The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (117 page)

alty for life to those who do deserve it, and Buckingham stood by him when it did count the most."
That, Ve"ronique couldn't argue with. She nodded, watched Buckingham make an ostentatious exit, trailed by so many retainers that the inner bailey seemed to have burst into bloom with the Stafford Knot.
"I wish," she said suddenly, "that your husband were not going to the Tower. I fear he'll regret it."
Anne looked at her. "So do I, Ve"ronique."
JOHN Argentine was the only one of the attendants chosen by Anthony Woodville who'd been allowed to remain with Edward. He greeted Richard with deference, but his eyes were not friendly, conveyed a resentment he dared not voice aloud.
"Your nephew is upstairs in the bedchamber, Your Grace. Be it your wish that I do summon him to you?"
"Yes, Doctor, it is," Richard said curtly, reacting in spite of himself to the other's unspoken hostility.
Finding himself alone in the room, Richard started to sit and then changed his mind. A game of draughts was spread out on the table, along with quill pens, paper, and several half-open books. They were not, Richard saw, books for children. Edward was apparently very well read for his age. But then, he was a
King's son, had been trained from birth for that day when he would wear a crown.
Richard moved abruptly to the window, unlatched it, and stared down into the constable's gardens below. So taut were his nerves that he spun around with a jerk when the door banged behind him.
Dickon was some three months younger than Richard's son Ned, but he was both taller and heavier, gave promise of having inherited his father's height. No less handsome a youngster than his brother, he now looked thoroughly bedraggled, muddy to the knees, his face grimy, his hair full of straw.
"Good God, Dickon! What have you been up to?"
At sound of Richard's voice, the boy jumped, looked around with a start. He was yanking on a long lead, pulling a resisting spaniel through the doorway. Now he let it go slack, said, "Uncle!" Sounding startled but not in the least alarmed, he carefully wiped his hands on his hanging shirttail, came forward to greet
Richard politely.
"I was down at the Lion Tower. They were feeding the big cats.
Huge chunks of raw meat like this. ..." He spread his hands wide.
"They let me throw a piece into the tiger's cage, but Robyn"-pointing to the spaniel-"Robyn was scared, kept whining as if he thought he was to be next on the menu!"

He leaned against the table, began to move the draughtsmen around, to pile them one upon the other until he had constructed a lopsided tower, watching Richard all the while. "Be you here to see Edward?"
"Yes."
"I'll bet he'll not want to see you, Uncle. He says you did mean from the first to steal his crown and murder our Uncle Anthony." This was said very matter-of-factly, was not an accusation, merely a statement of his brother's belief. The blue eyes regarding Richard were sharp with curiosity, showed no emotion other than interest in how Richard would respond.
"Yes," Richard said slowly, "I suppose he would think that. But it's not true, Dickon, could not be further from the truth. Do you believe me?" He realized at once that this was not a fair question to put to a child, but he saw, too, that it had been the right question, nonetheless, gave Dickon the opening he needed.
"I don't know what I believe anymore. Ever since Papa died, nothing makes sense. Papa named you
Lord Protector, so he couldn't have believed you'd take Edward's crown away from him. I know Mama never liked you, but Papa told me that you were the one man in Christendom he truly trusted. And Bess and Cecily trust you. Bess said it was silly for us to go into sanctuary, that there was no need."
Momentarily sidetracked, he confided now, "I hated it at the Abbot's lodging. There was nothing to do and Bridget got sick and cried all the time and Mama cried, too, but she wouldn't let us come out, not till
Bess and the Archbishop talked her into letting me join Edward last week."
He shot a quick look at Richard, saw that his uncle was listening with an attentiveness few adults had ever accorded him, and reassured, he felt free to admit, "I get so confused by it all, Uncle. And Edward be no help. He doesn't want to play or shoot at the butts, and all he wants to talk about is our Uncle
Anthony being executed and you taking the crown. Of course, it was his crown, so it hurts more for him, and he loved our Uncle Anthony while I... well, I didn't ever see him all that much. And then, too, I know
Papa always liked you much better than Uncle Anthony and I... I just get even more confused."
Richard could think of nothing to say. He reached out, brushed some of the straw from the boy's hair.
"I guess I don't look too neat, do I? Uncle. ... I want to ask you something. The Archbishop came to us yesterday, told us about Papa being plight-trothed to another lady before he married Mama. Edward says it's not true, but everyone else says it is, the Archbishop and Lord Howard and . . . well, what I
want to know is this. If Edward cannot be King, then I guess I cannot be Duke of York, either?"
"No," Richard said reluctantly. "No, lad, I fear not."

"That's what Lord Howard said, too, but . . . well, it's going to seem strange. And Edward had even more titles than me, Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester and Duke of Cornwall and I forget what else, and now to have none. ... It doesn't seem quite fair, Uncle. Maybe he wouldn't mind not being King so much if you could give him one of them back?"
Richard wanted nothing so much at that moment as to be able to give Dickon the assurance he sought.
But he couldn't bring himself to lie to the boy. "I cannot do that, Dickon. But you'll want for nothing, that I
do promise you."
Dickon was obviously hoping for more than that. He busied himself in adding more draughtsmen to the board, building battlements around his tower. "Edward says you mean to keep us here, like prisoners. I
told him I didn't believe that, but. . . But what is going to happen to us?"
That was a question Richard had often asked himself in the past fortnight. Could a place be made for them at his court? Dickon, maybe, but Edward? No, the boy was too bitter for that. Thank Christ Jesus he was still so young, young enough to be protected from the plots and intrigues of men who'd use him for self-serving ends. Perhaps by the time he was old enough to involve himself in such schemes, he'd have come to terms with the plight-troth, with his disinheritance. And if he didn't? Richard looked down unseeingly at the draughts board, thinking of Henry Tudor, thinking of Edouard of Lancaster. A
pretender's lot was not an easy one; it was a life of false hopes and great dangers. That was not a fate he wanted for his brother's son.
Dickon stirred uneasily. "Uncle? You have such a strange look. . . . Are you not going to answer me?"
"Yes, Dickon, of course I am," Richard said swiftly, cursing himself for letting the boy see his misgivings.
"As soon as I can make the necessary arrangements, I mean to send you and your brother north, to my castle at Sheriff Button. I think you'll be happy there, Dickon. The North be a fine place to grow to manhood."
Dickon considered. The prospect of living in Yorkshire was not an unpleasant one to him, and he nodded agreeably. "When? I can take my dog, can't I? What of my sisters? Will they come, too?"
Richard had no chance to respond, for at that moment Edward appeared in the doorway. Dr Argentine was behind him, had a supportive hand on Edward's shoulder; when the boy balked, the doctor propelled him gently forward into the room.
Edward's face was swollen, splotched with uneven color; he looked feverish, like one suddenly roused from sleep. He drew an audible breath, took a step toward Richard.
"What do you want?" His voice was high-pitched, tremulous,

sounded as if he were choking back tears, and Richard knew he'd made a grievous mistake.
"To talk to you, Edward, to tell you ..." Richard stopped. No one had ever looked at him with the hatred he now saw on his nephew's face.
"Tell me what . . . Uncle?" Edward all but spat the word. "That I should trust you? That you're sorry you stole my crown? Or maybe you want to tell me about my Uncle Anthony? Oh, yes, I know about that, too, know you've condemned him to death! Should I fear that, too? Or will you be content to let me keep my life now that you've taken my crown?"
Richard had gone very white, but he said nothing, made no attempt to defend himself. There was nothing, he knew, that Edward would believe.
"Murderer!" Edward's mouth had contorted with a rage indistinguishable from grief. "My uncle's blood be on your hands, and God curse you for it! God curse you-" His voice broke on a sob. He whirled and, jerking loose from Dr Argentine's restraining hand, fled back up the stairs.
"Edward!" Dr Argentine's cry was cut off by the slamming of the bedchamber door. Very slowly, he turned to face Richard.
"You must excuse the boy, Your Grace. He's been under a great strain, doesn't mean what he said." His voice was dispassionate, polite. Only his eyes gave him away, eyes that accused, judged, condemned. "Is it your wish that I fetch him back?"
Richard swallowed. "No," he said softly. "Let him be."
The chamber seemed to echo with Edward's sobs; in reality there was no sound but the clicking of draughtsmen as Dickon continued to stack them in precariously balanced columns. He looked from
Richard to the doctor and back to Richard again.
"I tried to tell you, Uncle," he said composedly, "that he'd not want to see you."

MINSTER O V E
July 1483
LJ MERGING from one of the ground-floor garderobes in the southwest tower, Francis caught his breath, dazzled by the beauty of the red-gold sky above his head. Even the river was ablaze, reflecting the flaming brilliance of the dying sun. He stood there for a time by the river wall, savoring the moment, and then walked slowly across the inner courtyard. Supper was to be later than usual that evening; trestle tables were being set up, draped in snowy linen cloth. His best silver plate was on display, polished to a blinding gloss, and the great hall had been swept clean, carpeted in a fresh layer of fragrant rushes. Everywhere he looked, Francis saw cause for satisfaction. Smiling, he moved toward the doorway behind the dais, passed through.
The chamber under the chapel was his favorite, a spacious well- proportioned room lit by three traceried windows, one of which was patterned with rose-tinted glass, and when Richard accepted his offer of hospitality, Francis had no difficulty in deciding which bedchamber should be set aside for Richard's use.
He'd hoped to find Richard alone, for they'd had little chance for private conversation since departing
Windsor ten days ago on the royal progress. He knew, though, that a King's time was not his own, and he was not surprised by what he found-a chamber full of familiar faces. Jack de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, the twenty-year-old son of Richard's sister Eliza, was lounging in one of the window seats, engaging in a three-way conversation with Dick Ratcliffe and Thomas Howard, John Howard's eldest son. John
Scrope and the young Earl of Huntingdon were passing the time in agreeable disagreement about the intention of the Scots, and Rob Percy was amusing himself by dazzling George's eight-year-old son with a sleight-of-hand involving walnut shells and dried beans; Edward's

eyes were growing progressively wider and Rob was laughing outright at the youngster's astonishment.
Against a far wall, Thomas Stanley was standing alone, isolated from the other men by more than distance.
In the midst of all this activity, Richard and John Kendall were sorting through a pile of letters that had been forwarded from London. Richard had one open in his hand; at sight of Francis, he smiled, said, "From my son. The fourth letter I've gotten from him in the past fortnight, and each one asks me the same question: When will we arrive in York?"
"And I'll wager the only answer that would satisfy him would be 'Yesterday/ Francis quipped, and
Richard laughed. He looked far better than he had in weeks, no longer like a man living on the edge of highly strung nerves, and Francis knew why. In the towns of Reading and Oxford, in the villages of the
Cotswolds, Richard had found a heartening welcome, found the enthusiasm for his kingship that
Londoners had lacked. And it would get better, Francis thought contentedly; Yorkshire would turn out for Dickon in numbers too great to count, would give him a welcome home that none would ever forget.
He smiled at the thought, started to express it aloud, when John Kendall straightened up, said with a gasp, "My liege, you'll never believe what we have here! A letter from Tom Lynom, your Solicitor, seeking your permission to marry that . . . that Shore harlot!"
All conversation ceased. Every man in the chamber was staring at Kendall, staring in disbelief.
"Let me see that!" Richard demanded incredulously. Scanning the letter, he shook his head in baffled wonderment. "Damned if he doesn't!"
"The man's besotted!" John Scrope sounded disgusted. "The King's Solicitor and Thomas Grey's doxy. .
. . The stupid ass, doesn't he realize he's putting his career to the torch?"
Dick Ratcliffe was frowning. "I know Lynom, and this isn't like him. He's just not a man to lose his head over a woman, especially a wanton like Jane Shore!"
"Say what you will about the woman, she draws men like flies to honey. And for the life of me," Richard confessed, "I cannot see why!"
Jack de la Pole stirred at that. "Speak for yourself, Uncle!" he said cheerfully, drew a laugh from all but
Thomas Stanley. Since Richard's coronation, Stanley had thrown himself into the role of a loyal and prudent councilor with all the zeal of a reformed heretic, and he addressed himself now to Richard with an earnestness that just missed being obsequious.
"Shall I draw up for Your Grace a list of lawyers qualified for Lynom's post?"

"No, I don't think that be necessary," Richard said coolly, hoping his dislike of Stanley didn't show too markedly.
Picking up Lynom's petition, he began to read it through again, as Francis nudged Rob Percy and murmured, "Fifty marks against that new grey gelding of mine that he does!"
"Done," Rob shot back instantly, and they shook hands with mock gravity.
Richard folded Lynom's petition, handed it back to John Kendall. He was trying to envision an unlikelier pairing than that of the serious self- contained Lynom and Jane Shore, the light-minded amoral butterfly.
He couldn't.
Ratcliffe was moved to intercede for his reckless friend. "He must love her beyond reason to risk so much for her."
"Yes," Richard agreed. "He must."
"What mean you to do?"
"I fear I'm not doing him a service, but if he wants her as badly as that..." Richard paused. "I suppose I
shall have to let him marry her," he said, and laughed at the astonishment so plainly written on their faces.
Francis laughed, too, and nudged Rob again.
"Pay me!" he said.
OCCASIONALLY just before a storm, there is a deceptively tranquil lull, a brief time in which the winds die down and the sky seems about to clear. Later, remembering Tom Lynom's lovesick request and
Richard's indulgent response to it, Francis would think of those laughter-filled moments as just such a lull, one that gave way all too soon to trouble, of a sort none of them could have anticipated.
The Duke of Buckingham had remained behind in London; it had been agreed beforehand that he was to rendezvous with Richard at Gloucester. There they were to separate, Buckingham riding on into Wales, Richard continuing north to Tewkesbury. Buckingham's arrival that night at Minster Lovell was unexpected, created some problems of accommodation, for he'd sent no word ahead. He demanded at once to be taken to Richard, despite the lateness of the hour, and as soon as they were alone, he told
Richard that his brother's sons had vanished from the Tower.
". . . AND so two servants slept in the lower chamber and one attendant up in the bedchamber with the boys. There were no other guards; after all, what need was there? The Tower itself was secure."
Buckingham was speaking faster than usual, seemed reluctant to