Cicely sat silently with her, holding her close and just listening.
When Bess spoke again, her voice was very soft. ‘The last time I saw him he was about to depart for Middleham. He had taken his leave of Father, saw me outside and came over to say farewell. He kissed my cheek and hugged me, telling me that the man who married me would have the most beautiful princess in the world. If you could have seen him then, Cissy. He was so handsome and gentle, so slender and yet so strong, wearing a thick travelling cloak over the wine velvet doublet and grey hose he had worn in the great hall as we broke our fast. And he wore thigh boots, I remember. I do so like thigh boots. It was impossible to know that his back sometimes causes him pain, for he would not let that be known to anyone. I adored him so much in that moment that I could hardly stand. I desperately wanted to tell him how I felt, but to him I was only his niece, and he did not see beyond that into my heart. The desolation I felt at his leaving left me in no doubt; no doubt at all that I love and desire my own uncle.’
‘Bess, if the Pope can—rarely, I know—give dispensation for uncles to marry their nieces, then in God’s eyes it cannot be a truly evil crime to love Richard. Can it? I wish I could say something more to help you, but I cannot.’
‘Dispensation or not, nothing can change the fact that Richard is married already, and adores his wife. I cannot bear to think of her. She has him and I do not. She may not even love him, but I would, Cissy. Oh, how I would. He would be deeply shocked if he knew anything of this, and I would lose him forever then. At least I have something of him now, a smile, an arm around my shoulder, or a kiss on the cheek. I imagine so much, you know. I lie in bed at night, thinking of how it would be if I went to him as he slept.’
Cissy was startled. ‘I do not think you should tell me anything more, Bess.’
‘But I need to, Cissy. I have to let you know what it is to be me. I do imagine making love with him. I do imagine going to him. It would be summer, the night would be warm and he would be naked and asleep. His hair spreads against the whiteness of his pillow as he dreams — of what, I do not need to know. I reach out to touch him . . .’
‘Oh, Bess.’ Cicely really did not want to hear more, but knew she had to let her sister confess everything.
Bess smiled, gazing through her tears at nothing in particular as she spoke of her fantasy. ‘I cast off my clothes and stand at his bedside, looking down at him. I see his dear body, so slim and pale, so perfect to me, in spite of fate’s unkindness to him. I adore him with my eyes. Can you imagine such a moment? To gaze upon the man you hunger for, to see him so accessible and unknowing? To hear his gentle breathing, and want his physical love so much that it is agony? I bend down and slip on to the bed with him. I move close, and stroke his chest, with its dark hairs, and my hand moves down to his loins . . .’
Cicely was shaken by such frankness. Her breath caught, and her eyes widened.
Bess hardly noticed. ‘Oh, Cicely, I find him so very alluring, unbearably so, and now I am caressing that part of him that can join me to him in the act of love. He is aroused by me, Cissy, and he pulls me close. Those fine lips that I look at so often when I am with him, find mine in a kiss, and I am in such ecstasy that I fear I may faint of it. His kisses are so tender, yet at the same time needful. It does not matter to either of us that we are uncle and niece. I feel his body come to life for me. Just for me, Cissy. He makes such sweet love to me, kissing my lips, my throat, my breasts, and that which is concealed between my legs. I feel him inside me, and my maidenhead offers no resistance. He is my lover, my beloved, my life, and for these secret minutes he belongs to me.’
Cicely gazed at her. ‘I—I do not know what to say, Bess,’ she whispered, her heart contorting with compassion.
Bess exhaled slowly and then looked at her with a sad smile. ‘I pray that if ever you fall in love like this, it will be with a man you can actually have. Certainly not Ralph Scrope, for he is not the right one for you.’
Cicely pulled herself together. ‘I hardly ever see Ralph. How can I when he is at court and I am in here?’
‘And the times you did see him?’
‘I liked him well enough. I blushed most dreadfully.’
Bess smiled. ‘Did your heart quicken, did your skin feel hot, did you feel weightless, breathless, that you were with the only reason you are alive?’
Cicely shook her head. ‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Then, believe me, you are not in love. When you are, it will strike you like a flash of lightning. When I see Richard again it will be as fresh and poignant to me as the very first time.’ Bess pressed her lips together ruefully. ‘Making love with him can only ever happen in my imagination, but to me it is almost real. Sometimes I feel I have lain with him.’
The conversation was broken by the bells of London once again beginning their joyous clamour rising jubilantly on the summer air. Bess went to the window. ‘Richard, by Grace of God, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland. May God bless and keep you safe,’ she said quietly.
Chapter Five
A mere two weeks after the coronation, Richard and his queen set off on a royal progress around the realm, to be greeted everywhere with joy by the ordinary people who loved him. The Duke of Buckingham, still riding high in Richard’s favour, lingered in London a while and then returned to his estates in Wales, specifically his castle at Brecon.
There, as Richard continued north through England, the duplicitous duke plotted, with the connivance of his Lancastrian prisoner, the sly Bishop Morton of Ely. Buckingham planned to rise against the king and either take the throne for himself, or assist the claim of the so-called Lancastrian heir, one Henry Tudor, exiled in Brittany, who called himself the Earl of Richmond, although that title was now in Richard’s possession. Tudor’s claim was tenuous, and descended through his mother’s illegitimate Beaufort line, which had been specifically barred from the throne. But he and his supporters could not have cared less about flying in the face of such weighty legal considerations. It was never to be proved which aim was in Buckingham’s mind. The only certain thing was that he wanted to remove his cousin Richard from the throne, even though the new king had treated him well and rewarded him lavishly.
Unrest began the moment Richard set out on his ill-fated progress, and included an unsuccessful attempt to ‘free’ Cicely’s brothers from the royal apartments in the Tower. Hurt and embittered, Richard struck back immediately and crushed the revolt. Buckingham was captured and executed at Salisbury. He begged to see Richard, to explain, but Richard refused.
Henry Tudor’s formidable mother, Margaret Beaufort, had boundless ambition for her precious son. She was descended from John of Gaunt, and was now married to her fourth husband, the influential Lord Stanley, whose allegiance could change with the wind. Margaret was a pious schemer, a plotter, a woman prepared to commit high treason to get what she wanted . . . and what she wanted was to see her unworthy Tudor son upon Richard’s throne.
Before Buckingham showed his true colours and rebellion raised its ugly head, Margaret paid a visit to Dame Grey in the abbey. She glided silently into Elizabeth’s presence, her small eyes bright and sharp, her mouth tight and cold. She wore a white wimple, and her sombre black garb made hardly a sound on the rushes. ‘Your Grace,’ she murmured, making low obeisance to the startled Elizabeth.
‘Lady Stanley, you forget I am no longer queen, merely the widow Dame Grey.’
‘I forget nothing, Your Grace, I merely address you as you should be addressed. In the eyes of the realm you are still the queen of Edward IV and the mother of Edward V.’
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Margaret had aspirations for her own son, not for Edward V.
Margaret continued, ‘My visit, alas, has an unhappy purpose, for I bring you grievous news indeed. Richard has had your sons murdered.’
Elizabeth clutched the table, her heart beating wildly. Her mouth ran dry and her body turned icy with fear. She, so often shrewd and quick, w
as suddenly foolish and gullible. For these few seconds it escaped her that Margaret almost certainly had an ulterior motive. ‘How . . . how do you know this?’
‘I know because their bodies have been seen. By, amongst others, my half-brother, who conspired to enter the Tower in order to free them.’
‘Your half-brother? Oh, yes. John Welles. From your mother’s second marriage, I believe. No, her third.’ In her anguish, Elizabeth did not think of asking the clever Margaret who the other witnesses were; she thought only of her children. Her dead sons.
Lady Stanley continued: ‘The foul deed was done before Richard left on his progress.’
‘But why? I know they might one day have attracted the disaffected, but they were only boys, and illegitimate.’
Margaret was consolatory. ‘Their murderer sits upon the throne but he is not secure — there are many who would rejoice to see him dead, as no doubt you would yourself.’ She looked sideways at the stricken woman.
Elizabeth’s head was reeling and she sat down, clasping her shaking hands in her lap. The news had shaken her so much that she hardly knew what she was saying. ‘But if Richard dies . . . who takes the throne? Buckingham?’
‘That strutting boaster?’ Margaret almost spat.
Elizabeth’s eyes flickered. ‘He was your stepson, I believe, Lady Stanley? By your . . . second husband? You have had so many I have quite lost count.’
‘He may think the throne to be his ultimate destiny, and since he too is descended from Edward III, his lineage is indeed grand. But he is gravely mistaken if he imagines Richard’s enemies will flock to his banners.’
Elizabeth was startled. ‘Banners? Buckingham really does intend to rebel against Richard? I do not believe it.’
‘Nevertheless, it is true, and he is bound to fail. He is no match for the crick-bodied Plantagenet when it comes to military matters. But he will keep the usurper occupied long enough for us to strike.’
‘Us? My lady, I fail to see why on earth you have come here. To tell me my sons are dead, yes, but not to what you now refer. You are only interested in your son, Henry Tudor, whose claim to the throne is much smaller than Buckingham’s, and infinitely smaller than Richard’s. None of this is of any consequence to me. My sons are dead, and I certainly have no stomach to see Henry Tudor on the throne.’
Margaret’s thin lips curled, for what she had to say next galled her to the very bone. Forcing aside her distaste for Elizabeth, the loathed Woodvilles and the House of York, she seemed all sincerity. ‘But surely you have the stomach to see the true blood of Edward IV—your blood—upon the throne? Your Grace, I have a proposition of the utmost gravity and import.’
Elizabeth waited with deep suspicion.
The sweet, flat voice continued: ‘My son, Henry, will invade to overthrow the usurper and avenge your husband’s great memory. He will reverse the declaration of illegitimacy placed upon your children, and restore Edward IV’s blood to the throne by marrying your eldest daughter.’
Elizabeth was more herself now, and not fooled by any supposed desire to restore Edward IV’s blood to the throne. Henry Tudor needed Yorkist support to gain the throne, and a promise of marriage to Bess would bring him just that. His own claim was questionable, but with Bess by his side. . . . She stood and was face to face with the Tudor’s mother. ‘Lady Stanley, you have given me no evidence of anything, and it is a fantasy to believe that your son will attract such huge support that he will overcome Richard.’
The dark Margaret was inwardly enraged, but smiled. She sought written proof of Elizabeth’s consent to the proposal. ‘I cannot give you proof, you must know this.’
‘It is hard to believe Richard has acquired so many enemies in so short a time.’
Margaret gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, behind his attractive face there is an evil soul, as is evidenced by his contorted body. He has always had many of these detractors, my lady, for his is not an easy nature, and now he has acquired many more who hate him by virtue of his usurpation of your son’s throne. The names of my son’s supporters have amongst them the highest in the land, but I may not divulge them to you without first having your agreement to the marriage.’
Elizabeth was cold and regal. ‘You do not trust me, Lady Stanley? Surely you do not believe that I would support my sons’ murderer? If that is indeed what Richard III is.’
The reply came hastily. ‘You must understand that many lives are at stake and even to such a great personage as yourself I must safeguard them to my utmost. However, there is one whom I shall name. Your eldest son, the Marquess of Dorset, is now back in England, awaiting word to act.’
‘Thomas?’ Elizabeth felt her heaviness lift. Her resolve was strengthened, and suddenly, illogically, she accepted all that Margaret said. ‘And what form must my consent take? Written, I presume, since you must have evidence of agreement, must you not?’ She uttered these last words to force the Tudor’s mother to admit that her son’s claim rested almost entirely on Bess.
The thin lips parted as Lady Stanley gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Naturally, Your Grace, there must be a signed document that you will agree to support my son’s claim, provided he swears to make your daughter his queen, thus restoring your husband’s blood to the crown. York and Lancaster will be reconciled, and England will look forward to peaceful prosperity.’
By now Elizabeth began to see the advantage of such a marriage, for she would again be the mother of a monarch with all the wealth and power she craved. On such a surge of renewed ambition, it was only too easy to be convinced that the country as a whole would, after all, rise against Richard. As she penned her letter of consent she wept for her lost sons, feeling special remorse about the little Duke of York, for if she had not wanted to create an impression in front of the Council, he would still be here with her.
Lady Stanley hastily sanded the letter, and the moment Elizabeth had appended her seal, departed with almost indecent haste, lest Elizabeth demand the names of the other conspirators and so-called witnesses.
When October came, Buckingham’s revolt was quashed, not only by Richard but by the weather, which put the rivers Severn and Wye in flood and prevented the duke and his army from crossing into England. Buckingham was captured and beheaded. The speed with which Richard disposed of this second attack upon his authority unnerved those others who plotted against him. But he was again too lenient. John Welles, Margaret’s half-brother, was arrested, deprived of his lands, and then freed. Henry Tudor himself did not even disembark from his ship. He came within shouting distance of the shore, where Richard’s soldiers shouted they were friends come to conduct him to London in triumph. But the wary Henry, suitor to Bess’s hand and seeker of Richard’s throne, sensed the trap as surely as does a wild animal, and remained safely aboard his ship. He sailed back to Brittany to wait once again.
Richard returned in triumph to his capital, supreme and safe upon his throne. It was to be February 1484, just before Cicely’s fifteenth birthday, that he at last came to the abbey in person.
Chapter Six
Cicely’s nightmare of being trampled by a horse awakened her with a start. She sat up and pushed her hair back from her forehead. Jesu, what a horrible dream. She was hot, her skin was damp, and she felt as if something momentous was about to happen. Something that would change her life forever. It was an astonishing feeling, almost shattering, and it made her heart pound.
Bess sighed in her sleep and turned over, but Cicely’s attention was suddenly drawn to the window because she heard the sound of flesh-and-blood horses in the courtyard. Curious, she slipped from the bed, pulled on her warm robe and carried a small table to the window. Standing on it, she was able to ease herself on to the ledge and then open the glass to lean out to the cold air of the February night. Men were talking and stamping their feet and now she could hear the horses more clearly. She could smell them too, that warm, sweet animal scent she had always loved—even though horses did not love her, and she was a barely adequate
rider.
It was snowing, and there was already a blanket of white on the ground. Edging forward a little more, to see into the courtyard, she saw the horses and men. Two lanterns swayed and guttered, and apart from the dozen or so men on foot, she saw two more huddled figures on mounts, well wrapped against the cold. As the men slapped their arms around themselves and cursed the season, she noticed a large dappled stallion by a small door into the abbey. Then the banners caught her attention—the white boar cognizance of the king himself!
Gasping, she wriggled back into the room. Fearful thoughts chased through her panic-stricken mind. He had come to take them, to force them out under the cover of darkness and snow, to imprison them in the depths of the Tower as he had imprisoned and then killed her brothers! Forgetting Bess, she fled across the room in her bare feet and out into the torch-lit passage. Her flying feet were taking her to her mother’s apartment when she saw her uncle.
He was coming up the stone staircase that led to their refuge. His tread was light and swift, and he was alone. His fur-lined cloak was wet with snow, some of which still clung to his thigh boots. At the top of the steps he removed his gauntlets and his hat, which was pinned with a costly emerald and pearl brooch. There was no table, so he dropped both gauntlets and hat on the floor. She saw how thickly his wavy, very dark chestnut hair fell to his shoulders. It would tangle, she thought, for its texture was like her own.
He was about to take off the heavy cloak, his precious rings shining in the smoking light of the torches, when he realized she was there. She sank down on the floor, against the wall, unable to move or speak. His face grew serious, and he let his cloak fall carelessly with his other things, before coming towards her.
He was clad in a green velvet doublet and black hose; the doublet’s arms were slashed to reveal heavy gold embroidery, and he had a presence that was far removed from the monster her mother accused him of being. Around his lean waist was an emerald-studded belt from which hung a sheathed dagger, and across his shoulders rested the magnificent livery collar of York that her father had worn so often, although the pendant that swung from it now was not the lion or sun in splendour, but the white boar.
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