The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Beyond the bed, lights still blazed, but Anne lay in darkness, the drawn bed hangings of Tripoli silk effectively screening out any vagrant traces of light. She heard Véronique’s retreating footsteps and, as the door opened, the sound of male voices, drifting in from the adjoining chamber. And then her husband’s body squires were in the room, moving into the garderobe, bringing lavers of warm herb-scented water, directing the chamber valets to stoke the hearth higher for the night.

  Anne lay still, listening; there was a crash, smothered laughter, and she heard Richard’s voice, low and good-naturedly reproving. Moving deeper into the bed, she shivered; the sheets were silky-smooth and as chilled as ice against her skin. She resisted the temptation to curl up for warmth and forced herself to stretch out so that she might warm the bed some for Richard.

  When Richard drew the bed-hangings back, she saw that the candles had been extinguished, the only light now coming from the hearth. She’d been somewhat apprehensive about their first moments in bed together, that there might be an awkwardness between them; she was relieved to find that it wasn’t so. He drew her to him, embraced her as naturally as if they’d been sharing a bed for months. As intimate as their lovemaking had become in those weeks before he’d gone to Shene, this was quite different for her, and she felt a certain shyness at the feel of his naked body against hers. He was gentle enough, however, to readily reassure her, and when he began to explore her body, he did so without haste, as if there were no urgency, and that, too, reassured her.

  She began slowly to relax; only now could she admit to herself just how tense she’d truly been. It was those accursed memories Rob had unwittingly stirred up; she knew that. Knew, too, that she was a fool to let them matter. It was just…just that she so wanted to please him, to make him happy. So much so that she ached with it. She couldn’t bear to think of disappointing him, not ever, not in any way.

  “I want so to be a good wife to you,” she whispered, with such intensity that he raised his head from her breast. In the flickering half-light she could just discern the quizzical tender smile that her words brought to his mouth.

  “I’ve no complaints so far,” he said, and laughed.

  She stroked his hair and with her fingers traced the uneven path of the scar that angled from wrist to elbow, the price he’d paid for the battle laurels he’d won for himself at Barnet. Turning her head, she put her lips to the hollow of his elbow, suddenly seeing the sun-whitened cloisters at Cerne and feeling again the chill that had gone through her, as if to the very bone, upon hearing from Somerset that Richard had been hurt in the fighting. In many ways, that had been the worst day of her life. Never had she felt so alone, so abandoned. A dead rebel’s daughter, an unwanted wife. Never had Richard seemed further away to her than on that day, standing with Somerset in the April sun…. Except perhaps, on a December day in France, the day of her wedding to Édouard of Lancaster.

  Lady Mary! What ailed her that she must be thinking of this now? She drew in her breath so sharply that Richard at once exclaimed,

  “Anne? Was I too rough, sweetheart?”

  “No…no. Richard, I love you…. I do, I swear I do!”

  “You say that as if you expect me to doubt you, beloved!”

  Not knowing what to say to that, she pressed closer still to him. He kissed her throat, her mouth, her hair; cupped and caressed her breasts, stroked the softness of her inner thighs. She held on to him as if they were adrift in some strange sea and he alone could keep her afloat, called him “love” and “darling,” willingly shifted her body to accommodate his caresses, and struggled with a growing sense of desperation, of desolation, for what she’d most feared was coming to pass: her body was betraying her. She felt nothing. Nothing.

  In vain, she sought to will a response to his kisses, to share his passion. It didn’t come. Never had her mind been so remote, so detached; it was as if she were watching him make love to someone else’s body. She loved him, loved him so much. What was wrong with her, then? Why could she not feel what she was supposed to feel, what other women felt? He’d stirred such feeling in her before; why not now, when it did matter the most? And how could she hide it from him? Lancaster had hated her for her coldness, but Richard would be hurt…dreadfully hurt.

  When it was over and they lay quietly entwined, she turned her head aside so that he’d not notice the tears that trembled on her lashes. For a brief time that seemed interminable to her, there was no sound but the slowing rhythm of his breathing and the betraying tremor in hers. She’d given herself away, she knew she had. So miserable had she managed to make herself that she’d felt a flicker of remembered fear at the moment of penetration and stiffened involuntarily, enough to make his entry unexpectedly difficult. Oh, yes, he knew; he had to.

  She shut her eyes to squeeze back tears. He’d been so patient, had taken such care not to hurt her. And he hadn’t; the surprise of that still lingered. The initial discomfort had passed almost at once. As he’d given her body time to adjust to him, to adapt to his movements, the pain had yielded to a sensation of pressure that she did not find unpleasant. Her relief had been enormous, and with it, too, had come a surge of tenderness. She’d been able, then, to relax enough to follow his lead, so much so that she felt a faint disappointment when he was done, for she’d begun to derive a certain pleasure from the closeness, the intimacy, the feel of his body upon hers.

  But what she’d hoped to feel, what she thought she should feel, must feel…that had eluded her entirely. And now there was only shame as she remembered how she’d flinched away from him at first, how he’d had to soothe her, to reassure her. That he’d tried to be so gentle with her only made her failure all the worse in her eyes. She’d so wanted to please him. And now he knew what Lancaster had known, that there was something lacking in her, that she—

  “Anne?” He lifted himself off her; she felt suddenly bereft, and shivered. He drew the sheet up around her, leaned over to kiss her averted cheek.

  “I know it wasn’t that good for you, sweetheart, but…” he began softly, and with a stifled sob, she rolled over, back into his arms.

  “Oh, Richard, it was all my fault. I didn’t please you and I so wanted to….”

  “Not please me? Beloved, you did please me all too well!” He shifted so that he could see her face, and as she opened her eyes to regard him uncertainly, he said, “I was too quick, didn’t give you enough time. I think it must have been wanting you so much and having to wait so long.” With one finger he tracked the solitary tear still wet upon her cheek, kissing her as it reached the corner of her mouth, and then he laughed. “But I’ll make it up to you, that I promise!”

  “You don’t mind…. Oh, Richard, I was so afraid you’d be dissatisfied with me, find me lacking….”

  “Anne, look at me. As tense and wrought up as you were, how could you expect to get much pleasure from it? You think I didn’t know that? I had only to touch you to feel it; you were as taut as a drawn bowstring, in truth you were. But it’ll get better, love, much better. All you do lack is experience, and I’d like nothing better than to remedy that!”

  Anne expelled the hurtful breath that had caught in her throat, and then began to cover his face with haphazard feverish kisses, not stopping until they’d both begun to laugh.

  “If only I’d talked to you, confessed my qualms! I was tied in knots, so afraid you’d find me cold, that you’d—”

  “Cold? Anne, listen. I confess you gave me some bad moments in that priory garden at Coventry. But not since then, and most assuredly, not after these past weeks at St Martin’s!” He smothered a yawn, kissed her again.

  “Now come closer and I’ll show you a right pleasurable way to sleep. Lean back against me—that’s it—and I’ll wrap my arms around you like this; we fit together like spoons, see?”

  His closeness was reassuring, the warmth of his body equally pleasant. She would have liked to talk further but his voice had taken on a drowsy contentment. She snuggled back
against him; soon after, the slow, even movement of his chest told her he slept.

  The coming of April did not always signify the coming of spring to Wensleydale, but this year it seemed safe to hope there’d be no late-season snowfalls, no high knife-edged winds sweeping down off the Pennines. The dale was everywhere green, dark moss mingling with verdant leaf and the tender shades of new-grown grass; the River Ure reflected clouds and sky with a silvery sheen.

  What struck Anne first were all the people. The narrow streets of Middleham were thronged with men and women, in such numbers that she realized at once many must have been drawn from the neighboring villages. As she glanced back over her shoulder, intending to ask Richard if the Monday market day could somehow have been changed in her absence, they began to shout. With a start, she realized the cheers were for her, for their lord the Earl’s daughter come home at last.

  She reined in her mare and found herself surrounded by well-wishers, by the villagers who’d loved her father and were eager to show that same love for his child. It was too early yet for the white roses of York, but a shy, small girl was urged forward now to present Anne with an armful of jonquils, snowdrops, and hyacinth. A wine cup was being held up toward her; it shone silver in the setting sun and represented no small sum from the village treasury. She would be honored to accept it, Anne assured them huskily, and would cherish it for what it was, a gift from the heart.

  A short distance away, two men stood apart from the crowd, upon the steps of the market cross. The village priest creased his eyes as if from the sun, but his words indicated a deeper concern.

  “A gift from the heart,” he echoed softly. “The only trouble be they’ve given it to the wrong one.”

  His companion gave him a curious look. Thomas Wrangwysh had been visiting kin in Masham when he learned that the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were due back at Middleham, and he’d decided at once to be there when they arrived. After all, he reasoned, Gloucester was going to be the power in this part of the country and his backing would be worth a great deal to a man with political ambitions such as himself. Now he suggested, “You mean it should’ve gone to the Duke?”

  “Aye. It’s his goodwill that does count, not hers.”

  “You be wrong. Look at his face, Father. They could have thought of nothing better-calculated to please him than what they just did.”

  Above the keep flew the standard of Gloucester. Anne shielded her eyes, gazed upward at the scarlet and blue background bannered with the Rose-en-Soleil, the cognizance of her cousin Ned, and Richard’s tusked Whyte Boar, the Blancsanglier. As she watched, it dipped and then unfurled to full length, held there for a moment as if pinned against the vivid streaking sky.

  Turning, she saw Richard had reined in beside her.

  “We’re home,” he said.

  Book Three

  Lord of the North

  1

  Leicester

  September 1472

  The tension in the room was tangible, could almost be tasted, touched, breathed. Richard had rarely been so uncomfortable, so at a loss for words. Kate was standing by the window, staring down into the garden—her garden—as if at some strange and wondrous sight never before seen. Kathryn alone seemed untouched, seemed at ease. She wrapped her arms around Richard’s neck, as trustingly and naturally as if he truly belonged in her world, as if fully two months had not passed since last he’d held her like this.

  She had his coloring; each time Richard saw her, it touched him anew. Escaping the flimsy restraints of scarlet silk ribbons, her hair framed her face in flyaway ebony curls; her eyes were wide and dark blue. He wondered if she truly comprehended who he was. She was so young, just five months beyond her second birthday, and he saw her so seldom.

  “Papa? You bring my puppy?”

  He grinned, for this was the fifth time in the past hour that she’d seen fit to recall his promise to mind.

  “I’ll not forget, Kathryn. I’ll bring it the next time I do come to visit you.”

  “Tomorrow?” she said, and he laughed. So did Kate.

  “Not tomorrow, Kathryn, but soon. Now say good-bye to your father, poppet,” she prompted, and Kathryn dutifully implanted a wet kiss on Richard’s cheek and another on his neck. With reluctance, he set her back on her feet, watched as she was led from the chamber by her nurse.

  This was the first time he and Kate had found themselves alone together; the last time he’d come to see Kathryn, Kate had kept to her bedchamber, conveying her regrets that she was ailing and unable to receive him. He hadn’t believed her but had been grateful for her subterfuge, had been reluctant to face her with another woman’s wedding band on his hand.

  Kate smiled, rather stiffly, at him now, murmuring a perfunctory politeness about the shortness of his stay. He, too, mumbled something meaningless, but found his eyes straying all the while to the bright sunset haze of her hair; here within the privacy of her home, she wore it loose, held only by a wide velvet band across her forehead, a deep turquoise color that could not have been better chosen to set off the coppery-gold of her hair. As he watched, she fidgeted with a strand, smoothing it flat against the bodice of her gown. It was a mannerism familiar to him and one he knew to be born of stress. He saw now that she still wore the opal ring he’d given her on her seventeenth birthday. Her earrings had come from him, too, and on the table between them was a silver cachet box, a peace offering for a now forgotten quarrel.

  “Kate…” What could he say? It would be four years come December. Memories now bittersweet to recall, but no less vivid for all that. They’d both been sixteen. She’d come a virgin to his bed, and in the following year, had borne his bastard child, had borne Kathryn.

  “Kate, is all well with you? I fear you’d not tell me if you did have a need unmet….”

  She shook her head; the swirl of hair put him in mind of wind-blown autumn leaves. “No, Dickon, I be fine. Kathryn and I do want for nothing. You’ve been most generous, after all.”

  Was there irony in that last? He couldn’t tell, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Dickon, I do have something for you.” Her smile was softer now, less strained. “I didn’t expect you’d be back to see Kathryn before your birthday next month and I…well, I wanted you to have this.” As she spoke, she was lifting the lid on a coffer, drawing out a package wrapped in white silk.

  As he took it from her, their fingers brushed, and then again as she helped him to undo the wrapping; it shocked him to realize the extent of his response to that casual contact. He found himself resisting the urge to touch the red-gold hair that rippled and shimmered with every move she made. He was acutely aware of the fragrance that perfumed her wrist, hair, the hollow of her throat; it, too, was familiar, was one she’d long ago adopted as her own, because he liked it.

  He stepped back, concentrated upon opening the package and, much to his delight, revealed a charcoal sketch of Kathryn.

  “Do you like it, Dickon? Truly?”

  “I can think of nothing that could please me more!” He leaned over and kissed her upon the cheek, so hurriedly that it might have seemed as if he’d expected her skin to be scalding to the touch.

  For a moment, they looked at each other. She was too close; he could see the uneven rise and fall of her breasts. He’d not expected this, had not expected still to want her so. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, saying in a low voice, “God keep you, Kate.”

  “You, too, Dickon.” There was a breathless catch to her voice now; she said, “Surely you do mean to kiss me good-bye?”

  He hesitated and then touched his lips lightly to hers. But as he drew back, her arms went up around his neck and suddenly she was in his arms; he felt the familiar warmth of her body against his; her mouth was clinging, sweet, and it was as if the past year had never been.

  He tightened his arms around her without thought, without choice, aware only of the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest, the feel of her tongue in his mouth, her so
ftness, her scent. But then she whispered, “Oh, love…love, it’s been so long,” and his brain unclouded. Freeing his mouth from hers, he pulled away from her, ended the embrace.

  “Forgive me, Kate,” he said swiftly and somewhat unsteadily. “I did not mean for that to happen. I had not the right.”

  “Oh, but you do! You do have the right, Dickon. Only you….” She leaned toward him yearningly, and he slid his hand down her arms, held her away from him, not trusting himself with her, not now.

  “No,” he said softly. “No, I have not.”

  She had eyes so blue as to appear lavender; he saw bewilderment in them and dawning hurt. “I do not understand. You do want me, as much as I want you. You cannot deny that, not now!”

  “No…I’d not deny that.”

  “Beloved, listen to me. I love you; I never stopped. Oh, I know adultery to be a mortal sin, but I don’t care. It be worth—”

  “Kate, don’t!”

  She stopped, open-mouthed, and he said wretchedly, “Oh, God, but I never wanted to hurt you, never. I swear by all that’s holy that I didn’t!”

  She stared at him. “I see,” she breathed. Turning away abruptly, she stooped and retrieved the wrapping of white silk from the floor; with infinite care, she began to fold and refold the material, as if that and that alone mattered to her now.

  “Kate…Kate, I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Because I did make a fool of myself?”

  He moved toward her at that, but she backed away, out of reach.

  “I do blame myself as much as you, if that be any consolation. I should have seen. But I would not let myself face the truth. When you wrote me last fall that you meant to wed your cousin, I found reasons a hundredfold why you should wish to make the match—that she was a Neville, the Earl of Warwick’s daughter, an heiress…. I did think of every reason save one—that you might love her. And that be it, isn’t it? Why you wed her, why you are no longer willing to lay with me. You do love your wife.”