The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (25 page)

as he'd planned. He found himself beset with difficulties, encountering obstacles where he'd least expected them, and he could only attribute his mounting problems to the fact that his cousin still lived.
London remained restive, stubbornly loyal to Edward. The Duke of Burgundy was making threats on his brother-in-law's behalf. There were increasing outbursts of violence and pillaging, as opportunists and outlaws alike took advantage of the disruption of authority. Some of Warwick's own supporters were among those swept up in this sudden lawless surge. Suddenly, it was as if the country had been plunged back into those chaotic days when Harry of Lancaster reigned and Marguerite d'Anjou and the Duke of
York fought to see who would rule.
Warwick was deeply disturbed by these tales of civil unrest; he was shrewd enough to see that he had to keep the peace if he hoped to exercise authority, and in recent days, both seemed to be slipping away from him. His frustration was all the greater because he didn't understand what had gone wrong.
For several years now, Edward's popularity had been ebbing. The people felt themselves to be burdened with inequitable taxes, blamed Edward because the treaty with Burgundy had not yet brought the anticipated economic benefits, were disgruntled because the Commons had voted Edward a grant of sixty-two thousand pounds last year for war with France but Edward had not as yet gotten around to doing anything about it. Warwick had not expected there to be significant opposition to deposing
Edward, did not think people were likely to care, one way or the other, not after more than ten wearying years of strife between York and Lancaster. He was wrong, was now finding that the country still supported his cousin.
Even his own family was giving him more stress than support. His wife could not hide her fear. His daughter Anne, who had little reason to think kindly of Edward, had come to him deeply distressed by gossip she'd heard among her cousin George's retainers, that he did mean to strip Ned of his crown and bestow it upon George. Shouldn't he take measures to punish those who so dared to slander his honor?
she'd asked him worriedly.
He'd had an embittered confrontation with his aunt Cecily before he left London, another with his brother at Sheriff Button Castle. John had warned him bluntly that if Edward were to die in his custody, he'd never believe it to be anything but murder, even if Warwick could summon a score of physicians and priests to swear Edward died through illness or accident.
Warwick was fond of his brother; it had been a painful interview. Nor could he ignore the political implications of John's stand. As the Earl of Northumberland and a seasoned soldier able to attract a large following

to his badge of the Griffin, John was a powerful political figure in his own right. Warwick needed his support; after Sheriff Button, he had to face the fact that he didn't have it.
He'd been forced at last to cancel the York parliament; with the country on the brink of anarchy, he'd have no chance of winning acceptance for George's claim to the crown. But as bad as the news had been for him that September, he'd not been prepared for the grim tidings his brother George now brought from
London.
Outlaws were not the only ones to turn the unrest to their own advantage. A Lancastrian-kindled revolt had flared up along the Scots border, and Warwick swiftly set about raising troops to quell the rising.
The response had been disturbingly slow in coming, though, and this afternoon the Archbishop had ridden into Middleham with truly alarming word from the capital. In the South, none would answer their summons to arms. Not as long as the King remained captive.
"I want you to accompany me into the city of York," he said bluntly, saw surprise flicker briefly in
Edward's eyes, to be quickly replaced by guarded wariness.
"I will be honest with you, Ned. I do need your help in summoning men to arms to put down the
Lancastrian revolt."
He was watching Edward closely, but the younger man showed no identifiable emotion, said nothing, merely continued to finger the chess piece he'd been holding as Warwick entered the solar, his face thoughtful. Warwick took the seat Francis had vacated, said evenly, "I did say I'd be honest with you, Cousin. That means I'll do whatever be necessary should you decide upon some rash and foolish action while in York. You will, I do remind you, be riding with my men."
Edward leaned back in his chair, said with a cold smile, "You needn't worry, Dick. I happen to think it to be very much in my own interest to put a quick end to any rebellion backed by Lancaster."
Warwick nodded. "Just so we do understand each other."
Following Edward's public appearance with Warwick in York, men responded to the call to arms. The rebellion was soon quashed, and its leaders beheaded in York on the twenty-ninth of September as
Edward and the Nevilles watched.
With such pressing concerns, Warwick had no time to spare for the whereabouts of his young ward.
Francis prudently waited till the Earl had ridden to Pontefract, but he did not anticipate difficulty in finding the courier he sought. Francis had not lived five years in Yorkshire for nothing, knew which men were loyal to York. He slipped away one dawn, took the road south to Scotton, where the family of Rob
Percy had long had a

manor house. That attempt proved futile, though; he discovered the Percys had been in Scarborough for the past six weeks.
But as he rode home through the village of Masham, his luck suddenly took a dramatic turn for the better.
Crossing the bridge that spanned the River Ure, he encountered Thomas Wrangwysh, and Thomas he knew to be one of the few citizens of York who'd always given unwavering support to the Yorkist King.
In no time at all, he'd confided to the other what Edward did want done, and was soon galloping north toward Middleham, exultantly sure that Wrangwysh was even then bearing the King's message south.
Oc6ober that year gave promise of considerable beauty, dawning with harvest skies and foliage splashed with vibrant color. The noonday sun was directly overhead as the Earl of Warwick and his son-in-law rode into the inner bailey of Middleham Castle after an overnight stay at nearby Bolton Castle.
It had been a fruitful visit. Lord Scrope had agreed to head a commission of oyer and terminar to investigate the continuing disturbances in the South. He'd also bolstered Warwick's flagging spirits by reaffirming both his loyalty and his friendship, at a time when Warwick found himself much in need of such assurance. It should have helped; it didn't. Tense and tired, Warwick felt more and more these days as if he were fighting phantoms, that control was ebbing away from him.
Surrendering his mount to a waiting groom, he dismissed their escort, and as George hastened across the bailey toward the Lady Chamber in search of his wife, Warwick rapidly mounted the stairs leading up into the keep. Striding into the great hall, he came to an abrupt halt, staring in disbelief at what he saw before him. Men eating and drinking at long oaken trestle tables, men who wore the badges of England's nobility. He recognized at once the Duke of Suffolk, who was wed to Eliza Plantagenet, the second of
Edward's three sisters. He recognized, too, the languidly elegant Earl of Arundel. The swarthy Sir John
Howard, and by the open hearth, the fifteen-year-old Duke of Buckingham, kneeling to romp with several of Warwick's dogs. He looked up now, to smile at Warwick with a boy's unconcern.
Buckingham alone seemed oblivious of the tension in the hall. The men were watching Warwick with expectant interest; several, like John Howard, were openly challenging. Warwick's eyes moved from face to face, until at last, he found the one he sought. Edward was standing with the Archbishop of York. The latter was resplendent in the jeweled miter and robes of a Prince of the Church, but as white of face as one being marched to the gallows. Edward had been laughing as Warwick entered

the hall; Ine was flushed with triumph, looked surprisingly young and suddenly carefree.
For a moment, time seemed to fragment, the intervening eight years seemed to disappear as if they'd never been, and Warwick was seeing again the jubilant nineteen-year-old youth who'd ridden beside him into London to deafening cheers on that long-ago February day that was to lead to the throne. And then the eerie illusion shattered and Warwick was facing a man who watched him with hard mocking eyes and a smile that promised not remembrance, but retribution.
Francis had twisted around on the window seat of the solar, one that faced west, trying to catch a glimpse of the road that led up from the south. He turned quickly as the door opened, staring in dismay as Warwick and Edward came into the chamber, trailed by the Archbishop of York. He shrank back into the window recess, but they were far too angry to give him any notice.
"I don't know what you've got in mind, Ned, but I'm telling you now, it won't work. I don't give a damn if you've managed to summon every peer in England to Middleham!"
"As it happens, Cousin, that is just what I've done."
Warwick drew a labored breath, said flatly, "You're lying."
"Am I?" Edward jeered, and Warwick found he was gripping the hilt of his dagger so tightly that the studding of jewels left deep indentations in the palm of his hand. He forced his fingers to unclench, let the dagger slide down the sheath.
"Even if you speak true, it matters for naught," he said at last. "This is Middleham, not Westminster. I do give the commands here. You seem to have forgotten that."
"No, I haven't. I assure you I'm not likely to forget anything that has happened in the past two months."
Francis was frightened by the hatred he saw in Warwick's face. He had no doubt that, at this moment, Warwick wanted his cousin dead. Edward saw it, too; there was both bitterness and triumph in the twist of his mouth.
"Damn you," Warwick said suddenly. "Do you truly think I'll do nothing while-"
"No, I'm not suggesting you do nothing, Cousin. I would suggest you return to the great hall and stand ready to welcome your guests to Middleham. That is, I believe, called 'appreciating the necessities involved,' is it not?"
The Archbishop said, too eagerly, "He's right, Dick. What else can we do but put a good face upon it. . .
." He was ignored.

The silence was smothering. Edward leaned back against the trestle table, kept his eyes on Warwick.
One of the Earl's ever-present alaunts sidled up to Edward, rubbed affectionately against his legs. The silence dragged on, until Francis thought he could endure not another moment of it. The Archbishop seemed to share his sentiments. But Warwick looked murderous and Edward as if he were enjoying himself.
"And what if I do say no?" Warwick said softly. "What if I say you don't leave here, Cousin? Need I
remind you that the men of Middleham do answer to me and only to me?"
Edward did not seem at all impressed, but the Archbishop was appalled.
"My God, Dick, you cannot resort to violence before half the lords of the realm!"
Francis was no less appalled than the Archbishop. He shifted uneasily, and thus brought upon himself what he least desired, the Earl's attention. Warwick turned to stare at the boy.
"What do you here, Lovell? Well, answer me! Get over here, now!"
Francis moved stiffly across the solar. He was very frightened, knew he was to be the sacrificial lamb for
Warwick's rage. He could only pray that Warwick was acting out of frustrated fury and not something more ominous. He'd willingly face Warwick's anger if only he could be sure it was free of suspicion.
"My lord . . ." he whispered, and then staggered backward as Warwick struck him across the face. It wasn't a particularly hard blow; he'd been punished more severely for lesser infractions. But one of
Warwick's rings happened to catch the corner of his mouth. He gasped, blood beginning to trickle down his chin, and braced himself for whatever Warwick saw fit to inflict upon him.
"You have leave to go, Francis."
This time Francis's gasp was not of pain, was one of surprise. He spun around. He'd not expected
Edward to intervene on his behalf, but he'd not expected Edward to share Warwick's anger at his presence either. Yet Edward was watching him with eyes indifferent to his pain; now said in a voice that had nothing in it of past friendliness, "Did you not hear me, Francis? I gave you a command. Do not make me repeat it."
Francis was shaken by Edward's icy dismissal as he'd not been by Warwick's blow. Even though it meant he was spared further exposure to Warwick's wrath, it hurt; it hurt dreadfully. He gave Warwick a nervous glance, saw Warwick was now looking at Edward, not at him.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said miserably, made an awkward obeisance as Edward moved away from the table, jerked his head toward the door.
"Go on, get out of here," he said impatiently. But in turning, his

back was now to Warwick. As he spoke, he winked at Francis, and the boy's spirits soared in less than a heartbeat from despair to elation. He backed hastily toward the door, struggling to maintain a properly chastised appearance.
He heard Warwick say, "I wasn't aware you took such an interest in my ward. I find myself wondering why."
Francis froze at that, but was reassured somewhat by Edward's derisive reply.
"I don't give a damn about your ward. But this is not a conversation for other ears. Unless, of course, you do want an audience to watch you play the fool, Cousin? In that case, I do suggest we return to the great hall and continue this discussion there."
Francis grabbed for the latch, just as the door sprang back in his face. He recoiled as George of
Clarence stumbled into the solar.
"Men at arms!" he blurted out. "Approaching from the south, five hundred at the least!"
The Nevilles turned as one toward Edward.
Edward said nothing. He looked at Warwick and laughed.
Warwick didn't move, didn't take his eyes from Edward even as he said to George, "Look to the standards. Under whose command do they march?"
George had yet to look at his brother. Now he hastened to the window seat where Francis had been keeping vigil. Kneeling on the seat, he straightened almost at once and turned to face his father-in-law.
"Hastings," he said, in a muffled voice. "And the Whyte Boar of Gloucester . . . Dickon."
They were all staring at Edward now, but it was to Warwick alone that he said, "Just so. My brother of Gloucester and my Lord Chamberlain have seen fit to provide a proper escort for my journey back to London."
For the chilled intake of a breath, their eyes held, and then Warwick's shoulders slackened.
"I see," he said tonelessly.
Edward's gaze flicked suddenly to George and then back to Warwick.
"You should have held them at Olney, Dick." He sounded almost amused, but there was something chilling, as well, in his voice.
Warwick was silent.
Francis, who'd listened spellbound, belatedly became aware of his peril and took several stealthful steps toward the door. Until George moved toward his brother, said in a low strained voice, "Is it your wish that I accompany you to London, Ned?"