The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Richard stood up suddenly, moved aimlessly to the window and back again. As ever when agitated or angry, he could not keep still; he was beginning to make Will nervous with his pacing and restless fidgeting. Moreover, Jane was awaiting Will even now at his manor by Paul’s Wharf. She’d invited herself to supper; whether she had more in mind, Will didn’t know, but he was very interested in finding out. He rose, made his farewells to Richard, to Francis Lovell, and to the Duke of Buckingham. He was at the door before he remembered.

  “Dickon, it almost did slip my mind. Rotherham came to me the other day. In a sweat, the old boy was, shaking in his shoes that he was going to be held to account for that gaffe with the Great Seal!” Will grinned reminiscently, shook his head. “He pointed out that he’d soon come to his senses, hied himself back to Westminster to reclaim the Great Seal from Elizabeth, hoped that might count in his favor. I did assure him we’d let bygones be bygones, that—”

  “Out of the question.” This was the first contribution Buckingham had made to the conversation in more than an hour, was said in so cold a tone that Will’s eyebrows arched upward.

  “Come now, Harry,” he protested amiably. “I grant you the old man made a right proper ass of himself, but no harm was done, after all. More to the point, I think it good politics if we keep a light hand on the reins just now. Don’t rock the boat, if you will. There’ll be time enough to ease Rotherham out later, and until—”

  Buckingham was no longer slouching on the settle. Sitting upright, he shook his head, cut Will off in midsentence.

  “The man’s either a Woodville collaborator or a Woodville dupe. Whichever, he’s a liability, one we don’t need.”

  Will’s amiability was now edged in ice. “As one new to the councils of government, Harry, I think you may be somewhat green in your judgments. I happen to believe it would be a mistake to dump Rotherham now, and with all deference, my experience be rather greater than yours in these matters.”

  Jesus, Francis thought, was it to start as soon as this? He agreed with Buckingham; Rotherham had to go. But why did Buckingham have to act like the lord of the manor dispensing justice to the serfs? Hastings was no man to take orders; for twenty-two years, he’d been England’s Lord Chamberlain, had been at the very heart of the Yorkist King’s government. Why didn’t Dickon take a hand in this, intercede before it got truly sticky?

  Glancing toward Richard, he saw why, saw that Richard wasn’t even listening. His face was shuttered, remote; wherever he was, Francis thought, it was miles from Crosby Place and this ugly little confrontation. Well, if Dickon wouldn’t intervene, he’d damned well better.

  “If I may,” he said hastily, “I think I do have the solution. You each make a persuasive case; why not act upon them both? Take the chancellorship from Rotherham as my lord Buckingham advocates, but let him retain a seat on the council, as you suggest, my lord Hastings.”

  Neither man looked much impressed by his mediation. Fortunately, Richard had belatedly become aware of the sudden tension. “I haven’t had much time to think it over, but I was inclining toward giving the chancellorship to John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln. How does that strike you, Will?”

  Russell was an ideal compromise choice, and Will was not petty enough to deny that merely to soothe a chafed pride.

  “A good man,” he conceded. “I think he’d be most acceptable to the council. I certainly find him so.”

  The room temperature seemed to return to normal. Will engaged in easy small-talk for a few moments more, made an unhurried departure. But Francis had seen the way his dark eyes kept coming back to Buckingham. There was on his face, Francis decided, the surprise of a man traveling a familiar path and encountering a roadblock where one was least expected.

  We are, he admitted uneasily, going to have a problem with these two. Hastings be not a man to yield willingly his place in the sun. For all his talk about keeping a light hand on the reins, he fully expects one of those hands to be his. As for Buckingham, he’ll be one to watch; his first taste of power seems to be going to his head.

  After Buckingham called for his escort, galloping off down Bishopsgate Street at a pace to rattle windowpanes and send cobblestones flying, Francis joined Richard again in the solar. He’d meant to caution Richard about the jealousy he’d just seen, but at sight of his friend’s face, he relented. Dickon had enough cares at the moment. There was no need to burden him with yet another. He acted himself as cupbearer, brought Richard a full goblet of vernage.

  “You know, Dickon, it be rather sad. Edward doesn’t even know his own brother and sisters all that well. How often has he seen them, after all? The girls, hardly at all. I understand the younger boy did spend some time at Ludlow, but not enough for them to become truly close. Not the way brothers should be, the way you and your brother were—”

  He stopped abruptly, for he’d seen what Richard would rather he hadn’t, the tears that had come suddenly into his eyes.

  Francis tactfully busied himself in pouring his own drink. This was the second time today that he’d seen Richard at the mercy of his memories. That morning they’d passed through Barnet on their way into London, and Richard had thought to show Edward the battlefield. Whether he’d succeeded in awakening in the youngster a genuine spark of interest was difficult to say. Edward was polite to the point of insult, clutched courtesy to him as if it were a shield, the only one he had. But for Richard, the recollection of a battle twelve years past had only lacerated anew a wound less than three weeks old. He was not yet up to talking of his brother without pain, as Francis had just inadvertently proved.

  The numbness be wearing off, Francis thought. It’s beginning to sink in, to seem real. God pity him, these next weeks will be the worst, will be the hardest to get through. And to find now that the Queen be refusing to leave sanctuary! Embarrassing, Hastings had called it. No, it be far worse than that. It be a deadly insult, does hit Dickon where he’s most vulnerable, in his love for the late King.

  Richard was back at the window. “How I do hate Westminster,” he said suddenly, almost violently. “I tell you, Francis, even the air seems unfit to breathe. It be just as I remember it. Men caring only for their own advancement, sucking up to those who can do them the most good, sycophants and lickspittles and worse. You never do know where you stand at court. Even my brother, even he could not keep himself from being dragged down into the mire. And if it could happen to as strong a man as he was, what do you think will befall a boy like Edward?

  “Do you know what Jack Howard told me, Francis? That Jane Shore has become Thomas Grey’s mistress.” Richard shook his head slowly. “Can you credit that? Jack says Ned’s bed was not even cold before she crawled into Grey’s. And Ned did care for that woman; he truly did.”

  Striding to the sideboard, he reached for the wine flagon, poured and drank before turning back to Francis. The anger had gone from his face; he looked very tired, looked utterly at a loss.

  “You remember how I spoke apart with Edward this afternoon, once we’d gotten him settled into the Bishop’s Palace? Do you want to know what he said to me, Francis? He asked me why, if he were King, that he could not just order his uncle’s release….”

  Richard’s voice trailed off. He and Francis looked at each other, neither speaking, while on the table between them, the candles that still clung to light splashed hot wax into silver holders.

  4

  London

  May 1483

  Richard had reluctantly decided against charging Anthony Woodville, Dick Grey, and Thomas Vaughn with treason. He felt the discovery of four wagonsful of armor in Dick Grey’s baggage train more than warranted such a charge, proved beyond doubt that the Woodvilles had meant to use military force if need be to maintain their hold upon the government. Nor was it his personal inclination to be lenient. Had he his way, he’d have seen that the Woodvilles paid the full price for their treachery. But political considerations ruled otherwise. His relationship with his young nephew was to
o precarious to allow for private retaliation.

  He was not prepared, therefore, when in a midmorning council meeting at the Tower, John Morton, Bishop of Ely, suddenly questioned the continuing captivity of Elizabeth’s kindred. As he had no liking for Morton, Richard’s response was more acerbic than it might otherwise have been; he reminded the Bishop sharply of the indisputable proof of a Woodville conspiracy, and was at once backed up by both Buckingham and John Howard. Morton had persevered, however, wanted to know if Richard was so sure in his own mind that the men were, indeed, guilty of treason.

  “Yes,” Richard snapped, “I’ve no doubts whatsoever of it,” and only then did he see how adroitly the trap had been laid. In that case, Morton said smoothly, the council should take action upon it; treason was the most serious of all crimes and should be dealt with as such.

  The ensuing vote was a stalemate of sorts. Morton and the former Chancellor Rotherham argued against indicting the Woodvilles on a charge of treason, on the grounds that since Richard had not been officially confirmed as Lord Protector until his arrival in London, whatever the Woodvilles had plotted was technically not treason. Morton had prevailed, by a bare majority, but the council then sided with Richard in agreeing that the confinement should continue indefinitely.

  Richard could take some satisfaction from that, but not much. The council’s refusal to indict only underscored what he already knew, that he was presiding over a coalition government of rival factions and uncertain loyalties. By letting himself be maneuvered into seeking a charge of treason and then failing to get it, he’d not only exposed his own vulnerability and brought to light the council’s inner dissensions, he’d antagonized his young nephew to no useful purpose. All in all, he thought sourly, a day’s work to be proud of, and one sure to come back to haunt him in the troubled times ahead.

  Edward’s coronation date had now been set for Tuesday, June 24, and in accordance with tradition, he’d been installed in the royal residence at the Tower. It was only a short walk from the Council Chamber in the White Tower, therefore, for Richard to pay a courtesy call upon his nephew. Less than an hour had elapsed since the conclusion of the council session, and yet Richard saw at once that Edward had already been told. Too resentful to dissemble, he blurted out in lieu of greetings, “You lied to me! You told me you meant my uncle no harm, and now you seek to charge him with treason!”

  What Good Samaritan, Richard wondered wearily, had he to thank for this? Morton, most likely. He’d hoped to have more time, to be able to explain it to Edward himself, was in no mood to deal with the boy’s Woodville-bred suspicions. He tried, however, reminded Edward quietly of the discovery of the wagons of armor and weapons, of the actions they’d taken to deprive him of the protectorship, their seizure of the treasury.

  He was, he soon saw, wasting his breath. Edward had lapsed into a sullen silence; his words were falling on deaf ears. And how could it be otherwise? How could he expect a twelve-year-old boy to understand, to forgive?

  It was uncommonly hot for mid-May and the chamber was stifling. Sun filtered through the windows with the thickness of smoke, and dust particles danced on the air, settled upon their clothing. A dull, persistent pain had begun to press against Richard’s temple.

  “I know there is much you find hard to understand. All I can tell you, Edward, is that I am trying to act in your best interests. I would hope you’ll come in time to see that, even if you cannot just now.”

  “How is it in my best interests to separate me from my Uncle Anthony?” Edward’s breath was coming very quick; his voice rose unevenly. “It’s not because of me at all, it’s because you do hate him, because you’ve always hated him! He told me, told me you’ve long borne a grudge against our family!”

  Our family. The Woodvilles. Damn you, Ned, but what were you thinking of? Richard shook his head, said slowly, “That’s not true, Edward. I’ll not deny I’ve little liking for your lady mother’s kin; I’ll not lie to you about that. But they did force my hand at Northampton. It need not have happened. I’d not make use of the protectorship to settle old scores. And your father knew I would not; for that reason, he did name me and not your Uncle Anthony as Protector.”

  “You say my father trusted you, but all I know is that my uncle does not! Nor does my mother! Why else would she have fled into sanctuary, still be refusing to come out unless she feels she has cause to fear you?”

  That was a jab into a festering sore. Richard’s mouth hardened; he said sharply, “Fear hasn’t a damned thing to do with it! It be malice, pure and simple!”

  It was the first time Edward had seen his uncle angry, and he shrank back. Richard caught himself, would have given a great deal to be able to call his words back. It was, of course, too late.

  Richard had spent several harried hours at Westminster, dispatching writs for the coming parliament. It was late afternoon before his barge started downriver. The sun was low in the sky, a red-gold haze along the horizon, but the air still smoldered with heat. It shimmered upon the water, seared Richard’s skin and trickled sweat into his hair. The smell of the river was all around him, rank and rancid. Along the shore, he could see a man emptying slop pails into the water, in defiance of local ordinance. The citizens of York were no less careless of health considerations; they, too, used the river as a convenient dumping ground for refuse. But for the moment, that was forgotten. Richard gazed moodily at the debris floating past his barge, and it seemed to him to be characteristic of all he found abhorrent and distasteful in Westminster.

  By the time he reached Crosby Place, his shirt was sticking damply to his shoulder blades and his head was throbbing. He was supping that evening with John Howard, had just time enough to bathe and change, and he was far from pleased to find Will Hastings awaiting his return.

  Will made desultory conversation for some minutes, the sort of idle, amusing talk that passed the time and said little. But as soon as Richard’s servants had withdrawn and the two men were alone, Will’s demeanor changed abruptly. Setting his wine cup down, he said bluntly, “You did surprise me this morn, in truth you did. You be as good a battle commander as any I’ve seen, yet you did forget one of the most elemental rules of warfare…. At all costs, cover your flanks.”

  Richard did not need to be told that; nor did he much like hearing it from Will, who’d voted that morning with Morton, voted down a charge of treason. “That be a lesson you’ve learned, at any rate,” he said coolly, saw a faint discomfited red dye Will’s face and neck.

  “Look, Dickon, between you and me, I’ll freely admit you’re in the right about the Woodvilles. There’s not a one of them be worth the hanging. But don’t expect me to say that in council. We’ve got a boy King who does have a genuine affection for his Woodville uncle, and I’ve no intention of forgetting it. Now if that does make me a hypocrite…” He shrugged. “Well, so be it.”

  His candor was disarming, struck echoes in Richard of his brother. It was, he knew, the same sort of calculating common sense he’d have gotten from Ned, and some of his resentment began to ebb. He could hardly blame Will, after all, for being smart enough not to get entangled in Morton’s snare.

  “If you are, you’re honest with it,” he said with a faint smile. Will smiled back, and Richard found himself recounting that disastrous noontime meeting with his nephew. Will listened in silence, shook his head when Richard was through.

  “Do you know what Ned once said about you, Dickon? He said you thought patience to be one of the Seven Mortal Sins! He was right, you know. Edward’s a bright youngster, and he’ll come around in time. But it won’t be tomorrow or next week or even next month. Woodville has had him for nigh on ten years; we’ve had him but a fortnight. You should try to bear that in mind.

  “No, the problem as I see it is not with Edward. The problem be Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.”

  Richard straightened up; wine splashed on his wrist. “Christ, Will, not that again!”

  “Yes, that again,” Will s
aid grimly. “Be it true that you mean to appoint Buckingham as Chief Justice and Chamberlain for North and South Wales?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That be a mistake, Dickon. Buckingham’s not a man to entrust with that much power. Take my word for it.”

  “I need more than that, Will. Harry’s given me no reason to doubt him and every reason to trust him. Had it not been for him, I might well have ridden into a Woodville ambush. I owe him a great deal.”

  “So, I believe, Ned once said of Warwick!”

  “What would you have me do, Will? By blood alone, he’s entitled to a place in council. He’s stood with me from the first, backed me at a time when none knew if I’d keep either the protectorship or my life. I’ve had nothing from him but wholehearted support. And this be how you’d have me repay him, by denying him the voice he deserves in my government? And why? Because you don’t happen to like the man! Jesus God, Will!”

  “Ned didn’t like Buckingham, either,” Will said sharply. “Have you never wondered why?”

  “And are you saying that Ned never made an error of judgment? The man who married Elizabeth Woodville and turned his son over to her brother to raise?”

  “Oh, Ned made mistakes, all right; more than his share, perhaps. But Buckingham wasn’t one of them. Buckingham is yours.” Will shoved his chair back, came to his feet.

  “Loyalty is an admirable trait, Dickon. Unless it does blind you to the flaws all others see. I watched you delude yourself with Warwick and your brother Clarence, watched you learn the hard way that they were not the men you thought them to be. At the risk of giving offense, you’re not the best judge of character, Dickon. You’ve too often given your loyalty to men who didn’t deserve it.”