The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (116 page)

priest. With unusual unanimity, the council accepted Buckingham's offer, consigned Morton to his custody.
The real problem was what to do about Lord Stanley. Now that all involved in the plot had been arrested and interrogated, it seemed that the evidence against Stanley was more circumstantial than otherwise.
Stanley had been in suspiciously close contact with Morton during the past fortnight, but apparently he hadn't committed himself all that fully to the plot. Or if he had, no evidence of it had so far been unearthed. That his wife was involved, there was no doubt, but Stanley himself remained an enigma. Had he been clever enough to shelter himself behind his wife, using her as an intermediary so that he could then disavow his own involvement should the need arise? Or had she been acting on her own? She was, all agreed, quite capable of it and then some!
Margaret Beaufort was Stanley's second wife. It was a marriage that had raised both eyebrows and suspicions, for Stanley's controversial new wife was a woman whose loyalties were irrevocably pledged in blood to the fallen House of Lancaster. She was a Beaufort, first cousin to the Duke of Somerset executed after the battle of Tewkesbury, and when she was only twelve, Harry of Lancaster had married her to his Welsh half brother Edmund Tudor. The following year, she'd given birth to a son, named Henry in honor of his royal uncle. He was now a man in his mid- twenties, had lived for several years under the protection of the Duke of Brittany. With the death of Prince Edouard on Tewkesbury's Bloody Meadow, this son of Margaret Beaufort and Edmund Tudor suddenly became a figure of some significance, for in his veins now ran all that remained of the blood of Lancaster. It was not surprising, therefore, that the
French King evidenced an intense interest in luring him to France. Edward, too, had showed himself eager to get his hands upon this last scion of the House of Lancaster, but the Duke of Brittany was no less quick to see the advantages in having so valuable a political pawn. So Tudor lived in exile at the court of Brittany, while his mother took as her second husband Sir Henry Stafford, an uncle of the Duke of Buckingham. And now she was wed to Stanley, and the men gathered in the Tower Council Chamber on this sixteenth day of June were asking themselves if Stanley was her willing collaborator or her unwitting dupe.
"Your Grace. ..." Bishop Russell leaned across the table toward Richard. "I truly don't know how deep was Lord Stanley's involvement, whether he was in collusion with Morton or whether he be guilty of no more than a lapse of judgment, an inability to control his wife. And because I don't know, I feel we should give him the benefit of the doubt. The evidence be too ambiguous to allow of any other interpretation."
Buckingham was frowning, seemed on the verge of protesting. But

most of the other faces around the table reflected Russell's uncertainty. If excuses could be found for
Stanley, they'd be much relieved. The shock of Hastings's abrupt execution had not yet worn off. That
Richard could understand. Could understand all too well.
He nodded briefly. He didn't want to fight the council on this, didn't want to argue for more bloodshed.
Stanley wasn't worth it. Why not show him the mercy a better man than he had been denied? Richard found himself staring out the window. Below, Tower Green was still, dappled in sun and shade, and for several moments he watched the way the light patterned the grass, foreshadowing dusk. Sand had been strewn about with a lavish hand, had blotted up the blood that three days past had soaked the ground in a river of red. Richard swallowed, looked away.
"Well, that does account for Rotherham, Stanley, and Morton," Richard's brother-in-law the Duke of
Suffolk said briskly. "All that must be done, then, is to bring a Bill of Attainder against Hastings when parliament does meet-"
"No," Richard said, so sharply that all heads turned in his direction. "I'm not going to attaint Hastings."
Suffolk was taken aback. "That be most magnanimous to his family, but we're talking about a considerable sum of money. Hastings was a very wealthy man, and the confiscation of his estates would help fill the coffers emptied when the Woodvilles raided the treasury. ..."
"I do not intend to attaint Hastings," Richard repeated tersely. "I'll not have his widow and children pay the price for his treason." And the tone of his voice precluded further argument. There was a sudden silence, broken by Buckingham.
"There remains one matter still to be decided, my lords. Once before we voted on whether to charge
Anthony Woodville and Grey with treason. At Bishop Morton's urging, the charge was voted down.
Well, we know now that he had an ulterior motive in so doing, was hand in glove with the Woodville
Queen. I would suggest therefore, that we do vote again."
Buckingham paused, waited to see if any meant to argue with him. None did. Richard glanced around the table, saw that all eyes were upon him, that this decision was to be his to make. He could see that
Anthony Woodville and Dick Grey paid with their lives for Elizabeth Woodville's treachery. Or he could accord them mercy he did not believe they deserved.
"My lord Buckingham speaks for me in this," he said grimly. "I would have them charged with treason."
The vote that followed was an affirmation of Richard's will. Anthony Woodville, Dick Grey, and Thomas
Vaughn were condemned in less time

than it took to make a circuit of the table, to have each man voice his aye or nay.
Buckingham pushed his chair back; his eyes sought Richard's. Richard nodded, and Buckingham smiled.
"And now, my lords," he said, "Dr Stillington does want to address the council. He has a confession to make, one you'll be most interested in hearing. That I can promise you."
1 0
LONDON
June 1483
ON June 22, Friar Ralph Shaa, the brother of London's current Lord Mayor, mounted the pulpit steps of
Paul's Cross, and before a hushed, expectant crowd, began to speak. He'd chosen as his sermon the biblical text, "Bastard slips shall not take root," and in the glare of summer sunlight, he revealed to the people of London the details of the secret plight-troth that Bishop Stillington had six days ago brought before the council.
There was little surprise; the city had been afire with rumors for days. Some rejoiced. Others, the cynical and those who'd hoped to enrich themselves in the chaos of a minority reign, scoffed at the plight-troth as a contrivance, a fable concocted to legitimize Richard's usurpation of his nephew's crown. But for the most part, Londoners accorded Richard a cautious approval. He was a man grown, a man of proven abilities, with a reputation for honesty and fair-dealing, while Edward was an untried youngster, Anthony
Woodville's pupil and protege". There was sympathy for Edward, but the paramount reaction was one of relief; memories had not yet dimmed of the troubled times England had endured under the last boy King.
Three days later, a joint session of the Lords and Commons met at Westminster and unanimously approved a petition setting forth Richard's

claim to the crown. The following afternoon, a delegation of nobles, clergy, and citizens gathered at
Baynard's Castle. There, twenty-two years before, a similar delegation had offered the crown to
Richard's brother; it was now offered to Richard. He accepted and dated the beginning of his reign from that Thursday, June 26.
ANNE was standing in the middle of the bedchamber, not liking what she saw. There was an oversize feather bed with richly stitched coverlets, a Flemish carpet of brightly woven gold and green, and the walls were hung with expensive arras, but the room lacked the sunlit windows and soaring ceiling of her bedchamber at Crosby Place. Baynard's Castle had been built some three hundred years earlier, built for defense, and no matter how luxurious the furnishings, it could not compare in comfort to their house on
Bishopsgate Street.
And yet this room held many memories for her. It was in this bed that she and Richard had consummated their marriage on a warm April night eleven years ago. "Eleven years," she whispered, and shook her head in wonderment. Without warning, tears filled her eyes.
"Anne?" Veronique was looking at her with concern she couldn't conceal. "Anne, would it help to talk? . .
. ." She stopped, seeing then the small coffer lying open on the table; it contained the soft linen cloths
Anne used as napkins for her monthly flux. She understood and felt a sharp pang, so closely could she identify with Anne's disappointment. Anne had confided that she was two weeks late, and although she'd acknowledged that it was too early to hope, Veronique knew she had, nonetheless.
"I'm sorry, cherie," she said simply.
"No, Veronique, there's no need. I'm to be blessed with but the one son. It's time I accepted that as
God's will and stopped breaking my heart over what cannot be." Anne's words were brisk, matter-of-fact, carried no conviction. Closing the coffer lid, she put it down on the floor, out of sight.
"I couldn't help hoping, though," she admitted. "To have a child now, Veronique, now of all times. ... It truly would have been a gift from God, a holy sign that Richard was right in taking the crown. And I think had I been with child, I would not have minded so much then ..." She didn't finish the sentence, but
Veronique did it for her.
"Being Queen? Ah, Anne. Anne, don't look so surprised. After thirteen years, do you not think I know your heart, your mind?"
"Richard mustn't ever know!" Anne warned, and at once wished she hadn't. Veronique would be the last one on earth to betray her secrets. "Forgive me, I know you'd never share a confidence. It's just that

don't want Richard to know I do feel this way, that I can take no happiness in the thought of queenship.
That I ache so for Middleham, for the life that was ours. ..."
The sympathy on Veronique's face was dangerous, was an invitation to self-pity. Anne drew a deep breath, said very evenly, "Nor have I the right to complain. You see, Veronique, I did all that I could to convince Richard he must take the crown."
"What choice had you, Anne?" Veronique had wandered to the window. She knew that Richard was formally handing over the Great Seal to Chancellor Russell and she said now, "The meeting's done.
Chancellor Russell is coming out with Bishop Stillington and the others. And there's . . ." She hesitated, finding it strange to refer to Richard as "the King," and yet no longer comfortable in making free use of his given name. She compromised upon "... your husband," and said to cover her confusion, "He's leaving?
It's nigh on four; where goes he so close to supper?"
"To the Tower," Anne said reluctantly. "To see his nephew."
"Oh." A long pause. "Do you . . . think that wise?"
Anne looked up, slowly shook her head. "No, I do not. But Richard felt he did owe Edward that much."
Veronique said nothing, but the look on her face spoke volumes. After a few moments, Anne joined her at the window. The Duke of Buckingham was now below in the inner bailey, too, but Anne watched only
Richard.
"Richard's brother was a controversial King, Veronique. Many men did hate him, and he was often lied about, accused by his enemies of evils he hadn't done. He was blessed, though, in that he was truly indifferent to such slander. You see, he didn't care what others thought of him, and that did save him so much grief. He just didn't care," Anne repeated, sounding almost incredulous, as if marveling at a phenomenon that passed understanding.
"But Richard does care," Veronique said, and Anne nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Richard does."
Veronique turned her eyes away from Anne's troubled face, back toward the activity below in the inner bailey. She was thinking of the local gossip. Once the danger of the Hastings-Morton conspiracy was past, Richard had sent word to York to delay the departure of troops for the capital. He had wanted to be sure there'd be no question of intimidation, that none could say his claim to the crown rested upon the presence of his troops in the city. Yet Veronique knew that in any tavern or alehouse, she could find men tipsily certain that Richard had meant from the first to lay claim to his nephew's crown.
The truth never quite catches up with hearsay and rumor, she

thought, and sighed. London had ever been fertile ground for gossip, but she'd never seen the city so rife with rumors, not even at the time of George's downfall. There'd even surfaced again the slander that for twenty years had muddied the House of York, the calumny that Edward had been a bastard, born of the
Duchess of York's dalliance with an archer in Rouen. Richard had been infuriated, had no more luck in tracking down the source of this scandalmongering than had his brother, and impulsively insisted that
Anne move their household from Crosby Place to his mother's residence at Baynard's Castle. A gesture, Veronique thought, one that only inconvenienced Anne and showed how vulnerable Richard was to idle tavern-talk.
"I know he's not accustomed to having men question his motives, Anne, but I fear he must learn to expect that from now on. That be the ugly underside of kingship."
"Yes," Anne said bleakly. "I know."
Glancing back toward the bailey, Veronique saw that Richard had gone, but Buckingham still lingered.
He was, she thought grudgingly, a man to draw all eyes, like some exotic flower long neglected and now flourishing in the light of public acclaim. Such plants must be watched with care, though; too often they did sprout up so greedily that they crowded all surrounding shrubs into the shade. But she had to admit the man had a flair for calling attention to himself. Had he not taken Will Hastings's servants into his own household within hours of Hastings's death? That was the sort of dramatic, flamboyant gesture the
Kingmaker himself might have envied. How he must have resented the late King for so long denying him his place in the sun, Veronique thought, and blurted out, "Francis thinks that Buckingham might have been responsible for the resurgence of that preposterous tale alleging your lady mother-in-law to've been an unfaithful wife."
Seeing Anne frown, she made haste to say, "We're not impugning his loyalty, Anne; Francis would be the first to concede that he has been steadfast in support of Richard. But he is a man of overweening pride and he had no reason to love Richard's brother, the late King. I do not think he would be sorry to see
Edward's name besmirched, in truth I don't."
"Francis doesn't like Buckingham," Anne said challengingly, but Veronique refused to take the bait.
"No," she agreed easily, "he doesn't. Do you, Anne?"
Anne didn't answer at once. "I do owe him my husband's life," she said at last, "owe a debt that can never be repaid. But no, Veronique. No, I do not like him."
Veronique had to ask. "Does Richard?"
"I don't know," Anne said thoughtfully. "I doubt whether it would ; ever occur to Richard to ask himself that question. Richard gives his loy-