But by then, his throat was closing, his chest heaving and his body convulsed by a coughing fit, one that left him gasping for air, that brought up sputum ominously streaked with red. Elizabeth watched in horror as Dr Hobbys hastened toward the bed, and then she began to back away, bringing up her hands as if to blot out that which she couldn’t face.
The sky above Thomas Grey was swathed in clouds, the stars smothered in swirling blackness. He stood for a time on the steps of St Stephen’s Chapel, staring blindly into the deserted dark of the gardens. So quiet was it that he could hear clearly the lapping of water against the river wall. There came to him now the resonant sound of church chimes. The monks of the great Abbey of St Peter were being summoned to Matins. Almost at once, he corrected himself. No, it was a “passing bell,” meant to remind all within hearing range to pray for the soul of their dying King.
Thomas shivered. It was cold for early April, but he could not bring himself to go back into the palace. Still less did he want to return alone to his magnificent mansion in the Strand.
Thomas had been just seven when his father had died fighting for Lancaster at the battle of St Albans. Three years later, his mother had married the Yorkist King and the world as Thomas knew it was forever changed. To an impressionable youngster, Edward truly was the Sunne in Splendour, and in the turbulent years that followed, Thomas had been content to bask in his stepfather’s reflected glow. Had he loved Edward? That was a question he’d never thought to ask himself, could not have answered even now. But the times when he’d been happiest had been those occasions when he’d succeeded in winning for himself Edward’s attention or approval. Now Edward was dying, and Thomas found himself adrift upon a sea that was dark, foreboding, and unfamiliar.
On impulse, he climbed the steps, entered the chapel. Cresset lights flared high up on frescoed walls, upon jewel-colors and stained-glass scenes of glowing splendor. But by chance, the first sight that caught Thomas’s eye was a vivid depiction of the Crucifixion of the Lord Jesus on Calvary, a gruesomely accurate rendering of mortal suffering. It was not a vision to give comfort to an already overwrought imagination, and Thomas wheeled about. As he did, there came to his ears a soft muffled sound, much like the mewing of a hungry kitten. Retracing his steps, he moved forward into the nave, saw a woman’s figure huddled on the floor before the High Altar.
Kneeling beside her, Thomas gave a startled cry. “Jesú! Jane!”
She raised her arm to shield her face from the light. Her eyes were almost swollen shut, absurdly smudged with kohl, her face streaked with tears and grime. She looked at Thomas without apparent recognition, but made no protest when he lifted her up in his arms.
“Come, Jane. Come, sweetheart. I’m going to take you home.”
She didn’t have a cloak. Thomas didn’t realize it until he was lowering her into the waiting arms of his boatmen. Jerking off his own, he wrapped her in it and settled her beside him in the barge. The boatmen pushed off from the dock.
Jane continued to weep as the barge moved slowly downriver, hiccuping like a small child and burrowing her face in the crook of Thomas’s shoulder. He stroked her hair, murmuring meaningless sounds meant only to soothe, and all the while, he was racking his brain as to what to do next. The house Edward had leased for her was on the corner of Gracechurch and Lombard streets, some distance from the river, and Jane was clearly in no condition to walk.
As he pondered the problem, there shone through the darkness shrouding the shore the lights of a great house. Coldharbor, the riverside mansion once owned by Edward’s deceased sister, the Duchess of Exeter. Her husband, Thomas St Leger, still made use of it, with Edward’s permission. St Leger wasn’t in London right now, but he and Thomas had emptied too many wine flagons together for Thomas to hesitate.
“Put in at Coldharbor,” he instructed his boatmen.
If St Leger’s servants resented being roused out of bed in the middle of the night, any such resentment was prudently masked upon identification of the unexpected arrivals, and they were quick to put St Leger’s stables at the disposal of the Marquess Dorset, stepson to the King. A short time later, Thomas was lifting Jane from his saddle, carrying her up the stairs of her own house.
For some moments, Thomas stood staring down at Jane, and despite himself, all he could see was she and Ned lying naked on this bed. She was no longer sobbing, but seemed totally oblivious of all around her, mumbling brokenly and plucking at the coverlets with aimless fingers. He wondered suddenly if she could be feverish; God only knows how long she’d lain there on those icy tiles. Touching his lips to her forehead, he was relieved to find it cool. Her lips, however, were warm, tasted of salt.
Never had he known grief to affect one like this. Almost, he thought, she might be drunk. Even when he found a wet cloth and scrubbed off her smeared eye makeup, she didn’t stir. Sitting beside her on the bed, he removed her shoes, and then unrolled the stockings gartered at her knees. Her feet were small and icy; he rubbed them briskly between his hands to warm them and then leaned over to taste her lips again.
Her gown was of the newest fashion, off the shoulders, plunging into a deep V neckline. Telling himself she’d be more comfortable this way, he began to untie the lacings of her bodice.
It was not that satisfying. On occasion, he’d lain with women too drunk to fully comprehend what was happening, and it was much that way with Jane. She neither helped nor hindered him, lay limp and uncaring, tears squeezing past her lashes and trickling into her hair, down onto an already sodden pillow. He came quickly to orgasm, rolled off her and onto his back, feeling somehow cheated. For years he’d lusted for this woman, fantasized about her in Ned’s bed. Now that he’d had her, why was there so little pleasure in it?
She’d begun to shiver; he could see tiny goose bumps on her arms, the swelling curves of her breasts. He reached for the discarded coverlet, pulled it up around them. She moved closer, instinctively seeking his body warmth, and at last, fell into an exhausted sleep. The best Thomas could manage was a fitful doze, and he was still awake when a golden haze began to spread over the city, streaking the sky with the glories of an April sunrise.
Thomas was strangely affronted that so beautiful a day should be dawning, would rather the morning be grey and damp and dark. Beside him, Jane was stirring. Her eyes were swollen with sleep, with the shedding of too many tears. They widened now, a startled silver-grey.
“Tom? Tom, what?…”
Before she could say more, he rolled over on top of her, stopped her mouth with his own. She seemed to be trying to push him away, but he paid no heed, let his hands move familiarly and caressingly over her body, exploring her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She’d soon stopped struggling, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck, sought a closer embrace, he gave an excited exultant laugh. But his triumph was not all he’d thought it to be, for when he brought her to climax, the name she gasped against his ear was “Ned.”
“My lady, it be your health that does concern me now. Will you not try to get some rest? As feverish as the King be, he doesn’t even know you’re here.”
Bess shook her head stubbornly. “You can’t know that for sure, Dr Albon. And even if you be right, I don’t care.”
She was grateful when Dr Hobbys beckoned to his colleague. He at least understood, she thought, knew how much she did need to be here.
But Dr Albon was most likely right. Papa didn’t seem to know her, didn’t seem to know anyone. Master Gunthorp, the Dean of the Royal Chapel, had assured her that he was at peace. While still in his right senses, he’d made confession, had shown contrition for his sins, and having given affirmative answers to the Seven Interrogations put to him by the priests, the Body and Blood of Our Lord had been placed upon his tongue. Once a man was shriven, he turned his thoughts only to God, Master Gunthorp reminded Bess, went to his Maker with a tranquil heart and soul purged of earthly evils.
Bess very much wanted to believe that. But why, then, were Papa’s fever
ed murmurings so disquieted? Those tales the minstrels delighted in, of unfaithful wives betraying themselves in the babblings of fever…. They simply weren’t true. She could make little of what Papa was saying, an occasional name, no more than that. But what was unmistakable was the troubled tenor of his thoughts. He did not sound in the least to Bess like a man freed of mortal cares and concerns.
In his delirium, he spoke often of her Uncle George. Was that what was haunting him so? she wondered; was he regretting George’s execution? Once he startled her by jerking upright and crying out “Dick,” with sudden clarity. Bess had thought he was calling for her uncle, or perhaps her little brother, but then he’d mumbled “Warwick,” and she realized his ghost was the cousin dead these twelve years past on Barnet Heath. She found it unnerving, listening to him grapple with his past, with people long dead, people she didn’t know, and when he looked at her without recognition and called her “Nell,” she’d burst into unstrung sobs.
With the coming of dawn, however, he’d grown less agitated. She thought she heard him say “Edmund,” and hoped it was so; hoped he was back in his boyhood at Ludlow. Bending over the bed, she laid a fresh compress on his forehead. How strange it was, that not once had he called for Mama.
Bess had ambivalent feelings about her mother. She was very much in awe of Elizabeth, sought earnestly to please her, despaired of ever equaling Elizabeth’s striking silver-blonde beauty. But as she reached her midteens, she found herself turning upon her mother an increasingly critical eye. Bess was not blind, was well aware of her father’s excesses. If…if Papa was truly happy with Mama, then he’d have no need of other women. So Mama must be failing him.
But what Bess could never forgive her mother for was her failure to be here at Edward’s bedside. How could Mama not want to be with him? How could she be so cold, so unfeeling?
She’d said as much to her sister, and was surprised to find that Cecily was less judgmental. “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, Bess. I think…I think it does frighten her to see Papa like this, so helpless. He was always so strong, so much in command, and now…”
Bess wasn’t altogether convinced, but she resolved to give her mother the benefit of the doubt…if she could. For all that she was only fourteen, Cecily had shown herself to be uncommonly sensitive to the unspoken needs of others, and Bess had come to respect her younger sister’s intuition.
She wished that Cecily were here with her now. But a few hours ago, Edward’s shallow, swift breathing had begun to be interspersed with audible sounds low in his throat. Both girls had known without being told what it was—the death rattle. That had been too much for Cecily; she’d fled the chamber, leaving behind her a trail of broken sobs.
Strangely enough, Bess wasn’t frightened by the sound. She could even take a perverse comfort in it, for no longer had she to follow with apprehensive eyes the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The sound reassured her he still breathed, still lived. For all that she thought she’d accepted the death sentence passed by Doctors Hobbys and Albon, she had yet to abandon all hope.
She rose from her seat, approached the bed. A little trail of spittle glistened at the corner of Edward’s mouth; she wiped it away with gentle fingers. There’d been another change in his breathing. It was coming now in deep gasps at surprisingly long intervals. Behind her, she heard Dr Hobbys say softly, “You’d best prepare yourself, my lady. It’ll not be long.”
She knew he meant to be kind, but she had to fight the urge to spit at him, to scream that he was wrong, that she didn’t want to hear it. She touched her fingers again to her father’s face, and as she did, his eyes opened. They were glazed a brilliant blue with fever, were sunken back in his head. But they were lucid, looked at her with full awareness for the first time in hours.
“Bess….”
“Yes, Papa, yes! I’m right here.”
“Sorry…so sorry….”
“For what, Papa? You’ve nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.” She could see him straining to speak, and knew she should urge him to be still, but she could not; these last moments of coherent communication were too precious to lose.
“Sweet Bess…so loved.” He made an uncertain movement; she knew he was searching for her hand and quickly laced her fingers through his.
“Don’t worry, Papa. Please don’t worry.”
“Do you know…what be the worst…worst sins?”
She bent closer, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “No, Papa. What be the worst sins?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, in what she knew to be the last smile she’d ever see him give.
“The worst be,” he whispered, “those about to be found out.”
Bess didn’t understand. “Rest now, Papa. It will be all right for us, truly it will. Rest now.”
Book Four
“Richard, by the Grace of God…”
1
Middleham
April 1483
Richard was standing just to Anne’s right. In passing, she gave his elbow a playful squeeze, but so engrossed was he in what John Scrope was saying that he didn’t even notice. The conversation was not one to give Anne comfort; he and Lord Scrope were discussing the latest intrigues of James of Scotland’s malcontent brother, the Duke of Albany.
As little as Anne liked to admit it, she was well aware that another war with Scotland was inevitable. James had managed to regain his freedom, but he was a weak King, and for that reason, a dangerous one. She knew that neither Ned nor Richard trusted James in the least, were convinced that sooner or later he’d resume raiding across the English border. Moreover, English prestige was at an all-time low abroad. Ned desperately needed a triumph to outshine the shame of the Treaty of Arras, and there is no greater success than that won in the field.
Anne was determined, however, not to let anything cast a shadow over so special an evening. She’d not think of this now, not of Scotland or war or the dying spider on the French throne. She had her husband back at Middleham, she was surrounded by friends, and it would soon be spring—all reasons for rejoicing.
Glancing about the great hall, she saw with satisfaction that her guests all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Supper had been a lavish affair, lasting almost three hours, and Richard’s minstrels were now providing entertainment. How it would gall the Earl of Northumberland, she thought, should he learn how little he’d been missed!
Northumberland had politely sent his regrets, begging off because of a slight indisposition of the lower back. This had prompted Richard to quip that it wasn’t his back which was out of joint, it was his nose. Remembering, Anne grinned. She didn’t doubt that Richard was right. For all the care Richard had taken not to slight Northumberland’s authority, he’d never succeeded in breaking through the man’s guard. Even after ten years, relations between the two men were characterized by a chill politeness. Northumberland was a reserved, cautious sort, not easy to know, and neither his Lancastrian heritage nor the fact that his House of Percy once reigned supreme in Yorkshire had been conducive to the development of any genuine warmth between him and Richard.
But Northumberland was the only northerner of note missing from Middleham on this Tuesday eve in mid-April. The great hall was full of familiar faces. John and Alison Scrope. Dick and Agnes Ratcliffe. Rob and Joyce Percy. The Metcalfes of Nappa Hall. Lord Greystoke. All of the Fitz-Hugh clan.
With that last thought, Anne was unable to keep from shooting a quick look in Véronique’s direction. Almost at once, she chided herself. Véronique and Francis were far too discreet to show the slightest sign of intimacy in front of his in-laws. Such a suspicion did injustice to them both.
Anna Lovell had chosen to remain at Minster Lovell, and Anne was glad of that, for Véronique’s sake. She still worried about her friend, still wished Véronique could have fallen in love with a man able to marry her. Anna Lovell was as dependent as a child, and Anne seriously doubted whether Francis could ever bring himself to divorce her. But she no longe
r doubted his love for Véronique. Few illicit liaisons could endure for almost eight years unless there was a deep and genuine caring on both sides.
After instructing the minstrels that dancing would soon begin again, Anne moved to join Francis, Rob and Joyce Percy. Rob had recently come back from Calais and he was regaling them with the latest rumors about the ailing French King.
“Is it true, Rob, that Louis does sleep at night with so many candles that his chamber does look like midday even at midnight?”
“So I did hear. Since last September, he’s been completely sequestered at his palace at Plessis-de-Parc Les Tours.” Predictably, Rob mangled the French almost beyond recognition. Unfazed, he was the first to laugh at his own tangled tongue, and then launched into an enthusiastic account of current Calais gossip.
“They say he’s forbidden his servants to make use of the word death in his presence! Truly, his fear is great, indeed. Since he was stricken with the half-dead disease, he’s spent several hundred thousand livres in offerings alone. He did beg from the Pope the sacred Corporal, the altar linen which St Peter did use to say Mass, and he’s dispatched ships as far as the Cape Verde Islands in search of remedies….”
Anne was no longer listening, was watching the man being ushered into the hall. She’d seen enough couriers in her life to recognize one on sight. It was unusual, however, for a messenger to appear before a lord like Richard in such travel-stained disarray. That he was unshaven, grimy with days of hard riding, told a tale in itself; his message must be urgent, indeed. The unease that was never far from conscious thought flickered, threatened to come to life. But then she saw that the messenger did not wear the royal colors, and her frown vanished. An urgent message from Ned was sure to mean bad news, to mean another Scots or French campaign. But there was no such danger in a communication from William Hastings, and she turned back to Rob, asked curiously, “Rob, does there seem to be much anxiety among the French people over the coming death of their King? His son is only thirteen, after all.”
The Sunne in Splendour Page 89
