The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (69 page)

"It was, Rob. But Ned hasn't forgotten how helpful Anthony was after Barnet, when he did take it into his head to go off on crusade against the Saracens!"
They all laughed at that; all of London had known Edward's incredulous reaction to his brother-in-law's sudden attack of crusading fervor at a time when Marguerite d'Anjou's army was swelling daily with recruits to the Lancastrian cause.
"Ned says that Will was well pleased and Anthony not at all." Richard grinned, debated briefly with himself, and then quoted directly from the letter:
" 'When Anthony did come to me to make his protests known, I could only profess surprise that he was still in England, that he was not halfway to Damascus by now! I told him I'd assumed that once
Tewkesbury's dead were decently buried, he'd have been eager to hasten toward Jerusalem. And while
I'd never be one to deny a man so precious a chance for spiritual salvation, Dickon, I thought it best to look closer than the Kingdom of God for one to govern Calais for me!'
They shouted with laughter, not in the least deterred by the awareness that they, no less than Edward, were being far from fair to Anthony Woodville, whose piety was not open to question, however dubious his sense of timing.
Richard swore suddenly, looked up from the letter in disbelief. "He knows I did fetch Nan and Johnny north! Can you credit that? Is there anything I do that does not find its way back to London?"
"You think they do know in London yet about that inn in NewcastleuponTyne last month and that girl who somehow ended up in your room?" Rob queried innocently, and Francis was quick to chime in, equally blandly, "Was that the one with the flaming red hair, Rob? It does seem to me, now that I think upon it, that my lord of Gloucester has a decided preference for a hair color most men do hold to be unlucky!"
Richard reached for his wine cup to hide a grin. "As it happens," he said with a thoroughly unconvincing attempt at indifference, "the first love of my life did have red hair, so bright it did hurt the eye to look upon it. . . ."
"That be right! She's a redhead, too, isn't she, Francis? . . . the lass who bore his Kathryn?"
Richard set his cup down with a thud. He was touchy about Kate, touchier than he liked to admit, even to himself. He had an unease of conscience where she was concerned. He knew she'd never entertained hopes he might marry her. But he knew, too, that she'd been in love with him, was still in love with him, and he was unhappily aware that she was going to be hurt by what he meant to do.

"That be none of your concern, Rob!" he said sharply, more sharply than he'd intended. Rob looked surprised and then hurt, and Richard relented, said with a smile meant to redeem his flare of temper, "If you must know, the first love of my life was a thoroughly bewitching redhead named Joan . . . and I
adored her with all the steadfast devotion you'd expect from a boy of six!"
Rob grinned, and Dick Ratcliffe acted to dispel the last of the tension by confessing to a like fancy for a childhood nurse with the beguiling accents of Dublin in her voice, and they passed the brandywine around again as the hearth burned low and the night sky darkened to ebony in the window above Francis's head.
"Did I tell you, Dickon," Francis said suddenly, "that Anna's father thinks she's now of an age to make her home with me at Minster Lovell? It's been decided she's to come at Martinmas, provided we're back in the South by then. . . ."
Richard was pillowing his head against Gareth again; he glanced up with a glint of amusement.
"Shall I offer my congratulations or my condolences, Francis?"
"Neither," Francis said warningly. "Given the tangled coil of your own affairs at present, my lord, you should be the last one to venture out onto such thin ice!"
"The both of you be crazy, you know," Rob pointed out companionably. "Logically, a man should be congratulated that he's gaining a wife, Francis, and commiserated with upon losing a mistress, Dickon, and the two of you do turn it around topsyturvy!"
That won him reluctant laughter from both Richard and Francis, and a quizzical smile from Dick Ratcliffe, who knew very little of Richard's relationship with Nan, even less about Francis's marriage with Anna
FitzHugh. Another comfortable silence fell; Dick ended it by questioning, "Dickon, if I might ask you what I do know to be none of my concern. . . . Why did you not choose to have your son brought here to Middleham rather than to Sheriff Button? As I understand it, Middleham's where you do mean to make your home."
"I did think seriously about doing just that, Dick. That was my first thought, in fact. It took me awhile to realize that I couldn't, in fairness, bring Johnny to Middleham." Richard smiled, looked both rueful and regretful. "I've not the right to ask so much of Anne. What newly wed wife would be willing to take upon the care of a child conceived in another woman's bed?"
Francis started obligingly to say that Richard spoke true, when he suddenly realized what Richard had just said.
"Dickon! You and Anne? It gladdens my heart to hear it, in truth it does."

Rob was belatedly reaching the same conclusion. "Anne? You mean Warwick's Anne?" he asked, sounding surprised but pleasantly so. "Well, you're nothing if not constant, Dickon! And Lord knows, the lass did ever look upon you with love." He bestirred himself to pour out the last of the brandywine into their cups, said with considerable contentment, "It will be rather nice, that. . . . Having all of us back at
Middleham, as in the days under the Earl. Except it won't be the Earl who does rule the North for the
King; it will be you, Dickon!" He laughed, said, "That does give one pause! Who would have thought? ...
I remember when first you came to join the Earl's household. Dark as a gypsy you were and thin as a rail slat, with nary a word to say for yourself for the longest time ever!"
"It's not surprising I had so little to say, Rob, given the way you did like to claim every conversation as your own!"
"Well, it's just glad I am that I was moved to take you under my wing," Rob grinned, "back in the days when you were too insignificant for my motives to be suspect!"
Richard roused himself at that, enough to pitch the lost dice neatly into Rob's wine cup. Unfazed by their laughter, Rob peered down into its depths to complain good-naturedly, "I feel obliged to tell you, my lord, that you just spoilt a right fine salutation I was about to make, one you'd have been sure to like well.
I was going to drink your health, Dickon, as the new Lord of the North!"
Richard considered and then grinned. "You be right, Rob, that is to my liking!"
"I can think of one even more to your taste," Francis offered. "Let's drink, instead, to Anne of Warwick."
Richard reached across Gareth to claim his own cup. "You're half right, Francis," he said and laughed, raising an arm to ward off the dog's sudden affectionate lunge. "But I'd rather you made it Anne of
Gloucester."

September 1471
FE had been sweet that summer at the Herber. For Anne and Veronique, this was due in no small measure to George's absence. Three days after Richard departed London for the North, George had ridden west to check upon his estates in Wiltshire and, from there, he'd gone north to Tewkesbury. The
Abbey of St Mary the Virgin had been closed for a full month to allow Abbot Streynsham to reconsecrate his church in the wake of the Yorkist seizure of the sanctuary-seeking Lancastrians, and
George felt it politic to pay a conciliatory visit as the new holder of the Lordship and Honour of
Tewkesbury.
Those hot summer days were happy ones for Anne. With Isabel's indulgent blessings, she took it upon herself to show Veronique London, and they went up and down the river on Isabel's lavishly bedecked barge, were escorted to the Southwark Gardens to watch Veronique's first bearbaiting, visited the Tower to view the royal menagerie of lions, leopards, tigers, and a huge white snow bear from Norway. In the evenings, they practiced the latest hair styles, rooted through Isabel's store of velvets and sarcenet silks, and pieced together patterns for gowns with the newly fashionable long tight sleeves and wide flouncing skirts. They played silly pranks upon each other; it was Anne who borrowed madder root-dye from the laundress to turn Veronique's bathwater a bright blood-red and Veronique who smuggled two newly weaned alaunt puppies upstairs to hide in Anne's bed. And they shared late-night confidences of increasing intimacy: Veronique confessed to her ill-fated love affair with Ralph Delves, and Anne told
Veronique more than she could possibly wish to know about Richard of Gloucester.
But then it was August, and suddenly all joy was gone from their summer. George came back from
Tewkesbury and with his arrival, the at

mosphere of the Herber went suddenly sour. Somehow, the sight of Anne's obvious happiness seemed to infuriate him. He at once put a stop to her pleasure excursions about the city, confiscated the coins Isabel had given her as a nameday offering, coins she'd been using to pay couriers to take letters northward to
Richard, and when she protested, he emptied out the casket containing what jewels she had, took them away from her as well.
Anne's anger was as futile as it was intense. She was under George's roof, subject to his commands, and if he chose to keep her from writing to Richard, there was not much she could do about it. As little as she liked to admit it, she was secretly somewhat afraid of George. His rages were occasionally flavored with cruelty. It was better not to antagonize him needlessly, to keep out of his way as much as possible and await Richard's return to London.
She might have managed to keep to this resolve had not a courier arrived five days later bearing a letter she never got to read. It was only by chance that she encountered the man in the courtyard, saw the
Whyte Boar of Gloucester on his sleeve. He'd confirmed her suspicions at once, said that he had, indeed, brought her a letter from the Duke of Gloucester; it had been taken from him by the Duke of Clarence, who said he'd see she got it. He hadn't wanted to hand it over, but the Duke had been insistent. Anne, however, was no longer listening, was on her way back into the house.
She found George in the solar, her letter open in his hand. Indignation blinding her to all else, she demanded the letter. He showed no embarrassment whatsoever, refused curtly and, when she persisted, he strode to the table, jerked a candlestick toward him, and held the letter to the flame.
Anne gasped; so great was her outrage that she was all but stuttering. "You . . . you think because I'm a woman you can abuse me and steal my lands and no one will hold you to account for it! But you be wrong, damn you, wrong! I'll appeal to Richard and to Ned! And they'll heed me, you know they-"
She knew suddenly that she'd gone too far, said too much. The look on his face was frightening. She began to back away, cried in a choked voice, "No, George, let me be! If you touch me, I'll tell Richard, I
swear I will!"
She'd almost reached the table and, as he lunged for her, she darted behind it. She'd have made it if only she'd not chosen that morning to wash her hair. It was loose, swirled out behind her, and he was able to entangle a handful in his fist. Anne was wrenched backward with such violence that she felt as if her neck would snap. She cried out, first in pain and then in fright.

Veronique had followed Anne anxiously into the solar. A petrified witness until now, she came out of her trance and fled for the door. She was shaking so badly, though, that she could barely get it open, jerked it back to free Anne's second scream out into the stairwell. It was all Veronique could think to do, all she dared hope for, that enough witnesses might bring George's rage back within the bounds of reason.
There were faces staring up at her. Anne's screams had drawn a score of people into the stairwell, but
Veronique saw with sick horror that none were going to come up; they were as fearful as she, far too fearful to risk drawing George's wrath upon them. Behind her, Anne cried out again, and she clung helplessly to the door, too frightened to go back into the solar and yet unwilling to flee and leave Anne totally alone with George. The Duchess of Clarence! She'd have to find the Duchess! Even as she formed the thought, she saw the servants moving aside on the stairwell, saw that God was ahead of her in this, and she flattened herself against the wall, let Isabel pass, heard her gasp, "George! My God!"
George released Anne and she collapsed, weeping, against the table. Isabel gave her husband an incredulous look, brushed past him to reach her sister. Anne's hair was falling wildly about her face and she was trembling so violently that it was a moment or so before Isabel could smoothe back the tangled hair, could raise Anne's face to the light. Blood was trickling from Anne's mouth and her skin was splotched with hot color, but Isabel soon saw she was more frightened than hurt.
"Go to your bedchamber, Anne," she said as steadily as she could. "Hurry now. Do as I say."
Anne did as she was bade, fled without a backward glance, banging bruisingly against the solar door in her haste to be gone.
Veronique was quick to follow. Edging away from the door, she stumbled down the stairs into the now deserted great hall and out into a kitchen and buttery no less empty of a sudden. There she collected cold compresses, a cup of salted warm water, a flagon of wine, and carried them on a tray to Anne's bedchamber.
She was expecting a weeping hysterical girl. She found one incoherent with impotent fury. Anne was raging about the room, calling George every vile name Veronique had ever heard and some she hadn't.
Veronique did at once what Anne hadn't thought to do. She barred the door.
"Rinse your mouth with this, Anne, and then spit into the laver."
Anne choked on the wine and renewed her railings against her brother-in-law.
"How dare he, Veronique? How hateful he is, hateful and greedy and craven! What did I ever do to him that he should so resent me? That he should so want to hurt me . . . and he did, Veronique, he did. I saw it

on his face. ..." She shivered and then called George a name she could only have learned from her father, the Kingmaker.
"Anne, hold still. . . ." There were deep red indentations upon Anne's wrist, much like rope burns. There would, Veronique thought, soon be ugly bruises as well. "Does this much hurt, Anne?"
"Some. In truth, it be my mouth that does hurt the most." Anne touched a finger gingerly to her cut lip, probed with her tongue, and winced.
"Misbegotten son of Satan!" she spat. "But so short-sighted, so stupid! Does he truly think I'll suffer his maltreatment in silence?"
Veronique would not have thought Anne capable of such an anger, found herself wishing that Anne's fear had lingered longer. Fear did make people cautious; rage such as this was dangerous, was all too apt to lead to disaster.
"When I do tell Richard ..." Anne looked up at Veronique, said with bitter satisfaction, "He'll pay then.
Oh, yes, he'll pay! Let him answer to Richard then, if he thinks he need not answer to me. It will not, I
can assure him, be to his liking!"
Veronique stared at her in dismay, realizing that this same thought would be sure to occur to George, too, once he did calm down.
"Oh, Anne. ..." she whispered, sat down abruptly upon the edge of the bed. Anne was now a threat twice over to George. A threat to his possession of the Beauchamp lands he craved with such passion. A
threat, too, to his well-being, even to his safety, if she chose to speak, to tell Richard and the King how he had ill-treated her. And of course she would tell. That, too, George would realize.
"Cherie, this is a man most dangerous. . . ." She fumbled for the right words, couldn't find them. "Are you not fearful of him, of what he might do? . . ."
"I admit I was afraid . . . there in the solar," Anne said, with some reluctance. "But I don't fear him the way I did Marguerite d'Anjou or Lancaster. George isn't clever enough to be truly ruthless. He doesn't think very far ahead and he never seems to be able to foresee the consequences of his actions. In all his life, he has managed to do but one thing without blundering-to judge rightly that it was time to abandon my father for Ned. Much of the time he just grabs wildly for what he does want, and then marvels afterward when it never comes to pass as he did expect! A man like that is not likely to inspire fear."
Veronique didn't agree. She remembered Anne once saying that Richard was impulsive. The word that came to mind when she thought of George was erratic. George swung like a weathercock in a high wind and he showed, as well, a truly frightening tendency to brood upon suspected wrongs. A man such as that might well do something desperate in a mo- |