The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (112 page)

Howard showed no surprise. "I've been half expecting something like this. Morton be the ringleader, I
don't doubt. That one could no more resist intrigue than a fox could keep out of the henroost. And
Rotherham; his nose has been out of joint since the chancellorship was taken from him. Not to mention our Woodville Queen and that worthless son of hers. Who else?"
"Stanley. His wife has become a frequent visitor to sanctuary of late; now we do know why."
"How did you find out?"
"The usual way a conspiracy be unraveled. It occurred to one of Rotherham's cohorts that the information he possessed might be worth a great deal. He went to Buckingham with it."
"The Woodvilles, Morton, Rotherham, and Stanley." Howard grimaced, made a sound of disgust. "Christ help the country should that crowd ever get the government in their hands. What mean you to do?"
"I did write to York, telling the Lord Mayor and council that I'd uncovered a Woodville plot against my life, asking them for as many men-at-arms as they can muster. Dick Ratcliffe be taking my message north tomorrow. He's also to stop at Leconfield, to seek aid from Northumberland."
"That one's not likely to bestir himself until he be sure of the winning side," Howard said caustically, "but the men of Yorkshire will rally to your standard readily enough. They're not likely to reach London for a fortnight, though. Until then, what?"
"I've put Morton, Stanley, and Rotherham under surveillance. There be not much more I can do for the present, Jack. Except be very careful," Richard added dryly.
"Do you want me to tell Will?"
Richard hesitated; Will Hastings and John Howard had been friends for more years than Richard himself had been alive. "No, I don't, Jack. I've given it much thought, think it best if Will's not brought into this.
There's no reason for him to know, after all. The conspiracy's not directed against him; he'll be in no danger."
Howard was frowning. "Surely you've no doubts about Will?"
Richard shook his head. "Not Will, the woman he's sharing his bed with. We just cannot take the risk that Will might inadvertently let some-1 thing slip. For, while she spends her nights with Will, her days she does pass with Thomas Grey in sanctuary."
"I see your point. As besotted as Will seems to be about that Shore] woman, we couldn't be sure what he might tell her. He's acting like a I damned fool over her, more like a lovesick village lad than a man of two| score years and ten. But just try telling him that!"
Howard came to his feet. "Keep me advised, Dickon. And bear inl

mind that a conspiracy can be as volatile as gunpowder, wants only a spark to set it off. In the days to come, you look well to yourself."
"You needn't worry," Richard said, and his voice was suddenly grim. "Iintend to."
AFTER supper on Thursday, Richard retired to the solar with his secretary, John Kendall. But he found it hard to keep his mind on routine matters of correspondence. He'd had a disturbing talk with
Buckingham a few hours before, a talk he'd rather forget. Buckingham had pointed out a political reality
Richard was not yet ready to face. Before Stillington's disclosure could be made to the council, Edward's brother would somehow have to be secured from sanctuary. The danger was too great that he might be smuggled out, be used by unscrupulous men to foment rebellion.
Richard knew, of course, that Buckingham was right. The Scots might well choose to back a rival claimant to the English throne; James still bore a grudge for the English support given his brother, the
Duke of Albany. As for the French King, Richard knew he'd like nothing better than a chance to muddy
English political waters, and it would matter little to him that the boy's claim was tainted. Louis, after all, was the man who'd backed Warwick and Lancaster, the man who was even now giving financial aid to
Harry of Lancaster's Welsh half brother Jasper Tudor and his nephew, and only the most die-hard of
Lancastrians seriously contended that the Tudor claim to the throne was much more than wishful thinking.
But knowing Buckingham spoke pragmatic common sense did not make it any the more palatable for
Richard. For five days, he'd been trying to convince himself that he'd reached no decision as yet, that there was, indeed, a decision to be made. Buckingham had now made him see that time was running out.
Edward's coronation was just eleven days away. As soon as this new Woodville conspiracy was exposed, so, too, would Stillington's story have to be made public. And Richard had been forced to admit Buckingham was right, forced to admit he'd been deluding himself.
The choice was already made, had been from the moment Stillington found the courage to speak out. He would take the crown. He had to. It was the only way he could safeguard the future for those he loved.
And it was his by right. In the eyes of the Church, he was justified in so doing, oo why, then, did it give him so little ease of mind?
John Kendall had gone to answer a servant's summons. Reentering he he said, "Your Grace, might you spare some moments for Sir William Catesby? He says it be urgent."
Will Catesby was in his mid-thirties, Northamptonshire gentry, a

lawyer of some skill. Prior to his assuming the protectorship, Richard's contacts with Catesby had been confined to a few social occasions at Bolton Castle, for Catesby was Alison Scrape's son-in-law; he'd married her daughter by her first marriage. Richard did not know him all that well, but he'd recently appointed Catesby to the council, at the request of Will Hastings. Richard had been glad of the chance to oblige Will at so little cost, had found Catesby to have a shrewd, discerning intelligence. It wasn't hard to understand how he'd come to stand so high in Hastings's confidence, and Richard wondered if he were here on Hastings's behalf.
"Thank you for seeing me alone, Your Grace," Catesby murmured as Kendall discreetly retired from the room. "I know that be an unusual request, but what I have to say must be kept confidential." Catesby was visibly nervous; Richard could see sweat shining on his forehead, beading his upper lip.
"I know of no easy way to say this, Your Grace. There be a plot taking shape against you, one that will cost you not only the protectorship but your life. . . . Unless you do take measures to see to your safety."
Richard was startled, hoped it didn't show on his face. How had Catesby stumbled onto it?
"Go on," he said warily.
"They do call the French King the Universal Spider, but that name might better be given to Bishop
Morton. He and the Queen have spun between them a right sticky web, my lord. They've entangled in it
His Eminence, Archbishop Rotherham, and no less a lord than Thomas Stanley. And now . . . now they've even managed to win over the Lord Chamberlain, to win over my lord Hastings."
Richard stared at him. "God, no. . . ."
"This be very difficult for me. I be betraying a man I do respect, a man who has done much for me. But I
want no part of this, Your Grace. This be treason and I'll not-"
Richard stood up so abruptly that his chair rocked, tipped precariously. "Be sure of what you say. Be very sure. We've had the others under surveillance for three days, and not a one of them has met with
Hastings outside of council. So how then? Suppose you do tell me how?"
"So you did know!" Catesby was now on his feet, too. "The go- between was Jane Shore, my lord. For the past two days she has been taking messages from my lord Hastings to the Queen and Thomas Grey in sanctuary. No, Your Grace, there be no mistake. Lord Hastings did tell me himself what they mean to do, and what they intend be treason, plain and simple. The plan be to order your arrest, to crown
Edward as soon aspossible thereafter, and set up a regency council." He hesitated, then confessed, "There be much about this I don't understand, Your Grace. I know Lord Hastings and you have not been on good terms this month

past. I know, too, how deeply he does resent the Duke of Buckingham. But even so, I cannot see that alone goading him into seeking an accommodation with the Queen. My lord, have you any idea what might have driven him to this?"
"Yes." Richard's voice was very low; he sounded stunned. "Yes," he repeated, more audibly. "I do have a very good idea. ..."
"I TRUSTED him, Harry. God damn him to Hell, but I truly trusted him!"
"Cousin, I know you did, but that's neither here nor there. What we have to do now is decide what is to be done. And the sooner the better. With Hastings in the plot, that does tip the scales in their favor. We dare not wait for your northern supporters to reach London. If we do, they're likely to be just in time for the funeral."
"I expected no better from Stanley or Rotherham. But Will. . . . Jesus wept!"
The solar door was suddenly flung open. Francis looked shaken, flushed with some strong emotion.
"Dickon, have you heard what's happened? Thomas Grey has escaped from sanctuary!"
7
LONDON
June 1483
.
'ILL had at last fallen into a fitful sleep. In repose, his face showed every one of his fifty-two years, showed the strain of the past three days.
They had been bad days for Jane, too. She had not the temperament for conspiracy, found herself dwelling upon all that could go wrong, unable to shake off an uneasy foreboding. She hadn't wanted it to be like this, knew Will hadn't, either. Men like Morton thrived on intrigue; Tom, too, seemed in his element. But not Will. He was aging before her eyes,

sleeping little and eating less. Trying, she knew, to reconcile a troubled conscience to an alliance of expediency, to the bloodshed to come.
She leaned over, touched her lips to brown hair generously streaked with silver. Passing strange, but she'd never noticed before how grey Will was getting. Pray God she'd not wronged him. She liked Will so much, couldn't bear to be the instrument of his hurt. How haggard he looked, even in sleep. Almost as careworn and strained as he had on Monday night, when he'd shared with her Bishop Stillington's revelation, told her that Gloucester meant to claim the crown.
Never had she seen Will so upset as he'd been that night. He'd cursed Ned in language that would do justice to a bankside boatman, said he'd brought them all to ruin with his lusts and his overweening arrogance. Jane would normally have much resented such talk, but she had the wits to see that Will was not accountable for all he said, no more than was a man in his cups or one afire with fever. She'd done what she could to soothe him, listened sympathetically as he confessed his fears for the future.
Once Gloucester was King, he'd be maneuvered aside. There'd be no place for him in Gloucester's government. Buckingham would see to that, would want to be Gloucester's chief rr inister, would brook no rivals. And Gloucester would heed Buckingham. Gloucester thought he'd played Ned false, aided and abetted him in his carousing and thus brought him to an early grave. What had he in common with
Gloucester, after all? A man twenty-two years his junior, a man of northern affinities, of rigidly defined moralities. Ned had been the only bond between them, and now they were linked by nothing more substantial than memories.
Jane had gone the next morning to sanctuary, had gone to Tom. It was then that she became convinced that Bishop Stillington had spoken the truth. The look of horror on Elizabeth Woodville's face was to
Jane the most eloquent testimony that could be put forward in favor of the plight- troth. So, too, were
Elizabeth's hysterical denials. With each frenzied frantic word Elizabeth uttered, Jane's conviction grew that the plight-troth was, indeed, true, and Ned's son the victim of his father's sin.
Jane had never had much liking for Elizabeth, but she could find it in her now to feel pity for the other woman, a Queen for nigh on twenty years and now no more than a concubine in the eyes of the Church.
Her heart went out to young Edward, to Ned's other children, and when Tom asked her to help, she didn't hesitate.
At first, she'd had few qualms. She'd been able to win Will over with surprising ease. It was true, she conceded, that he and the Woodvilles were estranged by years of enmity. But if he could save the throne for Ned's son, that would count for all and the past for nothing. What better stepping-stones to greatness than a young King's gratitude? He'd be

Edward's mainstay, the first voice in council, his future as assured under the son as it had been under the father. And he'd be doing a great kindness, preventing a miscarriage of justice. Edward was an innocent, after all. Why should he suffer for wrongs that were not his?
It was only today that her certainty began to be clouded by doubts. The revelation of an ongoing conspiracy with Bishop Morton had come as a shock to Jane. How could Tom have kept that from her?
And he'd made several slighting remarks about Will that did not sit well with her. Will's support was crucial to the success of their scheme; it was not right to belittle him behind his back, did not augur well for the future.
But it was Will's unease of mind which did trouble her most. She'd begun to realize that Will cared for her much more deeply than she did for him. Had that made him more receptive to her pleas than he would otherwise have been? She didn't like to think so; that was a burden she was not willing to take upon herself, that Will might have been coaxed into conspiracy out of love for her. She reminded herself that it was his own political survival which did motivate him, his fear that he'd be shunted aside, stripped of the chamberlainship once Gloucester was King. But still it nagged at her peace of mind; however deep Will's discontent, would he have acted upon it were it not for her? And now he was committed, had thrown his lot in with the Woodvilles he so disliked, and his shadowed dark eyes held a baffled bewilderment, as if he were not sure how it had all come about.
Jane peeled the sheet back; it clung to her skin, sticky with sweat. Jesii, how hot it was! What would happen tomorrow morning at the council meeting? Would Will be able to carry it off, to face Gloucester as if nothing were amiss? Stray wisps of hair had escaped her night-plait, were tickling annoyingly against her neck. She brushed them back impatiently, sat up in the bed. She wished tomorrow weren't a Friday the thirteenth; a bad omen, that. If only she knew that Tom was safe, that he'd gotten well away from sanctuary. If only she could be sure that this was what Ned would have wanted her to do.
She had been sure of that... in the beginning. Ned had loved his son, would want to see him crowned.
But. . . but would he be willing that so many men must die that Edward might be King? It was that which gave Jane pause. She'd not fully realized before what the cost in men's lives would be. Others must die with Gloucester. Buckingham. Viscount Lovell. All those who stood closest to Gloucester, who might have been made privy to the secret of the plight-troth. Would Ned have wanted that? He'd loved his son, but he'd loved his brother, too. Would he have been willing to sacrifice Gloucester for the sake of
Edward's sovereignty?
She sighed. Why couldn't she care for Will as he cared for her? He was a good man, a decent man, and she could depend upon him, knew