The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Richard, too, was on his feet now. “If loyalty distorts judgment, what then, of jealousy? That be what we’re truly talking about, isn’t it? Buckingham has my trust and you don’t like it. I expected better of you, Will. You know the men we have to deal with: Morton, Rotherham, Stanley—self-seekers, all. Yet you’d have me shut out a man who’s proved beyond doubt where his loyalties lie, and for what? So that you can have a bigger portion of the pie!”

  Will had gone rigid with rage. “I’ll take up no more of your time,” he said stiffly, strode across the chamber, and reached for the door latch. Richard watched in silence. His anger had not completely obscured his common sense; he knew he shouldn’t let Will leave like this. But he couldn’t bring himself to make the first move. He was tired and resentful and it was easier to say nothing, to tell himself that he was in the right, that Will must be the one to make amends.

  The bedchamber was awash in June sunlight. A trail of clothing led across the carpet toward Richard and Anne’s bed, the black sendal of his mourning doublet, her dark gown, a frothy lace-edged kirtle.

  Anne turned her head on the pillow, studied Richard through her lashes. She was still surprised by the intensity of his greeting. However ardent he might be in private, Richard was generally rather circumspect in public; it was unusual for him to be more demonstrative than hand-holding or a discreet kiss. She’d not been prepared, therefore, for an impassioned embrace on the outer steps of the great hall, within full view of half the household of Crosby Place. For once totally uncaring of the amused approving eyes upon them, Richard had taken Anne directly up to their bedchamber. She’d not even unpacked; her coffers were still downstairs in the great hall.

  He’d surprised her, too, by the urgency of his lovemaking. Her lips parted, curved upward; she felt a languid warmth laying claim to her body again, a sensation both indolent and erotic. She wasn’t sure she would want Richard to make love to her like this every time; tenderness was too important to her for that. But it had been exciting. She laughed softly. In truth, it had been that.

  “What be so funny, sweetheart?”

  She moved closer, shifted so that their bodies touched at hip and thigh and shoulder. “I was thinking of the pleasure you gave me, and how much I do love you,” she murmured, saw him smile.

  He’d lost weight since she’d seen him last. She saw it in the hollows under his cheekbones, in the tightness of the skin along his jaw. The creases around his eyes were more pronounced, too. She traced their path with a light finger, wondering why people called them “laugh lines” when they were anything but that.

  He listened attentively as she reassured him about his sons, shared the news of Middleham, relayed to him messages from the York city council and Lord Mayor. But he’d volunteered little of his own activities these six weeks past, and now she hesitated, not wanting to interrogate him and yet anxious to know what had been happening.

  “I did as you requested and stopped at Berkhampsted on my way south, Richard. Your mother gave me a letter for you; it be in one of my coffers.”

  “Did you ask her to reconsider her refusal to come to London?”

  Anne nodded. “Yes, love, I did. She said she hoped you’d understand why she could not. She’s not left Berkhampsted since she did take vows, nigh on three years now; not even for Ned’s funeral.” She paused. “I don’t think you should urge her further, Richard. We all have to find our own path, and the way she’s found be right for her. I’m sure of it, for never have I seen her so tranquil in spirit, so at peace with herself.”

  “I do envy her that,” Richard said briefly, and then, “Did I write you that I’d sent for George’s children? Grey had them sequestered on manors in Devon, and for five years they’ve been kept apart, have not seen each other even once in all that time. The girl will be here by week’s end, and the boy did arrive yesterday.”

  “Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick,” Anne said softly, somewhat sadly, and then she smiled ruefully. “Lord help us once we have Ned here, too. How we’ll tell all these Edwards apart, I’ve no idea! Tell me about George’s little boy. What is he like?”

  “He be the very image of George at age eight. But in temperament, they do seem like day and night. George was born to mischief. His son, though, be very quiet, very shy, and far more timid than is natural for a boy his age. But it may be that he’s just not yet at ease with me. I don’t,” Richard said with sudden bleakness, “seem to be having much luck these days with any of my nephews.”

  “Richard, talk to me. Tell me about it…please. You need to share the burden, love, in truth you do.”

  She was right, Richard thought; he did. “I’ve never felt like this before, Anne…so frustrated, so at the mercy of events beyond my control.” He propped a pillow behind his head, turned toward his wife.

  “Every day seems to bring naught but more problems. Money, for one. Although all but two ships of the fleet deserted Edward Woodville, he did keep command of the ship carrying the bulk of Ned’s treasury, got it safe to Brittany. And here the council is unable to agree on anything. The only men of the entire council I can count upon be Buckingham and Jack Howard. Having a boy King does bring out the worst in men; they see him as a puppet whose strings be up for the taking, and some of our venerable Bishops be the worst of the lot!”

  “But what of Will Hastings, Richard? Can you not rely on Will?”

  Richard’s mouth twisted down. “Will and I do not see eye to eye on much these days. He does greatly resent Buckingham, and I admit Harry does not ease the situation any. There be times when the tension between them be thick enough to be sliced and served up on trenchers.”

  “Have you tried talking to Will, Richard?”

  “What can I say to him, Anne? I cannot tell him that I do agree with his suspicions about Buckingham, and that be all he does want to hear. I don’t know; I guess I don’t know him as well as I once thought I did.”

  Anne was frowning. “But you do still trust him, don’t you?” And was relieved when Richard said without hesitation,

  “Yes, I trust him. He may be making an ass of himself over Buckingham and playing the fool with that Shore woman, but Will’s no Morton, no Stanley. I’m beginning to wonder about his judgment, but his loyalties aren’t in doubt.”

  “Will and Jane Shore? But Francis wrote Véronique that she’d become Thomas Grey’s mistress!”

  “She had. But now that Grey’s keeping to sanctuary, she’s taken to sharing Will’s bed, or so rumor has it.”

  Anne raised herself up on her elbow, read in Richard’s face her own distaste. Jane Shore had to have been more to Ned than a warm beautiful body; no man keeps a mistress for nigh on nine years unless he does care for her. Anne sighed. Maybe she was squeamish, but she didn’t like to think of a woman Ned loved being passed about among his intimates like a wine cup or serving knife.

  “What of the Queen, Richard? Be she still in sanctuary?”

  “Yes.” Tersely.

  “But it’s been more than a month! What does she hope to gain by this…this charade?”

  “A great deal. With each day that she stays in sanctuary, she does cause me embarrassment, stirs up dissension in council, and makes it less and less likely that I’ll ever win Edward’s trust.”

  Anne sat upright. “Oh, how I hate that woman!”

  “I’ll never forgive her for this, Anne. Never. But however much I need her out of sanctuary, I’ll be damned before I do pay her price. Her terms, you see, be full pardons for all her kin and seats on the council for Anthony Woodville and Thomas Grey. And there be no way on God’s earth that I will ever agree to that.”

  “Well, she cannot stay in sanctuary indefinitely. Once she sees she’s not going to get her way, she’ll come out. What does worry me more be this jealousy between Hastings and Buckingham. What mean you to do about it, Richard?”

  “I don’t know,” Richard conceded. “I don’t doubt that Ned would have found a way to keep them both content. He had an unca
nny knack for that, for juggling rivalries like so many apples. But I do not. I haven’t the patience.”

  “You’re too forthright to play games,” Anne said, with such protective warmth that he smiled. “Had Ned rooted out these antagonisms and intrigues when they first did surface, you’d not be facing such problems. Don’t ever forget, Richard, that this field was planted long ago, and by Ned, not by you.”

  Richard surprised her now by saying with no small measure of bitterness, “And a right fine crop he’s left for me to harvest, in truth.”

  She hesitated and then reached over, brushed the hair back from his forehead. “You sound as if you be very angry with Ned, love.”

  He turned a startled face toward her. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I guess I am.”

  A silence fell. Anne was content to wait, and after a time, Richard said thoughtfully, “There’s been so much anger bottled up within me, Anne, these six weeks past. I’ve been most angry with those you’d expect, with Elizabeth Woodville and Thomas Grey. But with Will, too, for making things so needlessly difficult. And with myself, for not handling it better. At times with Edward, for what I know he cannot help. With Morton, our thoroughly secular priest. But though I didn’t realize it till now, much of that anger was for Ned.

  “I have been angry with him. For taking to wife a woman so utterly unfit to wear a crown. For putting Edward into Anthony Woodville’s care, for letting the boy be raised as a Woodville. For turning a blind eye to the hostilities infesting his court. And above all…for a death that need never have been. That the man who won Towton at nineteen and Tewkesbury at twenty-nine should have died the way he did, dead at forty…No, I cannot forgive him for that.”

  Nor can I forgive him, either. I cannot forgive him for this legacy he’s left you, Richard, for bequeathing us a future of fear. Anne did not speak these words aloud. She was sure that Richard, too, looked to tomorrow with foreboding, a tomorrow when Edward might demand a very high price, indeed, for today’s Woodville grievances. That was not a fear to be shared, though. It was one to be buried in silence, neither acknowledged nor admitted.

  5

  London

  June 1483

  Edward had no memory of his parents. His mother had died two months before his second birthday, and no matter how hard he sought to put her face together in his mind, there were pieces missing. But he never even tried to do that with his father. His father was not a permissible topic of conversation; it was safer not to think of him at all. For a long time, Edward hadn’t understood why. Not until a nurse much given to gossip had seen fit to dispel his ignorance, told him that his father had been charged with treason, confined to the Tower, and there executed at the King’s command. And that Edward understood all too well. His father had died a traitor’s death, had died in disgrace, and it somehow reflected upon him. He never again made mention of his father, asked no more questions.

  Edward knew he was the ward of a man he’d never laid eyes upon, Thomas Grey. It was very confusing to him, therefore, to be suddenly summoned to London by an uncle he knew no better than he did Grey.

  As best as he could puzzle it out, he was to be his uncle’s ward. Edward wasn’t sure yet, but he thought he might like that. His uncle had a low, pleasant voice. Edward liked the sound of it, liked the way his uncle tilted his head to the side when he listened, the way he had of laughing with just his eyes. Above all, Edward liked the way his uncle didn’t ask him questions he couldn’t answer, seemed not to mind that he had so little to say.

  Edward had long ago learned not to expect too much. But he found himself wishing that he might stay here at Crosby Place. Especially now that she was here, the slender dark-eyed woman who said she was his mother’s sister, said she was his Aunt Anne. She’d arrived yesterday, had come up to his bedchamber last night to tuck him into bed. No one had ever done that before, and her perfume had lingered in the room long after she’d gone.

  That same flowery scent came to him now. He was poised on the threshold of her bedchamber, the one she shared with his uncle. He sensed he shouldn’t be here, but the fragrance beckoned him into the room, was in its own way as strong an inducement as the dog. Loki, his name was. His uncle’s dog, come yesterday with his aunt from the far North. He looked to Edward like a large grey wolf, but Aunt Anne said he was called an alaunt. All the dogs Edward had known were stable animals, not pets; he’d never before seen a dog that was given the free run of the house.

  Loki was stretched out by the bed. He raised his head, regarded Edward with unblinking dark eyes that slanted at the corners like a cat’s. Edward edged closer, hoping for some sign of encouragement. But the plumed tail didn’t move, lay flat upon the carpet. Edward’s disappointment was intense; he’d wanted few things in his life as much as he wanted to make friends with this big dog. He tried to bear in mind what his aunt had told him about Loki, that he was a one-man dog. Alaunts were often thus, she explained, and Edward nodded dutifully, said he understood. But he didn’t, not really, was hurt that Loki was so indifferent to his overtures.

  Circling wistfully around Loki, he wandered over to the table that held his aunt’s hairbrushes. A blue glass vial caught his eye. He pulled the stopper, rubbed the liquid onto his palm and sniffed; to his delight, he smelled just like roses. So caught up was he in his discovery that he did not hear the approaching footsteps until they neared the door. Startled, he turned toward the sound. The vial slipped from his fingers, cracked against the table, and fell to the floor.

  Loki rose, stretched, and padded toward Anne in polite greeting. With an exclamation of annoyance, she brushed past the dog, bent to pick up the glass scattered about the carpet.

  “How in the world did…?” It was then that she saw the little boy. He was crouched down against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and Anne was stunned by the look of fear on his face.

  “Edward? Edward, it be all right.” She held out her hand. “You can come out now. You’ll not be blamed for a mishap. This could happen to anyone.”

  Having coaxed the boy to her, she slipped an arm around his shoulders, led him toward the window seat. Color was coming back into his face. She smiled reassuringly at him, touched the soft sunlit hair. They were a handsome people, her husband’s family, but she thought that George and Bella’s little boy was possibly the most beautiful child she’d ever seen. But Blessed Lady, what had been done to him? Could the lack of love do such damage?

  “Your sister Meg will be here tomorrow, Edward. Do you remember her at all?”

  Edward shook his head. “I don’t remember much about…about before,” he said apologetically.

  “No, sweetheart, I don’t suppose you do.”

  He was sitting very stiffly beside her, shoulders hunched up, hands folded tightly in his lap, and she wanted to draw him toward her, to cradle his head against her breast.

  “Do you know what we’re going to do tomorrow, Edward? You and I are paying a call upon Margaret Howard, Lord Howard’s wife. She told me today that one of their brachet hounds whelped last month, and we have the pick of the litter. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.

  Anne was disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm, and surprised, too; she’d seen how his eyes followed Loki.

  “Don’t you want a puppy, Edward?” she asked, saw his eyes go round in wonderment.

  “You mean…it be for me?”

  Anne’s eyes misted suddenly. Her sister’s child. Thomas Grey had much to answer for. And so did Ned, for letting it happen. God forgive him, but Ned’s sins of omission were adding up. Who else, she wondered bitterly, would have to pay the price for his lack of care?

  Anne closed the solar door, wishing she could shut out the rest of the world as easily as she shut out their household. Richard was sitting on the settle, one leg drawn up under him, jotting down notes in a slanting Italic script. He seemed thoroughly immersed in his task, didn’t glance up until Anne leaned over him.

  “
You’ve an ink smear on your cheek,” she said, held out a dampened handkerchief. “Here, let me.” He tilted his face up, and she rubbed until the mark was gone, then dropped a kiss lightly on his nose.

  “What are you working on, Richard?”

  “Issues to be raised at the council meeting on Monday.” He put the papers aside as she settled herself next to him, said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get back in time for supper. Did you go to see Edward as you planned?”

  Anne nodded. “I went to the Tower this morn. It didn’t go too well, I fear. He be at such an awkward age, too old to console as you would a child and not old enough to be reasoned with as you would with an adult.” She leaned back so that her head rested comfortably in the crook of Richard’s shoulder.

  “He did ask me why his mother refuses to come out of sanctuary.” She sighed, and felt a slight stiffening of her husband’s body.

  “He did challenge me with that one, too,” Richard admitted. “What did you say to him?”

  “Well, I told him that people may fear even when there be no cause; it’s not a rational emotion. I could hardly tell him, after all, that we believe his mother to be playing a game of political blackmail! I reminded him that my own mother had taken sanctuary after the battle of Barnet, even though she had no reason to fear Ned’s retail—” She never completed the sentence; Richard had stopped her words with his mouth.

  “Anne, that was truly inspired! I’d wager that never occurred to Edward before. What was his reaction?”

  “Richard, I so wish I could say he was startled into seeing all in a different light. But it’s not going to happen that way, love, and you just have to resign yourself to it. He’s a very confused boy, and it will take time. You have to remember that whatever I say is doubly suspect in his eyes. Not only am I your wife, I am the Earl of Warwick’s daughter, and I don’t doubt he’s been taught to view my father as the Anti-Christ.”