The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (64 page)

that she put it as bluntly as that, mind you, but her meaning was plain enough."
"I gather from the kiss I got that you did agree to both?"
Edward nodded. "I can't say I blame her for wanting to be shed of Exeter. Regrettably, her current choice is little better than the one she did have forced upon her as a little lass. Thomas St Leger. . .You know him?"
Richard found the memory he sought. "One of your esquires of the body? Wasn't he the one who got himself into a brawl a few years ago, came to blows with one of your marshals right in the palace, was to have his hand cut off as punishment till you intervened on his behalf? Am I thinking of the right man?"
Edward smiled. "That's Tom, all right, and not the first time I've had to pull his chestnuts from the fire.
He's a likable sort, but none too bright. Still, if he be what Anne wants ... In truth, I don't really much care, one way or the other."
Richard didn't much care, either; Anne was a virtual stranger to him. "I cannot foresee any problem with
His Holiness the Pope. But Ma Mere might be another matter altogether! You know she does hold that marriage be for life, no matter the circumstances."
"As to that, we did strike a bargain. I deal with the Vatican, she deals with Baynard's Castle!"
He gestured toward the sideboard. "Pour us from that flask of vernage, Dickon. That be your favorite, is it not?"
Richard nodded, did as he was bade. Edward generally kept a servant or two always at hand, for his own convenience, and Richard thought it odd that his brother should be all alone like this, today of all days.
"Your summons did take me somewhat by surprise," he said candidly. "I would have expected you to linger longer with the Queen." Like all the family, he'd fallen into the habit of referring to his sister-in-law by her title; it was far safer that way, for God forbid, he thought, that any of them should slip and make free with her Christian name!
Edward merely shrugged. "I intend to call a council meeting tonight, after Compline. I did want to speak to you beforehand, hence the summons."
Richard's heart sank. A council meeting tonight meant he'd have no chance to seek out Anne at the
Herber, would have to leave London in the morning without seeing her at all.
"I was hoping I might be able to see Anne tonight," he chose to remind Edward now, saw the latter shake his head.
"Dickon, sit down. I have a question to put to you. It's one you'll not much like, but it's something I do need to know."

"All right, Ned," Richard said slowly, sat down in the seat indicated. "What is it?"
"There's no easy way to ask. I want you to tell me if you think Anne could be carrying Lancaster's child."
"No!"
Richard started to rise, but Edward reached across the table, caught his arm.
"Think carefully, Dickon. Be you sure?"
Richard sank back in his seat. The very thought was so abhorrent to him that he found it almost impossible to consider it dispassionately, but he trusted Edward, knew the question had been prompted by a legitimate concern and not mere morbid curiosity.
"Yes, I'm sure. It's been nigh on six weeks since Barnet. I don't think he did . . . did touch her after that, after they knew her to be of no further use to them. If she thought she might be with child, I believe she would have told me."
Edward nodded. "Yes, I agree with you, Dickon. I think she would, too. The girl does love you and she's far from a fool, besides, would know what it would mean if she were breeding."
"And now that you're sure she's not? What does that mean to you, Ned?"
"I think you do know that already, Dickon."
When Richard shook his head, too vehemently, Edward leaned back in his chair, said, "Your face does say otherwise, but if you do want me to spell it out, I will. If I did think Anne were pregnant with
Lancaster's child, there'd be no point then in doing what I mean to do tonight."
He should have been shocked; why wasn't he? What shock there was came not from Ned's matter-of-fact admission, but from the realization that there was so little surprise, that he'd somehow known what Ned had in mind, had known ever since that moment in the Bishop of London's Palace.
"Oh, Jesus, Ned, not that addled old man. ..."
"As long as Harry of Lancaster does live, there will be those to plot on his behalf, to stir up rebellion in his name. I can see no way to end that risk other than by ending his life. I won't pretend I do like it any, but I don't need to like it. It is enough that it need be done, that I'm willing to have it done."
"You did hold him in the Tower for nigh on six years without doing him harm, without resorting to murder."
"As long as he did have a son alive and free in France, it would have been a needless cruelty to put him to death, and stupid as well. I don't think I'm any more cruel than most men, and I'm most assuredly not sru- Pid, Dickon."

What seemed particularly repellent to Richard was that they could be talking of it so calmly, discus'tag over a wine flagon the murder of a harmless half-wit, a man, moreover, who'd once been an anointed
King, however flawed his title.
"Ned, you'd never have stained your honor with a woman's blood, even a woman as guilt-cursed as
Marguerite d'Anjou. But don't you see? To kill that poor pathetic creature in the Tower would be no less shameful, no less dishonorable."
Richard saw something flicker darkly within his brother's eyes at that, saw Ned was not quite as detached about this as he would wish to appear. Somehow, that made Richard feel better, if only a little.
He didn't really expect to be able to talk Ned out of it; once Ned did make up his mind to a thing, he was not one to be swayed from his resolve. If Ned was set upon doing this, he'd have no choice but to accept it, however little he liked it. But what he couldn't have accepted would have been to believe Ned capable of putting Lancaster to death without qualm, without reluctance. He needed to see that it would hurt, that it would leave a scar.
"Dickon, do you remember that night in Bruges, the night we drank together at the Gulden Vlies? Do you remember what I told you that night, that so much of what had happened was my own fault? It wasn't just Johnny, Dickon. I was unwilling to see coming trouble till it did have me by the throat. How else could I have let myself be taken at Olney? And again at Doncaster! No, I was too quick to trust, too slow to suspect. And I came close, Christ, so close to losing all. I've made my share of mistakes in my life, but I've never been one to repeat the same ones. Harry of Lancaster is a threat, poses a threat with every breath he does take. If I can have done with that danger only by stopping that breath, then so be it."
"You could keep him fast within the Tower, Ned. You needn't go to so extreme a measure; at least, not now. Why not wait?. . . See if in fact there be risings stirred up on his behalf?"
"Dickon, as long as he does live, he will be a rallying point for rebels, a source of dissension within the realm. As long as he lives, there will be malcontents willing to make use of him, to foment rebellion in the guise of restoring him to the throne, to focus discontent around his person, no matter how securely caged he be. As long as he does live, Dickon."
Richard could muster no effective argument to that; there was too much truth in what Edward said. It wasn't that he couldn't understand the cold logic in what Edward meant to do. He just didn't like it any.
"You'll not heed me, I know. But I wish to God you'd not do this, Ned," he said softly. "I don't care about Lancaster. How sweet can life be to a man who seems not to know or care whether he be hailed as King

one week and prisoner the next? It isn't Lancaster, Ned. . . .It be you."
The corner of Edward's mouth quirked. "My immortal soul, Dickon?"
Richard nodded somberly, watched his brother with dark troubled eyes, but he saw no sign that Edward had been affected by his plea.
"You might be taking upon yourself a guilt God could not forgive," he cautioned quietly, was startled when Edward shrugged.
"As to that, Dickon, I'll know only when called to account before the Throne of God. But for now, what does concern me most is the throne at Westminster."
Richard's eyes widened fractionally. There were times when he thought Ned treaded perilously close to blasphemy. It occurred to him uneasily now that when he did offer up prayers for the repose of the souls of his dead father and brother, he might do well to pray, too, for Ned.
He conceded then, asked reluctantly, "When will it be done? Tonight?"
"After the council meeting."
That was a meeting Richard would as soon have missed. He came to his feet, felt as tired suddenly as if he'd spent fully three days in the saddle without surcease.
"As you will, Ned. Only ..." He hesitated and then blurted out unhappily, "Only I cannot forget what he did say to you that day at the Bishop's Palace. . . . That he knew his life would be safe in your hands.
Jesus, Ned, if I cannot forget, how can you to whom it was said?"
"Enough, Dickon! That's more than enough!"
The fury in his brother's face was such that Richard recoiled, pulled back from an anger that had come, like lightning from an empty sky, without warning, sudden, intense, and searing.
"I called you to me to do you the courtesy of telling you before the others. A courtesy it was, no more than that. It was not my intent to argue with you about it. The decision is mine to make and yours to accept and I'll hear no more on it from you. . . . Not now, not tonight. Above all, not tonight. Be that clear?"
Richard nodded wordlessly. Never before had he borne the full brunt of Edward's wrath; he found it to be more unnerving than he cared to admit.
He'd been dismissed; that he knew without need of words. He halted at the door, said miserably, "Ned, I'm sorry if I've let you down in this. I did not mean to, but . . ."
He saw Edward's eyes soften at that. "I shall see you tonight, Dickon," he said.
Richard still hesitated. "Ned, I would rather not attend if it be all right with you. ..."

"It wouldn't." Tersely. "The meeting is to be held in this chamber, to start at eight. Be on time."
There was little for Richard to do then but depart. He slammed the door behind him. It didn't help. It came as a distinct surprise to him, as he emerged out into the inner Tower bailey, to find the day still warmed by a dusk-fall sun, to see the faces of those he encountered still stretched in smiles, still showing the pleasure all had taken in the heartfelt welcome London had accorded the House of York.
THE Council Chamber was lit by torches, the windows open to the slowly cooling night air. The room was wrapped in silence. Of the nine men assembled there, seven now watched Edward. Richard alone did not. He was standing apart, leaned against a far wall, his expression sullen; he'd not spoken half a dozen words since the council began. Edward looked over at him briefly and then away, back toward the others.
George showed only indifference. The other men, though, shared a surprisingly similar expression, one of distaste bordering upon discomfort. Both Edward's brothers-by-marriage, Suffolk and Anthony
Woodville, had once been Lancastrian in their loyalties, had once pledged fealty to the man Edward now meant to murder. Uneasy memories of all- but-forgotten loyalties showed briefly in their faces. Neither spoke, however; Edward had known they wouldn't. The Earl of Essex was regarding him with dismay.
To so pious a man as Essex, what Edward meant to do was a mortal sin, would imperil his very soul. But
Essex, too, said nothing. Edward's Chancellor, Robert Stillington, was Bishop of Bath and Wells; he, of all men, should have been arguing against the death of an innocent. He was, instead, giving his total attention to the spillover of a sputtering candle, scraping industriously with his thumbnail at the sticky wax drippings. Edward's eyes passed over the priest with a thinly veiled contempt, came to rest upon Will
Hastings and John Howard. Hardheaded realists, the both of them, they could see the need in it. Edward knew that; knew, too, that they didn't like it any better than Richard.
With the possible exception of George, there was not a man in the room who did, he thought now. Not a one of them wouldn't have been grateful for it had Harry of Lancaster died suddenly in his sleep, choked to death on a chicken bone, took a chill that proved fatal. But not a one of them was comfortable with the thought of hastening Harry through Heaven's gate. He'd been expecting just such a reaction, however-knew they were likely to be squeamish at putting to death a man so simple that many viewed him as saintly.
He saw John Howard twist around in his chair, look toward Richard.

That, too, came as no surprise to Edward. Richard had raised his wine cup to his mouth; it served to shield his thoughts. If he was aware of John's scrutiny, he gave no sign. Howard turned back to Edward, said as if each word were to be measured upon its own merits, "Be that truly necessary, Your Grace?"
"Do you think I could bring myself to it if it wasn't, Jack?" Edward said bitingly, saw a faint red tinge work its way up the older man's face and neck.
And that was it. None would oppose him in this, would even voice a protest at this murder that both soothed their insecurities and scratched their consciences. It was as he'd known it would be, for that afternoon he'd seen to the one risk he could foresee. Had he sprung it upon Dickon in council, he knew the boy would have burst out with the very objections he'd made so heatedly in private this afternoon.
And he might well have carried the others along with him . . . Essex and Anthony for certes, possibly even Will and Suffolk. What great risk would there have been, after all, in backing up the brother whom all knew to be as his other self? And then he'd have had the nasty task of overriding his own council, of having to argue for murder while they did argue for mercy. And over all, festering like an airborne pestilence, would hover the seeds of dissension, wanting only to take root. He'd had no intention of letting it come to that, had taken Dickon aside this afternoon to see that it would not, but he allowed himself a brief acknowledgment of relief that it hadn't, that all had gone as he wanted.
"Well then, I trust we are in agreement as to what must be done?" It was a purely rhetorical question, of course. He waited a moment or so, and then said, "I want word conveyed to Lord Dudley. As Constable of the Tower, it shall fall upon him to see that my orders be carried out." He shifted his gaze about the table, moved from face to face.
"Will, you and Anthony shall be the ones to tell Dudley what I want done." He flicked his eyes suddenly toward his brother, said, "You, too, Dickon."
John Howard looked relieved that he'd not been named, George slightly miffed for the same reason.
There was resignation on Will's face, on Anthony's, too. Richard was staring at him, staring in disbelief.
"Me?"
"You are Lord Constable of England, are you not?"
"Yes, but . . ."
"But what, Dickon? Whom do you think Dudley would expect to get such an order from if not my lord
Constable?"
Richard was trapped and knew it. There was appeal in the look he now gave Edward, and when he saw it to be unavailing, anger.