The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (136 page)

sin too many, a moral wrong not even the Pope could reconcile as right. But to say that to Bess would be to inflict needless hurt, to shame her for a sin that was more rightly her mother's.
"Bess . . . listen to me, lass. It could never be. For me to marry you would be political suicide. People would see such a marriage as proof that I'd concocted the plight-troth as a means of usurping your brother's crown. At the least, it would be a tacit admission that even I doubted my right. It would also be an admission that your brothers were dead, and to do that now ..."
"I see," she said in a small voice. "I. . . I think I always knew that, Dickon, knew it was a dream with no reality in it. Do you remember what I told you that night in the abbey, about how I'd make up happy endings in my head? I guess . . . guess I was still doing it."
With a lot of help from Elizabeth, damn her. He didn't doubt that she'd have seen Bess wed to the Grand
Vizier of the Ottoman Empire if a crown were in the offering.
"Dickon . . . you'll not make me wed, will you?"
That was exactly what his advisers were telling him to do, to marry her off as soon as possible to a husband who could be counted upon to hold fast for the House of York.
"No, Bess, I'll not force you to wed against your will," he said impulsively, was more than repaid by the look of relief that crossed her face.
An awkward silence fell; it was as if years of intimacy had never been.
Richard suddenly realized how much he was going to miss Bess, realized for the first time what a void her going would leave in his life. He would have liked to have been able to tell her that, but it was no longer possible, and in understanding that, he understood the full measure of his loss, that the last link to his brother had just been broken.

BERKHAMPSTED
May 1485
ccx
'ANDLELIGHT was kind, and the stark severity of Benedictine garb suited her surprisingly well; the white wimple covered her chin and throat, thus camouflaging the most obvious evidence of aging, and the black veil framing her face set off skin a much younger woman might envy. What struck John Scrope most, however, was what he saw in the wide-set grey eyes. So, he thought, it be true then, that she has found in God that which had been denied her as Duchess of York.
Cecily watched him as he drank his wine, helped himself to the platter of dried figs and candied quinces.
She'd greeted him with no apparent surprise, but all the while that she was making polite conversation, she was wondering why he was here. Ostensibly, his purpose was to see that all arrangements were made for Richard's impending arrival, but this was not an errand a man of Scrape's rank would ordinarily undertake. She could only conclude that he had reasons of his own for being here, and she waited now, with a patience all the more precious for having come to her so late in life, waited for him to reveal the true purpose of this visit.
For a woman who'd not left Berkhampsted since taking vows more than four years past, she was remarkably well informed about the world she'd renounced, and they spoke at length about Richard's urgent need for money, about Henry Tudor and the likelihood of an invasion backed by French gold. It was some time before Scrope was able to maneuver the conversation in the desired direction, into reminiscing about two men who were fourteen years dead, kin to them both, Richard and John Neville.
He talked for a time of Warwick, but soon shifted the talk to John, and as Cecily listened attentively, he spoke of the last months of John's

life, and for one never noted for eloquence, drew upon words of surprising power to describe for her a man in deep inner turmoil.
"I loved Johnny Neville. He was more than a cousin to me, Madame, was as good a friend as any man can hope to have in this life. It was his tragedy that he loved both his brother and his cousin. When he betrayed your son at Doncaster, he betrayed himself, too, and this I can tell you for true, that he never forgave himself for it. Whatever his reasons, however justified he thought he was, once it was done, he found he couldn't live with it."
Cecily stirred. She, too, had cared for John Neville, and she'd long ago learned that time did not heal; it only numbed.
"I've never forgotten," she said sadly, "the look on Edward's face when he told me that Johnny had gone into battle wearing the colors of York under his armor."
Scrope nodded. "I won't go so far as to say that Johnny was looking to die. But I do know he took the field that day with a handicap no man can safely shoulder. He was just going through the motions, Madame, like a man doing what's expected of him but no more."
Cecily leaned forward, caught his sleeve. "Why are you telling me this, John?"
Scrope set his drink down. "Because," he said at last, "what I once saw in Johnny Neville, I see now in your son."
CECILY had nursed the sick and buried the dead, had of necessity become as skilled in the arts of healing as any apothecary. She'd watched throughout supper as Richard measured his meal in mouthfuls, left a plateful of food untouched. She'd noted, too, that even though he was lightly tanned, his eyes were deeply smudged, bloodshot, and there was about him the taut wariness of a woodland creature in strange surroundings; when a servant carelessly dropped a chafing dish, Cecily had seen her son flinch like one struck. She'd said nothing, but as soon as Richard retired that evening, she sent a servant for her store of medicinal herbs, and with sure hands, mixed a sleeping draught of henbane, darnel, and dried bryony root. This she dissolved in a cupful of hippocras, and carried it herself on a tray up to her son's bedchamber.
There she found that Richard's attendants had already assembled the bed he'd brought with him from
Windsor; when she'd questioned him about this, Richard had acted much like a man caught in some secret vice, reluctantly admitted that he was sleeping poorly at night, so much so that he could not sleep at all in a strange bed. He was still up; his esquires had just taken off his doublet, were unbuttoning his shirt as Cecily entered.

He smiled at sight of her, and without being asked, dismissed his attendants.
"I thought we might talk awhile longer. I brought you that book I mentioned at supper, the one I want you to read." Seeing his blank look she prompted patiently, "The Mirroure of the Worlde, remember? It does deal most knowledgeably with the Commandments, the Articles of Faith, and the like."
"I remember now; thank you," Richard said politely, and Cecily knew it unlikely he'd ever read it. She tucked it away, nonetheless, in the open coffer that held his personal belongings. As she did, she noticed a book already in the coffer, bound in velvet so faded its original color was beyond determining. Curious, she picked it up, flipped it open. It was a French exercise book, pages yellowing with age, smudged with ink and careless fingers; Anne's name was written in a childish hand across the flyleaf, and below it, "Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Salisbury," with "Ned" neatly penned in brackets beneath.
"I found that among Anne's things," Richard said. He'd come to stand beside Cecily, now reached for this book that had been first his wife's and then his son's. It turned as if of its own accord to a page partially filled with French verbs. Below the exercise, Anne had amused herself by sketching pictures of birds, nesting and on the wing.
"The only creature she could ever draw worth a damn," Richard said softly, and Cecily saw that still further down on the page were variations of Anne's name: Anne Neville, Anne Warwick, the Lady Anne, and then, Anne Gloucestre, Anne, Duchess of Gloucestre. Cecily stared down at the young girl's handwriting-rounded, unformed; how old had Anne been when she'd written that . . . twelve? Thirteen?
"I brought you some wine, Richard," she said, and taking the book from him, she replaced it in the coffer, closed the lid.
"Be it true that you expect Tudor to invade the realm come summer?"
They were sitting on the bed; Richard propped a pillow behind him, settled back against the headboard.
"Yes," he said. "Tudor's putting together a fleet, having it rigged at Harfleur."
Cecily frowned; he might have been discussing the likelihood of rain, for all the emotion in his voice. "I
understand that Lord Stanley has asked for leave to depart the court, to withdraw to his estates in
Lancashire."
Richard nodded. "He says that when the time comes to issue summons to arms against Tudor, he can better rally his men in person." Dryly.
"And yet you're going to let him go." It was not a question, was more in the nature of an accusation.

Richard shrugged. "If I do, Ma Mere, it'll not be before he does send his eldest son to court to take his place."
Cecily shook her head. "That's not enough, Richard, not nearly enough. Stanley is not a man to be bound by the welfare of others, not even his own flesh and blood."
Another shrug. "I've given him reasons a hundredfold to be loyal. I can't very well force a man to fight for me at swordpoint, Ma Mere."
"Why not?" she said tartly. "At the least, you can limit his opportunities for betrayal. Keep him close, Richard. Edward would never have let him go."
"I'm not Ned." Said very low.
He had, she saw, barely touched the wine. She decided for the moment to let Stanley lie, said instead, "John Scrope told me that you've had some success in raising loans?"
"Yes . . . since February, we've been able to collect nigh on twenty thousand pounds." Richard grimaced.
"As if I didn't already have debts enough to answer for! But short of summoning parliament and inveigling a grant, there was nothing else I could do. I've three months at most before Tudor does invade, and I
can't raise an army with expectations, feed them with promises."
"I understand, though, that there was much grumbling among the London merchants," Cecily said, hoping to thus diplomatically ease into the subject of her concern, but Richard gave her no chance. With her first words, his eyes had darkened, showed sudden anger.
"What of it?" he demanded. "They'll get their blood money back. These be loans, not benevolences. I did pledge repayment in full within a year and a half."
"Yes, I know you did. But while I'm sure few doubt your willingness to make repayment, you cannot blame men for fretting over your ability to do so, Richard. Not when these loans be no more voluntary than the outright gifts Edward demanded; who, after all, is going to feel free to turn down the King?"
"Just what are you suggesting, Ma Mere? What other recourse had I?"
"None," she agreed. "I just think it might have been more to your political advantage had you exempted
London, the way you've remitted taxes for York in the past. You haven't been able to establish the rapport with Londoners that you have with the citizens of York, and nothing be more likely to strain loyalties than to make demands upon men's purses."
"Loyalty ... in Londoners? I'd as soon look for honor should I fall among thieves," Richard said caustically, and there was a savagery to the sarcasm that she'd rarely heard from him.

"Those who live in London have ever had a dislike of northerners, Richard," she said quietly. "It be a bias that, however unfair, you must take into account in your dealings with them. You did but confirm their suspicions by showing such favor to men of the North Country. All those who stand closest to you do come from Yorkshire or the Midlands. You've little liking for London or Londoners, and well they know it. And the result is that you've reaped a bitter harvest, rumor and innuendo and slanders which would never have taken root in York."
She reached over, let her fingers rest lightly on his wrist. "The burden be upon you, Richard, to allay their concerns, to show them that you do not hold London any less dearly than York. A King cannot do less, my dearest. You have it in you to be a good King, a better one than your brother, but in this you've so far failed; you've let your subjects see all too clearly that your heart lies in the North."
"To be a King is to be no less a man, Ma Mere. I cannot help the way I feel."
"You can try, however, to make your affinities a little less plain to all. It's that which I'm asking of you, Richard. Will you think on what I've said?"
"Of course," he said, but she took little encouragement from his ready agreement, saw that her words had not truly touched him.
She watched him in silence for a time, remembering how enthused he'd been about his first parliament, how he'd held forth for hours about the need for reform in the judiciary, how he'd sat himself in Chancery and Exchequer as cases were tried, occasionally even summoning the justices to the Inner Star Chamber to put queries to them about particularly troublesome cases. It's gone, she thought, utterly gone, that unique capacity for moral indignation in the face of injustice, that willingness to define kingship in terms of service, of responsibilities and rights and the redress of grievances. All at once, Cecily found herself blinking back tears, she who cried so rarely and so reluctantly. Perhaps in time, she thought, in time he'd come to care again; eventually the grieving would have to give way, just as snow melted before the first thaw and all renewed itself in the grace of God.
Richard sat down his half-empty wine cup, began to cough. Cecily had been listening to that cough for hours, and yet each time it started anew, she found herself tensing, unable to concentrate on anything else until the spasm passed. She did not realize her concern showed so nakedly, not until Richard shook his head, said, "Not you, too, Ma Mere?" He sounded grimly amused. "Poor old Hobbys all but jumps out of his skin every time I so much as clear my throat! I can only tell you what I told him, that I've been sneezing and

coughing for nigh on a fortnight now. It be a wretched cold, and I'll admit it's making life miserable for me, but it's just that, a cold and no more."
He smiled and, after a pause, she did, too, albeit far from reassured.
"You look dreadful," she said candidly, "and I'm not surprised you've been ailing, not after watching you pick at your food like a man suspecting poison. But I'm not about to lecture you; you'd not heed me any more than you do Hobbys. I do want to discuss something of great importance with you, though, something you've been refusing to discuss in council. . . remarriage."
Richard coughed again. "That's not a topic I care to talk about, Ma Mere, even with you."
"I would have you hear me out, nonetheless. I can guess what they've been telling you, that Anne is two months dead and you need an heir, owe it to England to marry and beget a son. But that's not why I
would urge you to do the same. You are my son and I want what's best for you. I think you should remarry, Richard, and soon. I know how you loved Anne. But there be a great danger in letting your grieving go unchecked, a danger in that the dead can begin to seem more real than the living."
Richard looked at her. "Yes," he said huskily, "I know." How could he tell her that he was still haunted by the fragrance of Anne's perfume, that to look upon a woman with chestnut hair was a hurt almost beyond endurance, that Anne claimed his dreams as if they were her own, a merciless tender ghost who laughed and made love and led him back into their past, breathed life into memories, and then fled at dawn, leaving him to awaken alone, to be confronted anew with the reality of her loss.
"This afternoon," he said, "when you were showing me your gardens, and I saw your beds of hyacinth, white and butter-yellow and crimson . . . Hyacinths were always Anne's favorite flower, and for a second or so, I actually found myself thinking, I ought to gather some for Anne."
Cecily was fingering the rosary beads looped at her belt. "For nigh on a year after your father died," she said, "I kept his belongings, his clothes, everything, in our bedchamber . . . as if I thought he'd somehow be coming back."
That was a rare admission; she'd borne her grief alone, had done all her weeping behind locked doors.
There was more than love in the look Richard now gave her, there was awe. This was a particularly bad day for him, being the anniversary of his son's death, thirteen months past. It was also the birthday of the brother who'd died twenty-four years ago in the snow on Wakefield Bridge, and thinking of Edmund, and of George, thinking of the lifetime of pain that had been his mother's, he said slowly, "There be this
I've long wanted to say to you, Ma Mere, that I've known