The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (90 page)

Johnny. I would hear it again." Remembering her manners then, she added tersely, "If you please."
Francis looked uncomfortable. "You know, of course, that the eldest son of the King had been titled since his first year as Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Earl of Chester. And his second son, Dickon's namesake, has been made Duke of York. Well. . . now it seems that the King does mean to take from John Neville's son his title of Duke of Bedford and bestow it upon his third son, the babe born this past March."
Anne could not suppress a gasp. Ned had always claimed to love her uncle. Hadn't Richard told her that he'd wept when told of Johnny's death? How could he now do this to Johnny's son?
There was an awkward silence, and then conversation resumed with a rather artificial animation. Anne sat quietly, pushed her food about on the plate. One of her best-kept secrets was that she had little liking for her brother-in-law the King. Since her marriage, he'd shown her nothing but kindness. She was willing to concede that. She'd concede, too, that he'd been extremely generous with Richard. But she did not trust him, and she resented the hypnotic influence he seemed able to exert over Richard. For years she'd watched him charm with lazy laughter, watched with wary judgmental eyes. With the illogical certainty of instinct, she sensed there was a danger in loving Ned too much. Her memories rang warning bells, flagged the risks in the blood of Barnet. Her father had loved Ned once. Her Uncle Johnny had loved him until the day he died. Now as she thought of Johnny and her young cousin who was to lose his title to serve Ned's newborn son, years of bitten-back criticisms clamored to be said.
"How can he do it, Richard?" she'd demanded as soon as they were alone in their bedchamber. "The boy's mother is not six months dead, and now he's to have his title taken, too? How can Ned so demean
Johnny's memory?"
"We're dealing with rumor, Anne, have no way of knowing if it be true or not. Until we do . . ."
"Oh, it be true enough! You know it is!"
"No, I don't," he said tersely, and Anne was suddenly swept by a bitter resentful rage, all the more intense for being so long repressed.
"Just once," she said acidly, "just once I'd like to see you stop defending Ned no matter what he does.
Just once I'd like to hear you admit there is no excuse for what Ned means to do!"
Richard had flushed, his eyes darkening to slate, but she was too angry herself now to care if he, too, was angry. "But you won't, will you? Not even now! I don't know why it should surprise me. . . . Just don't ever tell me again how much Ned did care for Johnny! It's as mean

spirited an act as I could ever imagine, and there's no way on God's earth it can be justified to me!"
As arguments generally do, it soon shifted ground. Richard could not defend his brother's action without falling back upon Johnny's treason, without reminding her that Johnny had died in rebellion against the crown, died an ally of Lancaster. This Richard could not bring himself to do. He chose, instead, to take issue with what he saw as his wife's unreasonable attitude.
"You're so eager to believe the worst of Ned, aren't you? Francis repeats some London gossip and you act as if he'd presented you with the truth engraven upon tablets of stone! Tell me, are you so quick to suspect the worst of me, too?"
"That's not fair, Richard, and you know it! The truth is that you're willfully blind where Ned is concerned.
You always have been and always will be!"
Their voices rose, carried beyond their bedchamber. Pent-up grievances were aired, unfair accusations traded. They knew each other too well, knew the words that would draw the most blood. It was by far the ugliest quarrel of their marriage, ended with Richard walking out on her.
He was gone several hours. She was too proud to seek him out, had no way of knowing if he was still within the friary or not. At last, she'd summoned her ladies, made ready for bed. When he finally returned, she lay very still, pretended to sleep.
The next morning, they arose in strained silence to take part in the processional of the Corpus Christi
Guild. The sun bleached the sky over their heads a brilliant blinding blue. The city streets were hung with richly woven tapestries and strewn with fragrant flowers; the procession itself was heralded with flaming torches, crosses held aloft, streaming scarlet banners. The route was thronged with cheering spectators, from the gates of Holy Trinity Priory and up Micklegate Street, past the guild hall, up Stonegate and through the Minster Gates, into the magnificent cathedral of St Peter. There a sermon was preached in the Chapter House, and the procession moved on to its ultimate destination, to present the Holy
Sacrament to the waiting priests at St Leonard's Hospital. Afterward, Lawrence Boothe, the man who'd succeeded Anne's uncle as Archbishop of York, gave a lavish banquet in the great hall of the bishopric palace close by the Minster.
It was an event Anne had been anticipating for weeks, should have been a day of much happiness for her. It was, instead, one of the most miserable she could recall.

THE quiet was suddenly jangled by the sound of chimes. The friars were being summoned to Matins.
That meant, Anne knew, it was after 2:00. For more than two hours now she'd lain rigid and resentful beside Richard, begrudging him the sleep she could not share.
Her anger had long since been quenched in misery. As she'd done all day, she kept reliving their quarrel, dredging up the hurtful things they'd said to one another. He'd charged that she had never forgiven Ned for forbidding their betrothal, had never forgiven him for not defying Ned as George had done. That was a particularly unsettling accusation to Anne. Was there truth in it? Last night she'd said no; tonight she wasn't all that sure. She did feel that Richard had let her down; fairly or not, the feeling persisted, even after all these years and against all logic. Could that be why she needed to hear him denounce his brother? To assure herself that his first loyalties no longer were given to Ned, were given now to her?
She didn't know, but it was not a thought she was comfortable with.
In fact, the more she did dwell upon the events of the night before, the less comfortable she became. She had been right to be angry with Ned; she still was. But she'd been wrong to vent that anger upon
Richard. It would never even occur to her to hold Richard to account for anything George might say or do. Why, then, should he be accountable for Ned's actions? So he could not judge Ned dispassionately, could not keep from tripping over old loyalties. What of it? She'd long ago concluded that he was not the best judge of men, that he invariably let his emotions color his assessments. But surely part of loving a man was accepting him as he was.
Beside her, Richard stirred. He seemed unable to get comfortable, rolling over onto his back and, a few moments later, over onto his stomach again. So he hadn't been asleep after all. Somehow, that made
Anne feel better; she'd been vexed to think he could so easily escape into sleep while she lay wide awake and miserable. Reaching over, she laid her hand lightly against the small of his back. She felt his muscles tense at her touch, but beyond that, he didn't react.
"Richard? Richard, I'm sorry. The argument was of my making. I realize that now."
"Do you?" His voice was noncommittal, but he'd turned on his side, toward her.
"Yes," she whispered. "You were right; we don't know if there be any truth to Francis's story, and yet I
did take it as gospel. I wasn't being fair to Ned, and I most assuredly wasn't being fair to you."
"No, you weren't," he said, but then she felt his hand on her face. She closed her eyes as his fingers lingered on her cheek, wiped away wetness.

"Did I make you cry?" he asked softly, and she nodded, rolled over into his arms.
"Anne . . . Anne, listen. I want to talk to you about Ned. There is something you should understand.
When he first did take the crown, he sought no bloodbath. He did what he could to reconcile the
Lancastrian lords to his rule, men like Somerset and Henry Percy. Nor was he reluctant to give his trust-to Somerset, to the Stanleys, to your father. You'll not deny that he did give them the benefit of the doubt . . . more than once."
"No, I'd not deny that," she echoed quietly.
"For ten years, Anne, he did rule with a light hand. I'm not saying that he scrupled to take harsh measures if need be, but he didn't unless forced to it. He offered friendship to foes, forgave betrayals. And the result? He did lose his throne, came close, Christ, so close to losing all. Those are his words, Anne, not mine, what he told me when I did argue with him about Harry of Lancaster. He said he did mean to learn from his past mistakes, to do what he must to make sure there'd never be a repeat of Olney or
Doncaster."
Anne was startled. This was the first time that Richard had admitted, even indirectly, what all knew, that
Harry of Lancaster had died at his brother's command. She started to speak, thought better of it.
"If he is no longer as generous as he once was, if he's less quick to forgive, less quick to trust . . . can you truly blame him? He did learn a hard lesson at Doncaster, that he could rely on no one but himself."
What he said made sense to Anne, seemed to her a likely explanation of the decided differences between the first years of Edward's reign and the years since Barnet and Tewkesbury. What mattered most to her, however, was not so much the reasons for Edward's increasingly autocratic rule as Richard's willingness to discuss them with her.
She leaned over, kissed him lightly on the mouth. Even after more than five years of marriage, certain of her inhibitions had shown themselves to be remarkably resilient, long-lived. She was still shy, even now, to be the one to initiate their lovemaking, to admit openly she wanted him. She had, however, evolved any number of subtle indicators of her j| mood and her need, had contrived a code he'd become quite adroit at reading.
Sitting up, she tugged fretfully at the long braid that swung over her | shoulder, trailed across one breast.
"Veronique didn't plait this as she should; it's too tight, is pulling against my temples. I think I'd best undo it ... perhaps rebraid it."
She watched him as she spoke, waiting to see if her hint passed unnoticed. He much preferred her hair loose, almost always asked her to leave it unbound when they meant to make love.

"No," he said. "Don't rebraid it."
It was too dark for her to see his face, but she didn't need to; his voice had taken on a new intonation, a low caressing murmur that no one but she ever heard.
"I truly think," she said, "that you could seduce the very angels themselves when you do sound like that."
"I'd gladly settle for you," he said, and she knew he was smiling. With fingers suddenly impatient, she freed her hair, shook it loose about her shoulders, playfully trailing it across his chest and throat until he reached up, drew her down into his arms.
IT was almost dawn. Through the bed-hangings, Anne could see the shadows retreating; familiar shapes began to materialize. She stretched, smothered a yawn.
"Oh, Lord, Richard, we've got to get up. . . ."
He kept his eyes shut, groaned when she nudged him again.
"Richard? May I ask you a question . . . about Ned?"
He mumbled something that passed for assent, and she touched her lips to his hair, then said, "Richard . . . what do you think Ned means to do about George?"
He was wide awake now, regarding her with shadowed dark eyes. "I rather think," he said grimly, "that
Ned is going to collect a debt long overdue."
the third Sunday after Trinity that year fell on the twenty-second of June. It was, as well, a month-mind for Isabel Neville, marked the passage of six months since she died in delirium at Warwick Castle, and should have been celebrated with pomp and ceremony in accordance with custom. But, to George, the day had but one meaning. It was the day that he had been summoned by his brother the King.
It was a command he'd been expecting for twelve days now, ever since Edward returned from Windsor.
He knew Edward was not likely to ignore his harangue before the privy council. He knew, too, that
Edward considered Ankarette Twynyho's trial to have been a sham, her death to be murder.
No, he knew a confrontation was inevitable. But the days passed in peace. His unease grew. What was
Ned waiting for? It was with something almost like relief, therefore, that he made ready to ride to
Westminster this Sunday afternoon; better to face Ned's wrath and get it over with.
He'd hoped for a private meeting, was both disappointed and dis-

concerted when he was ushered into the Painted Chamber. His eyes narrowed at sight of the waiting assemblage. The chamber was filled with people, most of whom would gladly have bartered their own souls for a chance to see him in Hell. So this was Ned's game. A public humiliation. His jaw jutted out defiantly; so be it then. He moved forward into the room.
Ralph Josselyn, the Lord Mayor of London, and the city aldermen looked none too happy to be there, showed the discomfort of strangers unwillingly entrapped in a family feud. Other faces, however, told a far different tale, spoke of unforgotten grievances and long-cherished grudges.
The first familiar face George saw was that of Will Hastings. Newly back from Calais, Will looked rested, at ease; as their eyes met, he saluted George with overly elaborate courtesy that was in itself a polished insult. George ignored him, approached the dais. There he saw the woman he hated above all others, his beautiful sister-in-law. Elizabeth wore yellow and her hair was loose, as if this were a state occasion. It drew even more glances than her crown, shone white-gold in the sun. Not for the first time, George thought that she had eyes like a hungry cat. Behind her stood her two grown sons by her first marriage. Thomas Grey looked like a man unexpectedly given a longed-for gift; his brother, too, seemed in the grip of some strange excitement. They both were smiling expectantly.
"My lord of Clarence." Edward's face was impassive, his voice dispassionate. George found no reason for reassurance in that, would have preferred outright anger.
He touched his lips to Edward's outstretched hand, waited for Edward to give him leave to rise.
"Have you an explanation for your extraordinary behavior before my privy council on the twenty-first of
May?"
George flicked his tongue over dry lips, said as steadily as he could, "Thomas Burdett was my friend. I
did believe him when he assured me of his innocence. I felt I did owe him my loyalty. ..."
"Loyalty?" Edward echoed, with just enough mockery to stir a ripple of laughter, quickly suppressed.
"Let's try, Brother, to keep this conversation within the realm of the believable, shall we?"
This time the laughter was more pronounced. George flushed, started to speak. Edward cut him off with a peremptory gesture.
"Actually, I don't much care why you acted as you did. The why of it is rather irrelevant."
"Your Grace-"
"No bond is absolute, Brother, not even that of blood. I'll not speak! of your past offenses, of the betrayals forgiven, the treasons pardoned.;f