‘Who is he, my lady? Why has he not done right by you?’
She smiled. ‘He would have done all he could, sir, but he did not know, and I ask you to honour my request.’
‘He did not know? He is dead?’
She bit her lip. ‘Yes.’
He gazed intently at her. ‘My thoughts begin to take an uneasy path, my lady. Perchance the whispers concerned the wrong niece?’
She wanted to admit it, she wanted to shout out that she carried Richard’s baby, but she did not really know this man. He seemed so open and, yes, trustworthy, but he might well be Margaret Beaufort’s half-brother in far too many ways. ‘You should not stoop to listening to court gossip,’ she said.
‘It is only gossip if it is not true.’ He continued to look at her.
‘Do you really imagine Richard Plantagenet would bed his own niece?’ she enquired.
‘My lady, if I am honest, I believe you could tempt the Archangel Gabriel.’
‘You flatter me. Now, regarding my request. I will keep faith with you, sir, do not fear otherwise. No one knows that you are aware of anything, and it will stay that way. Oh, my lack of purity will be obvious soon enough, as you say, but by then I will no longer be any concern of yours. I cannot be a personal worry to you anyway, for I was already with child when you arrived, so your nephew cannot possibly suspect you. I need time to find the courage to admit to being with child. . . if I am ever to find sufficient such courage. But I will never name my baby’s father publicly.’
A faint smile played on his thin lips. ‘The man who marries you will need fortitude, I think.’
‘Perhaps you would care to take me on?’
He laughed. ‘I would have harmony in my bed, my lady, not a repeat of Bosworth Field, with me as Richard.’
‘Oh, there is no chance at all of you taking his place, Sir John. If your miserable Henry ever inspires even a morsel of the devotion that was given so gladly to Richard Plantagenet by his many close friends, he will perceive a glimpse of sweet fortune. Richard was a good man, and would have been a great king. He was loved, and he earned it. There was nothing mean and paltry about him, he was just at all times, lenient when he should have destroyed his enemies, but strong for England. A true prince among men, and I will grieve for him for the rest of my life.’
He was silent for a long moment. ‘I would be honoured if you were to speak even a quarter as well of me. Which will never happen, I know.’ A glimmer of humour lit his eyes again, but then he returned to seriousness. ‘I think I should also envy Richard Plantagenet for another reason. I am not taken in, Lady Cicely. The facts are written plain enough to me. But only to me. You have my pledge that my lips are sealed, but I pray you never make me the greatest fool in the land.’
It was an odd moment that pricked her heart and made it bleed. Unstoppable emotion caught within her at last. Richard seemed to stand in the shadows, waiting for her to go to him. She could feel his presence as if he touched her again. Those touches, so quick, so honest and tender. So heartbreakingly moving now.
The words of his poem rang around in her head, over and over, like a round song. She leaned back weakly against the wall, sobs rising in her throat as tears welled down her cheeks. Her knees gave beneath her, and she sank to the floor, helpless with misery.
‘Sweet Jesu,’ Welles muttered, unsure what on earth to do. ‘My lady?’
‘I have l-lost him,’ she tried to whisper. ‘I h-have lost h-him.’
‘You have two to be strong for,’ he said awkwardly, putting his hand on her hair.
‘I have n-nothing to be strong for.’ She seemed to crumple even more. Her head was spinning, her memories were filled with sweet, echoing pain, and her heart was trying to stop beating. She knew nothing, cared even less. Richard was dead. He was dead, and she had been left behind.
Welles bent to lift her strongly in his arms, and she clung to him, her arms tight around his neck, her face buried against his clothes. He could feel how her body was racked with distress and shock. He held her close, stroking her hair rather clumsily and trying to find suitable words of comfort, but feeling unable to do so, not when he had been on the wrong side at Bosworth. She was beyond hearing anyway, he thought.
All he could think was to hurry her to her maid. Comforting stricken women was not something to which he was greatly accustomed, nor did he wish it to be. So he carried her back to her room, and laid her gently on the bed before shaking Mary awake.
The maid sat up with a start and scrambled to her feet on seeing Cicely. ‘My lady is ill?’ she cried.
‘No, she is simply overcome. The news of her uncle’s defeat is too painful for her, I think.’ Welles straightened and looked at her in the candlelight. ‘Are you not Tom Kymbe’s sister?’
‘Why, yes, Sir John. I know he is your man.’
Welles smiled gently. ‘Not a good thing in the eyes of your Yorkist father, I think. Mary, there is perhaps something you do not know. Your father was at Bosworth, and paid the price of his loyalty to Richard.’
Shocked, Mary stared at him. ‘My father is dead?’
‘You were close to him?’
‘No, my brother Tom and I did not get on with him at all, but he was still our father.’
‘Tom will take over at Friskney now. Not a Yorkist at all, mm?’ Sir John looked kindly at her. ‘I am so sorry for having to tell you such news, and for now telling you to attend your lady, for she is overcome with sorrow for her uncle. I think you know her condition.’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
He studied her again. ‘You are in her confidence?’
Mary paused. ‘I am only her maid, Sir John. She tells me nothing.’
‘Hmm. Very well. Care for her now, and if she attempts to leave this room again, you had better prevent her, otherwise you will incur my wrath.’
Mary’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘By whom is she with child?’ he asked suddenly, hoping to catch her off guard, but Mary was not easily tricked.
‘She is with child, Sir John. That is all I know.’
Clearly it was not John of Gloucester, so who else might it have been? He had to know, because he truly did not want it to have been Richard. ‘Was it that libertine Jack of Lincoln?’
Mary gazed at him. ‘I do not know, sir,’ she said again. ‘I have not seen her with anyone. She was—is—very discreet.’
‘And is able to slip from her room at night without you seeing anything?’ he responded disbelievingly.
‘If she has left in such a way, Sir John, tonight is the first time.’
‘So it happened at Nottingham?’
‘I only became her maid when she and the Lady Elizabeth left Nottingham, Sir John.’
He drew a long breath, knowing there was nothing more to be elicited from Mary Kymbe. He looked down at Cicely, who still wept so pitifully that she was oblivious to the world around her. For a moment he considered putting a comforting hand on her shoulders, but then drew back. Not appropriate, he thought, and turned on his heel and went out, now certain Richard had fathered her child.
It was a dangerous secret, but he had promised her his silence, and she would have it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was early September when Elizabeth of York’s procession rode out of Sheriff Hutton Castle and down the gorge-like village street, where the people lined the way in silence. They mourned Richard and had no time for Henry Tudor, and it was silently made very plain indeed to the cavalcade that Henry Tudor had provided for his bride.
Cicely could hardly take her eyes away from her sister’s splendour. Bess rode at the head of the procession, and on either side of her rode Sir Robert Willoughby and Sir John Welles. Bess wore a gown of mulberry silk—murrey, for York—that had pendulous sleeves lined with blue cloth-of-gold. Upon her red-gold hair there was a blue headdress embroidered with silver and murrey. Her hair was still loose beneath it, but the headdress denoted that she would soon no longer be a maid. She gl
ittered with jewels for there was many a dazzling necklace twisted around her throat and draping down her bosom, and her fingers were clustered with precious rings. She was a daughter of York, with a white rose pinned to her breast. Another such rose was fixed to Cicely’s wrist.
The ladies sent from London by the new king had spent many hours shaving her forehead and plucking her eyebrows into the tortuous arches that were considered so desirable. The result was a fashionable beauty that well deserved the hand of the King of England, although perhaps not such a mean king as Henry Tudor, who surely did not warrant any prize so rare and lovely. But Bess’s face did not match the richness of her garb, for it was pale and taut, her eyes fixed unseeingly upon the horizon. She had wept many times more for Richard, but always in private, and never for her captors to discover. She smiled only occasionally, and laughed not at all.
Cicely was grandly attired as well, in a dusky blue brocade gown, the skirt of which floated as her palfrey trotted. She had refused to have her forehead shaved and eyebrows plucked, even though the ladies implored her. Richard would not have wished it. He loved her as she was, and she loved him in the same way. Thus her face was still as God had made it as she rode just behind her sister.
John was in the middle of the cavalcade, seated on his dapple horse, his hands bound before him. His head was bare, his Plantagenet blood evident in his looks and bearing, and everyone he passed knew who he was. He was cheered from the outset, first by the villagers of Sheriff Hutton, and then by everyone he passed thereafter, much to Willoughby’s impotent fury. And so Richard’s by-blow was led like a felon. Nothing would do for Sir Robert but that John of Gloucester was seen as a prisoner for the ride south, and no amount of sweet reason by Sir John Welles had moved him. Sir Robert was convinced that the new king would wish that what had been done to Richard at Bosworth would soon be done to his bastard son.
‘Remember, Willoughby, my nephew may wish to receive John of Gloucester as graciously as he does the princesses,’ Welles warned, but Willoughby would have had John of Gloucester hooded as well, perhaps even slung over his horse as his father had been, but in this Welles prevailed.
‘Do that, and I will complain to the king that you have conducted yourself with egregious discourtesy towards the Houses of York and Plantagenet. He will not be amused, you may count upon it, not when he himself is to take a Plantagenet bride and claims Plantagenet descent.’
The cavalcade rode over the moor and down into the forest again, passing near the hunting tower. It could not be seen from the road, but Cicely knew it was there, and relived those final moments with Richard. She was so glad he had come from Nottingham for those few hours, so glad he had needed her so much that he took such a risk. But how she wished he had flouted everything by letting her return to Nottingham with him. There would have been more hours then, more lying together in the dark hours of night, lost in the love they felt for each other. And with her there to support him in everything, he would surely not have lost the battle. She would have sustained him, carried him to victory, and exulted in his just triumph.
Out of the forest they emerged, and over the narrow bridge by the White Boar, except that it was no longer the White Boar, but had been renamed the Blue Boar, its sign hurriedly repainted in order not to provoke memories of Richard. Will watched them pass, and gave Mary a sad smile, for they knew they would not see each other again.
As they rode beneath the gateway of Richard’s city, where the minster thrust against the sky, there were more crowds, sullen and hostile to the representatives of Henry Tudor. But those crowds were wild with cheers for the House of York. They knew John, if only by his looks, and he was lauded. His mount, lacking his sure touch, was nervous in the enclosed, over-hanging streets, and its hooves slipped many a time upon the smooth cobbles.
A man—a merchant by his clothes—emerged from the crowds and held the bridle. ‘God bless you, my lord. Keep faith with your father, good King Richard!’ There was jubilance as the man kissed the ropes that bound John’s wrists. The horse danced still more, but John smiled at the man. The cheering rose to a roar as York made known where its loyalty lay, until Willoughby’s men were ordered to set about anyone showing disrespect for Henry Tudor.
Willoughby was frightened, even though he had armed men enough to put down any riot that might have ensued. Welles gave no sign of any discomfort at all, although he was not pleased when Cicely turned her palfrey and rode back to John, who smiled at her, but there was a devastating sadness about him. It was there in his eyes, those eyes that brought Richard to life again. ‘Do not fret for me, sweetheart.’
‘Lady Cicely, you should be at the head of the procession,’ said another voice, and she looked around to see Welles had ridden back. He leaned to grab her palfrey’s bridle and looked angrily at her. ‘Show a little sense, my lady. I cannot watch you every moment, nor do I expect to. If I can tell tales on Willoughby to my nephew, then so can Willoughby tell tales of your conduct. Do you understand? Your only use to Henry is to be his wife should anything befall your sister. Other than that, he can marry you off to a lowly squire if he feels so inclined. Your place is with the Lady Elizabeth, and that is where I intend to see you!’
‘You cannot order me, sir.’
‘I think you will find that I can, my lady. I have charge of you, and I am damned if I will let you flout my wishes. Willoughby will report everything, you do understand that, do you not? If you persist in showing your support for York and contempt for Tudor and Lancaster, you will soon go too far.’
John looked imploringly at her. ‘He is right, Cicely. There is nothing you can do for me. My fate is uncertain, but you can protect yourself. Behave as Bess does.’
She was close to tears. ‘My place is with you, John,’ she whispered, her voice almost drowned by the noise of the crowd.
She heard Welles’ tut of annoyance as he turned her palfrey and forced it to go with him. ‘Do not try me too far, my lady,’ he said. ‘And do not rely upon my always being able to control Willoughby!’
York soon fell behind them, but every village town they passed through was loud with support for the House of York. The people of England did not want their new king, they wanted Richard.
The long journey to London took many days, but finally came the early morning when the towers and steeples appeared on the horizon. The last time Cicely had seen them was when the court had gone north to join Richard at Nottingham. It was a beautiful memory now. Such a beautiful memory.
Bess was as elegant and lovely as she had been at the outset, but Cicely found it more difficult. She often felt sick, especially in the morning, and it was difficult to hide the fact. There came the distant sound of a fanfare, and Cicely saw the glint of sunlight upon metal as Henry Tudor came out to greet his future bride. Bess heard, and looked briefly at her sister. There was a moment of communion, a moment of regret and weakness that might easily have been the undoing of them both, but then Bess was herself again, her back straight, her head held high as she rode to meet the new king.
Closer and closer they drew, but the haze of morning sunshine made it impossible for Cicely to make out Henry Tudor. All she knew was that she would soon confront the man whose craven, perfidious, execrable lords had slaughtered Richard.
Welles’ horse appeared beside her. ‘Remember now, my lady, you are to take great care. My nephew is not me.’
‘I know, and thank you for your gallantry, Sir John.’ She looked anxiously at him. ‘Did you take the book as I asked?’
‘The one in which Richard wrote the poem? Yes, I have it. It is safely in my baggage.’
‘Please take care of it for me.’
‘You know I will. I will see that you have it as soon as the moment is sensible. But not just yet, I fancy.’ He nodded at the ring on her right hand. ‘I am given to understand that it is John of Gloucester’s keepsake?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then put it in your purse. There must not be anything that will raise my n
ephew’s suspicion that you do not support his marriage to your sister.’
Without a word she removed the ring, and pushed it into the purse at her waist, next to Richard’s letter, which she caressed for a moment with her fingertips. How many times had she read it? A thousand or more? Was it possible to wear ink away simply by reading its words? If so, Richard’s writing would by now have vanished forever.
Bess commanded Cicely to ride beside her, but just a few feet back, and so they were together as they at last saw Henry Tudor. His appearance came as something of a shock, for he was younger than they expected, only twenty-nine, and his face was thin and pale, devoid of Richard’s warmth and attractiveness. He was taller too, with hair that was reddish-brown in colour, without the burnish of gold of his bride’s family, and it fell in waves to the shoulders of his costly doublet. His clever, deep-set eyes were hooded and of a slate-grey hue, almost like the winter sea, and upon his head gleamed the circlet of gold that had last graced the brow of Richard Plantagenet. His rich purple doublet was embroidered with gold and scarlet dragons. His face bore no expression whatsoever, except for the guile in his eyes, which were strangely uneven, one not entirely in time with the other.
Bess halted to await his final approach, her face calm and still, giving nothing away, but Cicely knew that inside she was afraid. He reined in a few feet away from his Yorkist bride, and they gazed at each other. Cicely watched his face as he took in every detail of Bess’s appearance and she saw his admiration, not of the woman, only her beauty.
He dismounted and walked to Bess, taking her cold hand and pressing it to his lips. ‘Madam, I greet you.’ His voice was quiet, a mixture of accents—English and French, with perhaps the faintest trace of Welsh. ‘Do not be afraid of me, my lady, for I welcome you with great warmth and happiness.’
He smiled, but it was reserved, Cicely thought. He was not a man of charm as Richard had been, and he lacked Richard’s effortless presence, but perhaps he meant what he said to Bess.
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