The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (43 page)

Harry's smile had not wavered. "My cousin of York, I bid you welcome," he said, in a soft, unexpectedly pleasing voice.
"Thank you, Cousin," Edward said dispassionately. Whatever his feelings, nothing showed now in his face, not even as Harry added, with the air of one sharing a secret with a friend, "I know that in your hands my life will not be in danger."
Beside him, Richard heard Hastings draw a breath through his teeth, as sharp as a whistle. The
Archbishop had the look of one wanting fervently to disassociate himself from a blatant embarrassment.
Richard himself wished to be anywhere else than where he was at that moment, and he marveled that
Edward could hear such words and yet look so unmoved.
"It pleases me that you do think so, Cousin," Edward said, a response so strangely ambiguous, so unlike what the natural rejoinder would have been, that Richard was suddenly struck by an incredible suspicion, one so ugly that he at once disavowed it as an aberrant thought, one Edward didn't deserve.
Edward now raised his hand, and men who wore the colors of York came through the gallery doorway.
"The Archbishop of York shall escort you to the Tower, Cousin. Make your wants known, once there;
they'll be seen to."
There was silence as the Archbishop and the Lancastrian King exited the great hall, flanked by men-at-arms. Edward was staring after the sparse figure clad in soiled blue velvet. At length, he said softly, "I will never understand . . . never be able to comprehend how men were willing to die so that he might be King."
No one answered him, and he glanced around at the silent circle of men.
"Well?" he demanded. "Why do we wait? Fetch the horses."
He turned away, moved toward the door, and then snapped, to no one in particular, "And for Christ's sake, get him another gown!"
THERE was a sudden commotion in the inner courtyard. Jacquetta Woodville heard Nurse Cobb cry out, and she looked up to see her son- in-law standing in the doorway. Too flustered for presence of mind, she dropped down in a curtsy, had a fleeting glimpse of the children. Mary was wide-eyed, uncertain, and two-year-old Cecily had the emerging look of fear. But before Jacquetta could speak, Bess had given a strangled cry, neither laugh nor sob but kin to both, and flung herself across the room.
The floor was strewn with rushes, and just as she reached her father, she tripped, fell forward. Edward caught her before she hit the ground and swung her up into his arms. She seemed to have no need of speech, con

tent just to be held, and as Jacquetta watched, she felt tears prickle, but she didn't care, let them come.
Thomas was moving forward, and his brother was in the room, too, flushed with excitement. Jacquetta saw that Edward wasn't alone. Her son Anthony was with him, and she recognized Richard and Hastings and the Abbot Millyng and-with a distinct shock-George of Clarence.
Anthony was smiling at her, but he stayed in the doorway. They were all looking to Edward, waiting on him. But he was smiling at his daughter, touching her soft fair hair, and for the moment, she alone claimed his attention. . . . Until the Jerusalem Chamber door opened.
Elizabeth wore only a dressing robe of a light clinging material, and her hair hung loosely down her back in a spill of tangled silver. She was clutching a kirtle of sarcenet silk and a hairbrush and she looked disheveled, breathless, startled.
Edward lowered Bess to the ground. As he did, Elizabeth let the kirtle and brush fall to the floor in the only truly spontaneous gesture that Richard, watching, had ever seen his sister-in-law make, and moved toward her husband. He didn't wait; in two strides, he had her in his arms, in a passionate embrace.
She was the one that broke free first, balancing her hand against his chest as if to hold him there.
"Wait," she said, and then she smiled at him. "Wait..." And she spun around, to find that Nurse Cobb was already beside her, happily holding out the baby. Elizabeth reached for him and, turning back to Edward, placed the child in his arms.
No one else had yet moved, not even his daughters. He studied his son and then raised his eyes to hers, linking over the baby's head.
"Did you ever doubt me?"
"No, never. Did you think I would?"
He grinned, shook his head.
edward was surrounded by children. He'd laughed, claiming he felt like the Pied Piper, and almost at once won over the last holdout, the shy Cecily, who'd observed her second birthday as he had ridden alone into the city of York. With Bess on his lap and Mary at his feet, he was responding to his stepsons'
questions, good-naturedly coping with an avid assault of curious queries about exile, Bruges, the
Yorkshire campaign. But before long, his interest began to slacken, his replies grew more inattentive, less animated. He was watching his wife, and she sensed it, turned in his direction. A private message passed between them; she rose from her brother's side, shook back the tumbled masses of blonde hair, and
Edward stood, gently depositing Bess on her feet.

"You've not yet greeted your Uncle Anthony or your Uncle Dickon, sweetheart," he coaxed, smiling down at her. "That's a good lass."
Bess moved dutifully toward her Uncle Anthony as bidden, but stopped abruptly when she saw her father cross the room, take her mother's hand, and disappear into the Jerusalem Chamber. She took an uncertain step forward, but the door closed behind them; she heard the bolt slide into place.
Richard crossed to Will Hastings. "I think Ned is in good hands. . . . Give him word for me, Will, that
I've gone to Baynard's Castle."
Will grinned, asked to have his courtesies conveyed to Her Grace, the Duchess of York, but as Richard listened, his eyes were straying across the room, measuring his niece's misery. Bess was sobbing softly, staring forlornly at the bedchamber door, and neither Jacquetta nor Thomas seemed able to console her.
Bess liked her half brother Thomas, but now she paid no heed to his attempts to make her laugh with the floppy rabbit puppet he'd made for Mary. She rather wished he'd stop; he should know she'd not care about a silly playtoy when her father had come home at last, after being gone for so very long, only to vanish again ere she'd even had the chance to confide how much she'd missed him. She fumbled for a handkerchief, gave up and used her sleeve. Her Uncle Dickon was kneeling by her now, and she gave him a suspicious look to see if he meant to order her away from her vigil by the bedchamber door. But he seemed content to stay beside her, and she relaxed somewhat. Grand-mere had asked her if she remembered her uncles, which was silly; of course she did.
"Bess, would you like to ride into London with me?"
She sniffed, shook her head, and then turned to look sharply up into his face. "London?" she said uncertainly. "You mean . . . outside? We cannot. It is forbidden."
"Not any longer, Bess. Wouldn't you like to see the city again? You haven't been beyond these walls in months; are you not curious?"
She was regarding him doubtfully. "I haven't a pony," she said sadly. "It got left. I couldn't even take my dog with me. ..." Her mouth was quavering again, and he said swiftly, "If I find you a horse, should you like to come with me?"
She nodded, gave him a dawning smile. But then she glanced back toward the door of the Jerusalem
Chamber and her face shadowed again.
"No, I. . . I cannot. . . ."
"Bess, do you know where I've been these six months past?"
"Burgundy," she said at once, and was grateful when he didn't question her where Burgundy was.
Instead, he said, "You know who I was with?"

"Papa."
"He won't go away without me, Bess. You can await him at Baynard's Castle if you like . . . and as long as I'm there, you'll know he hasn't gone away again."
She considered this, decided it made sense. "Can we ride by the river?" she bargained, and he laughed, helped her to rise.
"By all means, by the river," he agreed, as Thomas Grey stepped in front of him.
"I do not think my lady mother would wish her daughter to go off without her permission," he said coldly.
"I cannot approve of this pleasure-jaunt into London."
Jacquetta had just been about to thank Richard for his inspiration and now she turned to her grandson in surprise. He was jealous, she decided; these months hadn't been easy on the boy, and she could well understand how he might feel shunted aside, ignored. She stepped forward, intending to intercede, but in such a manner that Thomas would not feel reprimanded or rebuked, when Richard said, with what she felt to be uncalled-for rudeness, "What makes you think I give a damn about your approval?"
Anthony Woodville looked up at that, frowned. "I think his concern for his sister is to be commended,"
he said, in a far from friendly tone, and Jacquetta, seeing that Richard was about to respond in kind, started to speak.
But Will Hastings was quicker. Lounging against the wall, he'd straightened up at the first exchange, and now he smiled at Anthony.
"I don't see that young Grey need fret over the Lady Bess. I can think of no safer guardian than His
Grace of Gloucester, and I am sure the King would agree with me. Do you mean to suggest otherwise, my lord Rivers?"
Anthony stared at him; dislike surged between them, almost tangible in its intensity. "I'll tell you what I
mean to suggest, my lord Hastings. . . . That this is a family matter and not one which concerns you."
Bess had been shifting impatiently; she was accustomed to the quarrels of adults and they held little interest for her. Now that she was to ride in the sun, see the city streets, and hear the people cheer her as they had whenever she'd passed through London in the past, she was eager to depart, and she tugged at
Richard's arm.
"Can we not go now?"
"I see no reason why not, Bess."
Richard looked challengingly at Thomas. The latter hesitated, not sure how far this should be pursued, and in the pause that followed, George spoke for the first time.

"Go on, Dickon, take Bess to our mother. If Grey feels the need to play nursemaid, let him do so with her sisters."
Jacquetta saw amusement on the faces of Hastings and Richard, saw murderous rage on that of her grandson, and as he swung around to confront George, she said icily, "I only do wish you had such solicitude for your brother's children, my lord of Clarence, these six months past while they were forced into sanctuary under your father-in- law's threats."
Abbot Millyng had been listening, in growing disapproval, and now he was moved to mediate, made uneasy by the expression on the Duke of Clarence's face.
"I truly must protest! It is not seemly that there should be dissension amongst you on this which should be the happiest of days for the House of York."
They were all staring at him, and he read in their silence unwilling acknowledgment of the truth of his charge. Richard allowed his niece to lead him toward the door, pausing long enough to murmur a few words meant for George alone. George didn't reply, but they seemed to have reached an understanding of some sort and he followed Richard from the room. Will was next to depart, and as he passed the
Abbot, he murmured, with a sideways smile, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the
Children of God."
The Abbot shut the outer door, glanced toward the bedchamber door, which still remained closed.
Jacquetta was attempting to soothe her angry grandson without notable success. He was complaining bitterly, "It is just that I see not why Bess should be fetched to see Her Vainglorious Grace now, when she never once did come to us in sanctuary. ..."
Jacquetta's reply was lost to the Abbot, for Anthony had begun to rail against "that whoreson Hastings,"
and as he listened, Abbot Millyng felt a chill. He'd deeply feared an England ruled by the Earl of
Warwick and Marguerite d'Anjou, sure there could be no peace between those most bitter and implacable of enemies. Now he wondered if it were truly that different with the House of York. It occurred to him that herein, too, lay the seeds of destruction, as surely as it did with Marguerite d'Anjou and the Kingmaker.
It was a sobering thought, but then he remembered, remembered with deep heartfelt relief. . . . Thank
Almighty God that there was a man strong enough to hold them all together, a man able to reconcile the passions of Woodville and Plantagenet under the blazing banner of his Sunne in Splendour. The hostility he'd just seen in this room had been disturbing, but there'd be no bloody rending of the House of York.
He glanced again at the bedchamber door, and then said to Jacquetta, "Shall

we not give thanks, Madame, that His Grace the King has come safely home to us?"
BESS was curled up beside Richard on the settle in her grandmother's solar. She'd been tenaciously staving off sleep ever since supper, but her eyes were now the merest of slits, and as Cecily watched, silky little lashes sealed off the last lingering traces of blue. Cecily smiled; Bess might have her mother's silver-gilt hair, but her eyes were unmistakably Edward's.
Cecily was, in many ways, a stranger to the child, for her relationship with her daughter-in-law was such that she rarely saw her grandchildren in settings other than ceremonial. Richard was far better acquainted with Edward's eldest-born than she was, and she'd expected Bess to be somewhat shy with her, at least at first. But Bess was no more shy than any small creature that had been conditioned to expect only love and approval, and she'd shown no hesitation whatsoever in climbing up into Cecily's lap, just as if she'd passed every day of her life with her grandmother at Baynard's Castle.
Cecily leaned over to wipe a greasy smear from the little girl's chin, said ruefully, "One might read our menu on that child's face! Come, Bess; let me put you to bed, dearest."
Bess's eyes were unfocused, her lids uncooperatively refusing to remain open, but she at once offered sleepy resistance, clinging to Richard with the resolve of one determined not to be dislodged.
"Let her stay, Ma Mere. Does it matter, after all, whether she does sleep here or in bed?"
"No, I suppose not," Cecily conceded, seeing that Bess, reassured by Richard's intercession on her behalf, had stopped struggling. He shifted his arm and she nestled back against him, slid with a contented sigh again into sleep.
"She's quite taken with you, Richard!"
He smiled, shook his head. "No, it's not that. Bess and I did strike a bargain, you see. I did pledge on
Ned's behalf that he'd not come anywhere but to Baynard's Castle, and till he does, she's not likely to let me out of her sight!"
Cecily smiled, too, at that, and then said, "We tend to forget at times that it is the little ones, the children, who do suffer the greatest hurt. If we cannot comprehend why certain sorrows are visited upon us, how on earth can they?"
Richard nodded, and looking down at his sleeping niece, found himself thinking of Kathryn, his own daughter. She was nigh on a year old al