Cicely's King Richard

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  ‘So, you claim the Earl of Lincoln is not here?’

  ‘I know he is not here. If he was not captured at Bosworth, then he must have escaped. I truly believed he was there.’

  Willoughby spoke. ‘I have to bring the persons of the Earls of Lincoln and Warwick, the Lady Elizabeth of York, you and John of Gloucester to the king in London.’

  ‘Well, you have found me, sir, and that will have to do.’ They definitely did not know about her brothers! She could scarce keep the triumph from her eyes, and she had never been more regal than in that moment. ‘I recognize no King Henry,’ she said again. ‘I am the Lady Cicely Plantagenet, King Richard’s vehement supporter and ally, his proud, loyal and loving niece, daughter of King Edward IV, and representative of the House of York. I will never submit to Henry Tudor. I am not the traitor here, you are. All of you. I am outraged that you dare to raise your eyes from your shame.’ Her hand crept to shield her belly, and Welles saw.

  There was a sullen stir and Willoughby could stand no more of her defiance, but as he stepped towards her, Welles again prevented him. More forcefully this time.

  ‘For the love of God, Willoughby, can you not see her distress? Remember you may be addressing the king’s senior sister-in-law, possibly even his queen, so do not be a fool.’ Welles turned to her again. ‘My lady, I can understand your loyalty, and respect it, but in these new times it is a dangerous thing.’

  ‘Loyalty cannot be changed, not if it was true in the first place.’

  ‘Enough of all this dilly-dallying, my lady. Please tell Sir Robert Willoughby where he may find—if not Lincoln—then Warwick, and Richard’s bastard son, John of Gloucester? And, of course, your sister, the Lady Elizabeth of York.’

  ‘I am alone here, Sir John,’ she said again, although she knew that a cursory search would soon lead them to Bess.

  ‘I hardly think that to be so, my lady. Of late your name has been linked with Richard’s bastard, so he at least will be here.’ Welles noticed again how she defended her belly.

  A new voice broke into the courtyard from the direction of the gatehouse. ‘You would have words with me, sirs? Or is it your unmanly Lancastrian practice to terrorize defenceless women?’

  Cicely could have wept with dismay as all eyes turned towards the gatehouse from whence the words came. It was John, astride a dappled horse in the shadows, hair darkened by the gloom, his jewelled clothing flashing. Henry Tudor’s men fell back in fear, seeing Richard Plantagenet’s vengeful ghost risen from the blood-soaked earth of Bosworth.

  Ralph Scrope was so terrified that he eased his horse away until it almost crushed his leg against the wall. John saw him, and smiled contemptuously. ‘So here you are, Scrope, with the other human excrement. Ready to be scraped from my boot.’

  Willoughby’s face had waxed pale with such fear that he backed away, caught his spur on a step and fell rather ignominiously. He was obliged to scramble up again, but he knew his fear had been observed. Welles stood motionless, and Cicely realized he was not of a sufficiently superstitious nature to be taken in. He saw Richard’s son, not Richard himself.

  John moved his heel and rode further into the courtyard, where Henry Tudor’s unnerved men parted before him. His silvery hair told immediately of his true identity. He was proud and upright, the son of whom Richard had always been proud, and as he looked at Cicely, smiling his love, she struggled to keep control of herself. Her heart reached out to him across the hostile air. Why had he not fled for his life? Why had he come right into the lion’s den?

  Willoughby snapped his fingers at the men nearby, and in a moment John’s horse was held, and he himself hauled from the saddle. His hands were bound and he was dragged away.

  She looked desperately to Welles. ‘You cannot harm him! Please, I beg of you! Does your Henry not wish him to be taken to London? Does he not want us all to be taken there?’ She was reminding him again of Henry Tudor’s need for a Yorkist bride.

  Welles looked at Willoughby. ‘You heard what the Lady Cicely points out. You had better stay within the strict terms of your remit. I do not need to remind you that I am close to the king.’

  Just then they all heard a terrible wailing shriek from inside the castle. Mary had told Bess of Richard’s death.

  Welles looked at Cicely. ‘The Lady Elizabeth, I imagine? For fame has it that she alone would grieve so for Richard Plantagenet.’

  ‘How unwise you are to speak of such things, sir,’ she answered, ‘for she may be about to become the new queen.’

  He was amused by the turning of his own words upon him. ‘You are right, of course, my lady. I should listen to my own advice.’

  ‘King Richard did not intend to marry my sister, my lord. I can state that without hesitation, because I have always been sufficiently in his confidence to know. I tell no lie. My sister is as pure a maid now as she was before going to Richard’s court. He always behaved impeccably towards her, as an uncle should, and if you believe otherwise, or repeat otherwise, you will deserve eternal damnation.’

  ‘Eternal damnation, eh? Well, I would not wish to risk that,’ he replied, and she again sensed that she amused him. And that he admired her courage.

  Sir Robert signalled to some of his men, who dismounted and accompanied him into the castle to find and detain Bess, but Welles called after him, obliging him to halt on the steps. ‘Find the Lady Elizabeth by all means, Willoughby, but if you do one thing that offends her or causes her distress, I will see that the king hears of it.’

  Willoughby’s tongue passed over his lips and as he proceeded into the castle, Cicely knew he loathed Sir John Welles. At that moment her glance fell once more upon Ralph Scrope. Still he smirked, still he gloated. Still she despised him.

  ‘Sir, may I request one thing of you?’ she asked Welles.

  Surprised, he inclined his head. ‘I am at your disposal.’

  ‘Please send Ralph Scrope from Richard’s castle.’

  He was caught unawares. ‘Indeed? But are you not handfast? I have seen the contract.’

  She stiffened. ‘Certainly not!’ Again she saw Richard, leaning against the abbey wall. Do not worry, Cicely, for you have heard the last of such a match. I will not coerce you into Scrope’s bed. Nor had he, for Richard was nothing if not a man of his word. But clearly he had not destroyed the document. She knew he would not have signed it, or appended his seal.

  Welles spoke again. ‘The contract is evidence of a binding agreement between you and Ralph Scrope It was drawn up at King Richard’s instigation and states that your father wished it, and that you and Ralph were compliant.’

  ‘Does it bear my uncle’s signature and seal?’ she asked quickly

  ‘It does, but I have to admit I am not entirely convinced by the signature. Richard was a very educated man, with an excellent hand, whereas this more resembles the trail of a spider through ink.’ Welles turned to Ralph. ‘I will have your version of this.’

  ‘The Lady Cicely and I are handfast, my lord,’ Ralph declared in a boasting tone. ‘The late King Edward IV took my part and spoke to his brother on his deathbed. King Richard had the document drawn up, signed it and affixed his seal. It is as binding as marriage itself.’

  ‘Liar!’ Cicely cried. ‘You worm, you insect! Richard was in the north when my father died and could not have heard anything said on the deathbed. I was never handfast to you, and my uncle would never have proceeded after he knew I did not want such a match. The only man to whom I am handfast is the Lord John of Gloucester, and the fact curdles your spiteful bile with jealousy. You are beneath contempt.’

  Welles looked at her again, clearly weighing the one version against the other.

  She collected her tumbling thoughts. ‘Think on, Sir John Welles, if you take Ralph Scrope’s part in this, you could be elevating him to the position of Henry Tudor’s brother-in-law, with all the influence and power that entails. And remember also, sir, that your nephew may yet marry me himself. He will not be pleased if you i
nterfere in his plans by supporting Ralph Scrope in this sham. Incidentally, Ralph was in Richard’s household until recently. He only went over to your cause to be avenged on me. A mongrel that can turn its tail once will do it again, this time over Henry Tudor’s kingly new shoes.’

  ‘That is calumny!’ Ralph cried.

  ‘It is the truth,’ she replied levelly.

  Welles’ mind was suddenly made up. He jerked his thumb at Ralph. ‘Return to York, if you please, and stay there until you receive word either from me or Sir Robert. I do not believe this marriage document to be genuine, and will submit it to King Henry’s justice.’

  Ralph went pale, his nostrils flared, and he kicked his heels to fling his horse out of the castle of Sheriff Hutton.

  Cicely watched him go. To whom could he now offer his traitorous self? Who was left?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Later, when darkness had fallen, Cicely, Bess and John were permitted to be alone together for the first time. John had been released from his bonds, but like Cicely and Bess was obliged to stay in the rooms allotted to him, without access to the rest of the castle. Now they were brought together in the solar and told they had a few minutes of privacy before Welles and Willoughby came to speak with them.

  Cicely ran into John’s arms and held him tightly. ‘I thought Sir Robert would kill you. I was so afraid . . .’

  He returned the embrace, and she could feel his shoulders shaking. She had lost Richard the man, the lover, but John had lost the father he admired above all other men. She knew now that she loved John of Gloucester for himself, not only because he was Richard’s son. Father and son were in her heart, and if she could no longer reach out to Richard, she could to John. At least, she could until it was no longer possible to hide her condition. She could not weep, but seemed to have entered another room within herself, a private room, without windows, cool and quiet. She could be alone there with Richard, hear him again, touch him again, make love to him again. There was no world outside, just them. And the room. Hers was a silent grief, but John could weep, and did so unashamedly. She drew him close, whispering gentle words, offering comfort, when all the time she was seared by her own desolation. She just could not show it, not yet, when she still had to confront Richard’s enemies. Nor could she look to anyone else for understanding.

  Her love for Richard was a great secret, and now he was lost to her. Forever. She had only her own counsel, and must think what Richard would have wished her to do. She closed her eyes. Her heart was in a thousand fragments, and could never be repaired, but at least she could console John.

  Bess was also calm. Too calm. She might not have been Bess at all, but an identical stranger. She was measured, a mistress of ice. The high-backed chair upon which she sat was probably the most uncomfortable in the entire castle, but she gave no sign of anything. Her hands were clasped in her lap, she gazed straight before her, and there were no tears in her eyes.

  John struggled to be himself again. ‘Forgive me, Cicely, but it is such a shock and bereavement to me. And to you, I know, but—’

  ‘I understand, John. Truly I do.’

  He smiled at her through his tears, and pushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear. She caught his hand to stop him, for it was too evocative and poignant an echo of his father. ‘I was so proud of you today, Cicely,’ he said. ‘I did not see the Tudor banners, I knew nothing until I was actually beneath the gatehouse. Even then I could have made my escape—well, attempted it, at least—but when I saw you facing them all like the daughter of York you are, I could not have left you.’

  ‘I had your father’s banners raised in defiance, did you not notice them?’

  He gave a choked laugh. ‘I did, Cicely, and I thought it signified his victory. Oh, dear God, for those minutes I was exultant. I thought it was all over and the future stretched gloriously ahead. England would prosper under my father’s rule, we would be married and be happy together. I was an idiot in paradise.’

  She was stricken, for it had not occurred to her that what was defiance to Henry Tudor’s men might be construed as good news by John. ‘Oh, John, I did not think. I lured you here when that was the very last thing I wished to do. Bess and I have so much to answer for. If we had not refused to leave, you would have escaped.’ She could not have met Richard’s eyes were he to walk in now. . . .

  At that very moment the solar door was flung open, but it was Sir John Welles and the unlovable Sir Robert Willoughby. Both men had changed clothes and were clearly refreshed, but by the set of the latter’s lips it had not improved his temper. Welles was now clean shaven, and Cicely saw that he was not ill-looking, but neither was he handsome. He had bearing and presence, was adroit, missed little and was probably able to deal with most difficulties that came his way. He had certainly been better chosen by Henry Tudor than his companion, because Willoughby did nothing at all to enhance the usurper’s reputation.

  The two men placed themselves across a table from the three representatives of the House of York. Bess looked at them without expression. Cicely and John had pulled hastily apart, but not before their embrace had been noted. Sir Robert’s small eyes were hard and his voice even harder. ‘Small wonder Scrope’s presence was so unwelcome.’

  John reached for the dagger that was no longer on his belt because it had been confiscated. His fingers closed over nothing. ‘May the devil claim you soon, Willoughby!’ he breathed.

  ‘Ah, the young mongrel thinks he has teeth?’

  Welles was in no mood. ‘Enough,’ he snapped, and then nodded at Cicely. ‘Please be seated, my lady.’

  She wanted to defy him, but his conduct had been all that was correct, and so she obeyed.

  He turned to Bess. ‘My lady, we ask for information as to the possible present whereabouts of John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln and Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick.’ He stood in the circle of light thrown by the candles on a table.

  Bess did not even look at him. ‘I have nothing to say to you, sir, only to my new lord, Henry Tudor.’

  Welles turned to John. ‘Have you anything to tell me?’

  ‘I do not know where my cousins of Lincoln and Warwick are,’ John replied.

  ‘Lady Cicely?’ Welles’ dark blue eyes moved to her again.

  ‘I have already said I do not know, my lord.’

  ‘How astonishing, for to be sure you were all here together. Oh, do not deny it, my lady, because whether or not you despise Ralph Scrope, he did confirm that he followed you here. Well, perhaps not here, exactly, but certainly to this side of York. I cannot imagine Richard would have sent you three here and the others elsewhere.’

  ‘I was not in the true king’s complete confidence,’ she said defiantly, and untruthfully, because no one had been more in Richard’s confidence. She wanted to do as Bess requested, behave as Bess did, but could not. Her feelings for Richard transcended everything, and to deny them was impossible. She would defend his name with all her might.

  ‘I shall overlook that remark, my lady.’

  ‘Do with it as you wish, my lord, because if you expect me to betray anyone or anything to you . . .’

  ‘I do not expect anything, my lady. I am not that much of a dupe. You have made your feelings towards Richard very clear, and while I think you misguided, I cannot in all honesty blame you. He had great charm when he chose to use it, but he is believed to have had your brothers murdered in the Tower.’

  John stiffened, but she caught his arm, her fingers urgent. ‘No, John, do not rise to such feeble bait.’ Her eyes implored him not to mention that her brothers had been here at Sheriff Hutton, and to her relief he relaxed again.

  Bess said nothing, did nothing.

  Cicely regarded Welles again. ‘My uncle the king would never have committed such a terrible crime, my lord. And you certainly believed they lived in August 1483. Or did you just scramble into the Tower for the thrill of it? Perhaps you hoped to do away with them for your paltry Henry and then blame Richard?�
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  ‘I clearly have that stick somewhere about my person. Perhaps it will further satisfy your venomous loathing to know that I was involved in the Buckingham rising and that I was one of Henry’s captains at Bosworth.’

  ‘So, you succeeded in only one of the three,’ she answered.

  ‘Your fangs are effective,’ he observed. ‘I am sorry if I have turned into Beelzebub before your eyes.’

  ‘You stink of brimstone, sir.’

  At that he laughed. ‘Then I will have to take another bath.’

  ‘You will still stink.’

  ‘You have a noble heart, Lady Cicely. I wonder if Richard ever knew what a ferocious kitten he had for a niece.’

  She could not help a small smile. ‘Oh yes, sir, he did. He knew it full well.’

  ‘So where are your brothers now?’

  ‘Still in their apartments in the Tower, I imagine.’

  ‘How admirably cool you are, Lady Cicely, but given your unusual and illogical support for Richard Plantagenet, I cannot believe you. If he removed them, then I would hazard you know where to. Why do you guard him so well? Rightly or wrongly—you would have me think he was justified in having you and your siblings declared illegitimate. You, who were once destined for the King of Scotland’s heir, must now settle for someone far lower in rank. John of Gloucester, it seems. Do you insist that you are handfast to him?’

  John replied. ‘The match had my father’s consent, if that is what you mean. But it had yet to be formalized.’

  ‘So you are not handfast in the strict meaning of the word?’

  John fell silent.

  Sir Robert gave a grunt. ‘Unless you have anticipated your vows.’

  Welles frowned at him and then looked at Cicely again. ‘I am charged to act for my nephew, my lady, and I will not be defied on it because you are so strong for dead Richard. This is not a musical diversion with ribbons and fashionable trifles, it is a matter of the utmost political importance, so do not think to toy with me.’

  John faced him. ‘Choose your words with more care, sir, for it is my father of whom you speak, and to my lady that you are so unbecoming.’