The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (31 page)

Francis wished now that he hadn't asked, decided a new topic of conversation was in order. "I want to purchase a mare while I'm here for my sister Joan. I did promise I'd bring her back a fine Yorkshire filly."
"We could ride out to Jervaulx Abbey to see their stock. Since that's a good day's ride, I'd not be able to get away till Monday next, but if you're willing to wait, Francis, you'll not find a better horse anywhere than one of theirs. They breed the best in Wensleydale."
The idea of such an outing appealed greatly to Francis. "And Middleham's not four miles further up the road," he said enthusiastically. "It's been forfeit to the King, has it not? So we could spend the night there rather than with the monks."
He saw at once that it'd been a mistake to mention Middleham, saw Richard's eyes darken so that he could not be sure if they were blue or grey, could be sure only of sudden shadowed pain. And then it was gone, and Richard was smiling, said lightly, "Who knows, you might even find a filly at Jervaulx that you'd like to give to Anna!"
Francis had been about to bring up the name he'd not heard Richard speak since Warwick's flight to
France, the name of the fourteen-year-old girl who'd been dragged into exile with him. He was distracted now by Richard's jibe, and the name that passed his lips was that of Anna FitzHugh rather than Anne
Neville.
"It's been decided that Anna is to come to live with me at Minster Lovell next year, once she's past her fifteenth birthday. It's a queer feeling, Dickon, to have a wife I hardly know. . . . We've nothing to say to each other, nothing at all."
The door opened suddenly and they both turned, expecting to see Thomas Parr, Richard's squire, or perhaps one of the black-clad Augustine friars. The man before them was unfamiliar, wore the blue and murrey of York.
"My lord of Gloucester . . . Begging Your Grace's pardon, but the Hospitaller did bid me come direct to you when I told him I came from His Grace, the King. My lord, it is the wish of the King's Grace that you do attend upon him at once. He awaits you now at the friary of the Franciscans."
Richard said nothing, merely nodded. The man withdrew and Thomas came in, hard on his heels. He wasted no time, said tersely, "I've given orders to saddle your horse, my lord."
"Dickon ... I'll wait for you. If that be all right?"
Richard turned toward Francis, nodded again, but Francis did not think he truly heard him. Richard had paled noticeably. His mouth was suddenly taut, as if bracing for news he already knew to be bad. Before
Francis could repeat his question, Richard was gone and he was alone in the quiet chamber. He sat down on the narrow bed and tried to convince

himself that the King might summon Richard at such an hour for mundane matters, for other than catastrophe.
"COME in, Dickon. I've news to share. It seems the most Christian country of France has been given to witness a miracle. . . . And I daresay we'll soon be told the blind did see and the lame leapt like deer."
"I can think of few places less likely to be so blessed than France," Richard said uncertainly, for there was a bright hard glaze to his brother's eyes and the mockery rang false. "What has happened, Ned?"
"The cat is among the pigeons for true, Little Brother. A message has arrived from Westminster, from
Lisbet. Meg has sent word from Burgundy . . . Warwick has come to terms with the French harlot."
For the first time in his life, Richard knew what it meant to be speechless with shock. "I don't believe it,"
he said at last.
"Believe it, Dickon," Edward said and smiled grimly. "Warwick and Marguerite d'Anjou met at Angers on the twenty-second of last month and there discovered that they did share a common interest ... in my downfall."
" 'Yea, and behold, that the wolf and the lamb shall feed together,' Will Hastings murmured, but Richard could see little humor in so unholy an alliance and said, still incredulous, "If he'd take Marguerite d'Anjou as ally, he'd not have scrupled to make a pact with the very Archfiend of Hell." Adding in spite of himself, "God pity him, that he should come to this. ..."
" 'Facilis descensus Averni,' Edward said with a shrug. "The descent into Hell is easy."
"Jesii, Ned, his father and brother died with ours at Sandal Castle," Richard persisted, "at the hands of
Marguerite's men!"
"Aye, and Warwick did brand her son a bastard for all the world to hear. But the King of France has a honeyed tongue and enlightened self- interest seems to have carried the day," Edward said, very dryly, and Richard turned smoke-grey eyes upon him in belated comprehension.
"This is a web of the French King's making, isn't it?"
"Who else, Dickon? Warwick hasn't the imagination. . . . For if he had, he could never have backed
Brother George's claims to the throne! As for the French harlot . . ." Edward laughed, without mirth. "I
verily think she hates Warwick even more than she does me!"
"And exile hasn't softened her any," Will volunteered. "She kept Warwick on his knees for a full quarter-hour ere she'd deign to pardon him!"
"I should have wished to see that," Richard said bitterly, and Edward gave him a smile of sardonic understanding.

"So would I, lad. ... So would I."
"What of George?" Richard asked suddenly, and this time Edward's laughter was not forced.
"What, indeed? Warwick has as much need for George as a man gelded has for a warm-blooded wench, and even George must realize that he's now like a teat on a bull, a curiosity but of no earthly use."
Will laughed, but Richard was frowning, still struggling with disbelief.
"But how can Warwick ever hope to put Harry of Lancaster back on the throne?" he demanded. "God
Almighty, Ned, he's madder than Bedlam, and Warwick well knows it."
"If they dare, they'll bypass the old man and crown the boy," Will predicted and Edward jibed, "They've not set foot in England as yet and you have the boy crowned already?"
Catching his error of speech, Will grinned and recovered quickly. "They would . . . but they won't."
"No, they won't, Will. But they'll damned well try."
"I think not, Ned. I'd wager they'll be at sword's point before the first frost . . . and our cousin Warwick will have bartered the last of his honor for a handful of cobwebs and smoke."
"I'd not count on that happenstance if I were you, Dickon."
"You cannot believe this accursed alliance will last? It's a pairing as unnatural as Rome and Carthage, or
Sparta and Troy!"
"You seem to forget, Dickon, that we are dealing with the Spider King. Louis realized, just as you have, that it would take more to mate dog to cat than a shared lust for the English crown."
Edward paused, shook his head. "No, that son of a whore baited his trap with care . . . and then sealed this ungodly mesalliance within the sacrament of marriage. Though I should truly like to know how he ever prevailed upon Marguerite to wed her precious nestling to a daughter of Warwick's!" He shook his head again, wonderingly. "Now that truly defies belief!"
"I daresay the boy swayed her." Will turned to Richard, explaining, "It seems he was taken with the girl and wasn't adverse to bedding her, not with a crown in the offering, as well."
Even as Will spoke, there was a sudden commotion across the table from him. A squire of the royal household had been moving inconspicuously among them, filling their winecups from a heavy glass flagon.
But as he paused before Richard, Richard jerked around without warning to stare at his brother, and the hapless attendant suddenly found himself pouring wine for a cup that was no longer there.
The man was looking with dismay at the puddle forming among the

floor rushes, saw with even greater dismay that wine had splashed, as well, upon the blue velvet sleeve of the young Duke's doublet, and braced himself for a reprimand he did not deserve but did not expect to escape.
None was forthcoming. There was an abrupt silence, broken at last by Will when it was clear that no one else meant to speak. Will had been startled by Richard's heedless act, but was far too well mannered to remark upon it. He chose, instead, to give the squire a discreet signal to withdraw and then resumed, as smoothly as if there'd been no disruption of the conversation.
"But Marguerite is not utterly witless! Although she sanctioned the betrothal, the wedding is not to take place till Warwick holds England." He laughed at that, before concluding cheerfully, "And he has as much chance of that as he does of successfully laying siege to the Holy City of Jerusalem!"
He paused for the expected response, soon saw he waited in vain. By now he was becoming aware of tensions above and beyond the natural shock at Warwick's accord with the Lancastrian Queen. He made no further attempts at conversation, looked instead to Edward for his cue. It was not long in coming.
"Will, I would speak with my brother alone," Edward said abruptly, and as the door closed behind Will, he leaned forward. But Richard pulled away from his touch.
Edward found himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, watching in silence as Richard crossed to the window, where he took undue care in unlatching the shutters.
As cool air invaded the chamber, flaring the candles and giving hint of coming rain, Edward swore softly under his breath.
"Dickon, I didn't know ... It never occurred to me that you might still care for Warwick's daughter."
Richard said nothing, and somewhat to his surprise, Edward heard himself saying defensively, "After all, you've not seen her for nigh on a twelvemonth. . . . Time enough and more to fancy and then forget fully a score of sweethearts. At your age, I know I would . . . and did."
Richard turned at that. "Last year, when you forbade our betrothal, I told you, then, that I cared for Anne
. . . and you said that if my feelings were the same a year or so hence, you might reconsider. You do remember saying that?"
Edward had no liking for accusations, implied or otherwise, and he was provoked into responding with caustic candor.
"I remember. It seemed little enough to promise. You were but sixteen and I felt that for certes the fancy would pass with time."
It was candor he at once regretted; he'd not realized how callous that

would sound till he heard it spoken aloud. He sighed and then swore again, feeling at a loss. He was not accustomed to identifying so closely with the pain of another, did not like the sensation in the least. After some moments, he said slowly, "Dickon, I don't know what to tell you. If only you'd said something these months past! Had I but known you still had a fondness for the girl, I'd never have let you hear of her betrothal the way you did. For that, I am truly and deeply sorry. But I cannot say that I am sorry I
forbade the match. I'll not lie to you about that."
Richard nodded, almost imperceptibly, a gesture that said nothing and could have meant anything.
"Damnation, Dickon, we're making more of this than it warrants. As Will said, the marriage is not to be until Warwick claims England. If that be true, your little cousin will never see the day dawn when she must wed with Lancaster. That much I can promise you, Little Brother."
16
DONCASTER
September 1470
Edward was unable to sleep, turning upon his stomach, rolling over onto his back, pounding his pillow into softened submission. After a time, he abandoned the effort and propped himself up on his elbows to survey the darkened room. A solitary white candle burned, for luck and light, the shutters tightly barred against unhealthy night air. He could discern the motionless form of his squire, stretched out on a pallet by the door; the soft steady wheeze bespoke deep, blessed sleep. Irked, Edward briefly considered awakening him to share these accursed idle hours.
Before long, the sky would be streaking with light. . . and he had to be up with the sun. This day he expected to join his three thousand men with the five thousand under command of his cousin, John
Neville, Marquess of Montagu.
It was an uncommon occurrence for Edward, to be wakeful and un

easy of mind while others slept. Most nights, he slept like a cat, easy and light. But not for the past week.
Not since he got word of Warwick's landing in the South.
All September an English fleet had cruised the French coast. But in midmonth, squalls had swept the
Channel from Dover to Honfleur. His ships had been scattered in the storm and Warwick seized his chance to bypass the blockade. More than a fortnight had passed now since a French fleet had landed
Warwick and George at Dartmouth.
Edward was not normally given to regretting what was done and beyond recall. He knew he had no reason to reproach himself for the defensive measures he'd taken this summer, in anticipation of
Warwick's return. He'd done all he could. And yet he could not shake off a nagging suspicion that he'd done what Warwick wanted him to do . . .go north. Just what role, he wondered, had Fitz-Hugh really played? The penitent maladroit rebel? Or a successful decoy?
He knew such thoughts were hardly conducive to untroubled sleep, but he could deny neither the suspicion nor the fact that when Warwick landed at Dartmouth, he'd been more than three hundred miles to the north.
Warwick had made a shrewd move in heading for Devon; Edward grudgingly conceded him that. Devon had always been partial to the House of Lancaster, and there they'd swelled their ranks with unreconciled
Lancastrians and like malcontents. And as he raced south to intercept them, they'd turned east . . .
toward London.
If it came to that, he thought London would hold fast for him. But he felt sure Warwick would forsake even such a prize as London to meet his advance. Warwick was vain, fancied himself to be the most able battle commander since Harry of Monmouth won Agincourt. Edward thought otherwise. He had never lost a battle and he did not fear his cousin. Warwick had been routed at St Albans, faltered at Towton.
No, the only soldier worth fearing in the Neville family was Johnny.
Retrieving a pillow from the floor, he shoved it back against the headboard. He had not wanted it this way. But tonight he was tired and bitter and wanted above all else to make an end to it. To do whatever had to be done. It was a pity, he thought, that Marguerite had insisted upon keeping her stripling by her in
France, had not let him sail with Warwick. He'd rather have made an end to it all.
Closing his eyes, he thought of his wife, in residence at the Tower of London, awaiting her confinement.
Her time was nearing; the midwives said the babe would be born within a fortnight of All Saints' Day. He was concerned, but not unduly so, for this would be the fourth child in just six years of marriage. Lisbet birthed easily, had never been touched by the milk fever that claimed so many a woman after her child was born.