The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (53 page)

and, as such, reverts back to her control upon her husband's death. The treason was Warwick's, not hers. Since a wife owes obedience, above all, to her husband, she cannot, in all justice, be then held accountable for his crimes. Surely you do know that, George?"
Will glanced over at Richard with interest and some surprise. There had been a distinct coolness in
Richard's voice and Will saw now that he was not regarding George with any particular favor. George saw, too, said testily, "My mother-in-law does not need you to speak for her, Dickon."
"I would hope not."
Edward had followed this exchange with increasingly evident laughter. Now he said blandly, "Dickon is right, George. Warwick Castle does, by rights, belong to the Countess of Warwick, and is not subject to forfeiture."
For a moment he slanted a mischievous look in Richard's direction, which only Will caught. "Moreover, George, even if the Countess's Beauchamp lands were open to seizure, are you not forgetting that your sister-in-law, Anne Neville, is the rightful heiress to half of them?"
George looked startled, and then laughed shortly. "And are you forgetting, Ned, that Anne Neville is wife to Lancaster? Do you expect him to make a claim on her behalf, perhaps?"
Edward smiled, shrugged. "That does remind me, I want orders given to see to the safety of Anne Neville once we've taken the measure of Lancaster. I do want special care taken; I'll not have her ill treated, under pain of my gravest displeasure."
George was surprised, then pleased. "That's decent of you, Ned, and will ease Bella's mind considerably."
"Not at all, Brother George." Edward shifted in his seat, turning to face Richard. "Should I forget in the days to come, d'you think you could remember to recall the little Neville lass to my mind, Dickon?" he asked solicitously and then roared with laughter at the glare his brother gave him.
Will was watching in bemusement. The meaning of this byplay so far eluded him, but that there was meaning in it, he had no doubt. His eyes took in the three Yorkist brothers, but without enlightenment.
Edward was clearly enjoying himself, and Richard just as clearly was not; he looked at once aloof and annoyed. George was frowning, seemed perplexed. Will gave Edward one more searching look, and then resigned himself to an unsatisfied curiosity. Apparently, this was yet another private understanding
Edward shared only with Richard. Jealousy surged upward, rose in Will's mouth like bile. Resolutely, he ignored the taste, and turned to Richard, with determined, deliberate goodwill.

"You grew up with Warwick's daughter, didn't you, Dickon? At Middleham?"
The question was the most innocuous to come to his mind, seemed ideally suited to convey friendly interest. Yet he saw at once that his good intentions had somehow gone astray. Edward was, unaccountably, even more amused by his query, and Richard just as unaccountably seemed irked, although he replied politely enough, saying briefly that, yes, he'd been at Middleham with Anne Neville.
Illumination dawned for Will. Why, he wasn't sure, but the subject of Warwick's daughter seemed to be a sensitive one. He quickly asked Richard another question, this one concerning the coming campaign, and Richard responded with such immediate enthusiasm that Will saw his supposition had been correct-Richard was not comfortable talking about Anne Neville.
He was speculating on this when he happened to look at George. George was staring at his younger brother with such total absorption that Will found himself staring at George.
George had yet to take his gaze from Richard. He had the most arresting eyes Will had ever seen, a unique shade of purest blue-green, with golden lashes a woman might envy. They were measuring
Richard with queer intensity, with a watchful stillness that put Will in mind of a cat suddenly on the scent of unseen prey.
Will looked to Richard, who was pointing out the closest Severn crossing on the map to John Howard, unaware of his brother's unblinking scrutiny. But Will saw now that Edward was more observant than
Richard. Edward, too, was watching George, and Will realized at once that Edward had the advantage of him, for Edward did understand the nature of George's suspicions. Will had no doubt of that. All amusement had gone from Edward's face and the eyes studying George were very clear, very cold.
"Ned?" Anthony Woodville spoke for the first time since the council began; he'd been markedly subdued in Edward's presence since their quarrel at Baynard's Castle eleven days past.
"Assuming, of course, that we do defeat Lancaster, what mean you to do with the Frenchwoman?"
"Draw her fangs," Edward said grimly. "I do owe that lady a debt, Anthony, one long overdue."
All eyes were on him now.
"Jesu, the blood that's been spilled in her name, enough to run the Trent red from Nottingham to the sea,"
John Howard said suddenly, and more than one man among them nodded in somber agreement.
"Would you send her to the block, Ned?" George asked, sounding more curious than vengeful.

"A woman? Jesus God, George!" Richard snapped, and George turned upon him with a hostility that seemed disproportionate, far beyond the resentment that Richard's impatient tones might have been expected to spark.
"I wasn't speaking to you, Dickon," he said, so scathingly that Richard merely looked at him in surprise.
"He's right, George," Edward said, but not in rebuke; his voice was without emotion of any kind, very measured and even. "I'd not send a woman to the block. Not even Marguerite d'Anjou."
He looked about him, at them all, a faint smile playing about his mouth; there was nothing of amusement in it.
"And I do believe that will, in time, come to be the bitterest of her regrets . . . that I wouldn't."
3 1
TEWKESBURY
May 1471
LiDWARD had encountered unexpected difficulty in bringing the Lancastrians to bay. He still thought Marguerite meant to head for Wales, but his scouts had yet to confirm it as certainty, and he'd proceeded with undue caution once they departed Windsor on the twenty-fourth. Five days later, they were not further west than Cirencester, for Edward was growing increasingly concerned lest Marguerite slip by him and swing back toward London. When on
Wednesday, the first of May, his scouts reported the Lancastrian army was heading east toward Bath, his suspicions seemed to be confirmed. He hastened westward to intercept them, halting briefly at
Malmesbury to await further intelligence reports.
The news, when it came, was not good. Marguerite had led him astray with artfully laid rumors, had never meant to face him at Bath. Instead, she'd suddenly swung north, had been welcomed into the city of Bristol, which lay in the path of the Severn River crossing.

Edward had reacted with a rare outburst of unbridled rage, cursing Marguerite for the success of her stratagem, cursing himself for having taken her bait, and the citizens of Bristol for opening the city gates to her. But his scouts soon redeemed themselves in his eyes, for on Thursday morn, they brought him as welcome news as he could have wished. Marguerite's advance guard had been sighted at Sodbury, ten miles northeast of Bristol, and the battle preparations had been unmistakable. It seemed she planned at last to turn and fight. Edward roused his men to furious activity; they rode into Sodbury Thursday at midday and settled into position, to await the Lancastrian army.
The hours passed; night fell. When it was evident that there would be no battle this Thursday, Francis, exhausted from two days of hard riding, stumbled into the command tent that flew the Whyte Boar of
Gloucester. Flinging himself down on a pallet, he fell at once into a fitful, uneasy sleep. He was awakened some time later by voices, recognized one as Richard's and started sleepily to make his presence known when he heard a second voice say, "There is something I did want to say to you, Dickon, and if, as I expect, we fight tomorrow, we'll most likely not have another chance to talk alone."
Instead of speaking then, Francis lay very still, his heart hammering, not wanting the King to think he'd been eavesdropping upon a private conversation. He opened his eyes, but the tent was dark; only a single candle glimmered. He heard Richard stumble against something, swear roundly.
"Where the Devil are my people? Let me send for torches, Ned; it's blacker than Hades in here."
"Don't bother. Will and Jack and the others are awaiting us in my tent, so we can-Oh, Christ, I forgot to summon George myself! He'll sulk for a good hour that I didn't personally request he join us, the ass."
"What's been wrong with him lately? I haven't gotten two civil words from him for more than a week now."
"You have no idea, Dickon?"
"No, why should I? Oh, we did quarrel some at Windsor over whether you'd send the Frenchwoman to the block, but I cannot see that he'd bear a grudge over that, surely?"
"I see you truly don't know. Strange, how after all you've been through, you manage to hold to a certain naivete, even now, even with George."
"I cannot agree with you, Ned. I don't see that I'm naive, not at all." "I should have remembered, shouldn't I? At your age, that's a mortal insult! Well, you'd best let it lie, Dickon. George is not one to suffer in silence, and if you've vexed him, you'll know soon enough, I daresay."

Francis was wishing fervently that he'd spoken out at first; surely that embarrassment would have been far less than to be discovered now. There was an unmistakable intimacy about this conversation; he did not think Richard would be any more pleased than the King to find him here.
"What did you want to say to me, Ned?"
"Just this. ... I do believe we shall win tomorrow. But only a fool never considers the possibility of defeat.
And if we should lose . . . Marguerite d'Anjou is not Warwick, Dickon. I think you do understand that, but I need to be certain. If we should lose, just be sure you do not let yourself be taken alive . . . the way
Edmund was. You understand, lad?"
Francis was not surprised when Richard made no response; he could not imagine what one could possibly say to such a statement. He was scarcely breathing, so quietly did he lay, and he didn't move until long after they had left the tent, too shaken by Edward's words to sleep again.
AS it happened, Edward was wrong; they would not fight the next day, after all. At 3:00 A.M. Edward was awakened with dismal tidings. Once again, Marguerite had outfoxed him. As soon as she was sure she'd succeeded in luring him to Sodbury, she'd abandoned further pretense of giving battle, and even as he encamped at Sodbury, she was racing north, toward Gloucester.
Edward was wild when he heard, for once she reached Gloucester, once she crossed the Severn, she could burn the bridge behind her to sabotage pursuit and then proceed at her leisure into Wales to join forces with Jasper Tudor.
Edward's fury had been awesome, even to those who did know him best. While the military threat posed by such a retreat into Wales was real enough, it was his pride that had suffered the greatest hurt. That
Marguerite should have twice made a fool of him was more than he could accept with equanimity, but he'd not long indulged his anger. Within the hour, his camp was astir and on the move, setting out in grim pursuit.
He was well aware that he couldn't hope to overtake her before she reached Gloucester, but a Yorkist courier was soon whipping his mount north, bearing urgent orders for Richard Beauchamp, Governor of
Gloucester Castle, commanding him to keep the city gates closed to the Lancastrians at all costs. And as his messenger galloped toward Gloucester, Edward took his army north, along the Cotswold ridge toward the next Severn crossing . . . the town of Tewkesbury.
The memory of that march would long stay with the men who made it. It had been fast, furious and frantic, for Edward was determined to stop Marguerite before she could link up with the waiting Welsh rebels. She was just as determined to cross the Severn to safety and thus post

pone their day of reckoning, and Friday became a nightmare of dust, fatigue, and thirst for the men of both Lancaster and York.
Edward was renowned for the swiftness with which he could move an army; the speed of his campaigns had long been a byword. Now with so urgent a need, he pushed his men mercilessly. Although it was only early May, the heat soared upward as the sun climbed in the sky, until the soldiers sweltered under temperatures more common to midsummer than spring. They lacked more than sleep; they were short of water, as well, and the only brook within reach of the thirsty men was soon so churned and muddied by the horses of the vanguard that not even the most parched were willing to drink from it.
The Lancastrian army, too, had been on the march all night, and for them was reserved the bitterness of reaching Gloucester at 10:00 that Friday morning, eager for food and drink and the beckoning bridge that spanned the Severn, only to find the city gates tightly closed to them, by order of Governor Beauchamp.
They knew by now of the pursuing Yorkists, and they dared not take the time to force the city gates for fear the Yorkist army would be upon them before they could subdue the recalcitrant citizenry. They had no choice but to press onward, toward the Tewkesbury crossing, every bit as thirsty and sleep-starved as the enemy that shadowed them, and for them there was an added cruel goad, the vexation of being the hunted, not the hunter.
Throughout the day, the two armies pushed north, toward Tewkesbury. Because of the punishing pace
Edward had adopted upon learning of Marguerite's deception, there was now no more than five miles between the armies, and as the race dragged on, the advance guard of the Yorkists and the rear guard of
Lancaster were well within sight of each other.
At 4:00 P.M., the Lancastrian forces at last reached Tewkesbury, and here Yorkist sympathizers attempted to deny them the use of the abbey ferry. Marguerite gave orders to clear the way by force, but she alone had the stomach for such a bloody confrontation. Her exhausted men and horses were at the end of their endurance, and Somerset did not need to be told there was no conceivable way they could hope to quell opposition and ferry their army across the river with Edward of York less than five miles behind them and coming up fast. The battle commander countermanded the Queen. Somerset hastily scouted the terrain around Tewkesbury, and the weary Lancastrians prepared to make their stand, within sight of the River Severn they had tried so desperately to cross.
The Lancastrian army had been on the march for fully fifteen hours, had managed to cover twenty-four miles in that dash for the Severn. But Edward had done the impossible; in just twelve hours, he'd ridden an astonishing thirty-five miles. He was well content now to reward his men,