The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Richard’s eyes were all but closed; lashes of surprising length and thickness shadowed his cheek. She reached out, let her fingers trace the deep lines that undercut his mouth.

  “I shall pray for you,” she said.

  27

  Nottingham

  August 1485

  The shadow-world of sleep recognized no borders. There the past and present were one country, shaped by memory and peopled by need. Richard had been dreaming of Anne, dreaming of a day that had never been, and when he awoke, it was with a start, a sense of disorientation so strong that he did not at once know where he was.

  Daybreak was spreading across the sky, the half-light of coming dawn slowly restoring form and familiarity to the bedchamber. Exhausted, he lay back against the pillows. How queer dreams were; they had a reality all their own. He’d never lain with a woman out on the moors, had never lain with Anne in the grass by the River Cover, and yet he could still feel the turf, spongy under their bodies and sweet-smelling. There’d been grass stains on Anne’s skirt, her head pillowed on the tangled thickness of her own hair, her breasts bare to the sun. “Oh, love, love…” she’d gasped at the moment of joining, and his own body quivered now in involuntary response. With a muffled curse, he rolled over onto his stomach, but the hard throbbing ache in his groin was beyond easing. The memories of flesh and blood and bone were far more unrelenting than those of the heart and head; what man would willingly torment himself with desire for a dead woman?

  It was a need that seemed to grow worse with each passing day of this humid, sweltering summer. Perhaps it was being back at Nottingham, his castle of care, where he’d had to tell Anne that their son was dead, where Hobbys had pronounced Anne’s sentence of death. Perhaps if he had chosen to wait in York…But Tudor would never have dared to come ashore in the North. No, Nottingham had been the most logical site to keep vigil, in the very heartland of his realm. So he’d taken up residence in early June, dispatched Francis to Southampton to take charge of the coast defenses, left London in Jack Howard’s capable hands, ordered the English fleet to sea, and the waiting began.

  Mayhap it was true what Ned had so often liked to say, that there were but two kinds of fools in this world, those who ran ahead to meet trouble more than halfway and those who hid in hopes it would somehow pass them by. If so, he was a fool of the first sort, had never been able to endure waiting for anything, good or bad. It was the longest summer of his life. When Thursday last he’d gotten word that Tudor had landed on August 7 at Milford Haven in South Wales, his first reaction had been one almost of relief.

  He’d at once sent an urgent summons to Thomas Stanley, ordering him to Nottingham. His other captains were to join him at Leicester, where the royal army was to gather. On the morrow, he would be departing Nottingham, begin moving slowly southward. Today was a Monday, the fifteenth of August, one of the most holy days of the Church calendar, the Assumption of Our Lady. By this time next week, it was very likely that it would all be over, one way or the other. Why, then, did he feel so detached, so cut off from his own emotions?

  At the least, there should be anger, hatred for this Welsh pretender who dared affix “Rex” to his signature as if he were already England’s anointed King and found his invasion force among mercenaries and men set loose from Normandy gaols. But the fury was forced, the hatred curiously lacking in passion. Even now, on the very eve of departure, he felt numb, unable to summon up more than a weary sense of wonder that the waiting should at last be almost over.

  His servants were moving into the room, and Loki ended his night vigil by the door, grudgingly let them pass. Feeling slightly queasy, feeling as if he’d never been to bed at all, Richard sat up and his day began.

  He was being shaved when the letter from Thomas Stanley came. Stanley’s man had arrived at the castle at the same time as Francis Lovell, just come up from the South, and it was Francis who escorted him into Richard’s bedchamber, followed closely by Jack de la Pole and a visibly nervous Will Catesby. All knew how much hung upon Stanley’s response.

  Richard broke the seal, skimmed the contents. Should he have been surprised? You can never go wrong suspecting a Stanley, prodded a memory. He saw that he’d crumpled the paper, and he straightened it as best he could, passed it to Jack.

  “Stanley does regret that he cannot comply with my command,” he said tonelessly. “He says he be suffering from the sweating sickness, is not up to riding a horse.”

  They raged, of course, called Stanley names as abusive as they were accurate. Richard listened in silence, interrupted his nephew’s harangue only to say briefly, “You’d best see to it that Stanley’s son be kept under close watch from now on.”

  Jack nodded, would have gone at once to give the necessary commands had Richard not stopped him.

  “No, Jack, not yet. I do need to speak with you…alone.”

  “Sweet Jesus, but you cannot be serious? You’d send me away, have me wait out the battle like some gutless craven? How could you ask that of me?”

  “I’m not asking, Jack.”

  “Well, I won’t do it, I won’t!”

  “You’re more than my nephew; you’re my heir. Would you have us both risk our lives against Tudor? If the battle goes against me, would you have the House of York dragged down into the dust, too?”

  Jack’s anger was all the more intense because he could not deny the truth of that. “You expect to lose, don’t you?” he accused. “You’ve been trained all your life in the ways of war, while Tudor be grass-green, and yet you expect to lose!”

  “No, Jack, I do not.”

  Jack was not convinced. “Moreover, I don’t think you even care!”

  Richard looked at him. “I care,” he said.

  Jack shook his head. “Not enough, Uncle. Not nearly enough.”

  Dark had long since descended, but the day’s heat had yet to ebb. Richard was alone in the gardens; more and more he craved solitude as other men craved wine, and this day that had begun with Stanley’s ominous letter had ended with worse. A few hours ago, Richard’s scouts sent word that Tudor had advanced unchallenged through Wales, that on August 13 the border town of Shrewsbury had opened its gates to him.

  It should have come as no surprise. He of all men should have expected as much. What opposition had Warwick encountered, after all, when he’d landed in Devon? Or Ned, when they’d come ashore at Ravenspur? Most people were little inclined to spill their own blood in these endless conflicts over the crown, not after thirty years of such strife. And yet it hurt, nonetheless; against all logic and common sense, it hurt.

  Much of his thinking seemed equally clouded to him these days. Why should he feel betrayed by Stanley when he’d known from the first that the man was a born Judas? And he’d chosen to let Stanley depart for Lathom, he and no other; but now, asking himself why, he was no longer sure of the answer. Had he been testing Stanley? Or testing himself?

  Much on his mind, too, was his quarrel with his sister’s son. Jack was wrong. He sought neither defeat nor death. For those were the stakes, an all-or-nothing wager in which he was offering up more than his crown; he was offering up his life.

  He did not think there was a moment in which he’d consciously made that choice; it was rather as if there’d been no choice to make. He’d not fight a civil war to hold on to the crown, would neither retreat into the North nor seek soldiers and aid from overseas. Twice in his life he had sought refuge in Burgundy; there’d not be a third time. But what he was asking of the Almighty was vindication through victory on the field, and failing that, death, and to die like that would be to die in mortal sin.

  The air was warm on his face, fragrant and alive with the sounds of a summer night: cicadas, crickets, and unseen birds. He’d lost track of time, found himself watching the antics of two well-fed red squirrels. As a boy, he’d once had a pet squirrel, and he sought to lure them over. The bolder of the two came readily, advancing close enough to sniff at his outstretched hand and then withdre
w with such obvious disappointment that Richard grinned.

  “Expecting alms, were you? Sorry I can’t oblige,” he said, and the little creature chattered back noisily, almost as if it understood.

  “Here, Your Grace, take this.”

  Richard turned, startled, at sound of a woman’s voice. She’d come noiselessly through the trees, materializing like some woodland sprite, and most improbably of all, what she was holding out to him was a chunk of freshly baked bread.

  Richard stared at the bread and then burst into laughter. “I would that all my wishes were so readily granted!” He broke off the crust, tossed it into the grass, where it was at once claimed and devoured. The squirrel sat up, crumbs clinging to its whiskers and chest, set about cleaning itself like a cat, accepting the offering of this unknown benefactress with utter equanimity. Richard was more curious, however, beckoned her closer.

  He saw at once why he’d not noticed her approach; she wore widow’s black, seemed to be cloaked in night. As moonlight fell across her face, Richard’s interest quickened. She was not beautiful in the strict sense of the word, but it was not a face to be forgotten, sharply chiseled cheekbones and generously curved mouth, a face as familiar as it was exotic.

  “I know you, don’t I?” he said, and she nodded shyly. Suddenly self-conscious, she handed him another piece of bread, said with a breathless laugh,

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I happened to be toting a basket of bread about the gardens at this time of night?”

  Richard smiled, shook his head. “I’ve never been one to question luck,” he said and, much to his delight, was able to coax the squirrel into feeding from his hand.

  “Actually, I was bringing it to you, Your Grace.” She lifted the covering on the basket, showing him half a dozen neatly wrapped loaves. “I meant to leave them with Master Kendall, was told he might have time to see me after Compline.”

  At mention of his secretary’s name, Richard remembered where he’d seen her before. About a fortnight ago she’d come to the castle seeking an audience. It was not a day when he’d been hearing petitioners but he’d agreed to see her to oblige Kendall, who’d argued that “the lass be one of our own, Your Grace, Yorkshire born and bred!” Her husband had been steward for one of Edward’s manors in Cumbria, and his death some two years ago had left her and their children in financial straits. Richard had arranged for her to receive a pension from the issues of the lordship of Warwick and thought no more about it. But he was touched now that she’d thought to show her gratitude in this particularly Yorkshire fashion; the city of York had often presented him with swans and pike and wine, and it had not been at all uncommon for grateful petitioners to bring gifts of food to Middleham.

  She came closer, confided, “I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw you sitting alone like this. I guess I just took it for granted that you always had scores of people in attendance!”

  “And they’re most likely tracking me down even now,” Richard said wryly. “May I count on you not to give me away?”

  She dimpled, nodded, and he made room on the turf seat, saying, “But I’m not finding myself to be good company tonight. It would please me greatly if you sat down and talked with me awhile of Yorkshire.”

  He soon discovered that she knew a number of his friends, Tom Wrangwysh and the Metcalfes and York’s current Lord Mayor. She was indeed Yorkshire-bred, knew the dales of Wensley as well as he did, and they found that they shared a special fondness for Aysgarth Falls, argued whether the most scenic view in Yorkshire was to be found from Sutton Bank or from Penhill, and agreed that the Corpus Christi plays performed in York were equal in all respects to those acted out in Coventry and Chester.

  Realizing at last that the castle gates must have long since been shut, Richard assured her that he’d see she had an escort back to her inn, and she thanked him warmly, but neither stirred. Somewhere a dog was barking. The squirrels had long since disappeared. It had been a welcome respite, but Richard found that his troubles could be kept at bay only so long, and his mind began to fill again with thoughts of the coming confrontation with Tudor.

  Would Stanley go over openly to Tudor? Or would he wait out the battle, making ready to do homage to whoever won? As for Stanley’s drink-sodden braggart of a brother, the odds were that he was already in Tudor’s camp; Will Stanley was Chief Justice of North Wales and yet Tudor had passed through the Cambrian Mountains like a hot knife through butter. Thank Christ for Jack Howard and for Francis, for the men he could trust. If only he could be as sure of Northumberland! It be one thing to tread lightly, but Northumberland did endeavor to leave no footprints at all. Only once in the past twelve years had he thrown in his lot when the issue was still in doubt, at the time of Buckingham’s rebellion. As Warden of the Marches toward Scotland, Northumberland had the responsibility of issuing summons to arms for the North, should have been in Nottingham days ago. So why wasn’t he?

  “Your Grace…might I say something of a personal nature?” His companion had been watching him in silence for some moments, now said rather diffidently, “It’s not my place to say this, but you look so bone-weary, like a man who’s forgotten what it be like to get a decent night’s rest. Once you do deal with Tudor, I think you should come North, come home for a good long while.”

  Richard knew she meant well, but she’d touched a nerve, nonetheless. Middleham had been the only home he’d ever known, but he’d not be able to go back, would never be able to sleep alone in the bed he’d shared with Anne. He rose abruptly, moved into the shadows of the nearest tree, an oak that had been old even before he was born.

  At once contrite, she followed. “I just knew I shouldn’t have spoken out, but you did look so…so sad. I’m sorry, truly I am. Do you want me to go?”

  Richard turned to face her, reached out and touched her cheek. “No,” he said, “I don’t want you to go,” and realized even as he said it that he was no longer talking about the garden. His hand lingered on her face; her skin was soft and suddenly flushed. He felt no less unsure himself. It had been so long since he’d sought to coax a woman to his bed; for nigh on fourteen years there’d been only Anne.

  “You’re very fair,” he said softly and, when she smiled, he saw that there was no need to say more. She came into his arms as if she belonged there, warm and perfumed and very real.

  Candles still burned; in their haste, they’d not taken time to put them out. The light was shining in Richard’s eyes, and it was that which at last motivated him to move. Lifting his weight off her body, he rolled over onto his back. It was ungodly hot; where the sheet touched his skin it stuck. After a time, he leaned over. But she averted her face, whether by accident or design, and his lips just brushed her cheek. He frowned; was she regretting now that she’d sinned?

  “Rosamund?”

  She opened her eyes; they were an intriguing color neither completely blue nor green. “At the last,” she said, very low, “you…you did call me Anne.”

  Her hair cascaded over the pillows, all but covered one breast; it was darker than Anne’s, but a pretty color, nonetheless. He touched it, twined a strand around his fingers, and at last, said the only thing he could. “I’m sorry.”

  Blue-green eyes searched his face. “Do you want me to go?” she offered uncertainly, just as she had in the garden.

  He did, but he could not bring himself to tell her so. She was no harlot, did not deserve to be dismissed like one now that his need had been satisfied. “I’d like you to stay,” he lied. It occurred to him now, as it had not in the garden, to question her willingness to share his bed; would she have felt free to deny the King? It was suddenly very important to him that he be sure, and he said awkwardly, “Rosamund, what happened between us…well, it was not planned; you know that. But I didn’t ask of you more than you wanted to give?”

  She moved back into his arms, raised her head from his shoulder to give him a quizzical smile. “Of course not!” Surer of herself now, she kissed the corner
of his mouth and then laughed. “Though in truth, I still can’t quite believe I’m here, in your bed. If anyone had ever told me that I’d meet a man in a summer garden, a man I knew not at all, and would be making love with that man just hours later…I could as soon have imagined myself walking from Micklegate Bar to the Minster clad only in my kirtle!” She laughed again. “But then, you’re not just a man I met in a garden, are you?”

  Richard said nothing, not until she sat upright in bed, pointed toward the open window. “Did you see? A shooting star!”

  He hadn’t, but nodded obligingly, watched with a smile as she shut her eyes like a little girl, her lips moving in silent supplication. He wondered what she’d wished, knew without having to consider at all what his own wish would have been, for a night of untroubled sleep, a night free of dreams of Anne.

  As tired as he was, he would have sworn he’d be asleep within minutes, but he was not long in realizing he was in for another long sleepless siege. He was intensely aware of Rosamund; sharing a bed was in a strange way an even greater intimacy than that which had already passed between them. It was too hot a night for physical closeness; he could feel sweat tracking a sticky path down his rib cage, and wherever Rosamund’s body touched his, their skin clung, damp and uncomfortable. Not wanting to disturb her, he moved as little as possible, and as the hours passed the bed began to take on the contours of a prison, the night one unlikely ever to end.

  It was well past midnight when Rosamund sat up suddenly, and without saying a word, rose from the bed and moved to the table that held a flagon of night wine and a loaf of bread. Pouring a cupful, she returned to the bed, handed it to Richard.