Cicely's King Richard

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘Immediately. Richard will soon return to Nottingham, from where he can easily march to any part of England Tudor may choose to invade. I will wait here until I have regained a little strength, and then I will go to join him. That means the entire court will accompany me.’

  ‘Should you not stay here? Travelling is so very arduous, especially in a litter.’

  ‘I will not leave him alone, Cicely. He needs me to be near. I may no longer be the wife he once had, but I still love him.’

  ‘And he loves you, Your Grace.’

  Anne managed a smile. ‘Just think, Cicely, being so close to me will mean seeing more of John of Gloucester, which I am sure will please you.’ She closed her eyes. ‘If only he were legitimate, for it would resolve so very much.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Bess was not at all pleased to hear of her sister’s new position so near the queen. Cicely had not said anything of what Anne had told her. As far as Bess was concerned, Cicely had simply been summoned to a place that ought to have been granted to Richard’s eldest niece.

  ‘By right it should be me,’ she declared.

  Cicely looked at her. ‘You? Bess, you can barely bring yourself to be civil to the poor queen, so why on earth would she wish to have you at her side?’

  Bess tossed her head, but said no more on the matter.

  It was then that Cicely received another royal summons, this time from Richard himself. As she prepared to go to his apartments, she saw the stricken look in Bess’s eyes, the unshed tears and deep hurt. ‘He never thinks of me, Cissy, it is always you. What do you have that I do not?’

  ‘I do not know.’ But Cicely wondered if Richard sensed something in Bess that made him feel uneasy. She took her sister’s hand for a moment and squeezed it reassuringly, but it was not easy to offer comfort when she so disapproved of Bess’s behaviour.

  She hastened to Richard’s apartments, wondering why he wished to see her . . . and wondering too how he would be. He had not been seen since his return. A page admitted her, and she was conducted to one of the private chambers overlooking the river. Richard was not there; no one was there. She glanced around. It was clearly one of her uncle’s personal rooms, for there was evidence of him all around, from his books to his circlet, lying on a table where someone had put it, for he had not worn it on his return. One of his rings was there too, the one with the huge ruby.

  She drew the chain from her bodice, and looked at the ring John had given her. It was warm from her body, and because it was John’s, she raised it to her lips.

  ‘A tender moment, Cicely?’

  Richard’s voice startled her, and she turned swiftly to see him in the doorway. He had changed his clothes, no longer black, but grey, simple and unadorned, and his doublet was only partially fastened. It was not like him to be so remiss, and yet it went with his ruffled hair and his hollow eyes. It was as if something crucial had been driven from him. The shadow of grief was there to such a degree that he almost seemed like his own ghost.

  He came towards her, looking at the ring she still held. ‘John wastes little time, it seems,’ he murmured, not with anger or disapproval.

  ‘Do you mind very much, Uncle?’

  He met her eyes. ‘No, for it is his to give as he wishes.’ He glanced at her black gown. ‘No mourning, Cicely. I intend to let it be known. I do not want to be reminded of my child’s death, rather of his life. Do you disapprove?’

  ‘No.’

  The faintest of smiles crossed his lips. ‘I knew you would understand.’

  ‘Uncle . . . ?’ She longed to embrace him, to hold him close and somehow alleviate his sorrow.

  ‘Please do not say anything,’ he said quickly, raising a hand that was clearly defensive.

  ‘But I must, Uncle, for I love you dearly and it breaks my heart to see you in such agony. I did not know the little boy you have lost, even though he was my cousin, but I do know you, and the poor, dear queen. I comfort her, but need to comfort you as well. Do you not see that?’

  ‘Please, Cicely . . .’ He turned away, his voice tight as he struggled with his emotions.

  But she would not let him spurn her help. ‘It is I who must say please to you. Please, let me show I care.’

  ‘I already know you care, Cicely.’

  ‘Do you?’

  He met her eyes again and smiled a little. ‘Oh yes.’

  His sadness wrung her heart. She felt so many things towards him, but to see him tortured with despair was almost too poignant. His pain was hers too. ‘Please let me be closer to you, or I will die of your grief,’ she whispered.

  ‘If I let you hold me, for that is what you will do, the little composure I still have will be forfeit. I do not think either of us wishes that.’ He turned away. ‘It was not to leech upon your strength and kindness that I have sent for you.’

  ‘Leech? I give both gladly.’

  The hint of a smile played around his mouth again. ‘I stand corrected.’

  She put out a hand to touch him, but he moved away. ‘I believe you are to enter the queen’s inner household?’

  ‘Yes, with your permission.’ Please do not let him ask her why.

  ‘My permission? Yes, yes, you have it. If it pleases the queen to keep you close to her, then it pleases me.’ He paused. ‘Cicely . . . take care of her for me.’

  ‘I will do all in my power, Uncle.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, but I needed to say it.’

  She gazed at his face, so very handsome, so enticing. He was affecting in every way, and no one could ever be indifferent to him. Bess’s description returned. Yes, he was beautiful, and more physically and mentally magnetic than he seemed to know. He would always move and inspire others, and make them his eager servants forever. And yet he behaved as if unaware of this inherent power. There was nothing vain about him, or any arrogance in his character. And there was nothing she, Cicely, would not have done for him. Just as she was about to break the silence, he spoke of Bess.

  ‘I have the feeling that your sister may not have been so eager to come to my court as I first thought. Does she regret Henry Tudor’s failure to depose me?’

  Cicely stared at him. ‘Regret? Oh, no! Why do you think such a thing?’

  ‘Because she makes little effort to hide her dislike of the queen. Perhaps Bess feels that she herself should be wearing the crown as Tudor’s wife? It both angers and hurts me.’

  Somehow Cicely managed to meet his steady gaze. ‘Bess loves you, Uncle.’ Oh, how true. ‘And she loves the queen. You mistake her manner.’

  He twisted his lips. ‘Really? I need more persuasion, I fear. You forget that I understand you as much as you understand me. You are not being entirely forthcoming about your sister.’

  Cicely lowered her eyes guiltily. ‘But you are wrong to think she wants Henry Tudor to take your throne. Nothing could be further from the truth.’

  He did not respond, and as the seconds passed she felt she had to say something. ‘Uncle, forget Bess, for it is not important now. Is there anything I can do to help you with . . .’ She did not finish, for what words could she use to describe the awful vacuum that was now at the centre of his soul?

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘Do anything to make a little difference?’

  He smiled. ‘You help me by being close to my queen.’ He went to the table and picked up the circlet. ‘Well, I must play the king again, eh?’

  Something broke inside her and she ran to him, flinging her arms around him and holding him so tightly she feared she would stop his breath. She knew he did not want it, but he was in her embrace now, and she willed all her strength to transfer to him. ‘You do not play the king, Uncle, you are the king! A very good king. England is your realm, and you rule and defend it as truly and dedicatedly as could be wished. Do not doubt yourself or feel less of a ruler because you are afflicted by such cruel grief. We look to you for your strong and unswerving leadership. My father loved and admired you, and would have been los
t without you. I will not let you sink beneath this, I will not!’

  ‘Cicely, you disobey my wish and take advantage of my patience.’ He tried to pull away, but it was half-hearted.

  She tightened her hold. ‘I do? Then, king or not, I am glad to defy you! Someone must be here for you. The poor queen is ill, she no longer has strength, but I do, and I will be here. For her. But mostly for you! You enslaved me that night at the abbey. You took my breath and my heart away with your kindness, humour and forbearance. When you smile, I am made so happy, and I would fight Satan to help you.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘I cannot do much, but if I can help you to smile again, I will. And if that is defiance, then so be it.’

  He struggled against his emotions, and her embrace did not waver. Instead she held him more, and at last his arms moved gently around her, and she felt his lips upon her forehead. ‘Jesu, Cicely, you will make me the most conceited monarch on earth.’

  She heard the faint echo of his former self, a trace of the humour that so bound her to him. ‘Perhaps I am the most conceited niece, believing I can help to heal you all by myself.’

  ‘I do not deserve you, my sweet Cicely.’ He caught her wrists and unlinked her arms, drawing first one hand to his lips, and then the other. His eyes were very dark and unhappy, but somehow he managed the smile she sought. ‘John is very fortunate.’

  ‘I am fortunate that he likes me.’

  He touched the ring on the chain. ‘If he gave you this, he more than just likes you, Cicely. I am glad, for I could wish for nothing better.’

  She searched his eyes, for there was a note in his words that made her think his thoughts had returned to Anne. ‘I will look after the queen, Uncle.’

  He nodded again. ‘For however long it takes, mm?’

  She gazed at him. ‘Please, Uncle . . .’

  ‘Do not look so anxious, for I am not about to inveigle you into betraying her confidence. The moment she told me she had requested your close presence, I knew why. You are everyone’s confessor, are you not? Tell me, Cicely, who is yours?’

  ‘From now on it will be your son, Uncle.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, know that I am also at your disposal.’

  ‘Confess my innermost thoughts to the King of England?’

  He put his hand briefly to her cheek. ‘No, to your fond uncle.’ He smiled. ‘You may go now, Cicely, for if I am indeed to be the king you say I am, there are duties to which I must attend.’

  She dropped a deep curtsey, from which he was swift to raise her. ‘No, not this time. Your love and good sense have helped me more than I could have imagined. I thank you with all my heart.’

  Her tears had their way as she left him, and her steps took her straight to Bess, whom she confronted in a way she had never thought herself capable. ‘Listen to me, you miserable, self-centred bitch! Do you know what Richard thinks of you? He believes you regret Henry Tudor’s failure to invade and claim you. He thinks you hoped to be a Tudor queen instead of just a Yorkist princess.’

  ‘Yorkist bastard,’ Bess corrected, gazing up at her in astonishment. ‘Please do not be so reticent, Cissy; say what you really think.’

  Cicely did not care about the sarcasm. ‘You have hurt him, Bess, you have hurt the man you adore to the exclusion of prudence. Is that what you want? He has noticed how you are towards the queen, and if he has, then you may count upon it that everyone else has too. There are whispers and sniggers about you, or had you not realized? I am ashamed of you, ashamed that you are my sister. You do not deserve his kindness and consideration, and so help me, if you continue to hurt him, I will scratch your evil eyes from their sockets!’

  Bess stared at her. ‘Cissy?’

  ‘I have made myself clear, I fancy.’

  ‘I . . . I have hurt him?’ Bess seemed dazed.

  ‘Yes. And angered him,’ Cicely added for good measure. This was long overdue, and she only wished she had been driven to it sooner.

  Bess’s lips trembled. ‘He said so?’

  ‘Yes. He loves Anne, Bess, and nothing you do will ever change that, but you have changed what he thinks of you. Face up to the truth, about him and about yourself. Be our father’s daughter from now on. Can you imagine what he would think to know all this of you? You were his favourite, his beautiful Bess, but he would never forgive you for what you do now.’

  Tears shimmered in Bess’s lovely eyes. ‘I have hurt Richard?’ she whispered, so stricken that it was all she could manage.

  ‘Confront the demon that has possessed you, Bess. Drive it out and seek forgiveness. Seek an audience with Richard, reassure him of your loyalty to his queen and his cause, for as God is my witness, he deserves far better than you have seen fit to offer. But I will accompany you,’ Cicely warned, ‘and if I see anything perverse in your conduct, I will drag you from the room. Do what is right for him, Bess, not for yourself.’

  Bess sat like a crushed mouse. ‘He will not see me,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘He will if I request it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, for you have him around your little finger.’ Bess was expressing a fact.

  ‘Because my love for him is what it should be,’ was Cicely’s short reply.

  It was soon done, and Richard had been reconciled by Bess’s abject apologies and distress, but there was still a reserve in him that Cicely knew would be a long time mending. If it ever would.

  Anne changed her mind about staying on in London for a while, having decided to accompany Richard to his chosen headquarters in the centre of his kingdom. The journey would take them away from the heat and smell of summer­time London, and out into the wider countryside and the beauties of Sherwood Forest. And so Richard’s entire court moved north as well.

  Nottingham, the Castle of Care, where Richard had heard of the death of his son, had very sad, very raw memories, but it was the best situated fortress for Richard’s purpose. There he waited, like a patient spider for a cautious fly. The whole realm waited for the uprising and invasion, but the months drew on and it did not come.

  Cicely was kept very close to Anne, and occasionally heard comments—private asides among the other ladies—that it was surprising the late king’s second daughter had such a place of honour, not the first. Bess conducted herself with restraint, trying hard not to do anything that would cause unwelcome comment, but Cicely knew how very difficult it was for her sister. Bess’s love for Richard Plantagenet only increased. Sometimes he stopped to speak to her, but he was not at ease with her as he always was with Cicely.

  John was at Nottingham as well, of course, and he and Cicely spent every moment they could together. Their love grew, as did their passion, but they did not consummate it, for that could have embarrassing consequences, both for themselves and for the king. Everyone knew of their love, including Ralph Scrope, whose gloomy presence was the only shadow over their happiness. He took to watching them whenever possible, and was like a footpad creeping behind them. John and he were no longer friendly, and there had been a scuffle that ended when John shoved Ralph’s head into a pile of horse dung. It did not deter Ralph for long, for he soon began following them again.

  Cicely went discreetly about her duty to the queen. She could not be with Anne every moment of every day, but she was there as much as possible, always being to hand to change the telltale handkerchiefs, always aware that Richard knew about it anyway. Anne grew daily more weak, pale and ailing, and finally the day came when he could no longer pretend he did not know how desperately ill she was.

  That particular day had dawned bright and fine, and Anne had been feeling unusually well. Richard was not occupied with matters of state, and when Anne expressed a wish to go riding in the forest, he elected to accompany her. Out into the warm sun rode a colourful cavalcade, down from the great rock upon which the castle perched, and north from the town into the cool glades of Sherwood Forest, towards the hill upon which Richard’s favourite hunting lodge stood. But they did not go to Bestwood Lodge today, for they wis
hed to stay out in the open air.

  The sun dappled the earth, filtering through the bright leaves of the oak trees and playing on the thick bracken. Cicely rode with John, her heart singing and her eyes shining, for never had she known such happiness as on that hot summer’s day. The horses’ hooves thudded dully on the rich cushion of green, and all thoughts of invasion and danger were easily forgotten.

  Deep among the trees, the royal party paused for a while by the cool shaded waters of a small brook that trickled among ferns and moss. They sat on the grass, talking and laughing as servants set out a virtual feast of food and drink. Anne chose to sit beneath the heavy spreading branches of an ancient oak tree, and Cicely sat with her. The queen’s eyes were unusually bright and her cheeks flushed with colour—her former loveli­ness apparent once more, but unnaturally so. Cicely was anxious, and wished to remain close, but when Richard and his two old friends from the north came to join them, Anne kindly dismissed her to spend a little time with John.

  Bess was with a group of ladies, and to Cicely’s chagrin her eyes once again devoured Richard. Bess’s determination to conduct herself properly was already on the wane, and no one present misinterpreted it. Except Richard, across whose mind such a thing still did not pass. There were other whispers now as well, and many a wondering eye glanced at him, curious and inquisitive. How could he possibly remain unaware of his lovely niece’s adoration? Perhaps he returned her incestuous desire, but was better able to hide it?

  Cicely left John, went to her and leaned down. ‘Be honourable, Bess!’ she hissed warningly, and then returned to John. Bess kept her eyes lowered, but by the set of her mouth it was plain she resented Cicely’s renewed interference.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Not long afterwards, Cicely and John were able to slip away together. As the sounds of laughter and talk died away, they put an arm around each other’s waist and strolled, close and intimate. The brook chattered softly beside them, unseeing and indifferent, intent only upon its busy journey, and the cool waters looked inviting to Cicely, who was warm in her stuffy, formal gown.