Cicely's King Richard

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘Cicely?’ Her name was a caress on his lips.

  She raised her eyes, and drank the love in his gaze. ‘Be safe,’ she whispered. ‘Be safe for me, for I cannot bear to go from you.’

  He bent so that only she would hear. ‘I do not want you to go, Cicely, for I want more than anything to keep you here with me. I want to fall asleep at night in your arms, and wake up in them in the morning. I want to make love to you, only to you, sure in the solace that your love is only for me. How can I say more of what is in my heart? You shine in my darkness, and I want to reach for you. Whatever happens, always remember what I have said to you today, for it is an expression of the great truth of my life. There are many untruths, but truths as well, and this truth surpasses them all. You and I are not supposed to be like this, but we are, and nothing can change it. Take my love with you, and always keep it close, for it can never belong to another.’

  She wept unashamedly, so moved she could not rise when he indicated. He put his hand out. ‘Come, let me help you.’

  His fingers were strong and firm, and she clung to them as she found her tongue at last. ‘May a fond niece hug her favourite uncle farewell? As she would once have done?’ she whispered.

  She saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘Yes, Cicely, she can.’

  She flung her arms around his neck and held him tightly, burying her face in his dark hair, against his neck. ‘Every night when I go to sleep, I will think of you,’ she whispered. ‘I will make love with you and adore you, and I will be with you when you ride against Henry Tudor.’

  He held her close but knew that to let the moment hang would draw unwelcome attention, and so he released her. ‘I am a fortunate uncle to be held in such regard,’ he said lightly, intending to be heard. She felt Robert Percy’s eyes upon her again, and this time sensed his dawning understanding. But he looked away again, and she knew he would never speak of it.

  Richard turned to Jack. ‘Take good care of her for me.’

  ‘I will.’ But Jack’s glance moved to Cicely and then back to Richard, and she knew he too had observed.

  She was hardly aware of walking to her palfrey, or of the party riding towards the barbican. She looked back, oh, how she looked back, for that last glimpse, that final moment before she could not see him anymore.

  Take my love with you, and always keep it close, for it can never belong to another. . . .

  From the black shadows of the gatehouse the small cavalcade destined for the north emerged into the dull daylight, where the wind blew across the hillside and a group of travel-stained horsemen gave way for them to cross the drawbridge. With a huge effort, Cicely drew herself up, determined to show pride and dignity, for she recognized the thin, shrewd face of Margaret’s husband, Lord Stanley, the banners above his head bright with the silver buck’s head of his cognizance. He swore allegiance to Richard, but the veil over his shifty eyes was to hide his treachery; she could sense it as surely as if ‘Iscariot’ had been branded into his forehead. She sat decorously on her mount, her back straight, looking straight ahead. She would not acknowledge him, not the man who was Henry Tudor’s stepfather!

  Bess instinctively did the same, and the sisters rode past Stanley together, heads held high, their Yorkist pride and disdain there for all to see.

  But the unexpected encounter with Lord Stanley was an unfortunate stroke, because Richard’s small party knew its departure had already been noted by someone who was most likely in the wrong quarter, and the chances of being followed had now increased tenfold.

  Only when they were riding south through the narrow streets of Nottingham did Bess speak of the king. ‘You have no idea how I envy you, Cicely. His affection for you is so freely given. You can hold him and allow your fondness be known to one and all, whereas I . . .’ She gave a mocking laugh. ‘I ruined what little I had, and can never be close to him again.’

  Cicely stared at her palfrey’s ears, so culpable that she did not dare to look at her sister. She could hear his voice again. Take my love with you, and always keep it close, for it can never belong to another. The tears flowed. Her shoulders shook and great sobs were dragged into the open air. She could not stem them, and Bess could not soothe her. Poor Mary Kymbe, so new to her place, did not know what to do, except sit on her pony and stretch out a nervous hand which she immediately withdrew again, as if she had presumed upon her position.

  John turned his horse back. ‘Cicely? What ails you?’

  ‘We have left him,’ she wept. ‘He needs us all but we have left him.’

  ‘It is his command, sweeting, not our wish.’ John put his gauntleted hand on her arm.

  They were passing beneath the city gate, where the shadows deepened, and he was his father’s son again. She gazed at him through a blur of hot tears. She was untrue to him because of his father, and she could not bear it. ‘I do not deserve your love, John.’ She fumbled with her glove, meaning to return the ring.

  He was dismayed. ‘No! Never say that! What is wrong, Cicely? Please tell me.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  He did not understand. ‘If you will not tell me, I cannot hope to offer you comfort. But I still worship you, no matter what. Keep the ring. Spurn me if you must, but keep the ring.’

  She swayed in the saddle, trying to hold on to what remained of her fortitude. She heard John’s anxious calls, and Bess’s, but the last voice she heard was Richard’s. Take my love with you, and always keep it close, for it can never belong to another. . . .

  It was Jack who took her up on Héraut, although she hardly knew it. She was adrift in the grief of leaving Richard, and could only hide her face against her cousin’s broad shoulder. His arm was around her waist, strong and steady, and although he did not speak, she was glad of him. It could not be John, not now, when guilt was all she had.

  John led her palfrey and was clearly upset by her, to him, strange behaviour. He could not know how she had failed him, but nothing would have made her behave differently towards Richard. The love was simply too powerful. So much had happened to her, so much had changed . . . and was more exquisite, yet more filled with torment than she would ever have believed.

  They rode south as planned, the men-at-arms following, Jack’s leopards’ head banners on display, making certain that no one they passed would be in any doubt what party they were. Into the forest they went, following a little-used track that wound between the wet, whispering trees. Suddenly another group of riders appeared ahead, waiting by a small bridge over a stream. They were clad as Richard’s party, and all but one mounted on similar horses. The one stood with a dark bay mount that would not draw particular attention, and he and Jack exchanged steeds.

  Jack lifted her down from his horse. ‘Can you ride on your own now, sweetheart?’ he asked kindly, adjusting her hood as the wind threatened to blow it back from her face.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Be sure, sweetheart, for we need to be swift, not held up.’

  ‘I can manage.’

  He kissed her cheek and then lifted her lightly on to her palfrey. They watched as their replacements continued south with the men-at-arms, Jack’s white horse giving the party the appearance of complete authenticity, then the party for Sheriff Hutton rode down the side of the bridge into the stream, the bed of which they followed as it swept around to the west and then, out of sight from the road, to the north. Anyone who now rode along the road from Nottingham could not know the party from the castle had even checked its speed.

  After riding about two hundred yards, to a point where the stream wound behind a screen of young sycamores, Jack reined in and nodded at John. ‘Be careful, for one slip will be our undoing, but I must know.’

  John dismounted and waded back the way they had come.

  Jack manoeuvred his horse close to Cicely and then leaned to speak only to her. ‘We are all distressed, Cicely, but I think your distress cuts into your soul.’

  Her lips parted and she could not meet his eyes.


  For a moment his arm was around her shoulder. A gesture of comfort, a sympathy she had neither expected nor sought and she knew he had realized the truth as she parted from Richard.

  John reached a clump of willows within sight of the bridge, and hid behind it to see if anyone had followed. Almost immediately he heard a single horse coming from the direction of Nottingham. When it came into view, the rider was hooded and impossible to identify. The horse did not pause but rode on over the bridge in the wake of the cavalcade, and by the way the rider leaned over in the saddle now and then to look at the ground, he was making sure he followed a trail.

  John waded back to the others, and nodded at Jack. ‘Whoever he was, he took the bait and went on south.’

  Jack grinned. ‘Stanley’s arse-creeper, no doubt. Let us be on our way, and mind now, no one is to leave the stream, is that understood? We follow it for some time now.’

  They continued, but three hours later the racing clouds at last gave up the rest of their rain. It poured down, slanting in the wind and banishing even the vestiges of the English summer. The dripping trees of Sherwood Forest crowded above their heads, rustling in the sodden wind, blotting out the failing daylight. The rain fell ever heavier, coming down in such torrents that it was not long before the stream’s flow increased. They came to a swirling bend, where the water span around and the bed deepened without warning.

  Cicely’s palfrey blundered into it first, and plunged down, head tossing, eyes rolling as it floundered for some footing. Cicely clung to the saddle. She was such an indifferent horsewoman that doing anything to help her mount was beyond her. John urged his horse in beside her, and spray flew as he struggled to seize the palfrey’s bridle.

  ‘Be still, now, Cicely!’ he cried. ‘For the love of God stop swaying around!’

  ‘I cannot help it!’

  ‘Yes, you can. Look at me. At me, not the water!’

  She did as she was told but was frightened as the palfrey continued to toss its head, trying to find purchase on the stream bed.

  John held her gaze. ‘Now, just sit there like that and let me take over. At me, Cicely. That is better.’ He smiled, and then turned his own horse, and managed to coax the frightened palfrey to shallower water. Only then did he reach for Cicely’s hand. ‘You are safe now, sweeting.’

  The endearment was like a warm cloak that wrapped comfortingly around her in a way she did not merit, and she clung to his hand.

  He smiled again. ‘I will look after you, Cicely.’

  She gazed at him as the rain sluiced down his concerned face. His fair hair clung to his cheeks and dripped down his back, and he was so anxious about her. It was a moment that forced her to face herself. She loved his father as much as it was possible to love any man, but she loved John as well. He was Richard’s flesh and blood. She prevented the thought from continuing, because maybe that was the truth of it. Did she love John for himself, or because of his father? Was she so selfish and without true kindness that she was capable of such deceit? She did not know, except that for whatever reason, John of Gloucester was precious to her and she hoped he would never know how she had failed him. But she would always belong to Richard Plantagenet. Always. ‘Forgive me, John, I have not treated you well.’

  He smiled. ‘You are upset, I know that. I can wait until you are yourself again.’

  She had to do right by him, and be as she had before. She smiled and squeezed his hand.

  He turned to Jack. ‘We have to find shelter. It is impossible to continue in this deluge.’

  ‘We are not far from Newstead. St Mary’s Priory is among those on the list of places true to the king. This stream passes the walls.’

  ‘Then we must go there.’

  As Jack hesitated about a final decision, Bess looked at him angrily. ‘Cousin, I care not where we go, merely that we find shelter before we all die of the ague.’

  His knowing eyes surveyed her. ‘My lady, such an ague would be worth the catching if you would be my nurse.’

  Her face flushed red and she raised her chin haughtily. ‘My lord of Lincoln, your wife would no doubt be glad to perform that service. Or maybe it is so long since you were in her bed that she no longer even recalls what you look like!’ She flicked her reins and rode slowly on down the stream towards the haven at Newstead.

  Jack grinned broadly at John. ‘Oh, such spirit. I would gladly be the first to tame her.’

  Cicely was cross. ‘How like a man, Jack de la Pole. Why do you all have to speak of taming a woman as if she were a horse? Can you not coax her into your questionable bed by other means? Maybe force is your only talent in that respect?’

  John winced, but Jack only laughed. ‘Good God, John, your lady is even more spirited than her sister! Lady Cicely, if you ever tire of this paltry fellow, I will gladly coax you. You have no idea how sweet and persuasive I can be when I try.’

  ‘I think I probably do.’

  He smiled at her, and again there was a nuance, a suggestion that he understood—or guessed—at least something. She remembered he had been close by during those final moments of parting from Richard. It had all had been too expressive. And that had been her fault, not Richard’s.

  The prior of St Mary’s took them in willingly. His name was Thomas Gunthorp, and he was anxious to show all possible hospitality to his illustrious guests. Cicely and Bess were led to two small cell-like rooms, all too reminiscent of their sanctuary at Westminster, but Cicely could not have cared less as Mary Kymbe, having already waited upon Bess, came to attend her as well. She was of an age with Cicely, and had a heart-shaped face, brown eyes and rich brown hair. She and Cicely already liked each other, but Bess was not able to unbend sufficiently to chatter with a maid.

  Cicely was glad to be out of her wet clothes and warmly wrapped in a large blanket, but hardly had Mary commenced brushing her hair than Jack appeared in the doorway.

  Mary tried to shoo him away but Cicely prevented her. ‘Mary Kymbe, I think I am sufficiently covered by this blanket for my lord of Lincoln to only see my toes.’

  The maid disapproved, but as she hurried past Jack, he suddenly caught her arm. ‘Your name is Kymbe?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Of Lincolnshire?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Friskney, my lord. My father is Thomas Kymbe.’

  ‘He entertained me at dinner a year or so ago. You were not there. I would have remembered.’

  ‘I have not been back to Friskney in three years, my lord. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Jack smiled, and then let her go.

  When Mary had gone, Cicely looked at him. ‘You leave my maid alone, Jack de la Pole.’

  ‘I will be a saint, I swear.’

  She searched his face. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Mere pleasantry.’

  ‘Oh no, there is more to it. Tell me.’

  He closed the door. ‘Until just now I had not realized her name was Kymbe. Cicely, your brothers may be at Sheriff Hutton now, but they were at Friskney.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘It is my manor,’ Jack reminded her, ‘and it is close to the sea. Your maid clearly does not know. I merely wished to be certain.’

  ‘How long have they been there?’

  ‘Since John Welles, who has neighbouring Lincolnshire manors, was fool enough to try to abduct them from the Tower. Welles fled to Brittany to Tudor, but could be anywhere now. Wherever, he is not likely to visit Friskney if Thomas Kymbe is Richard’s man. Your brothers have been perfectly safe there. Dickon has been in good spirits, but Edward is sickly. Not too sickly to make the journey to Sheriff Hutton. Now you know as much as me.’

  ‘And you really can trust Mary’s father?’

  ‘He served with Richard at Tewkesbury and has not swerved from him since. I gather that his son, your maid’s brother, Tom Kymbe the younger, is not so steady to York, but he has been estranged from his father for some time and has been with relatives on the Isle of Wight —
do not ask me why. I am not a fount of all wisdom concerning the Kymbes of Friskney. Remember now, your maid clearly knows nothing. She has not been back to Friskney and her father keeps his secret close, so do not enlighten her unwittingly. It may be that she is close to her brother, who appears to have close connections with John Welles and is therefore most likely a Lancastrian.’ Jack smiled. ‘Enough of that. We should speak of Richard, I think.’

  ‘There is nothing to say,’ she said quickly.

  ‘But there is.’

  ‘No.’

  He came closer. ‘Jesu, Cicely, do you really imagine I could have been standing where I was in that courtyard and not see how you and the king love each other? I felt your pain so keenly that I shared your tears.’

  ‘It was merely a fond leave-taking.’

  ‘Do I look like a gull, Cicely? I make no judgement upon you, nor do I feel compelled to rush to the nearest confessor with my horror. And God knows, I could find enough of them here.’

  ‘But do you feel compelled to tell John?’ She met his eyes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  He smiled. ‘Do I need to? Then you have my promise. The secret belongs to you and the king, and I would no more betray it than I would desert him on the battlefield. I know what I saw today, Cicely, and it moved me more than you can imagine. He has long needed someone like you. Needed you in particular, I imagine. I am glad for you both, even if it must be a secret.’ He came closer. ‘I only wanted you to know that I saw no sin, and that if you ever need to talk, I will be close by.’

  She managed a smile. ‘Thank you, Jack.’

  He hugged her tightly, kissed her cheek and left her alone.

  Moments later Mary returned to resume the brushing of her mistress’s hair. Cicely closed her eyes and saw Richard again, wearing the black brocade robe, his body pale and slender. One step more, Cicely, and our sin is as good as committed. . . . His voice filled her head, his lips kissed her still, and it was too much. Fresh tears began to fall.

  Mary saw. ‘My lady?’