The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “He was always that, provided that I was reasonably discreet. He is much older than me, you know…”

  Will felt a twinge at that. William Shore was only four or five years older than he was.

  “…and of course he’s been impotent since the first year of our marriage,” she continued carelessly, oblivious of the slight stiffening of the body beside her. “Will…I do need to talk to you, love, but I don’t know how to begin. I’ve never been in a coil like this before and I fear you’re going to laugh at me.”

  She sat up suddenly, wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. “Will, I’m ever so fond of you. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “But you fancy yourself in love with Ned,” he said very quietly, and she gave him a startled, grateful look, nodded eagerly.

  “I guess that wasn’t so hard to see, was it? I do love him Will, I do…. I’ve never felt this way about any man before. He’s on my mind day and night and when I’m not with him, I feel empty inside; I ache, I truly do. Each time I do see him, it be like that first night, and the wonder of it does hit me anew, that this man be England’s King, England’s King and my lover…mine!” She smiled, confided, “I still find it hard to think of him as Ned; even in my own mind, I think of him as the King more often than not!”

  “And what of him, Jane? Surely you cannot think that he does love you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “I think he…he does care. I do, Will. He’s been very good to me….”

  Will was thankful now that he’d seen this coming, grateful for the surge of pride that briefly blotted out hurt. “And so you yearn now to play a new role, the faithful concubine,” he said coolly, saw her lower lip tremble, like a child unjustly slapped.

  “I knew you’d laugh at me…. But Will, that is what I want. Please don’t be mean. You’re the dearest friend I have and I hate it when you say hurtful things to me. I know you must think me silly and moonstruck, but I cannot help it, Will. I do love him so much. He has only to touch me and—”

  That he didn’t want to hear and he interrupted hastily. “I’m not laughing at you, Jane. It be only that I should hate to see you hurt. And you will be. Take it from me who knows him best, Ned’s a man to take more pleasure in the hunt than in the kill. No woman’s ever held him for long, and unless you accept that, you’re riding for a nasty fall.”

  “That does remain to be seen,” she said, somewhat defensively. “You say no woman’s ever been able to hold him for long. But what of the Queen? She’s given him two sons and three daughters…four if you do count that poor little lass who did die two Decembers past. Clearly he does still find pleasure in her bed, and they ten years wed!”

  There was, he saw, nothing he could say to convince her. She’d have to learn the hard way with Ned; women generally did.

  “But it be sweet of you to worry about me, Will.” She reached over, touched his hand. “Will…we’ll still be friends, won’t we? I don’t know who I’d turn to if I didn’t have you; I’ve never been able to talk to anyone—not even Ned—the way I can talk to you.”

  “That be a foolish question, Jane,” he said after a brief silence, and, while a trained ear might have detected echoes of strain, Jane heard nothing in his voice but a suggestion of sleepiness. “Of course we’ll still be friends.”

  She reached for the coverlets and then snuggled back against him, seeking his warmth. “You mustn’t worry about me, Will,” she assured him drowsily. “Truly, love. It be worth the risk. Ned is…He’s the King,” she concluded simply, as if that explained all.

  “Yes,” Will said. “I know.”

  5

  Middleham

  May 1475

  Anne took no pleasure in the coming of spring that year. Spring meant the onset of Edward’s French campaign. She counted the days with secret dread, silently cursed her brother-in-law, and watched helplessly as the beautiful white armor crafted for Richard before Tewkesbury was cleaned with sand and vinegar, watched the preparations for a war that made no sense whatsoever to her and filled her with fear.

  And now there were but two days left before Richard led the men under his command south to join the royal army assembling at Barham Downs. All week, men had been riding into Middleham in response to Richard’s summons to arms. He’d contracted with Edward to bring one hundred twenty men-at-arms and one thousand archers, yet so enthusiastically had the men of Yorkshire flocked to his colors that he expected to have fully three hundred more than the number promised his brother. Richard was delighted; for three years now, he’d been laboring to win the goodwill and respect of a people not easily impressed, and he took this turnout of northerners to his standard as proof that he was slowly prevailing against local bias and loyalties given for generations to the Houses of Lancaster and Percy. But, to Anne, it meant only that all men, no matter their rank or blood, did share this inexplicable eagerness to risk life and limb in foreign lands.

  These were the first quiet moments of the day. Across the solar, Richard was conversing in low yet animated tones with Rob Percy, Francis Lovell, and Dick Ratcliffe. Their talk, not surprisingly, was of war.

  Anne watched awhile and then looked away. Rob’s wife Nell was to wait with her at Middleham while their husbands did fight in France, but she was in the early stages of a pregnancy that was proving to be far more troublesome than her first, and she’d retired early; Véronique alone was attending Anne that evening.

  Véronique was stitching, but Anne had in her lap the account book for the household, drawn up each night under the supervision of the steward and then presented to her for her inspection. She stared down at the scrawled tabulations and then idly flipped back over the pages, stopping at random at an entry in the preceding month:

  On Wednesday, April 19th, for the Duke and Duchess and the household. Grain, 46 bus. Wine, 12 gals. Ale, previously reckoned. Kitchen: 1 and ½ oxen, 2 sheep, 500 eggs. Milk for week, 9 gals. Stable: hay for horses, from stores. Oats, 4 qtrs, 1 bu. Grain for dogs for 10 days, 3 qtrs.

  She glanced again at the date: three days before her son’s second birthday. One of the last normal entries. Soon thereafter, Middleham had been inundated by a human wave that had yet to recede—men who wanted to fight for Richard, neighbors, citizens of York, couriers from Edward. The accounting for this Wednesday alone filled fully a page and a half.

  Laying aside the account book, Anne rose, crossed the solar to join Richard on the settle. He interrupted himself long enough to smile at her, but almost at once turned back to the men, nodding agreement toward Rob.

  “Your guess be close, Rob, but I expect we’ll have no less than eleven thousand archers and fully fifteen hundred men-at-arms, the largest English army ever to land on French soil.”

  “Dickon, tell Rob and Dick what you did tell me about the King of France—you know, what the King’s Grace did write to you,” Francis prompted, and Richard grinned.

  “My brother heard from our contacts on the Continent that when Louis was told he’d best expect an English invasion by summer, he did go white as milk and cried aloud, ‘Ah, Holy Mary! Even after I have given Thee fourteen hundred crowns, Thou dost not help me one whit!’ ”

  They all laughed; Anne reached for Richard’s hand, laced her fingers through his.

  As the talk of war swirled around her, Véronique found herself wielding her needle like a weapon, so much so that she was not long in jabbing it into her own flesh. Bringing her thumb up to her mouth, she sucked at the hurt, annoyed by her clumsiness but far more disturbed by what she was hearing.

  She didn’t understand men, not at all. How could they sound like this, sound so expectant? She flicked her eyes angrily from face to face. What was there about war that did exercise such a fatal fascination for men?

  Véronique jerked the needle so roughly that the thread snapped in two. To her way of thinking, there were few reasons worth dying for, and she most assuredly did not number glory and plunder among them. She did not like this war;
she did not like it at all. And not just because her native France was to be the target. Her loyalties were to people, not to places. She had no attachment to England, but she did dearly love the people in this chamber, loved her life at Middleham. She did not want to see these men bleed or die for nothing more than vengeance.

  Putting her sewing aside impatiently, Véronique glanced back toward the men, and then gave a start to find Francis’s eyes upon her. She looked away quickly, angry with herself for the blood that suddenly surged up into her face. Must she betray herself every time he did so much as look her way? Fool! Stupid little fool.

  Of all the men she might be drawn to, why in Our Lady’s Name had it to be Francis? Fool, she repeated bitterly. There was nothing Anne would not do for her. If she wished to wed, Richard would be more than pleased to arrange a suitable marriage for her with a knight of rank and position; it was not inconceivable that she might even wed with a baron, given her known intimacy with the Gloucesters and the generous dowry they’d provide for her. But no, she’d had to fall in love with Francis, Francis, who was clever and kindhearted…and married.

  When had it begun? When had he become more than a friend to her? She couldn’t remember exactly; it had all happened so gradually, so naturally. By the time she realized her danger, it was too late. Now she was miserable when he was gone from Middleham and no less miserable when he came back. Now she found herself hating a woman she hardly knew, hating Anna Lovell, who had Francis and didn’t want him. And, worst of all, she knew Francis was becoming aware of her feelings. How could he not notice, she thought, and sighed; the change in her was so pronounced only a blind man could have failed to mark it. Tongue-tied, flustered…She might as well have a letter engraven upon her forehead for all to see. An A…for adultery, the adultery she knew to be a mortal sin and yet did commit nightly in her mind.

  Véronique picked up a brush, began to give Anne’s hair her customary one hundred strokes. As their eyes met in the mirror, Véronique impulsively bent forward, kissed the younger girl on the cheek. Physically, Anne seemed to have recovered fully from her Christmas miscarriage; emotionally, the wound had yet to heal, showed all too clearly on nights like this, showed whenever Anne was overtired or worried, and she’d been both for some weeks now.

  Véronique told herself repeatedly that it was God’s will, must be accepted as such. But she still did not think it fair that Anne had lost her baby. Anne so wanted a nursery full of children. But she’d had a very difficult delivery with little Ned, and then two miscarriages in as many years.

  “You must remember, chère Anne, that your sister was unable to conceive for several years after her first was stillborn. But then she did give birth to a daughter, and now God has blessed her with a healthy son. Do bear that in mind, chérie, and try not to become discouraged.”

  Anne nodded. “I know.” She picked up an ivory comb, fingered it absently. “But I was not thinking of that, Véronique…not tonight.” She twisted around on the seat. “I was thinking of Richard…and that there be but two days until he does ride south. Two days,” she said, this time in little more than a whisper.

  “Your Richard is a seasoned battle commander, chérie, for all his youth. You must never forget that.”

  Anne nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I know. But he’s reckless, Véronique. He does take too many chances; even Ned says that. If he—”

  She stopped abruptly in midsentence as Richard came into the bedchamber. Joining them before the mirror, he leaned down to kiss his wife and then took the brush from Véronique.

  Wanting to be sure that Anne would have no further need of her that night, Véronique lingered awhile longer, putting out Anne’s bedrobe, tooth powder, washing cloth, and soap. After that, she hesitated, to see if Anne wanted her help in undressing. Anne so far showed no signs of stirring, seemed quite content to sit before the mirror, watching as Richard drew the brush through her hair, so slowly and solicitously that Véronique hid a smile, thinking of the vigorous strokes she herself had been applying to Anne’s hip-length tresses. But when Anne reached for Richard’s free hand, held it against her cheek, Véronique quietly withdrew, unwilling to witness a moment not meant to be shared. Closing the door, she left them alone.

  She was too restless to retire. Crossing the covered bridge that spanned the bailey and led back into the keep, she entered the great hall. It was dark, illuminated only by the subdued glow of her lantern. She could just discern the sleeping forms of servants, stretched out on pallets along the walls. Light was beckoning from the half-open door of the solar; she moved instinctively toward it, only to regret bitterly the impulse a moment later as she found herself face-to-face with Francis.

  She retreated at once, heard him cry her name as she fled back out into the great hall. She headed for the spiral stairway in the southeast corner of the keep, the one that led down to the kitchen and cellars and up to the battlements. She mounted the steps so rapidly that she was panting by the time she emerged onto the castle battlements.

  Had this been wartime, there would have been men stationed here as sentries. Now, however, she was alone. Gazing down into the dark of the inner bailey, she saw no lights, no signs of life; only in the gatehouse did torches flare. At this height, the wind was more keenly felt; it tugged at the confines of her chignon, sent loose strands flying untidily about her face. She didn’t mind, welcomed the chill on skin still flushed.

  The wind whipped a swirl of hair across her mouth and she pulled impatiently at the restraining combs, let it all blow free away from her face. Did Anna Lovell care that Francis might not come back? Would she weep for him? Or would she—

  “Véronique.”

  She spun around.

  Francis emerged from the shadows filling the stairwell, came toward her. Bending down, he retrieved her lantern and set it on the embrasure between them. She wanted to shrink back from its revealing light, wanted to slip past him and back down the stairs to safety. She didn’t move.

  For a time, neither spoke. Both gazed out over the parapet at the shadowy countryside below. Come dawn, it would be again a soft sweep of brilliant green; now it was a dark silent sea lapping at the outer curtain walls of the castle.

  “I’ve never seen your hair loose before.” He reached over, entwined a curl about his fingers. But when he brought his hand up from her shoulder to her face, she began to tremble.

  “Francis, don’t,” she said, very softly, for even in her present agitation, she remembered how clearly voices did carry on the air of a quiet country night.

  He, too, kept his voice low. “Véronique, you must know how I do feel about you. It has to show on my face each time I do look at you.”

  “Oh, Jesú, Francis, don’t say that…please.” But she made no move to go, instead, stood very still, scarcely breathing. Would it truly be such a sin to send him off to war with an offering of love? What if he were to die without knowing she cared? How could she live with a regret like that? Perhaps God would understand, would not judge her too harshly.

  She closed her eyes and then felt his mouth against her lashes. His kisses were light, trailed over her skin like the graze of a butterfly’s wing. When he at last took her mouth with his own, she thought no more of sins or penance or Anna Lovell.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “God forgive me, but I do….”

  6

  St-Christ-Sur-Somme Burgundy

  August 1475

  A sudden gust of wind beat against the flap of Edward’s tent, intruded within. Candles were gutted, papers blown wildly about, and men swore, struggled to secure the canvas against the rain that had proven to be a far more relentless foe than the French, that had turned the English camp into a muddy swamp and turned English tempers savage.

  Even as they succeeded in shutting out the elements, thunder crashed overhead, seemed to come from within the tent itself, so close it was. Edward flinched and then cursed. His men eyed him uneasily, and knowing his mood, tried to make themselves as inconspi
cuous as possible.

  It had been a disastrous day for the English, was to have been the day that the Count of St-Pol surrendered to them the city of St-Quentin. But when an English force confidently approached the city gates, they’d been driven back in disarray by the blaze of cannon fire.

  St-Pol’s treachery was the last straw for Edward. His enthusiasm for a French campaign had never been all that high. But war fever was running rampant in England while Edward’s own popularity had been ebbing. People complained about burdensome taxes, complained about corrupt officials and rising prices. The roads were not safe from highwaymen, there were lords who did abuse their power and priests who did likewise. These grievances were not new, had been voiced under Lancaster with far greater virulence. But Edward had raised expectations that could not realistically be satisfied, and disillusioned, many men and women had begun to believe that it mattered little what King did rule over them, that the problems plaguing their daily lives would remain the same in any reign.

  Aware of these undercurrents of discontent, coming under increasing pressure from a Commons disgruntled by his frequent requests for war grants and equally frequent failures to act upon them, Edward had seen war with France as a means of defusing dissent and coalescing public opinion firmly in his favor. Moreover, he had a legitimate grudge against the King of France, had not forgotten all Louis had done to aid Warwick at his expense. And if he never truly expected to prevail in his claim to the French throne, he did believe a successful campaign could gain him the duchies of Normandy and Guienne.

  But from the first, nothing had gone as planned. Although Edward reached Calais on July 4, his brother-in-law Charles had not joined him there until the fourteenth, and when he did arrive, he did so without the Burgundian army. Insisting that he meant to keep faith, however, Charles had suggested that the English army march into Champagne while his own troops swept through Lorraine, both forces to come together at Rheims, where Edward would be crowned as King of France.