‘Did you break your vows, Richard?’
‘Not that would be worth mentioning, or the world would surely know of it.’
‘So you did.’
‘Cicely, I have told you before how very hurtful and difficult it is to always be second. Anne did it to me and I do not want you to do it to Sir Jon Welles. My son will never know that he lost you to me—that I allotted him second place—and for that I will always be grateful. Sir Jon already knows of my place in your heart, and he is even prepared to give his name to my child. Have you any real comprehension of how great a compliment and respect he shows you in this? Well, have you? And now, unless you do something about it, he will always be blighted by knowing his wife is in love with a dead man. Just as I knew it with Anne. It is humiliating and debilitating, sweetheart, and I do not think you wish to do that to him. Do you understand? Let me go and turn to him.’
‘Could you put me from your mind if our places were reversed? Could you stop thinking of me, yearning to see and touch me, craving me? Could you, Richard?’
‘Oh, Cicely, I should have left you alone when you came to my court. Instead I gave in to my love for you. I am far from proud of it but I cannot, with any honesty, regret it. I had always been discreet about everything I did, but with you, discretion became more difficult every day.’ He smiled, and his love caressed her. ‘Doing what is right is not always possible. It is something I always strove to do in life, but could not when it came to you. You invaded me, sweetheart, and you annihilated every principle of which I had once been so sure. I love you so very much, Cicely, and I always will, but our final goodbye must come soon. And if you will not say it, then I will.’
‘No, please,’ she implored.
‘When you look at me with those beautiful dark eyes, I am almost always robbed of common sense.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Almost always.’
She closed her eyes and moved against his fingers. But suddenly they were no longer there. He was no longer there.
‘Almost always, but not this time,’ she whispered.
Chapter Eighteen
It was February, the morning of the Feast of St Valentine, and the weather was good. There were catkins and pussy-willow on the marshes, and snowdrops wherever soil and shelter permitted. The wind was so light as to be nonexistent, and the skies were a glorious blue. The Wash glinted, for the spring tide was in, covering the broad mud flats and other levels that often made the sea an almost imagined thing.
In London, Bess was now Henry’s queen and there were whispers that she was already with child. If it was true, Henry’s careless pre-nuptial dibble had indeed borne fruit. But Bess would not be crowned for a while yet. Henry was continuing to show he was king by right of conquest, not the birthright of his wife. And now the king was on his royal progress around the realm, leaving Bess behind. No doubt she was foolish enough to be pleased by the separation, Cicely thought.
Jon had not returned from Rockingham although he had sent his wife several solicitous letters, but they had all been couched in conventional terms, without any hint of deeper affection. He seemed a stranger now. A stranger she missed very much.
She wondered what he would say when he learned Lucy Talby had been ejected unceremoniously from the castle. Let him usher the creature back if he would. His wife did not expect otherwise. But even with Lucy gone, Cicely, Lady Welles, dared not take any risks with food or drink. Mary had to make doubly sure that anything served to her mistress was safe. The friend in the kitchens was of the utmost importance in this. Once, only once, was something discovered, and even that may not have been Lucy’s work. There was a strong smell of bitter almonds in a preserve of damsons. There should not have been almonds at all, and no one wished to sample the damsons. Bitter almonds suggested arsenic.
Lucy was not in the castle, but her influence was still everywhere. Numerous things had happened that seemed to stem from Cicely’s arrival. The milk had curdled, the butter would not set, pigs had died mysteriously and Jon’s banners at the castle had caught fire of their own accord. Crude depictions of the white rose of York appeared in a number of places in the area, and whenever there was a death, that same white rose was painted upon the door of the deceased. It was even said that fresh bloodstains had been found on the site of Losecoat Field, in the next county, although no one had been there to see.
Hatred for the House of York, already pernicious, now became deadly. People averted their eyes if Lady Welles came near, and many crossed themselves superstitiously if they thought of her, let alone heard her name. Lucy Talby was right, there was only one witch in Wyberton, and that was Edward IV’s daughter. If Jon were to return, Cicely did not doubt it would all stop, because Lucy would not wish him to catch her in such activities. In the meantime, his wife was her target.
Cicely was incensed, and frightened. It did not do to be accused of witchcraft, and here, with the memory of Losecoat Field so very dominant, it was more dangerous still. So much was she her father’s daughter that it crossed her mind to do as he would have, and dispose of Lucy Talby in the dead of night. It was an extremely appealing solution but she knew she would not do it. However, planning the details was a very rewarding pastime when seated in the solar on a wet winter afternoon.
Her time was still a month away that Valentine morning, when, quite unexpectedly, Mary’s aunt, Katherine Kymbe, arrived at Wyberton. She came escorted by Tom, Mary’s brother, who was close to Richard’s age, a tall but sturdy man, good-looking with a weather-beaten complexion, curls the colour of hazelnuts and light brown eyes. He was dressed modestly, without embroidery or other ornament, and he had a reassuringly calm manner. But there was also something stricken about him, as if he had suffered a very recent, very terrible loss. In fact, he was filled with grief.
Cicely had come out to the steps to greet the Kymbes in person, because she wished to please Mary. She wondered why they had come so early, for they had not been expected before the end of the month. But it was Tom Kymbe who held her attention. She had known too much sorrow not to recognize its hold upon another.
Mary saw his agony as well, and hurried to meet him. Cicely watched the reunion, the clinging together of brother and sister, the brother’s pain, the sister sharing it. It was heartbreaking to watch. Then he kissed Mary’s cheek, and turned to assist their elderly aunt out of the litter.
Mistress Kymbe was small and wizened, but still sprightly, and reminded Cicely of a thin little sparrow. She had brought a number of belongings with her, including one heavy bag with which she would not part. Nor would she surrender it to anyone else. Cicely noticed how Tom studiously avoided even glancing at it. She also saw how the old lady patted her niece’s shoulder and nodded sympathetically. Something truly devastating had taken place in the Kymbe family.
‘What has happened?’ Cicely asked as Mary returned to her.
‘Tom’s lady, Felice, died in childbed two days ago, and the baby lived only hours.’
‘Oh, no . . .’ Cicely’s heart went out to Tom Kymbe.
He gave nothing away of his thoughts as he conducted Mistress Kymbe to Lady Welles. The old midwife certainly had all her faculties; her eyes were sharp and bright, her tongue quick, and her knowledge of childbirth seemingly infinite. It was hard to remember that she was deaf, and could only converse by reading lips. Cicely did not doubt that whatever happened, Mary’s aunt would be able to surmount any problem at a lying-in. And now she had arrived, there could also be certainty that Lucy Talby would not be called upon. For any reason.
Katherine struggled with the heavy bag on reaching the steps, and Tom, with clear reluctance, went to take it from her, but she shook her head fiercely, giving him such an odd look that Cicely was puzzled again. There was something here she did not understand, and she felt it would affect her in some way. Or was she simply allowing her condition and imagination too much rein? ‘I did not expect you so soon, Mistress Kymbe,’ she said, making sure she spoke clearly for her lips to be read correctly.
&n
bsp; ‘I will be needed before you know it, my lady. The death of one ensures the swift birth of another.’
‘I . . . do not understand.’
‘Forgive me, my lady, but I know things. I sense them. I know I am needed here, now, and that there is a pressing reason to—’
‘Enough!’ Tom silenced her, and then apologized to Cicely. ‘Forgive me, my lady, I do not mean to speak harshly before you.’
The old lady looked at him, and fell silent.
Cicely indicated to Mary to take the old lady inside, while she herself remained on the steps with Tom. She wanted to touch him, to show sympathy for his loss, and so she did, briefly, on his forearm. ‘Mary has told me of your bereavement, Master Kymbe. I am so very sorry.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘If there is anything I can do to—’
‘Please, my lady. I would rather not speak of it.’
He struggled with emotion, and she said nothing more, but remained there with him, for she could hardly turn and walk away when she felt so very much for his situation. After a moment he had mastered himself again, and looked intently at her, dropping his voice to little more than a whisper. ‘I am glad to have an opportunity to speak to you alone, my lady, for I am charged with a message.’
‘Message?’
‘From Sir Jon.’
Cicely was surprised. ‘But why would he not send a message directly to me?’
‘I do not know, my lady, only that it is of a . . . sensitive nature. I am to relate it to you by word of mouth.’
‘If he can tell you, then it is not that delicate, I think,’ she observed. ‘What is it you have to tell me?’
‘I cannot say here. Nothing must be overheard. My lord was most insistent upon this. And with good reason.’
He turned as a step sounded behind them. It was Ned Grebby, who bowed to her. ‘Have you any commands for me, my lady?’ The steward made this enquiry every morning, so this was no different. She saw how his glance went to Tom. There was mutual dislike between the two men.
‘Yes, Master Grebby,’ she replied. ‘I wish very much to be out of the castle for a while. It would please me to ride along the marsh causeway, toward the Witham.’
The steward was appalled. ‘My lady, Sir Jon would not wish you to do anything that might endanger you. And the river is tidal and always hazardous.’
‘I may not be much of a rider, sir, but I can manage a placid palfrey, of which I know there is at least one here. The causeway is flat and straight, without hazard, and I will not go as far as the river. I have a whole month to go, and the day is too fine and mild for me not to sample the land hereabouts. I will not go toward the village, so will not risk any further opportunities for Mistress Talby to make a witch of me.’
She felt the change in Tom. Why? Because she was suspected of witchcraft? Or because Lucy Talby had been mentioned?
The steward wanted to keep Lady Welles inside the castle. If she went outside, and something happened, he, Ned Grebby, would be the unfortunate recipient of Sir Jon’s rage. ‘My lady, I have been charged to take great care of you. And—forgive me—are you quite sure you should ride when your child is so close to being birthed?’
‘I will be quite all right, sir.’
‘But—’
‘Enough, Master Grebby. My mind is made up.’
Tom looked at him. ‘I will lend my company, sir. My sister will be present, so there cannot be any suggestion of impropriety. I will see that no harm comes to my lady.’ He paused, and looked belatedly at Cicely. ‘With your leave, my lady. Perhaps I speak out of turn?’
‘You do not, Master Kymbe. I am grateful for your offer.’
The steward gave up. ‘If that is truly your wish, my lady?’
‘It is.’
Ned looked a little slyly at Tom. ‘Then I will leave the matter to you, Master Kymbe.’
Tom returned the look. ‘You do that, sir. Oh, and lest I forget . . .’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sealed document. ‘Sir Jon instructs me to give you this.’
‘Sir Jon chooses you as his messenger?’
‘It would seem so, Master Grebby, and if you object, you had best take it up with him on his return. Which is imminent.’
Cicely’s heart leapt with relief. Jon was returning at last? How glad she was to hear it. More glad than she expected.
Cicely had to change clothes for the ride, and Mary was attending her. ‘Mary, your aunt said something about the death of one meaning the swift birth of another.’
‘It is an old saying, my lady. My aunt believes in it, and it has often proved correct. Tom’s child has left the world, and so she feels maybe your child will come early into it. That is all.’
All? Cicely was anxious. Babies born before their term were always weak and sickly. Were they not?
‘All will be well, my lady. I am sure of it. You are strong, and recovered now from the journey from London. You have not had the sick mornings for well over a week, and your cheeks are rosy. Your eyes sparkle too. There is nothing wrong. I have not been close to my aunt for so long without learning things.’
Cicely smiled. ‘You make me feel better, Mary. I bless the day you came to me.’ She stepped out of her gown. ‘I think your brother and Master Grebby do not like each other.’
‘They are second cousins, my lady, and they have never liked each other.’
Cicely was silent for a moment as she was helped into clothes more suitable for outdoors. ‘What does Lucy Talby mean to your brother? Have they been sweethearts?’
The maid was horrified. ‘Oh, no, my lady! It is believed that Mistress Talby overlooked Felice and the baby.’
Cicely was appalled. ‘But why?’
‘Because Lucy was in love with Edwin de Burgh, who chose to marry Felice instead. The witch punished her.’
‘So your brother believes in witchcraft?’
‘I do not know, my lady. I would once have said he did not.’
‘And now the witch’s way to Edwin de Burgh is clear?’
‘No, my lady, for Edwin died of the sweating sickness in Burgundy, not long before Bosworth.’
Cicely hesitated. ‘Was Tom at Losecoat Field?’
Mary became hesitant.
‘It is quite all right to tell me the truth, Mary. It will not change my regard, or bring trouble upon him. I am merely curious, that is all.’
‘Yes, he was at Losecoat, my lady. He was not yet twenty, and did not hold with the feud that led to the battle, but he would never move from Sir Jon’s side at such a time. They had always liked each other, from boys. Tom was almost killed, but fell beneath some thick bushes and was not found when your—when the king’s forces searched for survivors. If they had discovered him, he too would have died there. William Talby was able to save Sir Jon.’
Cicely was puzzled. ‘If your family is Lancastrian, how then was your name put before King Richard to be maid to my sister and me? I remember my uncle saying that your father was his supporter.’
‘And so he was. My father had served with King Richard at the Battle of Tewkesbury, when the king was still Duke of Gloucester, of course. My father would never hear a word said against Richard, saying that although the duke was still very young—the same age as Tom—he was already a very valiant and just prince. He saw great good in Richard. It was Richard who granted Friskney manor to your cousin, the Earl of Lincoln. The earl knew my father well, but does not know Tom at all.’
‘Perhaps it is just as well, if your brother is a Lancastrian.’
‘Yes, my lady. The Earl of Lincoln holds a number of Lincolnshire manors. My father did not care for Tom’s adherence to Sir Jon, and thus to the Lancastrian cause. There was a great rift between them, but my father gave his loyalty to King Richard and to Lord Lincoln, and it remained with them until the day he died.’
‘Loyalty meant so much to Richard,’ Cicely murmured almost absently.
‘I know how difficult it is for you, my lady, being the wife of
a Lancastrian nobleman . . . and the niece of King Richard.’ The maid returned her gaze in a level manner that conveyed knowledge of the truth.
‘You know about me, do you not?’ Cicely said quietly.
‘I have guessed, my lady. No more than that. It is something I will never divulge.’
‘Please keep it close, Mary, for it is a very dangerous secret.’
Chapter Nineteen
Cicely rode out gladly with Tom Kymbe and Mary. It was unexpectedly warm for February, perhaps because the salt air, although fresh and invigorating, was almost still. No chill was carried in from the sea, and there had not been rain in over a week, so the causeway was dry as they rode east, towards the River Witham. Several miles to the north-west loomed the great tower of St Botolph’s church in Boston. It was called the Boston Stump, and was a famous landmark for many miles.
Looking back at the castle, Cicely saw that Jon’s burnt banners had been replaced, but hung limply against their poles and over the walls. All around her was a terrain of bogs and marshes, with reeds and rushes that had their roots in a shifting, unstable mire where a few water channels provided navigation, for only the smallest boats. Curlews called across the marsh, waterfowl honked, and there was the sound of flowing water from the stream that now meandered across the boggy landscape. It was all so lonely, but also very beautiful.
Tom manoeuvred his horse alongside. ‘My lady, the message I have to give is that my lord’s half-sister, the Countess of Derby, has sent word to him that King Henry has been told something concerning your . . . dealings with King Richard.’
Cicely reined in. ‘Dealings?’ she repeated.
‘Their nature was not conveyed to me, my lady.’
Her mind raced. Who else knew the truth? They suddenly seemed legion. Jack? No, he would die rather than tell. John of Gloucester did not know anyway, nor could say even if he did. Sir Robert Percy, Richard’s close friend, who certainly knew, had disappeared after Bosworth. As had Francis Lovell. Who else knew? An awful possibility crept in, ashamedly perhaps, but it could not be denied. Bess knew. Bess, now Henry’s queen, could well have betrayed her sister’s secret.
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