The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (81 page)

tried to submerge her despair in indignation that her daughter had so betrayed her.
After that, she had no more letters from Middleham. And with her estrangement from Anne, she truly had no one, for Isabel had yet to respond to any of her letters. Isabel was lost to her, and, so it now seemed, was Anne.
Then, in March, she'd received a letter from an old friend, Alison, Lady Scrope of Bolton Castle, a chatty, breezy letter full of news of Alison's stepson Henry, her husband, John, who was now acting for
Richard in negotiations with the Scots. Buried midst the Scrope family gossip were two items that gave
Nan serious pause.
The first concerned Nan's brother-in-law, the Archbishop of York, who'd been abruptly arrested by
Edward eleven months ago on charges of treasonous correspondence with his Lancastrian brother-in-law, the Earl of Oxford. George 's health was none too good, Alison reported, and Richard had agreed to intercede on his behalf with the King. In the same paragraph, she made casual mention of
Anne's pregnancy.
Nan hadn't slept that night. Alison was a gossip, but a reasonably reliable one. If she said Richard was seeking to bring about George Neville's release, it was true. Nan knew Richard had no use for her brother-in-law. Yet Richard was willing to speak for him now that he was ailing. Because he was Anne's uncle. As he would have been willing to do for her had she only not alienated him beyond forgiving with that rash, reckless letter of hers!
And Anne was pregnant. Anne was carrying her first grandchild. A child she might never get to see. She hadn't even known Anne was breeding.
Nan was the least introspective of women, but now she had little to do but think, had time and solitude and regrets. Painstakingly and reluctantly, she thought back over her relationship with her daughters, began to comprehend that if they were failing her now, it might be because she'd so often failed them.
She remembered Amboise, remembered how indifferent she'd been to Anne's fears, how impatient with
Isabel's lingering depression after the death of her baby. And with a flush of shame, she remembered how she'd let them hear of their father's death from Marguerite d'Anjou.
She tried to write this to Anne, but the words just wouldn't come. She'd always taken Anne's love as her just due, and to ask her daughter for forgiveness seemed to go against the natural order of things.
Whatever mistakes she might have made, she was still Anne's mother. It was not for Anne and Isabel to sit in judgment on her. But, somehow, being right didn't make her misery any easier to bear.

Across the cloister, the monks were emerging from the frater, the grey stone building that housed their dining chamber. As she watched, they began to line up before the troughs set out for the washing of hands after meals. Nan rose, was turning away when she heard a voice call, "My lady!" She looked back, saw one of the white-clad monks hastening toward her up the west walkway of the cloisters.
AS usual, the reception hall of the Great Gatehouse was crowded with alms seekers, but at sight of the
Yorkist men-at-arms loitering in and about the entranceway, Nan stiffened, felt an icy prickling of alarm along her spine. Why were they here? Was there a connection between their presence and the Lord
Abbot's summons?
She was not reassured when her guide led her through the Inner Hall, toward the corner stairway that gave access to the chapels above. What had the Lord Abbot to say to her that required such privacy?
He came forward now to greet her, but Nan's eyes were moving past him, toward the man cloaked in afternoon shadow, a tall, stylishly dressed man with a sun-browned face and unrevealing light-blue eyes.
"Madame, may I present-"
"James Tyrell," she finished for him, and Tyrell bowed over her hand.
"It is Sir James Tyrell now, Madame," he corrected her politely. "It was my honor to be knighted by the
King's Grace after the battle of Tewkesbury."
"My congratulations," Nan said automatically. She knew Tyrell. Suffolk gentry, a man with an unblemished record of loyalty to the House of York. With what mission had he now been entrusted by
Ned?
"It seems you shall be leaving us, Madame."
She turned to stare at the Abbot. "Leaving!"
He nodded, smiled. "Sir James has come to escort you to-"
"No!"
Both men looked startled. The Abbot said uncertainly, "Madame?"
Nan's cry had been involuntary; she'd surprised herself as much as them. Wasn't this what she'd wanted above all else? Why wasn't she excited, ecstatic? Why did she feel such unease? She drew an unsteady breath. Because she did not trust Ned. Why in God's Name should she? If he was capable of keeping her here, why was he not capable, as well, of turning her over to George's mercies?
"Tell me, my lord Abbot," she said breathlessly, "he cannot force me if I should choose not to go? I
cannot be taken from here against my will?"

"Most assuredly not! He who would violate sanctuary does so at the peril of his soul." The Abbot was frowning, turned accusing eyes upon Tyrell.
"Sir James, you did give me to understand the Countess of Warwick was willing!"
"So I did believe," Tyrell said hastily. He was studying Nan with evident puzzlement. "Madame, I confess
I do not understand. Nor will His Grace. Perhaps if you did read his letter. ..."
Letter? Ned would not be likely to have written to her.
"You do come from the King?" she faltered, and Tyrell's face cleared.
"No, Madame . . . from the Duke of Gloucester." A comprehending smile had begun to shape his mouth;
he grinned outright as she snatched at the letter in his hand.
She broke the seal with suddenly shaking fingers, moved toward the window to read it. When at last she turned back to the Abbot and Tyrell, her face was wet with tears.
"The King has given me leave to depart sanctuary!" She stopped, laughed, and then began to cry in earnest. "I. . .1 am to go home!"
ON their way north, Sir James Tyrell had willingly acceded to Nan's request that they stop at Bisham
Abbey, where the Earl of Warwick and John Neville were buried. They did not reach Wensleydale, therefore, until the second week in June.
Anne was in the solar, sitting before her embroidery frame. She looked prettier than Nan had ever seen her, dressed in emerald green, her favorite and most flattering hue; her color was good, her hair, held in place by a pearl-seeded frontelet that matched her gown, swept down her back in glossy, well-brushed waves. But she showed no signs of pregnancy, none at all.
A shocked query formed on Nan's lips, to be quickly stifled. If Anne had lost her baby, she did not want the first words between them to be of so painful a loss. She smiled, instead, at her daughter, and held out her arms; her relief was considerable when Anne came into them without apparent hesitation.
"THAT little boy who was with you earlier, Anne . . . Johnny, you said his name was? He's Dickon's son, then?"
"Who could look at him and ever deny that?" Anne laughed. "Born well before our marriage, I should add! Richard had him at Sheriff Button and then after we were wed, at Pontefract, since we do spend so

much time there. When Richard went last month to Nottingham-to see Ned about winning your release and for talks with the Earl of Northumberland-I was able to do what I should have done months ago. I
had Johnny secretly brought from Pontefract a fortnight ago."
"Dickon doesn't know?"
Anne shook her head, laughed again. "Not yet. . . and I truly cannot wait to see his face when he does!
From Nottingham, he was to go to York, but I do expect him back any day this week. My birthday is
Friday and he swore before he left that he'd not miss it. I don't know what he does plan to give me, but
Johnny be my present to him, a present too long overdue. It would have meant so much to
Richard-having his son here. And for Johnny, too; he does adore Richard. But . . . but I just could not bring myself to do it, Mother. It shames me to admit it, that I was jealous of a little child, but I was. He wasn't mine, and I couldn't accept him as if he were, however much I knew I should."
"And now you do think you can?" Nan sounded dubious, and Anne smiled, reached for her mother's hand.
"Now I do know I can." She rose, kept Nan's hand within her own. "If you will come with me to the nursery, I shall show you why."
until she saw the sleeping infant, Nan had not known what a hunger there was in her for a grandchild.
Bending over to brush her lips to the feathery brown hair, she felt a sudden stab of envy. How lucky
Anne was, to have been able to give Dickon a son. How she would have loved a little boy like this, would have cuddled him and spoiled him, made none of the mistakes she'd made with Isabel and Anne.
"I get nothing done these days, spend hours hanging over his cradle like this. I needs must watch him sleep, yawn, sleep again-I even find myself watching the very air in and out of his mouth, as if he might forget to breathe were I not there to witness it!"
"How old is he, Anne?"
"Six weeks this Thursday last. I'd not expected to be brought to childbed till the end of May, had not even begun my confinement yet. But he was not willing to wait, was born on the eve of St George's Day, so tiny the midwives did harbor fears for him, though they tried to keep it from me."
They had been speaking in whispers, so not to disturb the child asleep within the oaken cradle once used by both Anne and Isabel. Anne stroked the baby's cheek with a soft finger, said with a sigh, "I didn't want a wet nurse, wanted to nurse him myself, however unfashionable that might be. But I hadn't enough milk. He has more hair than most babes his age, don't you think, Mother? It looks to be the same

shade as Father's, mayhap some darker. You know . . .it's strange, but I do find myself ... for the first time in my life ... having some sympathy for Marguerite d'Anjou! I remember how desperate she was to get into Wales, that nightmare ride we made for the Severn River crossing, so frantic she was to see her son safe . . . and I think I can understand better now how she did feel. Edouard was her son, her flesh and blood. When I look now at my own son, when I think of what I would do to keep him safe, free from harm or hurt-"
Her musings were interrupted by a stifled sound from her mother. She glanced up to see that Nan's face had frozen, that her hands had closed convulsively upon the rim of the cradle.
"You speak of a mother's concern for her child. But what you are truly saying is that I showed no such concern for you and your sister, that even Marguerite d'Anjou showed herself to be a better mother than
I!"
"No, Mother, truly I wasn't," Anne said slowly, but none too certainly. "At least, I do not think that was my intent. ..."
They looked at each other across the rocking cradle. "I did love your father; he was my life. When I was told he was dead, it was as if . . . as if all were ashes and cinders. I felt dead inside, could think of naught but what I had lost. Can you not understand that, Anne?"
Anne looked down at her sleeping child, for some moments said nothing. "No," she said at last. "No, Mother, I cannot. I wish I could say otherwise, but I do not understand."
"I see. You are determined to pass judgment upon me, to blame me for a moment of weakness. That isn't fair, Anne. I should have gone to you and Isabel at Cerne Abbey; I do admit that. But I cannot undo what I did, and as for the other, for the marriage with Lancaster . . . Surely you could not have expected me to speak against your father on that?"
"No, Mother, I would not have expected you to gainsay Father . . . in anything. But could you not have given a thought to how it was for me? I was fourteen years old, Mother, fourteen! And so wretched I did not care whether I lived or died. Had you only once showed me you understood, I think I could have borne it better. But you didn't, did you? Do you remember what you did tell me when I came to you for comfort? You said it mattered little whether I liked laying with Lancaster as long as I did get with child!"
Nan had paled as Anne spoke. Now hectic spots of color flared forth upon her cheeks. "I said that?"
She touched her tongue to stiff lips, said softly, "I truly don't remember. If I did say it, I can only assure you that I did not mean it. Ah, Anne, those were such bad days for us all. I was so I fearful for your father, so frantic to join him in England. . . . But . . must we speak of this now? It serves for naught, does only hurt. And you

are happy now, Anne. You have the home and husband of your choosing, a newborn son. Perhaps . . .
perhaps it did all work out for the best, after all. . . ."
"All for the best. . . . Oh, God!" Anne's mouth had hardened, contorted with a rare rage. "I'm still haunted by dreams of that time; yes, even now. And with reason. Do you know how long it took, Mother, for me to be able to respond to Richard as fully as a wife should? Nigh on three months, and
Richard as tender and loving as any man could be. Yes, I am happy now, but I did pay a great price for it, greater than any duty I did owe you and Father, and for you to say that it was all for the best..."
The anger in her voice had at last penetrated the veil of sleep surrounding her son. Opening his eyes, he began to cry. Anne at once bent over him, took him up in her arms. For a time there was no sound in the room but his subsiding protest.
Nan swallowed, but made no attempt to hide the tears falling fast and free. "I've made mistakes. I know that. But are they beyond forgiving, Anne?"
Anne was cradling her baby. She looked up when her mother spoke, and Nan saw that she, too, now seemed close to tears.
"No, Mama. ... Of course they are not." Anne watched Nan fumble for a handkerchief, watched with troubled dark eyes. The mother she remembered had retained a certain fragile prettiness well into her forties. Anne saw now what a toll the past two years had taken. Widowhood and sanctuary had greyed
Nan's hair, thickened her waist, and faded the blonde prettiness into a colorless and hesitant middle age.
Anne looked at the fluttering uncertain hands, the soft bewildered mouth, and moved away from the cradle, toward her mother.
"Here, Mama," she said. "Would you not like to hold your grzfhdson?"
nan stood in the entranceway leading into the great hall, staring down at the chaos in the inner bailey, where Richard was seeking to soothe his fractious mount midst a dozen or so barking dogs. Nan felt a lump rising in her throat, felt the remorseless pull of memory. So it had always been when the Earl of
Warwick came home to Middleham. The same confusion, the same excitement, and she, too, had so often done what Anne was doing now, descending the steep steps of the keep so rapidly that she seemed in imminent danger of becoming entangled in her own skirts.
Richard reined his stallion in at the base of the stairs just as Anne reached the bottom; he slid from the saddle and into his wife's welcoming