Cicely's Second King

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘I would not expect anything less, my lady.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘Try to find the good in him.’

  ‘It is not for an exchange of pleasantries and searching conversation that he sends for me, Lady Margaret.’ What an untruth, because Henry wanted those things, as well as to have her beneath him on a bed.

  ‘I have had many husbands, Cicely, but I believe you know infinitely more than me when it comes to all things carnal. You are not only your father’s daughter, you are also your uncle’s niece, with all his charm and bewitchment. Yes, I know what sort of man Richard was, how he was honest and could enchant all those around him with a single smile. Those smiles would have wrung the heart of the Devil. You are like Richard, and my son does not stand a chance. My dear, you have him in your palm.’

  ‘He has been there several times already, my lady.’

  Margaret’s lips twitched. ‘That is perhaps a little more than I wished to know.’ She stood and moved towards the door, and then turned. ‘The court will leave for Winchester next week, and my brother will be charged to escort the queen and other ladies. You will not be with them, nor will I. We will follow a day later. Everyone will be told that I have something with which you can assist me concerning my favourite estate at Collyweston, which is being refurnished and redecorated as was Coldharbour. I will say I wish to consult you because I value your taste and discernment. I imagine you guess what business will really occupy you for that day.’

  ‘I can hazard well enough, Lady Margaret.’

  ‘You and I will then leave Coldharbour together, along with the king and his gentlemen. Yes, I am conniving with my son in this. I ask you to forgive me.’ Margaret met her eyes. ‘I too wish to shield my brother, my dear, and in this I know I do.’

  ‘Jon is uppermost in my thoughts too, my lady, as is my cousin of Lincoln.’

  Margaret looked away. ‘I can imagine what has been threatened, Cicely.’

  ‘I will give Henry whatever he wants. He will not lack the attention or gratification he seeks.’ Nor will I, Cicely thought guiltily. Nor will I. ‘You and I each have two men we wish to protect; you have your brother and your son, I have my husband and my cousin. I think we need a pact, Lady Margaret, because our goals, from now on, are the same.’

  ‘Who would have thought it?’ Margaret replied.

  ‘Some fool or other.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jon had gone to Winchester, the court, queen and ladies had gone there as well, but Cicely remained at Westminster Palace. Alone, waiting for Henry to send for her. Margaret was at Coldharbour.

  It was the middle of the afternoon, small white clouds scudded west across a dazzling azure sky, and gulls swooped over the Thames. Cicely watched them from her apartment window. She wore a gown of kingfisher blue, and her headdress was on the table behind her. Her hair fell loose, because her head had ached earlier, and the thought of such a weight had not been pleasant.

  She closed her eyes. What was her little boy doing now? Was he asleep in his crib? Suckling? Crying? Or was someone cradling him and singing him a lullaby? She longed to see him, but knew it would be some time yet. She was now afraid to let him be brought to London, afraid of Henry’s watchful intuition. It all depended upon whether he lost interest in her or not. If he did, she and Jon would be able to return to Lincolnshire after the christening. But if Henry still wanted her . . . who could say how long he would keep her close?

  She smiled in spite of this, her eyes still closed. Richard would approve of her now. She knew he would. She was stronger and more capable because she had been forced to think for herself. How good it would be to talk to him, to let him know how she had changed. She knew he would not really be with her, that he was something she held within herself. Had she made him stay away from her? Had her own conscience denied her his comfort? Yes. She believed so. And now she could not bring him back.

  Losing him forever was now fact in every way, and she remembered a poem he had written, and that she had found in one of his books at Sheriff Hutton. He had written it of his original love for Anne, who became his queen but never gave him her entire heart.

  To be without you is to fade a little within

  To not hear your voice is to lose the sweetness of music

  To forfeit your smile is to be plunged into darkness

  To never feel your touch is to lose all sense of being

  To know you have gone forever is to steal away all joy.

  Her eyes opened suddenly as she sensed someone else close by. She had been in this very room when Richard had first returned to her. He had been leaning against the wall, behind her, to her left, where the sunlight streamed upon a tapestry. Was he there now? Had he come to her again after all? She whispered his name. ‘Richard?’

  ‘I do know how you feel, sweetheart.’

  His hands were upon her shoulders, gentle but firm. So very tangible. The shock kept her where she was, but only for a moment. She turned, and he smiled. In a moment she was in his arms again, in that embrace, holding him, feeling his heart beating, the brush of his lips, the stroke of his fingers. Adrift in him, breathing him, absorbing him, she loved him so much that she felt weak. She trembled as he kissed her again. Such a kiss, second to none, and as beloved as everything about him. His lips alone could soothe and stir her like this, play with her senses, seduce her mind and her body.

  She would not be foolish this time, she would not weep and beg him to stay, tell him she needed him, nor any of the other things she had always done before. It was enough that he was here, enough that he held her again. He transcended everyone and everything.

  How could any one man—this man—affect her so very much? With him there was a fleshly delight that was at the very heart of sin. As well as at the heart of joy. ‘I love you so much,’ she whispered, ‘and I am so glad you have come to me again. But why? Why now?’

  ‘Because you no longer put me before your husband, and now accept everything for what it is. You are your own woman.’ He smiled, and put a gentle finger to her lips. ‘You will never forfeit my love.’

  ‘Nor you mine.’

  ‘You know now that you must keep me separate. You have your life, and you have your imagination. Be sure I remain the latter.’

  ‘I do not put my husband in second place. Please know that I do not.’

  ‘I do know it, sweetheart.’ He looked towards the door. ‘You must go now.’

  As he spoke, there was a tap.

  ‘Enter,’ she called, for Richard had already gone from her.

  A page entered. ‘My lady, the king requires your presence.’

  Within minutes, she was admitted to the royal apartments. Sunlight streamed over Henry as he sat at the same table, surrounded by documents, the smell of melted wax and candle smoke hung in the air. He was richly dressed in cloth-of-gold and black velvet, having not long come from granting an audience to the Venetian ambassador, and the golden circlet lay on the table on a pile of papers, as did his three, apparently favourite rings, the signet with St. Armel, Richard’s ruby and the emerald. He did not smile, and his eyes offered nothing. It was always thus when she came into his presence.

  The door closed behind her, and she went to her knees before the table. Still he said nothing. She was in no mood to be toyed with. ‘If you do not let me rise, Your Majesty, I will walk out.’

  He tossed his quill down, splashing whatever he was writing. ‘Yes, I believe it.’ He came to help her up, and then looked at her hair. ‘No headdress? And before your king?’

  ‘Forgive me. I . . . had forgotten.’ She had. Completely.

  ‘I like it that you do not shave your forehead,’ he said suddenly.

  The words echoed from the past. Richard had liked it too. His warmth still rushed through her. Needing distraction, she went to look at the rings, even slipping the emerald on her finger. She could not bear to touch the ruby, even though she longed to wear a jewel Richard had worn. Instead she spoke of the signet ring. �
��When I first saw St Armel’s leashed dragon on your signet, I thought it was a play upon your situation.’

  Henry’s brows drew together. ‘I am afraid I do not understand’

  ‘Well, it is leashed, and I wondered if you felt leashed as well. As did Richard II. His white hart badge had a crown around its neck, because he felt imprisoned and controlled.’ She studied the emerald. Light caught through it like sunlight slanting through clear green water.

  He watched her. ‘Why in God’s own name would I feel leashed?’

  ‘I do not know. Except perhaps . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That being on the throne is not the great joy you expected it to be. Perhaps it is Henry Tudor himself who is leashed, not King Henry VII.’

  ‘You play with words a little too subtly, cariad. In fact, you confound yourself. I am not leashed, I merely choose St. Armel as my patron saint.’

  ‘But you are leashed, Henry. You cannot be your real self any more, can you?’

  ‘I can with you, Cicely,’ he said gently.

  ‘You have a wife and I have a husband,’ she answered.

  ‘My wife will not be joining us, so please assure me Jon Welles has not been invited either.’

  Here he was again, the Henry she did not want to like. ‘We will have each other’s undivided attention.’

  He touched her hair, gently, seductively. Everything about him was seductive. ‘Please do not be cruel today, Henry.’

  ‘I promise,’ he answered softly, moving behind her to begin unfastening her gown. She felt his lips upon her shoulder—where Richard’s hands had rested—and upon the nape of her neck, and she closed her eyes. Her gown slid down, and he cupped her breasts from behind, teasing and stroking her nipples. She leaned her head back for him to kiss her cheek. He did, softly and enticingly.

  ‘I think my sister may yet find she is a very fortunate woman,’ she said softly.

  ‘I will have to pretend she is you.’

  We all pretend, Henry. She turned to him. ‘Put on your gold circlet. You are dressed in cloth-of-gold, as the King of England should be, and I wish to see gold across your brow as well.’

  ‘Should I send for the sceptre and orb?’ he asked dryly.

  ‘Why, I think you already have a sceptre, and at least one orb. No, you have two!’

  ‘How fortuitous.’

  ‘Indeed so, Your Majesty.’ She brought the circlet from the table, and reached up to put it on his head. There it rested, gleaming richly against his reddish hair and the pallor of his forehead. She met his eyes, so steady and clear now. ‘There, you are king, Henry Tudor.’

  ‘Because a princess of York has deigned to crown me?’

  ‘A naked princess of York,’ she corrected, ‘whose lips are about to anoint you. All over.’

  ‘And I must stand here, subduing my fevered dick while she does it?’

  ‘No, Henry, you are only to subdue it until I have divested you of your rich clothes. Which I intend to do slowly. You cut a fine figure in your royal garb, Henry, and you have a good body and such grace, but you would be so much improved if you would smile a little more. Your smile makes such a difference to you.’

  ‘Smiles do not benefit kings, not in the end. Richard discovered that, did he not?’

  ‘Yes, he did, because he would not deny his own self, Henry, whereas you certainly do. You could pass your pleasant self in a passageway and not notice, except perhaps to wonder who the fool was that dared to smile.’ She paused. ‘But you are the sovereign now, not Richard, and you want me, I think.’

  ‘I admit to a passing interest in your person, my lady.’

  She began to undo his garments, all the trappings of royalty, the rich cloth and adornments that marked him as the monarch. Just as such things had once marked Richard. She did everything at leisure, pressing to him as she pushed both doublet and undershirt from his shoulders. Then, not touching his hose or footwear, she slid her arms around his waist and moved her breasts against him. Her lips searched for his, and found them. He crushed her close, and she could feel his eagerness pressing into her.

  But then suddenly he gripped her upper arm, hard enough to really cause pain. ‘Do not play with me in this, Cicely, for no matter how much I want you, I will destroy you!’

  Unnerved by the unpleasant change in him, she tried to pull away. ‘I only play with lovemaking, and it is because I enjoy it so much! Please, you are hurting me! I mean nothing unkindly. Unkindness I leave to you.’

  He released her, clearly disturbed by his own reaction. It had caught him without warning, and its ferocity had temporarily robbed him of his virility. He removed the circlet and tossed it aside. It fell with a hollow ring, and then rolled away into a corner, where it lay among dark shadows. There seemed something oddly prophetic about it, as if the fate that had brought Richard down also lay in wait for his successor.

  Henry clearly thought so, for he turned away from her, and ran his fingers through his hair a second time. He was still in the bitter clutch of suspicion and vulnerability, and his body shook with it.

  ‘Henry?’ He frightened her now, for cruelty seemed to glisten upon him. She ventured to touch his arm, but he shook her away. ‘Would you rather I went?’ she asked then, uncertain what to do.

  ‘Jesu, woman, you are aggravating!’ He faced her again. ‘Go? No, I want you! Not what you offer me because you have to. I want all of you, Cicely, and the need in me is maiming. I cannot breathe without thinking of you. I cannot walk a step without you being there with me. And all this when you only come to me because I have made you do it. You will never come to me because you want to be with me, will you?’

  She gazed at him. ‘Henry, I do not know what to say to you. Of course I have come because you command it so. I cannot come to you uninvited because you have forbidden it. What else can you expect of me?’

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, and she could almost see the rage slipping out of him again. Then he caught her hand and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her and hiding his face against her hair. ‘I did not mean to hurt you. Forgive me. Forgive me.’

  His distress was moving. ‘I know you did not mean it. I am not indifferent to you, Henry. You already know that. When we made love, it was so good, for us both, I think. I admit to coming here today at your behest, but I also admit to coming here hoping you will love me again as you did before.’

  ‘How can you even like me? I am your enemy and you are mine. We both know it.’

  ‘I like half of you, Henry, for the other half can be . . . so very heartless. You know it yourself, because that is what you want to be. In fact, you wish you were entirely without heart, and you resent me because I prevent it.’

  He drew away. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘There is much about you that frightens me,’ she went on, ‘but also so much that draws me.’

  ‘Oh, Cicely . . .’ He stroked the flesh he had bruised only moments before. It was another apology, although silent.

  ‘Henry, I am ashamed of wanting you as much as I do at this moment,’ she said frankly. Why pretend? He was an exciting and knowing lover, and her wanton nature responded to his mere closeness. She could not help the way she had been created. Was she a slut? Yes, right now, Henry Tudor aroused the wanton in her, and such thoughts. Such thoughts. ‘I want you to make love to me again, Henry,’ she whispered.

  He gazed at her. ‘Can there ever be another like you, Cicely? I find it hard to believe so.’

  ‘Perhaps it is as well, Henry, for I think you would soon buckle under the strain of dealing with two of me.’

  ‘I would make a game and courageous effort, be sure of that. Now, where would you like to make love? I am at your command.

  ‘On the bed, on your back and at my complete mercy.’

  ‘Are you sure you do not have that dagger?’

  ‘Where do you imagine I might be hiding it?’

  ‘I trust I do not discover the painful way.’


  ‘I would walk a little strangely if it were hidden there, Your Majesty.’

  He smiled and led her to the bed. Throwing off his shoes, he lay down. ‘Very well, I am on my back and at your command.’

  She gazed down at him. His hair had spread over the pillow, his lean body possessed not an ounce of fat, and even only lying there, he had such elegance that he might almost have been posing. Except that he was not. It was natural. Effortless. There was something about him, a catlike laziness that belied the swiftness of his mind and the torment of character against which he struggled every day of his life. Henry Tudor was all that she should loathe, and deservedly so, yet she felt his unexpected fragility.

  It was not a fatal flaw, as Richard’s lenience and trust had been, nor was it even close to being as dear, but it was there nevertheless. She was drawn to such men as this, powerful men who were also susceptible and who needed her. Richard, her husband, John of Gloucester, Henry . . . and, perhaps, Jack. Yes, perhaps Jack, whose kisses she had sometimes wished to sample.

  She got on the bed as well, and knelt facing him. ‘My, how very pleased you are to see me,’ she murmured, placing her hand on his virility, which strained the front of his hose.

  ‘It has been thinking about you since the last time it nuzzled its ardent way around you, lady,’

  ‘Then it must think a little longer,’ she whispered. ‘Do not do anything now, Henry Tudor, for the House of York is going to do some nuzzling of its own, and you are forbidden to make a single movement.’ She leaned over to kiss him gently, sucking his lower lip, running her tongue around inside it, curling her tongue against his and drawing upon it as if she would be joined to him that way as well. She kissed his ear, breathing softly into it, licking it, making him shiver. His throat did not escape, for she kissed it, savoured it, played her lips tenderly against his pulse.