The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (123 page)

His eyes flew open, looked up at her without recognition, clouded with sleep and nightmare fears that had yet to yield to reality.
"You were having a bad dream, love." She stroked his hair, found it damp to the touch, saw now that he was drenched in sweat. "It must have been dreadful, your heart be pounding so. Do you remember what it was?"
Richard's breathing was slowing. He lay back on the pillows, said in a shaken voice, "It was so real, Anne. Not like a dream at all. It never is. ..."
"You've had it before?"
He nodded reluctantly, and she leaned over, kissed his forehead. "Sometimes it helps to talk about a bad dream, Richard, keeps it from coming back. Is it always the same?"
He nodded again. "More or less. In the dream I'm standing before a stairwell. It's dark below and I don't want to go down, but I do. The stairwell is pitch-black and very narrow; I have to grope my way down, one step at a time."
"Where are these steps, Richard? Do you know?"
"No, nothing ever looks familiar. The stairwell leads into an unlit deserted corridor. I call out but no one answers. I want to go back up the stairs but I know I can't, so I start down the corridor. And the further
I go, Anne, the more uneasy I become. I have this . . . this foreboding, and it gets stronger and stronger.
..."
There was something deeply disquieting about this dream of Richard's; Anne suddenly knew she didn't want to hear any more, but forced herself to ask, "What happens then?"
"I keep going down the corridor, fighting this feeling, this fear. . . . And then the corridor turns and I'm standing before a little chapel. There are priests inside and people garbed in mourning, but when I enter they all ignore me, as if . . . as if I have no right to be there."
"Oh, Richard. . . ."
"As I come forward, the people move away from me and I see before the altar . . . two small coffins.
Children's coffins. And I know then that this is what I feared to find. I take a step forward and then another, knowing what I'll see . . . my brother's sons. And they're lying there, in these pitifully barren little coffins, and suddenly I understand. The little boys in the coffins . . . they aren't Ned's sons, Anne; they're mine."
richard pushed his chair back from the table, looked at the men gathered about him. Thomas Barowe, his
Master of the Rolls. John Kendall, his secretary, a man who'd served him loyally for nigh on ten years.
The eloquent Welshman, Morgan Kidwelly, his Attorney General. His eyes lin

gered longest on Will Catesby. He owed Catesby much, and one of his first official acts had been to appoint him Chancellor of the Exchequer. Richard was well pleased with his performance so far; a skilled lawyer, Catesby was proving himself to be an able administrator as well. He stood an excellent chance of being chosen as Speaker of the Commons when it met next month, and Richard expected him to be a great help in pushing his legislative program through parliament.
The last man in attendance upon him this Tuesday night in late December was his Solicitor, Thomas
Lynom. Lynom had dutifully delayed his marriage until Richard's arrival back in London in late
November, but as soon thereafter as the banns could be posted, he'd made Jane Shore his wife. Richard still thought Lynom had made a fool's choice, but he had to admit the man fairly glowed with contentment these days. He was even managing to endure with equanimity those ribald jests that are the bane of any newlywed's existence, and Lynom had never been noted for his sense of humor.
Lynom was speaking now with considerable enthusiasm of the statutes they were drafting for presentation to parliament. Richard listened with a smile, for he shared Lynom's enthusiasm, was looking forward to his first parliament. It would, he thought, be a blueprint for his reign, an indicator of the spirit in which he meant to rule. He and his councilors had been working for days now on a series of statutes meant to curb abuses of property law, and he planned to sponsor others that would prevent an accused man's property from being forfeited prior to conviction and would make bail more widely available for indictable offenses. Meanwhile, an act to be known as Titulus Regius was being drawn up to confirm his title to the crown, to formally recognize Ned as the Heir- Apparent, and Bills of Attainder were to be brought against the men who'd taken part in Buckingham's rebellion.
Of all the statutes he meant to put before parliament, Richard was proudest of the one that stated "The subjects of this realm shall not be charged with benevolences nor any like charge." It was the one that had stirred the most controversy among his own advisers. Although Buckingham's rebellion had collapsed, Richard had still been forced to put an army in the field, and the cost had been considerable, placed a heavy strain upon a treasury already depleted by Thomas Grey's plundering. Richard had to pledge silver plate as security for loans; some he'd soldoutright to London's goldsmiths, and his proposed ban on benevolences met with predictable opposition.
Catesby in particular was unwilling to see Richard foreclose one ofhis financial options. He didn't quarrel with Richard's contention that be-; nevolences were a form of extortion, merely pointed out gloomily that the ;|

day might well come when Richard would have to resort to those forced "gifts" just as his brother had done.
Richard had prevailed, however, meant to propose to parliament an act providing that such involuntary donations be "damned and annulled forever." Nor had he had any qualms about his decision. Such an act was not only right and just, it was a shrewd political move, one he hoped would go far toward reassuring his subjects that he did not mean to rule by fear or coercion. And perhaps . . . perhaps in time the murmurings of approval would drown out the whispering, divert attention from that utter and unnatural silence that had descended over the Tower, where his brother's sons supposedly dwelt but were no longer seen.
Thomas Barowe was gathering up the papers spread out on the table, stuffing them into a large leather pouch. Chairs scraped in the floor rushes as the men came to their feet, flexing cramped muscles and remembering that supper was hours past.
"Will that be all for tonight, Your Grace?" Thomas Lynom asked hopefully, and Morgan Kidwelly gave him a playful nudge, shook his head in feigned pity.
"Poor Tom, with a hard night's work still lying ahead of him at home!"
Lynom joined good-naturedly in their laughter, but stopped abruptly when Catesby jibed, "You'd best be off, Tom. You'd not be wanting your bride to get lonely, would you?"
In view of Jane's dubious past, it was a singularly ill-chosen jest, and the other men were relieved when
John Kendall deftly piloted the conversation off the shoals and back into safe water.
"I truly hate to tell you this, Your Grace, but there still be petitioners waiting without." He made a mock grimace. "I vow some of them have been out there so long their faces have become as familiar to me as those of my own family!"
"Is there anyone I needs must see tonight? Tom isn't the only one with a wife waiting for him, after all,"
Richard said, and laughed. Laughter that froze on his lips with Kendall's next words.
"There be those come to plead with you again on behalf of your late sister's husband, Thomas St Leger."
Richard's face hardened. "St Leger was tried for his part in the rebellion before John Scrope at special assize in Torrington last month. Tried and found guilty of high treason. He doesn't deserve clemency, nor will he get it, not from me."
Catesby had been listening with a frown; St Leger's friends had offered a not inconsiderable sum to have his death sentence commuted. "They hoped you might be merciful in memory of your sister. ..."

"My sister is seven years dead, and memories of her did not keep St Leger from seeking to bring about my defeat and death . . . did they?"
There was, of course, no answer Catesby could give; his shoulders twitched slightly, a gesture of concession.
Kendall had not expected Richard to relent; Thomas St Leger he knew to be hand in glove with Thomas
Grey. Having already taken it upon himself to warn St Leger's partisans that he doubted the King would hear their petition, he said impassively, "Shall I tell them, then, that you'll not see them?"
Richard nodded. "Tell them," he said curtly, "that the verdict stands."
"If you can spare a few minutes, Your Grace, there is one, however, whom I thought you might wish to see. ..."
"Who?"
"Katherine Stafford, Duchess of Buckingham."
Richard hesitated. He could think of no reason why he should grant an audience to the woman who was
Buckingham's widow, Elizabeth's sister. But he'd come to respect Kendall's judgment.
"You think I should see her, John?"
"Yes, Your Grace, I do. She's . . . well, she's not what you'd expect." And with that cryptic remark, Kendall was content to wait for Richard's response, knowing he'd virtually guaranteed her entry.
"Five minutes," Richard said grudgingly. "No more than that."
Kendall smiled and moved toward the door. "There is one thing more," he said over his shoulder. "She wants to see you alone."
RICHARD had seen Katherine Stafford only a half-dozen or so times, if even that, and those brief encounters had taken place years before, whenthey both were still in their teens; Buckingham had kept her secluded at Brecknock for much of their married life. He was startled now by the beauty of the woman being ushered into the chamber. She looked to be I about his own age, thirty or thirty-one, was visibly nervous. As fair in col Of ring as her celebrated sister, hers was a softer, more muted appeal.;;
There was an unexpected vulnerability about her, shadows of past pain inl the downward curve of her mouth, in the lack of assurance so surprising1! in a woman blessed with such beauty.
Coming forward, she made a deep curtsy before him, more submisal sive than he would have expected from Elizabeth's sister.
She wasn't in mourning, and Richard was somewhat surprised byj that. Even if the marriage hadn't been a happy one, she'd still beera Buckingham's wife for nigh on seventeen years, had borne him five chilf

dren, and few widows scorned altogether the conventions of mourning, no matter how little-lamented their late husbands had been.
"Madame," he said, and gestured toward a chair, thus freeing her to sit in his presence.
"I. . .I'd rather stand, Your Grace." Her voice was almost inaudible, sounded as if she couldn't quite catch her breath, but whether that was nerves or her normal speaking pattern, he couldn't tell.
"I wish to thank you for paying my husband's debts for me, and for offering to provide me with a yearly grant of two hundred marks."
Was this why she'd wanted to see him? Surely she must have known he'd neither want nor expect her gratitude? "My brother often provided pensions for the families of men attainted," he said quietly.
"Yes," she persisted, "but I am more than a rebel's widow. I am a Woodville, too, and that makes your generosity to me and my children all the more unlooked-for. ..."
What had she expected, that he'd have turned them out to starve? Resentment flickered, faded. What else could he expect her to think, after all? She was Elizabeth's sister.
"Was this why you wanted to see me?"
"No. I... I have a favor to ask of Your Grace. I want to visit my sister in sanctuary. Will you permit it?"
Richard nodded. "I'll tell Nesfield to admit you, any time you wish," he said, was surprised when she made no move to go.
"Be there anything else?"
"I. . . No. No. . . ."But still she didn't move.
Richard waited, and then reached for the bell to summon Kendall back. To his astonishment, Katherine leaned across the table, slid it out of his reach. Their fingers touched; hers were like ice, and even in so brief a contact, he could feel her trembling.
"No, wait. . . please. There is something else, something I must ask you." Her voice was tremulous, had taken on an emotional intensity that riveted Richard's eyes upon her. But he was not prepared for what was coming.
She swallowed. "I think ... I believe . . . that my sister's sons are dead, that Harry had them put to death.
And you alone can tell me if it's so."
Richard had frozen in his chair. Katherine's face was very close to his, her eyes a misted sea-green, her lashes fringed with tears. He watched one break free, roll down her cheek and, after a timeless span, splash upon his wrist.
"I see," she whispered, and straightened up, very slowly. "I think I'd ... I'd like to sit down after all. ..."

Their eyes still held; neither one could look away. "He actually admitted it to you?" Richard asked at last.
Katherine shook her head. "No . . . not in so many words. It was . . . I'm sorry, but I... I wasn't sure I'd have the nerve to ask you. Not until I heard myself saying it aloud. . . . Thank you for not lying to me.
Thank you for that."
"Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have," Richard said tiredly. "You had to see the truth in my face." How strange to be able to talk so candidly with this woman, a woman he didn't know and had no reason to trust. Except that she knew the truth. "Harry had them put to death," she'd said, said with tears wet on her face, tears for Dickon and Edward.
After a pause, Katherine nodded. "You're right; it did show in your face. Just as . . . as it did in Harry's."
She seemed calmer, was no longer twisting her hands together in her lap. "I think I knew . . . knew as soon as Harry got back to Brecknock that something was wrong. Never had I seen him so excited. But it was a queer kind of excitement; he was high-strung, edgy, like a man who's gambling and winning, but with more and more riding on each throw of the dice. He wouldn't tell me anything, of course; he rarely did. But it wasn't hard to figure out that something momentous was afoot. Bishop Morton had been sent to Brecknock under guard in June, and of a sudden he was being treated like an honored guest, was closeted with Harry for hours on end. And when I overheard Harry dispatching a messenger! with a secret letter for Reginald Bray, Lady Stanley's steward . . . well, it i| all fell into place.
"I confronted Harry with my suspicions, demanded to know if hej was plotting with Morton and Lady
Stanley to put Henry Tudor on the! throne. I argued that he mustn't do this, that if he was to become in4|
volved in rebellion, it must be on-" She stopped suddenly, staring Richard in dismay.
Richard had no difficulty in guessing why. She had just been at to admit she'd urged rebellion on
Edward's behalf, and however natura her loyalties, they were also treasonous.
"You told him he should be acting for Edward?" he suggeste matter-of-factly, and reassured, she nodded.
"But when I did, he just laughed at me, said that before there could be a rising for Edward, there would have to be a resurrection. And when! didn't understand, he told me that Edward and Dickon were dead, tokj me that they'd died at your command."
Richard said nothing, but Katherine read the accusation in his eye and flushed.
"Yes," she said defensively. "I did believe him ... at first. shouldn't I?"