The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (26 page)

Warwick stiffened, turning to stare at his son-in-law.
So did Edward. "You may go to Hell and be damned for all I care where you go," he said, slowly and very deliberately.
George flushed, blood pulsing into his face and throat.
"Ned, you don't see-"
"Oh, but I do see . . . Brother George. And what I see sickens me, in truth!"
George was rigid, a clenched fist digging bruisingly into his thigh. "You'd best take heed, my liege. . . .
For I'll not come to heel like one of your damned hunting dogs!"
The Archbishop of York gasped. Warwick, however, was impassive, seemed to be focusing on something far beyond the solar, beyond his Yorkist cousins. And Francis found himself hoping that no one would ever look at him as Edward was now looking at his brother.
For a long moment, Edward regarded George, and then raised his hand. The snapping fingers jolted
Warwick's lounging dogs to their feet and to his side, where they waited, obediently expectant for command.
Francis had seen enough. He dived through the doorway and hastened through the great hall onto the covered porch landing, down the stairs into the sunlit bailey.
There, confusion reigned. A lean fair man whom he recognized as Lord Dacre was dismounting by the stairs. A man brushed by Francis, wearing the Stafford Knot, badge of the youthful Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. Across the bailey, he saw the Earl of Essex, and he felt a surge of partisan pleasure that
England's lords had heeded Edward's summons with such alacrity. No matter how they may despise the
Woodvilles, Edward still holds their allegiance, he thought, and then turned at sound of his name.
Anne Neville was hurrying toward him. "Francis, a large force approaches! They told me at the gatehouse that they do number in the hundreds!"
"I know."
She caught his arm. "They're still some distance away, so I cannot be sure. . . . But Francis, I think the banner they fly is the Blanc sanglier. The Whyte Boar."
He nodded, and her hand slipped from his sleeve.
"I knew. . . . Even before I saw Richard's standard, I knew," she whispered and Francis could only nod again.
Within the past year, Anne had begun to make exclusive use of her cousin's given name. Francis had been unable to resist teasing, "Why do you alone prefer Richard when all others call him Dickon?" And she'd laughed at him, "Have you so little imagination, Francis? For that very reason, because all others do call him Dickon!"

Francis was remembering that conversation now, as she said, "I cannot see him, Francis."
"Ah, Anne, that's so unfair. I'd not have thought that you, too, would blame him for his loyalty to his brother. Not knowing him as you do."
The dark eyes widened. "Oh, but I don't! God's truth, I don't!"
"If you refuse to see him, Anne, he's bound to believe otherwise."
She shook her head. "I cannot, Francis." Her voice wavered. "I cannot." And then she cried out, for he'd turned to face her fully for the first time, and she saw the blood that welled in the corner of his mouth.
"Francis, you're hurt! What happened?"
"Your father hit me," he said before he thought, and at once wished he could have called the words back, for she looked as stricken as if she were the one who'd been struck.
"I do think the world's gone mad," she gasped, and before he could reply, she'd turned, was running across the bailey toward the south-wall quarters. From the way she stumbled, bumped blindly into those who crossed her path, Francis knew she was crying.
Francis had not seen Richard for months, and now he edged closer as his friend and Lord Hastings rode toward the stairs of the keep, where Edward awaited them, flanked by the Earl of Warwick and the
Archbishop of York. A smile hovered about Will Hastings's mouth as he swung from the saddle to kneel before Edward, and as his eyes encountered his brother-in-law, the Earl of Warwick, he laughed outright. But Francis did not note Warwick's reaction, for he was watching Richard's approach.
The sun was striking him full on, giving the glossy dark hair the sheen of polished ebony and causing him to raise his hand to shield the glare. Unlike Hastings, his thoughts were masked; only the strain showed.
Francis thought he looked exhausted. The skin was stretched tightly across the high, hollowed cheekbones; there were smudges under the deep-set dark eyes, the expressive mouth frozen in a taut curve. To Francis, the most conclusive evidence of Richard's unease was the fact that his friend, a skilled rider, was having some difficulty in handling his horse. The animal, a lathered grey stallion, was shying nervously as if his rider's mood were contagious; as a result, Richard did not reach the stairs until Will
Hastings had already dismounted.
But as he met his brother's eyes over the stallion's tossing mane, Richard's face changed abruptly and he flashed a smile, so radiant with relief that Francis saw at once just what dark thoughts had haunted him during the two months of Edward's captivity.

Edward was grinning, came forward to raise Richard swiftly up as the boy knelt before him. Richard was always shy of public display of emotion; Edward was not. Careless of formality, he greeted his brother with laughter and an affectionate embrace.
Francis slanted a quick look toward Warwick, but once again he was disappointed; the Earl was watching without expression. Ever since Warwick had emerged from the solar at his royal cousin's side, Francis had been hoping for signs of strain. He yearned for nothing so much as to see the Earl humiliated before the lords of the realm, but he saw that it was not to be.
His feelings for Warwick were far from benevolent at that moment, but he grudgingly gave credit where due. It be no small feat to summon smiles and make small talk when you have murder in your heart, he thought, and if Warwick wasn't altogether convincing as the gracious lord of the manor, he was at least in control.
That was more than Francis could say for Warwick's fellow conspirators. The Archbishop of York was painfully ill at ease; the more he sought to conceal it, the more apparent it became. As for George of
Clarence, he was nowhere in evidence.
Standing by his brother's side as Edward welcomed the lords who continued to ride into the bailey, Richard had seen Francis almost at once and signaled his recognition with a quick warm grin. But the sun had begun its slow slide toward the west before they had the chance to speak together alone.
Meeting in the shadow of the garderobe turret that extended from the south wall of the keep, they had exchanged only a few words when the Earl of Warwick detached himself from the nobles surrounding the
King and crossed the bailey toward them.
"Renewing old friendships, Francis?" Francis's mouth went dry, with sudden certainty that Warwick knew the part he'd played in Edward's stratagem. It was with considerable relief, therefore, that he saw the Earl's eyes had slid past him unheedingly, to Richard.
"My compliments, Dickon. It is a surprise, I admit, but not an unwelcome one. I would far rather it should go to you than to a Woodville."
Richard had stiffened warily at Warwick's approach. Now, however, he looked confused. So did
Francis. Warwick saw, and smiled thinly.
"It seems that not only am I to be the first to congratulate you, I'm to be the one to give you the news.
Since I had Earl Rivers beheaded at Coventry,

the post of Lord Constable has been vacant. It was to pass with Rivers's titles to his eldest son, Anthony
Woodville. Your brother has just told me, however, that he does mean to bestow it upon you."
Francis was stunned. The Lord Constable of England wielded enormous powers, not the least of which was the right to determine treasonable offenses and to pass judgment upon the guilty. He looked at his friend; Richard was just five days past his seventeenth birthday.
Richard was startled and it showed. He opened his mouth, abruptly clamped his teeth down upon his lower lip as Warwick smiled at him, said, "Ned must put great faith in your judgment, to burden you with such responsibilities at so young an age. But I would be the last one to doubt your abilities. It was at
Middleham, after all, that they were first tested!"
It was a familiar tactic to Francis; he'd often seen Warwick make claims upon Richard in the guise of
Middleham memories. He'd never failed to resent it, on Richard's behalf, knowing how vulnerable his friend was to that particular appeal. Now he was sorry but not surprised to hear Richard say, "I was well instructed during my years in your household, Cousin."
"I am glad you do remember that, Dickon."
Richard did not return the other's smile.
"In all save honor," he said, softly but very distinctly.
Francis felt a surge of hot pleasure. Ah, but you weren't expecting that, were you, my lord Kingmaker, he thought gleefully, seeing Warwick's mouth twist, the dark eyes go suddenly cold.
"Have a care, Dickon. That be dangerous talk. You owe me better than that."
"Any debt I did owe you, Cousin, was paid in full at Olney."
"No, Dickon. You're wrong. There was no payment demanded at Olney. There could have been, but there wasn't. You'd best not count upon that again. And that, my young cousin of Gloucester, you may take as the counsel of a friend or as a warning, whichever you choose." He smiled then, brief and bitter, said, "And I don't think I much care which it is."
When Richard made no response, Warwick turned away, adding as if in afterthought, "Have you a message you wish conveyed to my daughter?" And he had the ephemeral satisfaction of seeing that
Richard's painstakingly devised defenses were flawed, after all.
Watching as Warwick walked away, Francis swore softly and spontaneously, and Richard said abruptly, "Let's walk, Francis. We've much to say and little time."
As Francis fell in step beside him, they crossed the inner bailey, away

from the keep and the press of men milling about the stairs where Edward stood laughing in the sun.
Francis was studying England's new Lord Constable, said ruefully, "It does occur to me, Dickon, that you're apt to end up passing judgment upon some of my own kin! One of Anna's brothers died fighting for Warwick at the battle of Edgecot last July and my father-in-law is hand-in- glove with the Earl."
Richard shrugged. He had ambivalent feelings about Warwick's revelation, an uneasy blend of excitement and apprehension. He did not want to discuss it before he could speak with his brother; he said, instead, "Rob Percy is with me. Did you see him yet?"
Francis shook his head. His friendship with Rob Percy, which had once rested on no stronger foundation than proximity, had gradually evolved into a genuine affection. But he, nonetheless, was now aware of an unfocused undercurrent of resentment. Rob was free to take part in the most consequential happenings while he, as the Earl's ward, must remain sequestered at Middleham.
After a sideways glance at his friend's pensive profile, Richard said, "I have a message for you from my brother. He said to tell you that he does not forget wounds gotten in his service!"
Francis laughed, thinking a split lip a small price to pay for the favor of a King.
"I am the one who should be thanking His Grace. He did save me from the Earl's wrath, yet without stirring suspicion in one notoriously lacking in trust!"
"I can't say that surprises me. I've known few who can think as fast as he does." Richard glanced with some sympathy at the younger boy's swollen cheek; already, it gave promise of discoloring into a truly spectacular bruise.
"He also wished me to tell you that he considers me to be most fortunate in my friendships. So do I, Francis."
They looked at one another and then, suddenly self-conscious, began to walk again.
"Have you seen my brother of Clarence, Francis?"
Taken by surprise, Francis almost blurted out an account of that acrimonious exchange in the Earl's solar.
Thinking better of it, he shook his head.
"It's passing strange," Richard said in the ensuing silence, and there were echoes of baffled anger in his voice. "George is three years my elder, and he's no child, not at twenty. Yet he can be as easily led as the greenest stripling."
Francis made an appropriately neutral reply, ambiguous enough to satisfy his conscience and, at the same time, to encourage further confi- jadwiga

as my lord of Warwick told us he would do. Dickon has now been dispatched to the border to quell a rebellion in Wales and to recapture Carmarthen and Cardigan, which were seized by the rebels. It is his first military command.
He hesitated, blotted the page with ink, and then added, as a postscript, all he deemed it safe to say about the power struggle taking place between the King and his cousin, the Kingmaker.
The Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence remain in the North. The King did summon them to
London but they have so far refused to obey his summons. It is as if England were split asunder. I do not know what will happen now, but I do fear for the future. I see naught but sorrows in what is to come.
13
WESTMINSTER
December 1469
"Why, Ned? Name of God, why? How could you?"
"Because I had no choice, Lisbet."
Elizabeth stared at him. Edward saw her disbelief, saw his words had not registered with her.
"No choice?" she echoed blankly. "My father and brother did die at Warwick's command. And now you tell me you've no choice but to pardon him?"
Her voice rose. He moved toward her, but she eluded him, stepped out of reach.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That is exactly what I am telling you. I had no choice. If you cannot destroy your enemy, Lisbet, you're compelled to come to terms with him. That's an elemental rule of warfare, my love, however little we may like it."

"You have the power-" she began, and he cut her off in midsentence.
"No, Lisbet. I regret to say that I do not. I do, of course, have the moral authority of kingship." A
sardonic smile touched his mouth before he added, "Unfortunately, moral authority has traditionally fared rather poorly upon the battlefield, sweetheart."
She was oblivious to his sarcasm, was shaking her head. "You're the King," she said stubbornly. "That does give you the power-"
"The way Harry of Lancaster had the power? Christ, Lisbet, my father feuded with Marguerite d'Anjou for years and there was damned little Lancaster could do about it, even when it did turn bloody."
"Because he was simple!"
"That's true enough, but the answer lies as much in my father's strength as in Harry's weakness. Strength enough to defy the crown, even to taking up arms against the King. How many battles were fought in the years before Towton. . . . Four? Five? You spoke of power. Well, my father did have the power to challenge the King. And however much it galls me to admit it, so does my cousin of Warwick. ... At least, for now."
She didn't reply, and he slid his arm around her waist, drew her to him. Lowering his head, he brushed light kisses against her temples, her eyelids; spoke softly and coaxingly, recognizing the justice of her demand for vengeance, but reminding her that the King had no army of his own, was dependent upon his lords to gather men to arms, reminding her that Warwick had his own power base in the North, that he could put a formidable force in the field under his own standard of the Bear and Ragged Staff. She made no response, merely turned her cheek slightly so that his lips just grazed her mouth.
"I do understand your bitterness, sweetheart. Do you think I wanted this? I can assure you that never was a pardon more grudgingly given. My cousin of Warwick does owe me a debt. It is not one I mean to forget. But I am not yet in a position to demand payment. I know it's not easy for you, my love, but-"
She pulled free from his embrace. Never had he seen eyes so green, a glazed glittering emerald, pupils contracted to the merest slits of scalding fury.
"No, you don't know! The truth is that the deaths of my kindred mean little or nothing to you! You talk to me of necessity. Just tell me what necessity could ever have forced you to come to terms with Clifford!
Nothing on God's earth could have compelled you to pardon the man who murdered your brother. But it seems my brother's death counts for less!"
He was now angry, too, but he made an attempt to stifle it, said patiently,