Cicely's Second King by Sandra Heath Wilson

Author:Sandra Heath Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2014-08-07T09:29:07+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Wyberton Castle was one of the seventeen or so Lincolnshire manors held by Sir Jon Welles, and it was only a mile ahead as he and Cicely rode slowly through the bitter January twilight at the head of the train that had left Pasmer’s Place. Jon’s colours fluttered proudly above the riders, and the slow clatter of hooves was almost drowned by the noise of the weather. Mary Kymbe rode behind her mistress, keeping a watchful eye, because Cicely had found the journey more difficult than expected. The final weeks before the child was born promised to be trying.

This land was not welcoming, especially on a winter dusk. It was flat, the darkening sky was huge, and there was no shelter from the elements. Snowflakes were flung on the breeze from the bleak expanses of the nearby Wash, the stream alongside the slightly raised road was noisy and overflowing, and the dry reeds rubbed together like thrifty old hands.

Jon reined in, his entire manner suggestive of a heavy conscience. ‘Cicely—’

He was going to tell her at last. She could almost feel his inner struggle and reluctance. ‘Please tell me, Jon, for it is clear you feel you must.’

He leaned across to take the bridle of her palfrey and then manoeuvred them both out of the way of the train. Mary waited discreetly nearby, beyond hearing as he dismounted and lifted Cicely carefully down, holding her arms until he was sure she was able to stand alone. She had fainted once since leaving London, giving him as much of a fright as she had herself.

‘You are steady?’ he asked anxiously, gazing at her as the breeze fluttered the hood over her headdress, and several snowflakes caught on the fur-covered shoulders of her cloak.

‘Yes.’ Her gloved hand rested on his sleeve. ‘What is all this, Jon?’

‘I should have told you before, sweetheart, but turned craven, I fear.’ His dark blue eyes were oddly tentative. ‘Cicely, no lady who is staunch to York by birth and loyalty could ever be welcome here.’

‘Why?’

‘You are aware my family is Lancastrian? My father died in 1461 at the Battle of Towton, which, you know, was won by your father. My elder half-brother succeeded to the title and lands, but in 1470, when I was twenty or so, he and his son were beheaded at your father’s command, and it was because of a plot that was all Yorkist scheming.’

‘What happened?’

‘They were at the centre of a rebellion that originated in the dislike, quarrelling and rivalry between my Lancastrian family, which had supported the old Earl of Warwick against your father, and a neighbouring Yorkist family, the de Burghs, who were always your father’s allies. My brother was fool enough to put a de Burgh manor to flame, and de Burgh went to the king, whom he had once helped to escape from Warwick’s clutches. Your father summoned my brother for an explanation. My brother went, having first instructed his son, my nephew, to cause as much trouble as possible if anything should happen to him.

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