The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (130 page)

lashes, streaking her face in a desolate trail of grief she could no longer deny.
She struggled to keep her breathing even, regular, so Richard would not know she wept, but then she felt his mouth against her eyelids, her lashes, the wetness on her face. She knew she should stop him, should not let him do this, knew Dr Hobbys would never forgive her, but she couldn't turn away from him, couldn't refuse this wordless attempt at comfort, the only kind he now knew how to give. Surely God would not punish her for this, for letting him hold her one last time, and she lay very still, feeling his breath warm on her skin, his heartbeat thudding against her ear. She did remember in time, though, to avert her face just enough so that he could not kiss her mouth. After a long time, her tears ceased. He continued to hold her close, but he didn't speak; neither did she.
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LONDON
January 1485
IL
LPON her departure from sanctuary, Elizabeth had leased a manor house in the Essex village of
Waltham Holy Cross, twelve miles north of London. Cecily was no longer in residence, having joined
Bess at their uncle's court, and Elizabeth's household consisted only of her three younger daughters, her sister Katherine and Catherine's children, and a modest staff to serve their needs. There was comfort in
Elizabeth's new life, but no contentment, and it was that which impelled her to embark upon a mission of such risk.
The two servants selected to escort her into London exchanged startled glances as she emerged from the house, swathed in a widow's dark veil and barbe. It made sense to them, though, that she should not wish to be recognized; her daughters were much pitied by Londoners for their fall from grace, but few found pity to spare for Elizabeth, who was now

reaping what she'd sown during twenty years of careless arrogance, self- indulgent tempers.
Elizabeth waited as her mare was brought up and then pulled a deep mourning hood up over her head so that her face was almost completely hidden. Satisfied, she let her groom help her mount, and they moved out.
They rode into the churchyard of St Paul's in midafternoon. Dispatching one man to watch over their horses, Elizabeth instructed the other to await her in the cloisters, and then entered the church. Crossing the nave, she slipped out the Si Quis door, hastened into Paul's Alley. Even if her servant should disobey her and seek her within, his failure to find her should not arouse suspicion. Today was the Feast of the
Epiphany and St Paul's was crowded to capacity; Elizabeth had chosen her time with care.
Within a few minutes she found herself walking briskly up Ivy Lane, passing the gateway leading into
Lovell's Manor, the London town house of Richard's Lord Chamberlain. None of the passersby gave her so much as a second glance, but her heart was beating uncomfortably fast; never before had she been on her own in London, unaccompanied even by servants. Pray God she'd not regret it!
For the first time she began to wonder if the risk be worth the gain. Her life was not unpleasant now, after all. Her needs were being met, and her daughters were being honorably treated at Richard's court; in that, he'd more than kept his word. So why, then, hazard what she already had for what might never be, trade substance for shadowy promise? If Richard was to learn of her continued involvement with Tudor, if he was to learn of this meeting today ... It was true that she could better afford to indulge in treason than most. Not only was she safe from the axe, it was highly unlikely she'd ever see the inside of a prison cell; Richard would spare her that for the sake of her daughters. But he could choose a more subtle confinement, could shut her up within the walls of a convent, and Elizabeth had no desire to take the veil, to see her world shrink to such dreary dimensions. Convents were for the overly devout and the utterly defeated, and she was neither.
She gasped suddenly as the stench of gutted entrails and offal assailed her nostrils, hastily clasped a handkerchief to her nose and mouth until she was safely past Pentecost Lane with its slaughterhouses and butchers' stalls. Jesu, how did the people living nearby endure the stink?
The street was filthy, the air foul, and Elizabeth's footsteps slowed; she seriously considered turning back.
What chance had Tudor to defeat Richard on the field? For all his pretensions, what was the Welshman but an adventurer in exile?
Ahead lay her destination, a seedy inn just across from the precincts

of St Martin le Grand. She paused, staring up at the tilted sign reading THE BULL'S HEAD. The paint was peeling, the wood weathered, the general appearance one of desolation and decay.
Lady Mary, but it looked little better than a brothel! How could she set foot in such a hovel? This was for
Tom to do. So where was he when she did need him most? His fault, damn him, all his fault. When she'd written to him, telling him that Richard had agreed to pardon him and urging him to return home to
England, why hadn't he the common sense to just slip away under cover of night? But no, he'd had to babble goodbyes to his latest bedmate, and of course the girl hadn't been long in deciding the information might be worth something to Tudor. Tudor's men had overtaken Tom at Compiegne, "persuaded" him to return to the French court, and since then he'd been watched like a hawk, treated with all due courtesy, but as a hostage, withal. Elizabeth wasn't unduly concerned about Tom's physical safety; Tudor could scarcely hope to win Woodville support by harming her son. But it had been a needless blunder on
Tom's part, and she had yet to forgive him for it.
A gust of wind caught her cloak and she shivered. There was no going back. No matter how generously
Richard treated her daughters, they were at his court now only at his sufferance, branded as bastards by the parliamentary act that recognized his right to the throne. And for herself, there was nothing. ... To be
Lady Grey again, when for nigh on twenty years she'd been Queen of England? No, by God, she'd not settle for that. Tudor had sworn a public oath that he'd make Bess his Queen, and that was worth the gamble. Well worth it. She crossed the street, entered the courtyard of the inn.
A servant was watching for her; he at once ushered her through a side door, up a narrow flight of stairs.
The room was small, shabbily furnished, reeked of tallow and sweat and stagnant air. The man waiting within was of medium height, in his late forties, with a slight paunch and reddish-gold hair receding back from his temples, thinning but untouched by grey.
His eyebrows rose at sight of her mourning attire. "My compliments, Madame," he drawled. "You look the very image of a grieving widow of modest means. I can find but one small flaw in your disguise; if you mean to be taken for a mere knight's widow, your barbe should be worn under the chin . . . should it not?"
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "What a fool Richard was," she said, "to have ever pardoned you!"
Reginald Bray laughed. "I daresay others do agree with you! I was fortunate in being cousin to Katherine
Hastings, even more fortunate in that Gloucester heeded her entreaties on my behalf. Passing strange,

wouldn't you say? It's not often that the widow of a man executed for treason can expect to have the
King's ear, after all. ... Conscience pangs perchance?"
Elizabeth jerked back her hood. "I'd rather not waste time with trivialities. If I may get right to the point of this meeting?"
"By all means . . . Madame." Bray grinned, and the irony in his voice brought a surge of angry blood up into Elizabeth's face.
"It's been more than a year since Henry Tudor swore a solemn oath before the High Altar in the cathedral at Rennes that he meant to make my daughter his Queen. I want you to tell me if he does mean to stand by that vow."
"What makes you think he wouldn't?"
"Anne Herbert," Elizabeth said flatly, saw him react to the name.
"Who?"
"I thought we agreed not to waste time," she snapped. "You know who I mean. The woman's kindred have considerable influence in Wales, do they not? Rumor has it that Tudor's made overtures to the family, that there be talk of marriage. I should like you, Master Bray, to tell me why."
"How did you hear about Anne Herbert?" Bray said sourly. "Your son, I suppose?"
"Hardly. Tom's not exactly in Tudor's confidence these days. No, it happens that there are many among
Tudor's followers who feel his interests could best be served by marriage with my daughter. Just as there are those," Elizabeth said pointedly, "who would do what they could to sabotage such an alliance. And now that we've cleared that up, perhaps you'd like to explain why a man who did publicly pledge to wed
Bess suddenly seems to be on the verge of changing his mind?"
"I daresay your daughter remains his first choice, Madame; he's well aware that many do feel she was treated rather shabbily, would welcomesuch an alliance as a true reconciliation of the Houses of
Lancaster and York. But Henry Tudor is a pragmatic man, and if the girl is no longer | . . . available, well then, it's to be expected that he'd look elsewhere, seek I to make a match no less advantageous."
"And what makes you think that Bess is no longer available? Did I not assure Tudor that I'd be able to gain her consent to the marriage? Bess | has a strong sense of family, will do what's expected of her.
Assuming, of] course, that Tudor does what's expected of him, and claims the crown in more than name.
Lest you forget, Richard of Gloucester be the one sleeping nights at Westminster and has for these past eighteen months. I| should think," she said sarcastically, "that Richard would be Tudor's | greatest concern!"
"All in good time." Bray moved to the window, reassured himself| that the street traffic below was normal.

Elizabeth couldn't resist. "Seeing shadows, Master Bray?" she mocked, saw her dart hit home.
"You surprise me, Madame," he said icily. "For a woman so well informed about the workings of Tudor's inner circle, you seem woefully ignorant of what be taking place right here in Westminster under your nose."
"Such as?"
"It's been how many months since your daughter came back to court . . . nine? Ten? Not being there yourself, perhaps you aren't fully aware how much favor Gloucester has shown the girl. I understand that on New Year's Day she did even appear at a court fete in a gown of the same cloth as that worn by the
Queen. But perhaps you didn't know? ..."
"White damask cloth of gold threaded through with silver and turquoise," Elizabeth said impatiently.
"What of it?"
"It caused talk, Madame, was hardly appropriate for a girl now no more than a King's bastard. People are beginning to notice how close they are, Gloucester and your daughter, how often in each other's company."
"So? Why should that occasion comment? There's more between them than blood, after all." Elizabeth's mouth thinned. "They do," she said, "share a patron saint, St Edward of York."
She at once regretted it, regretted revealing her bitterness so nakedly before an enemy like Bray.
"You still don't see, do you? If I must spell it out for you, Madame, it be two months now that
Gloucester's been forbidden his wife's bed. That be a long time for a man to sleep alone, especially a man as young as Gloucester, and your daughter ..." He shrugged. "None would deny that she's a beautiful girl."
Elizabeth's mouth fell open. "God in Heaven!" Her shock was genuine; Bray saw that, said in surprise, "So you truly didn't know? I just assumed you were either indifferent or approving; it seemed so obvious, after all. Whatever the girl wants, he gives her, and as for her . . . well, hers is an easy face to read, Madame."
Elizabeth found her voice. "You must be mad! She's Richard's niece, not his harlot!"
"And blood will tell, will it not? She is Edward of York's daughter, after all, grew up at a court no better than a cesspool, watched her father flaunt his sluts and his vices like badges of honor! As for Gloucester, is a man who'd put his own nephews to death likely to balk at incest?"
Elizabeth stared at him with loathing. "What a pious hypocrite you are! No one has ever pretended my husband was a saint; we leave that to the House of Lancaster, to those of you who'd have us believe that because Harry of Lancaster was simple in the head and impotent in the bar

gain, such failings do somehow make him a candidate for canonization! But Ned loved his daughters, and none can say otherwise. As for Richard, you know damned well that I'd never have given my daughters over into his keeping if the blood of my sons were on his hands. So don't throw that in my face; that cock won't fight."
"Madame, I doubt that there's anything you wouldn't do if it did serve your interests," Bray said scathingly, "and that does include coming to terms with your children's murderer."
"Oh, enough! Save the lies and moral indignation for the gullible and the naive, for those who don't know the truth. You don't believe Richard murdered my sons, you never did. . . . You be the man, after all, who told Morton that Richard would have to have been an utter idiot to have them secretly put to death, to arrange a-how did you put it-a 'mysterious midnight disappearance.' So don't talk to me of coming to terms with a child-murderer, because you knew Buckingham was guilty, God damn you but you knew, and yet you still embraced him as your ally, as-" She stopped suddenly, for Bray was gaping at her, eyes widening with superstitious unease.
" 'A mysterious midnight disappearance,' he echoed, incredulous. "How in Holy Christ could you know I
said that?"
Elizabeth spared a brief blessing for her sister Katherine. "Second sight," she jeered, began to fasten her cloak with fingers made clumsy by rage. Bray still looked stunned; she walked toward the door, then turned back to face him.
"I don't care what mud you use to smear Richard with. Say what you will about him, but I'll not have my daughter dragged into that mud, too. Be that clear? Little wonder Tudor be looking elsewhere for a wife, with the garbage you've been feeding him, but it's to stop as of now. Discredit Richard however you can, but not at my daughter's expense. I'll not have her name sullied. Do you understand?"
Bray's face had hardened. "You seem to have forgotten that you're no longer in a position to give commands . . . Lady Grey. So don't tell me what you will or will not 'have,' not when there be nothing you can do about it."
"You think not?" Elizabeth said, and there was something in the glittering green eyes that gave Bray pause. "And what if I do go to Richard, tell him of these slanders being spread about him and Bess?"
Bray paled. "You wouldn't dare!"
"No? Do you truly think I couldn't find a way to warn Richard without implicating myself? That would be a fool's wager, I assure you. I assure you, too, that it would give me great pleasure to tell Richard of the rumors you be putting about. Rumors which not only compromise him and besmirch his niece's honor, but which, if not stopped, might reach