The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (22 page)

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disquieting reports of a large force coming up slowly from the southwest, and Edward elected to remain in Olney until these first sketchy reports could be confirmed.
He was upstairs now with Will Hastings in the inn he'd chosen as his headquarters, having his first meal in some eight hours. Richard was too tense to eat, even though he'd had nothing but manchet bread and ale in a hastily bolted dawn breakfast. He was standing, instead, in the street before the inn, wondering how the scene could be so ordinary, as if it were a day like all others. He turned to go back into the inn, and then the shouting began.
A rider was coming down the street, whipping his mount with a frenzy that earned him Richard's instinctive disapproval. He stopped to watch. This was not one of their scouts, but he knew at once that something was wrong, very wrong.
The horseman was heading for the inn, directed by the shouts of several villagers. He was close enough now for Richard to recognize the badge he wore upon his breast, the cognizance of Lord Herbert.
Richard's heart suddenly speeded up; so did his pulse, his breathing. As the rider tumbled from the saddle, Richard darted forward, caught the lathered animal by the reins.
"You come from Lord Herbert? What news have you?"
The courier was not much older than Richard himself. He didn't recognize Richard, but he did recognize the authority in Richard's voice, answered without hesitation.
"The road south is blocked! A large host, and well armed. I almost blundered into their ranks!" He was panting, leaned for a moment against his equally labored mount.
Richard made himself ask. "Under whose command?"
"The Archbishop of York."
Richard sucked in his breath. Catching Rob Percy's eye, he said bitterly, "It seems my cousin has seen fit to exchange his cassock for a cuirass." With an effort, he brought his attention back to Herbert's man.
"What of my lord Herbert? When does he reach Olney?"
The youth now knew Richard's identity. He hesitated and then said, "My lord ... he will not. He's dead.
Six days ago, Lord Herbert and Lord Stafford met the armies of Robin of Redesdale and the Earl of
Warwick. Near Banbury, at a place called Edgecot. Our forces were butchered, my lord. Lord Herbert and his brother were taken prisoner. Warwick, he ... he had them beheaded, my lord. For fighting for their .lawful King! That was murder, Your Grace. Murder and no other word for it."
Richard stared at him. He could not believe what he was hearing. He could not be standing here in the summer sunlight, listening to a stranger

pronounce what might be a death sentence for him, for Ned, for them all.
He turned, saw Rob Percy was now beside him, regarding him with wide fearful eyes. He saw other faces then, too; the courtyard was suddenly full of soldiers, shocked into silence, looking to him, all of them.
He swallowed, forced the words up from a throat so tight not even saliva could trickle down it.
"You'd best come with me. The King's Grace will wish to question you."
With the courier at his heels, he walked toward the entranceway of the inn; people moved aside to let him pass. But once he was inside, he could hold back no longer. He whirled for the stairs, took them three at a time to burst into his brother's chamber bereft of breath for speech. But one glance at his face was enough to bring Edward to his feet with an oath.
"NED, you've got to get away from here, and fast!" Will Hastings was ashen. "Now, with no delay!"
Richard concurred heartily, but held his tongue, awaiting his brother's response. Edward had been strangely silent since Richard had first gasped out the news of Edgecot. He'd listened without interruption to the courier's account of the battle, which had been a fiasco of leadership for Herbert and Stafford.
According to the courier, their armies had converged by agreed-upon arrangement at Banbury, but there they'd quarreled about billeting their troops. Stafford had become so enraged he'd pulled his men out, gone on ahead. Herbert was thus alone when the army of Robin Redesdale fell upon him without warning. He fought valiantly but by the time Stafford was able to bring his men back to Herbert's aid, it was too late. Redesdale was victorious and Stafford found himself facing not only Redesdale but the Earl of Warwick, who arrived in time to complete the destruction of the two Yorkist armies.
Hastings had cursed with rare savagery at the tale. Edward, however, had said nothing, had moved to the window, staring down into the courtyard as the precious moments drained away, one by one.
"Ned, you did hear me?"
Edward turned back to face the room. "Yes, Will, I heard you. But where would you have me go?"
"Back toward Nottingham, north to Fotheringhay. Anywhere, Ned, but here!"
"Do you truly think I'd ever reach either, Will?"
"I don't know. But what other choice have you?" Will moved toward the younger man, said, "Your
Queen has given you only daughters, Ned.

If you die, the crown passes to George of Clarence. Warwick's new son-in-law."
"Tell me something I don't know, Will," Edward said, and for the first time a roughness crept into his voice.
Richard bit his lip until he tasted blood. He wanted to cry out that Will was wrong, that Warwick was not capable of such an act. He couldn't.
The door was thrown back with such violence that they all jumped. John Howard hastened into the room. He always looked somber; now, however, his face looked like nothing so much as an alabaster death-mask, ravaged with lines and crevices and hollows.
"Our men are deserting," he said bluntly. "By the scores. Word's spread of Herbert and Stafford's defeat, and that Neville's approaching Olney with an army thrice the size of ours. Most of them aren't willing to wait for him."
Will swore, but Edward only shrugged. "Who can blame them?" he said dispassionately.
"Name of God, Ned!" Will was staring at him. "I've never known you to surrender without a struggle.
Are you going to put your head in Warwick's noose yourself? We can at least make a run for it! What have we to lose?"
Richard was no less perplexed than Will. He didn't think this was like Ned, either. He crossed to his brother, said in a low voice husky with urgency, "Will's right, Ned. Let's try for Fotheringhay . . . please."
Edward looked into the boy's eyes, saw the desperation in their depths. "Easy, lad. I've no intention of sticking my neck meekly in our cousin's noose, as Will puts it. Don't panic on me now, though. If I'm to keep my head, I need you and Will to keep yours."
Richard nodded wordlessly, and Edward looked toward Will.
"The last time we went hunting in Great Epping, this past May . . . do you remember, Will? The hounds flushed a day-old fawn. Tell Dickon what did happen to it."
Will was bewildered. "It froze with fear, didn't run. Ned, I don't see-"
"Tell him of the dogs, Will. What did they do?"
"Nothing. They began to bark and circle about in confusion."
Richard felt a glimmer of comprehension. "Because they expected flight?"
"Exactly, Dickon. Now, tell me what would have happened had the fawn tried to flee."
Will now saw, too. "It would've been torn to pieces," he said slowly. He frowned, leaned across the table. "Ned, what do you have in mind?"

The corner of Edward's mouth twitched, in what was not a smile. "Staying alive, Will. Staying alive."
"I think we'd be better off chancing flight," Will said, but without conviction.
Richard understood exactly how he felt; a man could hardly be expected to muster any enthusiasm for such a choice. Edward, who had a smattering of Spanish picked up from a Spanish girl in Calais, had taught Richard a proverb that he rather fancied, "Entre la espada y la pared." Between the sword and the wall. Richard had liked it, too. Until now.
He bit his lip again, felt a twinge of pain. To him, flight was still the lesser of evils; his instinctive preference would always be for action, even if ill advised.
He opened his mouth, and Edward, who read him easily, as always, shook his head.
"No, Dickon. What good would you do me caged in the same cell? Let's just hope our cousin the
Archbishop sees you as too young to matter, and remembers, as well, that Will is his brother-in-law."
With a sudden flash of strained irony. "I can wish now, Will, that you'd been a more loving husband to your Kate," he said tightly, and Will grimaced in a game attempt at a smile, one that didn't quite make it.
Richard watched his brother in awe, marveling at Edward's icy composure-until Edward reached over to claim the wine flagon and in pouring himself a full cup, spilled wine freely over the table, even onto the floor, with a hand nowhere near as steady as his voice.
George Neville, Archbishop of York, felt his stomach muscles contract as he came in sight of the village of Olney. His visor was up, but the helmet was stifling. Sweat soaked his hair; his padded tunic was sodden, chafed him unbearably. He was not accustomed to armor, felt confined and awkward. Above all, he felt fear, fear for what he might find in Olney.
In his discomfort, he sought release in anger, anger directed at his brother, awaiting him in Coventry. He was no soldier; this should have been undertaken by Warwick, not him. Conveniently forgetting for the moment that the suggestion had been his, that he'd thought he could better persuade Ned to yield without a struggle than Warwick or, God forbid, George of Clarence.
That was what frightened him so, the thought that Ned would offer resistance. What if he refused to submit? What if he were killed in the violence that was bound to follow? The Archbishop was well aware that regicide was a mortal sin in the eyes of the common people. He had no desire to go down in English history as the priest who'd killed a King.

Let Warwick have that dubious honor, he thought grimly, if such was his intent. He didn't know what his brother meant to do, was not sure he wanted to know. He did know what Johnny would do, however, if
Ned died in his custody. Johnny would never forgive him.
He turned in his saddle, signaled for water; he wondered if men in battle were consumed with thirst like this. He thrust the flask aside, raked his spurs into the side of his mount so that it sprang forward, lengthened stride. He was desperately determined to take Ned prisoner, at any cost. He had no choice.
They'd gone this far; they dare not back down. Ned had to be taken.
But there kept flashing before his eyes a truly terrifying image. Ned defiant, having to be seized at swordpoint. He could see it as if it had already happened, see the struggling bodies, the village street dark with blood, the air thick with dust stirred up by panicked horses. Ned was England's King; if men were to see him dragged to his horse like a felon, what would their reaction be? He cursed Ned for his plight, cursed Warwick, too; he was much too agitated to think of prayer.
His inner turmoil was such that he was slightly queasy as they rode into Olney. The narrow streets of the village were packed with people. Confused yet curious faces stared up at him. Soldiers of the White
Rose of York mingled among the villagers; they looked neither confused nor curious, merely afraid, and in a few cases, hostile.
Edward stood in the doorway of the inn, flanked by Richard and Will Hastings, watching as the
Archbishop rode into the courtyard. Hastings was grim; Richard had the taut stillness of a colt confronting the unknown, rigid when his every instinct was to bolt. Edward, however, was impassive; the Archbishop could read nothing in his face.
He reined in his mount, not in the least assured by the sight of so many people in the courtyard-citizens, soldiers, even the parish priest. Edward had carefully provided an audience for this encounter. With increasing unease, the Archbishop wondered why.
"Welcome to Olney, my lord Archbishop."
"Your Grace is most kind."
His response had been an automatic acknowledgment of sovereignty, but he did not know what to say next. This was a situation totally beyond his experience. There are no guidelines, he thought morosely, for capturing a King. It occurred to him that he should ask for Edward's sword, then saw Edward wasn't wearing one. He sat his horse in the courtyard of the inn, under the eyes of wondering townspeople and watchful soldiers, and tried to get a grip upon his raw nerves.
Edward moved forward, came to stand at the Archbishop's stirrup. He reached out, began to stroke the arched neck of the other's mount.
"I assume you wish me to accompany you, Cousin?"

The Archbishop knew Edward could see how sweet and sweeping his relief was; he didn't care. "Yes,"
he said quickly, but keeping the presence of mind to pitch his voice as low as Edward's had been. "I
think that would be advisable, Ned."
Edward stared at him and then raised his hand. One of his men emerged from the stables, leading a fractious white stallion. At the Archbishop's look of surprise, Edward said evenly, "I saw no reason to delay your journey. I knew you'd not want to tarry in Olney."
The Archbishop nodded dumbly, unable to believe all was going so smoothly. He watched intently as
Edward walked toward his mount, as if expecting his cousin to spring some last-moment treachery.
Edward reached for the reins, pausing in the act of mounting to glance back over his shoulder.
"I see no reason for Lord Hastings and the Duke of Gloucester to accompany us, do you, my lord?" he queried, as all eyes in the crowd turned with his words toward Richard and Hastings.
"No, Your Grace, I do not," the Archbishop agreed hastily. "Of course Lord Hastings and His Grace of
Gloucester may remain in Olney if they choose."
Once he saw Edward mounted beside him, saw Edward was truly going to ride willingly from Olney with them, he permitted himself an audible escape of breath, began to feel in control of the situation for the first time since riding into the village.
"However, I must insist, my liege, that Earl Rivers and his sons do come with us."
"That will not be possible."
All complacency vanished, was supplanted by tension. The Archbishop forgot the need to preserve the fiction of civility, said in a voice suddenly shrill, "You are not now in a position to tell me what is or isn't possible, my lord!"
There were murmurings among the villagers at that. They did not think this was the proper tone to take with the King, even if the speaker did happen to be His Eminence, the Archbishop of York, and the
King's kinsman. Edward's jaw muscles tightened noticeably, but he said only, "You misunderstand me, my lord Archbishop. What I did mean was that my father-by-marriage and his sons are not in Olney.
Otherwise, they'd have been no less willing than I to accept your hospitality." And for the first time, he allowed himself an instant of expressive emotion; a tight bitter smile twisted his mouth.
The Archbishop stared at him. "I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but I feel I must ascertain that for myself."
Edward shrugged. "As you wish," he said, as if it were a matter of indifference, watched without expression as the Archbishop's men