She stood in her bedchamber as Mary helped her to don her night robe, so very white and costly, embroidered with sweet cicely and tied at the throat by silver satin ribbons. Her hair was brushed loose, and it spilled down over her shoulders in a dark chestnut cascade. She had smoothed rose oil over her body, and her breath tasted of mint. How could it not? Mint was the flavour of true lovemaking, and tonight she wished to make true love to Jon Welles.
‘Am I ready, Mary?’ she asked.
The maid smiled. ‘Oh, yes, my lady.’
Cicely took a deep breath. ‘Is my lord in his apartments?’
‘Yes, my lady. He said he had papers to attend to. There was a messenger from the king.’
Cicely paused as a cool sensation passed slowly down her spine. A message from Henry? Catching up her skirts, she hurried barefoot from her rooms, along the draughty, torch-lit passage to Jon’s door. There she halted. Should she knock? Did he have someone with him? Oh, shades of that first night she had gone to Richard. Then, too, she had halted at the door, tormented with indecision. She had entered on that occasion, and must do so again now.
She tapped and did not know he was there until the door opened abruptly. He was a little dishevelled, his doublet undone, as was the shirt he wore beneath. The room behind him was lit only by a single candle, on the table, where numerous documents and papers and writing implements were in confusion. It made her think of another table, different papers . . . another man.
‘Cicely?’ His glance moved over her. ‘I see this is not a formal visit?’
‘It certainly is not, my lord.’
He stood aside and swept an arm to invite her in. Then he closed the door and leaned back against it. ‘You may not wish to continue with your intention, sweetheart, because my dear nephew has instructed us to go to Westminster next month, when he will have returned from his progress.’
Her lips parted and her heart sank. ‘So soon?’
‘I am prepared to invent an excuse, something that will keep you here.’
‘And let you go without me? Never. We are man and wife, Jon Welles, and if you go to London, so do I.’ She smiled. ‘I have to face him some time, and it may as well be next month.’
‘He desires you, Cicely.’
‘There is nothing either of us can do about that.’ She felt oddly strong. She would go to Henry, do as he wished, and allay his suspicions. She would do whatever was necessary to protect her husband, her child and her cousin. And in the meantime, she would get Jon Welles into bed, whether he wished it or not!
‘Are you my husband, sir?’
‘What manner of question is that?’
‘A seductive one. I am not an innocent, Jon. I know how to please a man, and tonight I wish to please you. To show you just how very innocent I am not.’
She moved closer, but he took her by the arms. ‘I am not Richard.’ The words betrayed his uncertainty.
‘Nor do I wish you to be. I am your wife, Jon, and I have come tonight to be in your bed. If you will let me.’
‘Jesu, lady, have I married a siren?’
‘Do you want me, Jon?’
‘Will I enjoy it more if I make you strive to win me around?’
She smiled. ‘Is that what you wish?’
‘Further postpone the moment for which I have been waiting? I do not have the willpower.’
She moved closer. ‘We are alone, Jon, just we two. I promise you.’
‘If you play me false now, Cicely, I—’
‘I do not play you false. Please, Jon, I have come here honestly, because I want you. Can you not see how much this means to me? I want to make wicked love to you, I want to do things to you that I will need to confess and atone for.’
‘Hellfire, madam, I only hope I am up to it.’
‘Oh, I think you are already, Jon Welles.’ She slid a hand down over his thigh and then slowly, tantalizingly, to his stiffening erection. ‘Yes, sir, you are definitely up to it.’
‘Have you no shame?’
‘I have left shame at the door.’
He smiled. ‘Fie on you.’
‘Fie on you, sir.’ She began to push his doublet from his shoulders, until he took it off for her.
‘How much do you wish me to remove?’ he asked lightly, invitingly.
‘Everything. I would see what manner of man you are beneath your fine clothes.’
‘I am just a man, as any other.’
She shook her head. ‘No, Jon Welles, you are not as any other, you are my husband.’
And so he took off his clothes, and then stood before her. His shoulders were broad, and his body tapering to slender hips. There were dark hairs on his chest, thicker than Richard’s, and his loins were . . . a match, she thought. His body was muscular, but not overtly so, and he was tall and straight, without that damaged spine that had made Richard so very dear. But Richard had no place in this bedchamber.
She undid the ribbons at her throat, and the night robe slithered down to settle gently around her feet.
He gazed at her in the softly moving candlelight. The shadows glided over her, finding her breasts and small waist, her curving hips and slender thighs. ‘You are so beautiful, Cicely.’
‘And I belong to you, my lord.’ She moved closer and reached up to put her arms around his neck, stretching up to kiss him, gently at first, for their previous kisses had not been shared with an intention to consummate their marriage. But this was different.
His arms enclosed her, and he returned the kiss with an ardour that drew her on, and she moved her body against his arousal. Oh, it felt so good. So very good. Because it was Jon. Images of him passed through her mind, from those first minutes in the courtyard at Sheriff Hutton, to his strength when she had to meet Henry at Lambeth. He had always been there, always offering his support, and she loved him for it. Yes, she loved him. It was not like the love she felt for Richard, because nothing could be like that, but it was strong and would be constant. Because he was constant to her.
She needed to be made love to again, and to make love, and it was right that it was with him. Her excitement began to mount, and she teased his mouth, nibbling at his lower lip, touching her tongue to his, losing herself in the pleasure of it. She heard the change in his breathing, felt his increasing response. The desire he had felt for her since Sheriff Hutton was pouring through his veins, and was to be satisfied at last.
She drew back. ‘Not yet, my lord, not yet.’ She sank slowly to her knees and took his erection in her hands. Then she adored it with her lips and tongue, toying with it, coaxing it, and at last took it into her mouth.
‘Sweet God,’ he breathed.
She savoured him, and it was sheer enjoyment to her. She loved to make love, and Jon Welles was . . . precious to her. He meant so much that she wanted to pleasure him and be pleasured by him. Her body convulsed with the gratification she felt from this act. This incredible intimacy, first shared with . . .
Jon caught hold of his member, gripping the tip tightly. ‘I would show a little more masculine stamina, my lady, but you make it pesky difficult.’
She knelt there, looking up at him, her hair spilling around her. ‘Do you have a bed, my lord?’
‘I do, madam. I only sleep on a board when I am off to war.’
‘In your armour?’
He smiled. ‘It has been known to some extent, my lady, but if you think I am about to don all that, you are mistaken.’
‘I am able to imagine whatever I choose.’ She rose. ‘The bed?’
He pointed towards a curtained archway.
‘Are you not going to carry me off to have your wicked reward? Is that not what knights do once they have rescued their damsel?’
‘Some knights, maybe. Just how wicked do you wish me to be?’
‘Masterfully wicked, Jon.’
‘Very well, what my lady wishes, my lady will have.’ He caught her from her feet, as if she were mere gossamer, and carried her through to the bedchamber, where a large bed,
hung with blue silk, stood against the far wall. He laid her very gently on the coverlet.
‘That was not masterful, sir.’
He picked her up again and virtually threw her down again. ‘Will that do?’
‘Much better.’ She held her hands out to him. Oh, this was so good. He was so different from Richard, and she liked the difference. It was just a difference, no more. Richard had given her pleasure that was so intense, exquisite, and on a level so sublime that he caught hold of her soul and held it forever. He would command her until time itself was ended. She had not thought she would be blessed by love again. But here was Jon Welles, with challenge in his eyes and a very visible need to make fierce love to her! And she wanted that fierce love.
He got on the bed with her, and she smiled. ‘I am at your mercy, my sweet lord.’
‘I rather think it is the other way around.’
‘No. It is shared.’ She gazed at him. ‘You are so very dear to me,’ she whispered.
‘Then let me demonstrate my share,’ he said softly, moving close beside her and then leaning over to kiss her. He took command, cherishing her lips, caressing them with his, cajoling them, sucking gently upon them, sliding his tongue to hers, allowing her no escape as he tempted her further into erotic delight.
She gave in to that temptation, returning his desire. Her eyes were closed with the ravishment of it. Oh, how she had yearned for this, and yet had not realized it. Jon Welles held her now, and she was so ready to be made love to again, by a man who cherished her. And this man did. How he did.
Jon kissed her breasts, cupping them tenderly and dragging his lips all over them. His hand moved between her legs, delighting her senses still more.
She stroked his face. ‘Come into me, Jon. Please come into me. I must be one with you. There is no need for words now, only for a union that should have happened on our wedding night.’
At last she felt him between her legs, strong, hard, urgent. She arched and gasped as he pushed into her. For a moment, just a moment, she caught the faint, otherworldly fragrance of costmary, but then it was Jon Welles who thrust passionately into her as he was swept towards final surrender to her.
When he came it was with a force that gave her so much delight and fulfilment that she hardly knew where her senses took her. It was not over in a few seconds, but continued, diminishing so gradually that she felt she floated. She continued to move against him, adoring his lips and his throat, still making love, still unwilling to let these moments end.
At last . . . at last he had to draw away and lie back beside her. ‘Sweet God above,’ he breathed. ‘I feel I have made love for the first time.’
She straddled him and leaned down to kiss him again, lovingly, reassuringly. ‘Because you have made love for the first time, my lord. To me, and I could storm you again already. I could love you all night, and still want more. Do you understand? I need physical love. It is what I yearn for. The act of love, the feeling of you inside me, the sweet moment when you yield your seed. I have a whore’s heart and a whore’s body, and like nothing more than to be a whore. With you. My husband.’
‘And I a poor, defenceless Lancastrian boy.’
She sat up again and looked almost lazily into his dark blue eyes. ‘Defenceless? I think not. You are a very strong man, Jon, in mind and in body. You can deal with me, I think. If I decide to let you.’
‘So, that is the way of it? I must take the crumbs?’
She drew back a little. ‘Do not say that.’
‘Why?’
‘Bess used to say it. She would take the crumbs rather than nothing at all.’
He knew it concerned Richard.
She smiled again. ‘We should not be a happy match, should we? I so strong for York, you for Lancaster.’
‘My ferocious Yorkist kitten?’
She smiled, for he had called her that at Sheriff Hutton. ‘Quite a kitten.’
‘Indeed. I trust I will never feel your claws, Cicely.’
She bent to kiss him again. ‘You will not. But Henry may.’
He held her gently away. ‘Please, Cicely, do not tangle with him any more than you have to. Promise me, sweetheart, for I do not wish to lose you. You will have to contend with much from him.’
She moved away to kneel beside him. ‘I know that note in your voice. There is something you have not told me.’
He sat up as well, and put a hand upon her thigh. ‘Yes, there is. I have only learned of it tonight. From Henry.’
She tilted her head to look at him. ‘What is it?’
‘The court is soon to adjourn to Winchester, where Henry intends his child to be born. King Arthur’s city, Cicely. Henry intends to harness memories of Avalon, the Knights of the Round Table and the Holy Grail.’
That sounded like Henry, she thought. ‘You have not yet said why you are loath to tell me all this.’
He drew a long breath. ‘We are to join the court when it moves to Winchester in August. And when the baby is born—Henry is relying on it being a boy, who can be named Arthur—you are to carry it at the christening.’
Her lips parted. ‘Me?’
‘As the queen’s eldest sister, I imagine.’
‘Or as a mother Henry believes has just lost a child.’
Jon nodded. ‘There is that possibility, but maybe it was not his notion.’
‘Bess? No, this has Henry’s mark.’ She looked away, for suddenly it almost seemed she had lost her child.
‘Sweetheart, if you wish to see Leo, you have only to say, but we should not go to Friskney, not yet, because it might cause speculation. For me to make a special visit, especially with you, would certainly be noticed.’
‘Then how can I see him?’
‘Tom Kymbe can bring him to you, to show Mary her “nephew”. That would be natural enough.’
‘Would he do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then . . . please?’
‘I will see that word is sent. It will have to be when we return to London.’ Jon caressed her thigh. ‘I am sorry, sweetheart.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I share Henry’s blood.’
She stretched out a hand. ‘Come to me again, Jon.’
He smiled. ‘You are indeed a whore, sweetheart,’ he said softly, taking the hand.
‘A Yorkist whore,’ she corrected him, ‘and this time I intend to decimate your Lancastrian fortifications.’
‘My dear lady, you demolished them a long time ago.’
‘Should I be pitiless?’
‘Oh, I do pray so.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cicely knelt before Bess in the queen’s apartments at Westminster Palace. It was mid-May, and Henry’s wife was supposed to be four months with child, but it was clear to her sister, and therefore to almost everyone, that she was more than that. Cicely knew Henry would not be asserting his marital rights now, for he would not take a woman who was with child. He would probably not go near Bess again until it was time to beget the next Tudor heir.
She watched Bess, who paced as she had before. The queen was splendid in golden brocade with black fur trimming, and her lovely face framed by a headdress with a veil that fell down her back, but if she was happy with her regal lot in life, she gave no hint of it. Instead she was sullen and hard.
‘So, Cicely, you lost Richard’s child. How very careless of you, and how dismissive you appear to be.’
‘Dismissive?’
‘You do not wear black.’ Bess indicated Cicely’s lavender gown.
‘Richard did not wear black for his son by Anne,’ Cicely reminded her.
‘He had his reasons. What is yours, Cicely?’
That my son is not dead? ‘That wearing black never really makes any difference to the depth of grief. It is merely display for the benefit of others. My baby is not with me, Bess, and I wish he were. Wearing black will not change that.’ She selected the words with care, because Leo was most certainly not dead.
Bess looked at her for a long moment. ‘I am not quite sure what you are saying, Cicely, for it seems almost . . . ambiguous.’
Cicely did not respond.
‘So, Richard is forgotten, his child is forgotten, and you now cling to Sir Jon Welles?’
‘I cling to Sir Jon, yes, but what else you say is not true.’
‘How easily you bestow your favours.’
Cicely wished no more of this. What Bess dealt out, Bess could receive. She looked deliberately at her sister’s belly, and then at her eyes. ‘Was it good to be taken against a wall, Bess? Was it a satisfying experience?’
Bess’s lips parted and she recoiled. ‘How. . . ? Henry? Henry told you?’
‘He enjoys to shock and distress, or have you not realized it yet? He thought it amusing to tell me.’
‘And I suppose you were amused?’
‘Bess, I am not your enemy. Please. I am your sister and I would never do anything to hurt you.’
‘You hurt me beyond all redemption when you took Richard from me.’
‘Why do you insist upon saying that? I did not take him from you, Bess, because you never had him in the first place!’ Cicely got up without leave. ‘I did not do anything with intent to cause you pain, Bess. I . . . loved him. That is all.’
‘All? But he loved you, did he not? Well? You had him, and I mean it in whatever way you choose to interpret. You lay with him. With . . . him.’ Bess turned away. ‘Dear God, how I hate you, Cissy.’
‘Bess, I cannot help what happened. You of all women know what it was—is—to love Richard. It was wrong to feel that way, I know it. He knew it.’
‘He resisted me, but not you.’
‘He loved you as his niece, Bess.’
‘You were his niece too!’
Cicely suddenly felt tearful. ‘Please, Bess, can we not be friends again? I hate to be estranged from you. Yes, I had his love, and I would never wish it otherwise. But I need your love too. I want it to be as we were before. Please, Bess. We need each other, I think.’
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