eyes of God, if not the King of England, Cicely Plantagenet became Lady Welles. And she had a wedding band and God’s witness to prove it. Jon now wore the turquoise, and she was so glad of it. When he embraced her afterwards, she was content with what they did. Now they could both only pray that Henry would stay his hand. But did he even possess the capacity to forgive?
Margaret and the Queen Dowager, who loathed each other, returned to the Tower afterwards, where they were supposed to be at the banquet all along, while Jon and his new wife went to nearby Pasmer’s Place. The house nestled among the clustering rooftops of the old city, above the Thames and below St. Paul’s Cathedral, the tall spire of which rose impressively from the top of Ludgate Hill. It was a noble residence, rambling, with latticed casements and gabled roofs tiled with Lincolnshire stone, and it was partly gathered around a courtyard, with an access from St. Sithe’s Lane. Finely furnished and decorated, it was envied by many a higher ranked lord and was the property of one Master John Pasmer, a member of the Company of Skinners and the Calais Staple. Pasmer was a fat jovial man and very successful merchant and skinner, who had once lived in the house, which was how it got its name, but now he owned a number of houses throughout London. Pasmer’s Place was the finest.
The bridal couple dined alone, modestly, for there were only the two of them. They were not at ease together. What Jon’s thoughts were, Cicely could not know. He gave no hint of them, certainly not whether or not he still intended to let her remain his wife in name only. If he wished to consummate the marriage, there was not a great deal she could do to stop him. She did not even know if she would want to stop him.
He intended to go to the Tower after they had eaten, but time passed and he was still there. At last she felt awkward. Did he wish to lie with her or not? ‘Should I retire, Jon? What do you wish of me?’
‘Retire, by all means. I will speak to you before I leave.’
Mary Kymbe attended her as she undressed in the bedchamber that was to be hers from now on. The bed seemed to dominate the room as the maid brushed Cicely’s long hair loose again. Then she heard Jon’s tread at the door, and as he came in, he had to bow his head beneath the low lintel. He indicated to Mary to leave, and then closed the door. ‘Well, my Lady Welles, here we are,’ he said, leaning a shoulder against one of the bedposts and looking at her as she sat in front of the fire. He toyed with the turquoise.
‘Yes. Here we are.’ She rose. ‘What do you think the king will do when he learns?
‘A little late to wonder that, methinks. He is not endowed with a great de
al of human kindness. And he seems pesky determined to be obstructive. I have no real idea why.’
It was said with the sort of faint smile that animated her buried guilt until it rose unstoppably through her, like new vigour into a dying man. She had been wrong to marry him, because she would now blight his life! Henry would never forgive it. She had to tell Jon everything about Henry. It was inconsiderate and insulting to do anything less.
‘It is my fault that Henry is so set against us.’ The words were uttered with such a heaviness of regret that they even seemed to weigh her tongue.
‘Why?’
‘I have . . . interested him far too much.’
Jon straightened. ‘What you are saying?’
‘The reason he reacted as he did, throwing the candlestick, is that until he learned I was with child, he believed I was a virgin, and he told me he wanted me for himself.’
Jon gazed at her. ‘And you did not think to inform me of this?’
‘I . . . I had not really thought properly. Forgive me, Jon. And I fear there is more . . .’
He groaned. ‘What else have you got as my wedding gift? Henry’s intention to have me slowly hung, drawn and quartered?’
‘No. He said he would discard the contract with Ralph if I would tell him where my brothers were. Jon, I do not know where they are, except . . .’
‘Except. . . ?’
‘That they escaped to Burgundy.’
Jon gazed at her, his lips pursed. ‘How good of you to tell me. Do they not say better late than never?’
‘Please do not be angry. I should have told you sooner, I know that. They were at Sheriff Hutton.’
‘I found no trace of them. Everyone else, yes, but certainly not them.’
She hardly dared meet his eyes. ‘That is because I had all evidence removed, just before you arrived.’
He regarded her. ‘I see. You were an industrious little lady. And then you confronted me in the courtyard as if I were the Devil Incarnate?’
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