The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Still he did nothing, sat motionless as his brother came on. The noise to his rear intensified. Discipline was flagging; his men were openly speculating as to his intentions…and still he waited. Not until Richard was less than a hundred yards distant did he turn to Burdett, giving the order to hold their positions, and then spurred his horse forward.

  Richard had reined in, was waiting as George drew up beside him.

  “You did take your time for true, George. What was in your mind—to give Ned concern that you’d decided to stand with Warwick, after all?”

  George frowned, again caught up in a tangle of uncertain suspicions, but Richard’s dark face was unrevealing. He couldn’t be sure if this were banter, accusation, or a shot too close to home.

  “If you must know, Dickon, I hadn’t the heart to intrude upon so spectacular an approach…. You did look as if you were rather enjoying yourself!”

  Richard looked at him and then grinned. “I was!”

  He moved in closer, laughing, holding out his hand, and as George clasped it, he laughed, too, sure now that all would be well, even with Ned, and hearing behind him a vast roar of approval as his army understood that they were not to fight and die after all, at least not this April noon on the Banbury Road.

  25

  London

  April 1471

  On the same day that John Neville and the Lancastrian lords of Exeter and Oxford reached Coventry, the Earl of Warwick learned that his son-in-law had gone over to his brothers of York. Once more, Edward appeared before the walls of Coventry to challenge the men who waited within. Once more, they refused to do battle, and on Friday, April 5, Edward suddenly broke camp and took the road south, toward London.

  Warwick set out in grim pursuit, but Edward was two days before him and the Earl knew he had little hope of heading Edward off before he reached the capital. Urgent messages were sent on ahead, instructing the Lord Mayor and city council to deny Edward entry.

  The Archbishop of York dutifully paraded Harry of Lancaster through the city streets; it proved to be a mistake. The watching spectators jeered at the limp foxtails that hung from Lancaster’s standard, and they wondered aloud why the poor old man wore the same blue gown as when he’d last appeared in public in October. Edward of York had always been popular in London, and he still owed the city merchants considerable sums of money. Moreover, he was now at St Albans, just a day’s march away, with an army at his back.

  Messages continued to arrive from the Earl of Warwick, urging Londoners to hold firm for King Harry. Marguerite d’Anjou and her son were expected to land at any time, while from St Albans, Edward sent word that Harry of Lancaster was to be considered a prisoner of state. At that, John Stockton, the Mayor of London, contracted a diplomatic virus and took to his bed. The Deputy Mayor, Thomas Cook, argued for closing the city gates to the Yorkists. But even as he did, the Archbishop of York was sending a secret capitulation to his cousin at St Albans. And the common council, meeting in urgent session, resolved that, “As Edward, late King of England, is hastening toward the City with a powerful army, and as the inhabitants are not sufficiently versed in the use of arms to withstand so large a force, no attempt should be made to resist him.”

  At noon on Maundy Thursday of Holy Week, Edward rode through Aldersgate and into the city of London, exactly one month to the day since he had sailed from Burgundy. Just as six months before, the Earl of Warwick had ridden to St Paul’s to give thanks to the Almighty for His favor, Edward now did likewise, and here at last he encountered the enthusiasm that had been so conspicuously lacking during his progress southward, a progress that had demonstrated just how very much these continuing quarrels over the crown had cheapened what was once a sovereign’s brightest coinage, the blind devotion of his people.

  From St Paul’s, Edward was to go to Westminster, where the Archbishop of Canterbury awaited him, there to symbolically place the crown once more upon his head. At Westminster, too, waited his Queen and children. But there was one task still to be performed, and shortly past one o’clock, he strode into the Palace of the Bishop of London to accept the formal surrender of the man who commanded the Tower of London—his cousin, George Neville.

  The Archbishop of York was ill at ease. Unlike his brothers, he’d not shared a friendship with Edward and he was well aware that he could rely on no memories of bygone affection to temper Edward’s vengeance, were he so inclined.

  Edward listened impassively as the Archbishop stammered apologies for six months of treason, until he grew bored and said coolly, “You needn’t fear, Cousin. I’d not send a priest to the block, even such a priest as you. I will send you to the Tower, however, and you may be thankful that I do, at times, show mercy; else I’d have you sharing the same cell with your unlamented lord of Lancaster.”

  The Archbishop knelt, pledging his loyalties, present and future, to York, and at Edward’s impatient gesture, retreated to fetch Harry of Lancaster.

  Edward grimaced at that, and turning toward Richard, said grimly, “This is a pleasure, Dickon, I can damned well do without.”

  Richard alone had never seen the Lancastrian King, although all his life he’d heard tales of this unstable man who was called a saint by some and simpleminded by most. He knew Harry had always been somewhat odd, apt to wander in his wits, what in Yorkshire would be called “moonstruck.” He’d found no peace in marriage to the imperious French Princess from Anjou; and in the summer of his thirty-second year, when Marguerite was six months pregnant with the boy now wed to Anne Neville, Harry had slipped into a darkness of the mind from which he’d never fully emerged.

  Richard knew all this by heart; from childhood, Lancaster’s madness had been a litany of his House. But even these oft-told tales had not prepared him for the reality of the man his brother contemptuously called “Daft Harry.”

  He was not yet fifty, but he walked with a pronounced stoop, hunched forward like one searching the ground for lost valuables. He had thin grey hair, which once had been flaxen, blank pale eyes that might have been blue, and he was the color of unchurned milk; he looked, to Richard, as if he’d never spent a day in the sun, not in his entire life. Richard experienced a surge of pity and, at the same time, an aversion that was physical.

  The Archbishop was leading him like a child, now said, speaking in the overly loud voice one would use with the hard of hearing, “ ’Tis His Grace of York.” When Harry did not respond at once, the Archbishop repeated, louder still and rather impatiently, “York…Edward of York.”

  Harry nodded. “I know,” he said mildly and smiled at Edward.

  Edward, looking resigned, held out his hand.

  “Cousin,” he said politely, a title more of courtesy than kinship, for the blood they shared had been much diluted over a period of some seventy years.

  Harry disregarded the outstretched hand, stepped forward and embraced the younger man as if they were comrades of long standing.

  Edward recoiled violently, drawing back as if struck; it was the only time that Richard could ever recall seeing his brother thoroughly flustered. For a moment, his consternation showed clearly in his face, and then he was once more in control, and he reached out, grasped the other man’s hand, in that way responding to the greeting and yet keeping him at arm’s length.

  Harry’s smile had not wavered. “My cousin of York, I bid you welcome,” he said, in a soft, unexpectedly pleasing voice.

  “Thank you, Cousin,” Edward said dispassionately. Whatever his feelings, nothing showed now in his face, not even as Harry added, with the air of one sharing a secret with a friend,

  “I know that in your hands my life will not be in danger.”

  Beside him, Richard heard Hastings draw a breath through his teeth, as sharp as a whistle. The Archbishop had the look of one wanting fervently to disassociate himself from a blatant embarrassment. Richard himself wished to be anywhere else than where he was at that moment, and he marveled that Edward could hear such words and yet look so unmove
d.

  “It pleases me that you do think so, Cousin,” Edward said, a response so strangely ambiguous, so unlike what the natural rejoinder would have been, that Richard was suddenly struck by an incredible suspicion, one so ugly that he at once disavowed it as an aberrant thought, one Edward didn’t deserve.

  Edward now raised his hand, and men who wore the colors of York came through the gallery doorway.

  “The Archbishop of York shall escort you to the Tower, Cousin. Make your wants known, once there; they’ll be seen to.”

  There was silence as the Archbishop and the Lancastrian King exited the great hall, flanked by men-at-arms. Edward was staring after the sparse figure clad in soiled blue velvet. At length, he said softly, “I will never understand…never be able to comprehend how men were willing to die so that he might be King.”

  No one answered him, and he glanced around at the silent circle of men.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Why do we wait? Fetch the horses.”

  He turned away, moved toward the door, and then snapped, to no one in particular, “And for Christ’s sake, get him another gown!”

  There was a sudden commotion in the inner courtyard. Jacquetta Woodville heard Nurse Cobb cry out, and she looked up to see her son-in-law standing in the doorway. Too flustered for presence of mind, she dropped down in a curtsy, had a fleeting glimpse of the children. Mary was wide-eyed, uncertain, and two-year-old Cecily had the emerging look of fear. But before Jacquetta could speak, Bess had given a strangled cry, neither laugh nor sob but kin to both, and flung herself across the room. The floor was strewn with rushes, and just as she reached her father, she tripped, fell forward. Edward caught her before she hit the ground and swung her up into his arms. She seemed to have no need of speech, content just to be held, and as Jacquetta watched, she felt tears prickle, but she didn’t care, let them come.

  Thomas was moving forward, and his brother was in the room, too, flushed with excitement. Jacquetta saw that Edward wasn’t alone. Her son Anthony was with him, and she recognized Richard and Hastings and the Abbot Millyng and—with a distinct shock—George of Clarence.

  Anthony was smiling at her, but he stayed in the doorway. They were all looking to Edward, waiting on him. But he was smiling at his daughter, touching her soft fair hair, and for the moment, she alone claimed his attention…. Until the Jerusalem Chamber door opened.

  Elizabeth wore only a dressing robe of a light clinging material, and her hair hung loosely down her back in a spill of tangled silver. She was clutching a kirtle of sarcenet silk and a hairbrush and she looked disheveled, breathless, startled.

  Edward lowered Bess to the ground. As he did, Elizabeth let the kirtle and brush fall to the floor in the only truly spontaneous gesture that Richard, watching, had ever seen his sister-in-law make, and moved toward her husband. He didn’t wait; in two strides, he had her in his arms, in a passionate embrace.

  She was the one that broke free first, balancing her hand against his chest as if to hold him there.

  “Wait,” she said, and then she smiled at him. “Wait…” And she spun around, to find that Nurse Cobb was already beside her, happily holding out the baby. Elizabeth reached for him and, turning back to Edward, placed the child in his arms.

  No one else had yet moved, not even his daughters. He studied his son and then raised his eyes to hers, linking over the baby’s head.

  “Did you ever doubt me?”

  “No, never. Did you think I would?”

  He grinned, shook his head.

  Edward was surrounded by children. He’d laughed, claiming he felt like the Pied Piper, and almost at once won over the last holdout, the shy Cecily, who’d observed her second birthday as he had ridden alone into the city of York. With Bess on his lap and Mary at his feet, he was responding to his stepsons’ questions, good-naturedly coping with an avid assault of curious queries about exile, Bruges, the Yorkshire campaign. But before long, his interest began to slacken, his replies grew more inattentive, less animated. He was watching his wife, and she sensed it, turned in his direction. A private message passed between them; she rose from her brother’s side, shook back the tumbled masses of blonde hair, and Edward stood, gently depositing Bess on her feet.

  “You’ve not yet greeted your Uncle Anthony or your Uncle Dickon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, smiling down at her. “That’s a good lass.”

  Bess moved dutifully toward her Uncle Anthony as bidden, but stopped abruptly when she saw her father cross the room, take her mother’s hand, and disappear into the Jerusalem Chamber. She took an uncertain step forward, but the door closed behind them; she heard the bolt slide into place.

  Richard crossed to Will Hastings. “I think Ned is in good hands…. Give him word for me, Will, that I’ve gone to Baynard’s Castle.”

  Will grinned, asked to have his courtesies conveyed to Her Grace, the Duchess of York, but as Richard listened, his eyes were straying across the room, measuring his niece’s misery. Bess was sobbing softly, staring forlornly at the bedchamber door, and neither Jacquetta nor Thomas seemed able to console her.

  Bess liked her half brother Thomas, but now she paid no heed to his attempts to make her laugh with the floppy rabbit puppet he’d made for Mary. She rather wished he’d stop; he should know she’d not care about a silly playtoy when her father had come home at last, after being gone for so very long, only to vanish again ere she’d even had the chance to confide how much she’d missed him. She fumbled for a handkerchief, gave up and used her sleeve. Her Uncle Dickon was kneeling by her now, and she gave him a suspicious look to see if he meant to order her away from her vigil by the bedchamber door. But he seemed content to stay beside her, and she relaxed somewhat. Grand-mère had asked her if she remembered her uncles, which was silly; of course she did.

  “Bess, would you like to ride into London with me?”

  She sniffed, shook her head, and then turned to look sharply up into his face. “London?” she said uncertainly. “You mean…outside? We cannot. It is forbidden.”

  “Not any longer, Bess. Wouldn’t you like to see the city again? You haven’t been beyond these walls in months; are you not curious?”

  She was regarding him doubtfully. “I haven’t a pony,” she said sadly. “It got left. I couldn’t even take my dog with me….” Her mouth was quavering again, and he said swiftly,

  “If I find you a horse, should you like to come with me?”

  She nodded, gave him a dawning smile. But then she glanced back toward the door of the Jerusalem Chamber and her face shadowed again.

  “No, I…I cannot….”

  “Bess, do you know where I’ve been these six months past?”

  “Burgundy,” she said at once, and was grateful when he didn’t question her where Burgundy was. Instead, he said,

  “You know who I was with?”

  “Papa.”

  “He won’t go away without me, Bess. You can await him at Baynard’s Castle if you like…and as long as I’m there, you’ll know he hasn’t gone away again.”

  She considered this, decided it made sense. “Can we ride by the river?” she bargained, and he laughed, helped her to rise.

  “By all means, by the river,” he agreed, as Thomas Grey stepped in front of him.

  “I do not think my lady mother would wish her daughter to go off without her permission,” he said coldly. “I cannot approve of this pleasure-jaunt into London.”

  Jacquetta had just been about to thank Richard for his inspiration and now she turned to her grandson in surprise. He was jealous, she decided; these months hadn’t been easy on the boy, and she could well understand how he might feel shunted aside, ignored. She stepped forward, intending to intercede, but in such a manner that Thomas would not feel reprimanded or rebuked, when Richard said, with what she felt to be uncalled-for rudeness, “What makes you think I give a damn about your approval?”

  Anthony Woodville looked up at that, frowned. “I think his concern for his sister is to be comm
ended,” he said, in a far from friendly tone, and Jacquetta, seeing that Richard was about to respond in kind, started to speak.

  But Will Hastings was quicker. Lounging against the wall, he’d straightened up at the first exchange, and now he smiled at Anthony.

  “I don’t see that young Grey need fret over the Lady Bess. I can think of no safer guardian than His Grace of Gloucester, and I am sure the King would agree with me. Do you mean to suggest otherwise, my lord Rivers?”

  Anthony stared at him; dislike surged between them, almost tangible in its intensity. “I’ll tell you what I mean to suggest, my lord Hastings…. That this is a family matter and not one which concerns you.”

  Bess had been shifting impatiently; she was accustomed to the quarrels of adults and they held little interest for her. Now that she was to ride in the sun, see the city streets, and hear the people cheer her as they had whenever she’d passed through London in the past, she was eager to depart, and she tugged at Richard’s arm.

  “Can we not go now?”

  “I see no reason why not, Bess.”

  Richard looked challengingly at Thomas. The latter hesitated, not sure how far this should be pursued, and in the pause that followed, George spoke for the first time.

  “Go on, Dickon, take Bess to our mother. If Grey feels the need to play nursemaid, let him do so with her sisters.”

  Jacquetta saw amusement on the faces of Hastings and Richard, saw murderous rage on that of her grandson, and as he swung around to confront George, she said icily, “I only do wish you had such solicitude for your brother’s children, my lord of Clarence, these six months past while they were forced into sanctuary under your father-in-law’s threats.”