The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (35 page)

belladonna for the eyes, ceruse to whiten the skin, red ocher lip rouge, marigold balm.
Her sister was not alone; another girl was leaning over her. She looked up quickly as Isabel entered, and
Isabel recognized Veronique de Crecy, one of the young Frenchwomen who'd been chosen to attend
Anne. This particular girl was only a few years older than Anne, and they seemed to have developed a degree of intimacy during these four months at Amboise.
"Anne? Why aren't you dressing? You've less than three hours."
Anne continued to stare into the pier glass.
"Go away, Isabel," she said dully.
Isabel waved the French girl aside, stepped closer to her sister. "I was told you dismissed your ladies. ...
Is that true? Anne, look at me! What nonsense is this?" Seeing she had Anne's unwilling attention, she continued coldly, "Surely you are not going to give us yet another tearful display of self-pity?"
"I cannot do this, Isabel," Anne whispered. "I cannot."
"You will, though, and we both do know it. We've been over this till there cannot possibly be anything left unsaid. Our father's future depends upon this marriage. He has given his word to the French King. He must have French support. . . and this marriage is the price he must pay for that support. You know that, Anne."
"The price he must pay?" Anne sounded incredulous. "As I see it, I am the one who must pay! I am the one who must wed with Lancaster, wed a man I do despise."
"Watch your tongue," Isabel cautioned. "Such things are not safe to say."
"But true, nonetheless." Anne turned away from the mirror to look imploringly at Isabel. "Isabel, all my life I've been taught to hate Lancaster. They did kill our grandfather, our uncle Tom, our cousin Edmund.
How can I forget that?"
"You have no choice," Isabel said, so implacably that Anne slammed a small fist down on the cluttered side table, sending phials and jars careening into each other.
"Jesu, Isabel, can you not understand how I feel? Will you not even try?"
"What good would it do if I did? Would it change anything?"
Anne shivered, and Veronique came forward, draping a dressing robe across her shoulders. Isabel hesitated and then picked up an ivory comb.
"Come, now, and I will help you with your hair."
Anne jerked her head away, however, and Isabel snapped, "Must I say it again? You have no choice!"

"So you keep telling me," Anne said bitterly. "It seems I gave up all choice when I followed our father into French exile. Well, today, I would to God I had not! I would to God I'd never left England!"
"You talk like such a child, Anne. You know you could not have remained in England. You'd have found few friends willing to aid the daughter of a declared traitor."
"No?" Anne said stubbornly, and Isabel lost all patience.
"You mean to imply, I suppose, that you could always have appealed to our cousin of Gloucester?" She shook her head in disgust. "You seem to forget, Sister, that Dickon did not want you."
Anne's dark eyes were burning like charcoal against the chalk- whiteness of her face. "Why do you hate me?"
"You know I do not."
"Yes, you do," Anne insisted. "Ever since Father compelled this betrothal, you've been different toward me . . . as if it were my fault, somehow. It's not fair to blame me because he bypassed George. This is none of my choosing. Dear God, you know that! I never wanted to be wife to Lancaster . . . never. I
would rather be dead," she concluded, so passionately that Isabel was moved in spite of herself.
"It is not as bad as that, Anne," she said with a sigh. "You must try to remember. . . . As his wife, you'll be Queen of England one day."
"I don't want to be Queen of England!"
Isabel stared at her. "You are truly a fool then," she said at last.
"No," Anne said, in a tight flat voice that sounded like the voice of a stranger, not Anne's voice at all.
"No, I am a commodity. I was sold to Lancaster for a price, as one would barter a cloak or a gold pendant."
This was indeed what was being said, even at the jaded French court, and Isabel well knew it.
"You must not say things like that," she chided, without conviction. She was tired, very tired. She supposed she should feel sorry for her sister, but it was hard, so very hard, to summon up pity, to feel any emotion at all. She'd achieved her objective, quenched Anne's last feeble attempt at rebellion, but she could take no pleasure in it. Tears had begun silently to streak Anne's face. Isabel had known it would end like this, end in Anne's tears. It always did.
"I will summon your other ladies so you may dress," she said.
Anne didn't seem to have heard. The tears were coming faster now. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocked back and forth. In appearance she was still more child than woman; only in the past year had her slender girl's body begun to round and soften, to take on the curves and contours of a woman, and she still had a way to go. Isabel bit her lip. She did not want to think of that, did not want to see her sister's tears. There was nothing she could do. Nothing.

She bent down, brushed her lips against Anne's wet cheek. "I'll send your ladies to you," she said softly.
She didn't wait for Anne's response. Knew none would be forthcoming. But Anne would allow herself to be dressed in the bridal silk laid out on the bed. She would wed Lancaster. Isabel raised her hand to her aching temples; the light blurred and danced before her eyes. Their father, she thought, would be pleased.
As she stepped out into the corridor, however, the door opened behind her, almost at once.
"Why are you not attending to the Lady Anne, Veronique?"
"She is fearful, Madame; can you not see that? Can you not understand?"
"You presume," Isabel said icily, not at all pleased by the realization that the French girl understood far more English than she'd surmised.
"I care, Madame," the girl persisted audaciously. "The Lady Anne is my friend. Could you not be kind to her, this day of all days? She has need of you now. Could you not remember that she is but fourteen years of age, a virgin maid, to be wed to a man she neither likes nor trusts-"
Isabel cut her off with a gesture. "I cannot help that," she said drearily, wondering why she was standing there explaining herself to this impertinent French girl.
"Anne is my sister. I take no pleasure in her unhappiness, I assure you. But in this world we must do what is expected of us. Anne is a Neville; she must act as a Neville."
Veronique had a challenging direct gaze which found no favor with Isabel, which provoked her into snapping cynically, "Moreover, I see not why Anne is to be pitied. There are worse fates than to be
Queen of England."
Isabel was turning away as Veronique said, very low and very fast, "But I'd have thought that you, of all women, would have compassion for her plight. You, after all, were fortunate enough to wed the man of your choice, Madame."
Isabel opened her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke and heard herself say, "Yes, it was my choice, wasn't it? It truly was. . . ."
Astonished by her own words, she was even more astonished when she began to laugh. Sobering with an effort, she met the other girl's eyes. They were hazel like her own, and to her fury, had in them a hint of pity.
"I believe I did bid you to attend to my sister, Veronique. Why do you tarry then? Make her fair for
Lancaster; he will expect as much."

U G E BURGUNDY
December 1470
XOR the first time in his life, Rob Percy dreaded the coming of Christmas. As a youngster, he'd begun anticipating the ((Of 'I Yuletide revelries as early as
Martinmas.. His family celebrated the holiday M in the Yorkshire fashion, and the days from St Nicholas
Day until Epiphany were bright with banqueting, gift-giving, mummeries, and the allegorical morality plays performed in the churches of York in which Virtue triumphed over Vice, but only at the last possible moment.
But there would be scant joy in this Christmas, not for the English exiles in Bruges. Their credit was well nigh exhausted; their debts were large enough to stir both antagonism and alarm among the merchants of the city. It was true that the Duke of Burgundy was reluctantly providing his brother-in-law of York with a monthly stipend, and may the Almighty bless Her Grace the Duchess Margaret for that, Rob thought fervently.
But five hundred crowns a month would only go so far, and Rob wondered how long Edward could impose upon the hospitality of the Seigneur de la Gruuthuse. Gruuthuse had proven to be that rarest of men, the friend who sticketh closer than a brother. But Gruuthuse was also a subject of the Duke of
Burgundy, and when Charles first heard that Edward had landed at Texel, he snapped, "I would rather have been told that he was dead!"
Leaving the inn where he and a score of his companions were lodged, Rob sighed with relief at having made it out to the street without encountering their disgruntled landlord. The man's demands for payment were becoming increasingly truculent; Rob knew all that stood between them and eviction was the innkeeper's reluctance to resort to violence during Advent. Rob had been aware for some weeks that time served Warwick, not York.

He took his usual shortcut through the churchyard of Sint Salvator's Kathedraal, which led him out onto
Groote Herlig Geest Straete; even after two months in Burgundy, that was still too much of a mouthful for
Rob. He envied Richard, for his friend's French was fluent enough to bridge that guttural gap between
English and Flemish. But Rob had no ear at all for languages. At Middleham, none had learned how to wield a broadsword more lethally than he, but he'd never mastered French, was utterly baffled by Latin, and when confronted now with Flemish, felt as if his tongue were tied in knots.
Rob quickened his pace. December was no month to be about in Bruges; the wind was unrelenting and the canals clogged with ice. He clutched his cloak more firmly about his throat; it was much mended, and he shivered as a sudden blast of icy air almost pulled it from his grasp. His fractured French troubled him nowhere near as much as the empty purse that hung from his belt.
Ahead, he saw the soaring spire of Onze Lieve Vrouwkert or, as the French-speaking citizens called it, Eglise Notre-Dame. Rob always thought of it as the Church of Our Lady. It was the tallest church he'd ever seen, loftier even than St Paul's Cathedral, and towered far above all the buildings in its shadow, even the magnificent mansion known as Herenhuis Gruuthuse.
Each time he saw the Gruuthuse palace, the irony struck Rob anew, that his Yorkist lords should be so hard-pressed for money while dwelling in a manor house as splendid as a ducal residence. Trust King
Edward to find himself a friend as rich as Croesus, he thought now, and lucky it was, for had they to live on the largesse of his tight-fisted brother-in-law, they'd be in a tangled coil for certes. And might be yet.
Rob entered the courtyard of Herenhuis Gruuthuse. He was recognized on sight now by the Gruuthuse household and was permitted to pass unchallenged. The entrance hall never failed to impress him, with its high wooden-beamed ceiling, dazzling white marble stairway, and brightly patterned tile floor. In spite of himself, Rob thought of the dank airless room he shared with four of his fellow fugitives, a bed stuffed with straw and vermin, with chinks in the wall through which he could pass his hand were he so minded.
He was at once shamed by the thought; it had never before been in his nature to envy others. It was this damnable Christmas season, he decided; it rubbed the nerves raw. Taking the marble stairs two at a time, he was admitted to the chamber of the Duke of Gloucester by Thomas Parr. Richard wasn't there, but he was in no hurry, was quite willing to pass the time with the young Yorkshireman who'd served as his friend's squire for as long as he could remember.
He knew Richard had been meeting that afternoon with several Eng-

lish merchants newly come from Calais, in hopes of securing a loan on his brother's behalf, and he now asked Thomas quietly, "How went things with His Grace today?"
Thomas shook his head, but at that moment, Richard came through the doorway, and it was he who answered the question Rob had discreetly directed at Thomas.
"None too well, Rob. . . . Fair words and those in plenty, but no more than that."
After an awkward pause, Rob ventured consolingly, "Well, if they speak so kindly of His Grace, they may yet decide to advance him the gold we need. . . ."
"Aye, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride," Richard said tersely. "Be you ready, Rob? Tom, you needn't wait on me. I expect to be quite late."
after hearing Vespers in the Gruuthuse pew at Notre-Dame Cathedral, the boys exited onto Den Dijver.
December dusk was settling over the city, the air crisp and very cold. Knowing the Gruuthuse stables were at Richard's disposal, but knowing, too, how reluctant his friend was to accept favors he might never be able to repay, Rob suggested, none-too- hopefully, "Shall we go back for horses, Dickon?"
Richard shook his head. "No, let's walk, Rob."
Richard remembered little of those unhappy months he'd spent in Bruges and Utrecht as an eight-year-old fugitive from Lancastrian vengeance. Seeing Bruges now as an adult, he'd fallen at once under the spell of this walled city crisscrossed with canals and arched stone bridges. The streets were cobbled and far cleaner than those of London. Gardens flourished for much of the year, and the houses of the citizenry were substantial structures of brick and stone, with multicolored slate roofs which shone in the sun in silvery hues of green and blue and bright hot shades of red. Swans vied with small craft for the right-of-way on the canals; scores of windmills, a novelty to Richard, silhouetted the city skyline, and even in his present frame of mind, Richard was able to derive a degree of pleasure from his surroundings.
Rob, who was blind to beauty in all but women, was still wishing Richard had chosen to ride. Unlike
London, Bruges had no ordinance requiring street lanterns to be hung, and dark was rapidly descending.
He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword as they crossed the bridge spanning the Dijver Rei and turned into Wolle Straete, for several men were staggering from a tavern just ahead, and more than a few of the Yorkists had been bloodied in street brawls or in fending off would-be robbers. The men passed them without incident, though, and he relaxed

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somewhat, for they were entering the torch-lit square, known as the Grote Markt, the site of tournament jousting, market trading, and public executions.
Above the covered market called the Hallen rose the graceful silhouette of the Belfort. It was now chiming the hour, in melodic warning that the nine city gates were closing for the night. Two of the uniformed scadebelleters of the city Watch were posted at the belfry doorway; another stood guard over the lone wretched man imprisoned in the wooden pillory, the leather purse dangling from his neck giving evidence to the crime of theft. He moaned as they passed by, mumbling a plea in the guttural Flemish that eluded Rob so completely.
"What does he say, d'you think?" he speculated, and Richard, who'd not even glanced at the prisoner, shrugged.
"Who knows?" he said without interest, and pointed left down Sint Amands Straete, toward a lighted doorway.
"Shall we stop for wine?"
The Gulden Vlies was small and rather shabby, but the innkeeper spoke English and his inn had quickly become a favorite meeting place for the homesick English exiles. Edward himself had, on occasion, forsaken the princely hospitality of the Herenhuis Gruuthuse for the more dubious pleasures of the Gulden
Vlies.
Rob acquiesced with enthusiasm, and after exchanging a few pleasantries and a few coins with the innkeeper, they found themselves seated alone at a corner table. The common room was not yet crowded and Rob failed to find a familiar face. He was disappointed, for he did not feel comfortable midst so many foreigners.
Bruges was the commercial center of Europe, and merchants from the Italian city-states and Spanish kingdoms mingled freely with traders of the Holy Roman Empire and the Hanseatic League. Tonight, though, Rob would have welcomed even the presence of the English merchants, who'd so far kept a prudent distance from their Yorkist countrymen. But for the moment, at least, he and Richard appeared to be the only English- speaking patrons in the inn.
Rob drained his wine cup, far too swiftly for one who hadn't eaten sfnce noon. But Richard was already signaling to the serving maid, and this time she left a flagon on their table.
Briefly, Rob debated telling Richard about the troubles with his landlord, decided against it. Richard had already made one trip to see the man, promised to assume personal responsibility for all the debts his men incurred. Unfortunately, the promise of one under sentence of death in his own land carried less and less weight as the debts mounted.
Rob glanced pensively at his companion. He knew Richard was as unhappy as he was, and he would have liked to talk about it, but he did