The Sun in Splendour (The Plantagenets Book 6)

by Juliet Dymoke

  He had one hand on his hip, sitting easily in the saddle, the sun glinting on his fair head. ‘I believe our ancestor the last Duke of Clarence was a famous jouster and I shall not disgrace his name.’ He spoke arrogantly, his cocksure manner out of place for one of sixteen and as yet untried.

  Richard of Gloucester, his solemn eyes fixed on his brother, seemed to be equally under the spell of that handsome exterior, for George had an easy way with words and a charm that Richard lacked. Poor boy, Bess thought, he had spent so much of his time at the Earl of Warwick's castle at Middleham that he seemed more like a country squire come to town to learn his business, than the brother of a King. She turned in her seat and said, ‘I hope you will be more at court now, my lord Duke. Perhaps we shall see you in the lists before long.’ And then she wished she had not said it for looking at his small frame, and the way one shoulder appeared higher than the other, she thought perhaps he had not the health for it.

  To her surprise he regarded her gravely and answered, ‘I hope, I pray I may become an able fighter, Lady Bourchier. I am training myself for that end so that I may be of service to my brother, for I have always thought if one sets one's will on something it can be done.’

  ‘That is true,’ she agreed. ‘And there are so many opportunities here at court. I am sure the King will –’

  ‘Oh, the court! I am stifled here. I want only to go back to the moors in Yorkshire.’

  ‘I have never been there,’ Bess said and the Lady Anne Neville suddenly forgot her shyness.

  ‘Then you must journey north one day, my lady. My father's castle is high on a hill and we can see a long way over the dales. It is very beautiful, bleak perhaps in the winter when the wind blows so cold, but there is nowhere else in the world like it.’

  ‘Aye,’ Richard agreed, ‘and when the heather is in flower the hills are purple with it and the air is clear and keen. A man can hunt all day and meet no one.’

  He spoke with such intensity that the Duchess Cicely laughed. ‘You children! Those days are over for you now, I think.’

  Anne flushed and Richard lowered his eyes, subsiding into silence. Bess's pity for him deepened, but the tourney was beginning and all eyes were turned on the field. The opening course was run by two of the younger knights dubbed to celebrate yesterday's crowning and Bess watched entranced as others followed, seeing the banners waving, the colours bright, lances splintering against shields. One or two knights went down and had to be helped to their feet, the horses cantering away riderless, but this was a joust à plaisir and beyond a few bruises no one was hurt. Bess enjoyed the spectacle, listening to the excited chatter of young Thomas Grey and his brother Richard, the Queen's sisters joining in, cheering the knights of their preference, but she was waiting for only two. ‘There, my dear,’ Duchess Cicely said in the manner she used to all in rank beneath her, and that included most of the court, ‘there is your husband come to run against Sir John Woodville.’

  ‘He should have no difficulty against such an opponent,’ Duchess Anne remarked languidly. ‘Anthony Woodville may be the master of the joust but his brother is a mere stripling with no talent – as so many others who should have no place in the lists.’

  She spoke with bitterness and Bess pitied her. The Duke of Exeter, who according to Humphrey was a poor creature not worth a man's time, had departed to France with Queen Margaret and was now separated from his wife, and Bess wondered whether the Duchess was more relieved or upset at the loss of such a partner.

  The Queen was leaning forward in her seat. ‘My dear sister, you are harsh indeed. Every knight must begin somewhere and John will soon learn for he has Anthony to teach him.’ Which, it seemed to Bess, was surprisingly charitable of her.

  She turned to watch Humphrey, wearing the silver and red and black of the Bourchier arms on the jupon over his protective armour. The horses thundered forward, the lances struck but neither gained a point. On the second charge Humphrey broke his against Sir John's shield and was cheered vociferously by the crowd, and finally on the third he sent his assailant sprawling and there was a yell of delight.

  Duchess Cicely said, ‘Perhaps next time your husband will have a more seasoned opponent, my dear.’ And Bess was glad she was not on the Duchess's list of dislikes.

  Sir Anthony Woodville won all the laurels, riding brilliantly against half a dozen opponents and even against the King, though the herald declared that contest drawn. As he came to the stand he threw his sword in the air, caught it deftly, and as he passed Bess he smiled and said, ‘Humphrey did well today.’

  ‘Not well enough to beat you, my lord.’

  ‘But at least he kept his seat.’

  ‘No one in England can beat you, Anthony,’ Elizabeth said. She had risen in her place, the laurel wreath in her hand. ‘I would see you fight Burgundy's bastard. They say in France no one has ever bested him. It would be a great contest.’

  ‘Then I shall challenge him,’ Anthony answered and bent his head to receive the prize from her hand.

  Edward, now dismounted and divested of his armour, came to stand beside the Queen. ‘It would be an opportunity to entertain the princes of Europe. Please God before too long we shall be looking for future marriages for our children.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘And no less than royal partners will suffice.’

  Her son Thomas, sulking because he had been told he was still too young to take part, said, ‘You can't be sure I will have any sisters, madame, or brothers either other than Richard.’

  Edward gave him a friendly cuff. ‘Do you think your mother and I do not know our business? Come, my son, and you shall see if you can sit my war horse.’ In the familiar gesture he had his arm about the boy's shoulder and bore him off towards the tents. Bess thought Master Grey should have been sent back to his tutor for such impertinence, but Edward was determined that his stepsons should hold a high place when they were grown and he seemed genuinely fond of them. As he passed Bess, he paused and said, ‘Pray, do not kneel to me, my lady, not when you are with child.’ The Queen, Bess thought, had not shown such consideration, and she was overcome by a longing to take that strong square hand and cover it with kisses.

  London was stifled by the hot July sun but despite this the midwife had ordered a fire to be lit in the hearth. The heat was intense and Bess felt the sweat running off her face and neck as she cried out again and clutched at her mother's hand.

  Lady Tilney had come from Boston to be at her daughter's lying-in and in her vigorous manner had set about reorganizing Bess's household. She ordered the servants to different tasks, reproved the steward for certain wastages and the cook for indifferent use of spices, and told Elysia she was too familiar with her lady, until the whole household heartily wished their young mistress on her feet again. Bess found her mother's constant talk of litigation very wearisome.

  ‘Speak to the King about it,’ Lady Tilney insisted. ‘You see him often, do you not? Beg him to intercede for you against your uncles. Your grandfather's will was clear enough and it is to have this carried out correctly that I have been exhausting myself.’

  For once Bess resisted her mother. ‘The King would not like it, mother. I heard him say only the other day that the courts are there to settle legal disputes, not the crown.’

  ‘Do you tell me so?’ Lady Tilney queried drily. ‘Then I suppose I must carry on alone with my fight for you. Your father does nothing.’

  ‘Humphrey will hold what is mine,’ Bess had said, but now that her time had come her thoughts were more for her babe than for her Lincolnshire acres.

  On the other side of the bed the midwife leaned forward, her hands on Bess's swollen belly. ‘’Twill be while yet, my lady,’ she said. ‘Drink this, it will help you.’

  Humphrey came and stood for a moment by the bed, clearly ill at ease. ‘Dear love, is it very bad?’

  ‘It's difficult, sir,’ the midwife answered for her. ‘Your lady being over small in the hips the babe may come twisted, but we'll do
our best.’

  ‘Please God,’ he said with none of his usual lightness. He took Bess's burning hand in his and she tried to smile.

  ‘Don't stay, I beg you. There's naught a man can do.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he said and in an effort to distract her added, ‘My lord of Warwick brings old Henry into London today. They say he was in a sorry state with no more than two attendants left when he was found wandering about Yorkshire. He's to be lodged in the Tower and I'd a mind to see him taken there.’

  ‘Yes, go, go!’ Bess gasped as another spasm came. She ground her teeth together and managed to say, ‘You can tell me of it afterwards.’ With relief she saw him depart and the midwife bent again to her work. She was the wife of a fishmonger down in Thames Street and well skilled in her business. ‘Push, my lady,' she urged. ‘You'll soon forget the pain when you've your babe in your arms.’

  At the moment Bess could scarcely think of her child, only of the anguish, of the seemingly unending rhythm of it, the heat in the room.

  Her mother bathed her forehead as another groan was torn from her, and then, just as it became intolerable, the child was born. The agony ceased so abruptly that Bess seemed about to lose consciousness. She was aware of things being done and then her mother's voice saying, ‘You have a daughter, Bess, and a fine healthy child she is. No harm done.’

  ‘A hard birth, my lady,’ the midwife agreed, ‘but all's well now.’

  All well! She had not wanted a daughter but a son for Humphrey, yet when the child was laid in her arms and she saw the little puckered face, so great a love rose in her that she kissed the downy head over and over again. And when Humphrey came and she whispered her regret that she had not borne him a boy he laughed and kissed both her and his daughter.

  ‘Time enough,’ he said, ‘we are young yet and have years ahead to do our begetting, my love. And this little maid is the image of me, I swear!’ He left her to sleep, but even before she drifted off into blissful oblivion she was shuddering at the thought of enduring such pain again.

  They baptized the infant Anne but from the very first she was Annette to Humphrey and became so to everyone else. She was a healthy contented child, and her father adored her, coming unashamedly to the nursery to visit her. It was a facet of his character that Bess had not suspected and a further means of uniting them.

  After Christmas the Queen gave birth, also to a daughter. If the King was disappointed at the arrival of the Princess Elizabeth he did not show it and ordered a general rejoicing. ‘The Earl of Warwick is to stand godfather,’ Humphrey said. ‘He is a master at disguising his feelings.’

  ‘Why?’ Bess asked. ‘Surely he has forgotten his annoyance over Edward's marriage.’

  ‘I doubt,’ Humphrey answered, ‘that the Earl is a man to forget a slight. He is all smiles to Clarence, though. George trails behind him like a puppy after the huntsman.’

  ‘The court is always full of whispers and sly remarks. Sometimes I hate to listen. Why, only yesterday the Duchess of Suffolk said it was fortunate the King was her brother for it was new rank that counted nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, everyone pokes fun at Earl Rivers and the rest of them,’ Humphrey said easily, ‘but we have no cause to complain, Bess. The Queen has been good to us.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bess had their babe in her arms. ‘Only I wish –’ she broke off and he asked, ‘What do you wish?’

  She gave a sigh and bent her head over little Annette. ‘Naught. It must be hard to be a Queen and keep one's dignity all the time.’ That very morning she and the other ladies, including the Duchess Jaquetta, had attended Elizabeth's dressing. The result was elegance beyond measure but gradually Bess was coming to hate the formality, the etiquette, and sometimes she sighed for the simpler days of her visits to Grafton. Youth, she thought, from the maturity of near nineteen and motherhood, lasted so short a time.

  ‘It is scandalous.’ The Duchess Cicely's tone was vehement. ‘How you can allow it, Edward, passes my understanding.’

  ‘Madame,’ the King said lightly, ‘you know as well as I that I must provide for Elizabeth's family.’

  ‘And God knows she has more kin than anyone at court,’ his mother agreed. ‘Anthony who, to my mind, is the only cultured one of the whole brood, did well for himself by wedding Lord Scales's widow. Why can you not leave the rest to be found partners in due course? This proposal to wed Sir John Woodville to my sister is – is disgusting. I have no words to describe my feelings!’

  ‘I did not know that my aunt of Norfolk was so against it.’

  His bland words only irritated the Duchess further. ‘She is utterly foolish in her old age – nearly seventy and Sir John barely twenty. Why, her grandson the Duke is a year or so older than he is! It will make them a laughing stock – even more than those wretched Woodvilles are at present.’

  ‘Do you think we cannot survive a little laughter?’

  The battle royal was taking place in the Duchess's bedroom in Baynards Castle some eight months after the Queen's churching. Outside the Thames ran smoothly past the windows, dull and grey on this November afternoon. Cicely sat beside a fire, her thin ringed fingers held out to the warmth, her gown fur-edged, while her tall son stood facing her, one arm along the stone chimneypiece.

  ‘I shall speak to your aunt,’ she went on. ‘After three husbands she would be better in a nunnery than taking such a fourth. Edward, have you no regard for her, for me?’

  ‘My dearest mother, by all means speak with her. You will find she has bowed to my wish in this. She is a great lady and very wealthy and thus John is provided for. He is very young but despite my sisters' scorn of all things Woodville I think he will in time become a reliable soldier and of great use to me.’

  ‘And as a youngest son he needs money! He can hardly expect much pleasure in his marriage bed and certainly no heirs. I suppose he thinks it worth it for my sister's wealth and the hope of being a widower before too long.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Edward answered coolly.

  His mother flung up her hands. ‘It is beyond me. Marriages are, with some exceptions, made for politic reasons, but this! It will give great offence. What the Holy Father will say I cannot imagine.’

  ‘It is not, fortunately, his affair.’

  The Duchess looked up at her son in some exasperation. ‘Sometimes, Edward, you go bull­headed to do your will. For the most part you act wisely and since you have been King I commend your handling of affairs, but this is a piece of great foolishness. Have you spoken with my lord of Norfolk? He cannot like it.’

  Edward laughed. ‘He is more concerned with his own affairs and too busy squabbling with Sir John Paston. They are both determined over Caister Castle, Sir John to sit in it, and Norfolk to have it. In any case he wishes to wed Elizabeth Talbot and is eager to have my consent to allying himself with the late Earl of Shrewsbury's fortune. He'll not want to quarrel with me.’

  ‘He is a spineless young man forever worrying in case he has a fever or an ague or some such thing,’ the Duchess said with some contempt.

  ‘Madame, if you measure everyone by your own vigorous nature how few would stand!’

  There was a hint of amusement in her face. ‘Yet you try to twist me to your will. Well, you've given Anne Woodville to your cousin William Bourchier and pledged your sister Exeter's daughter to Thomas Grey. What other plans have you for Richard Woodville's children?’

  Edward ignored the sarcasm. ‘When Mary is old enough I thought to give her to Pembroke's son and Margaret to Arundel's heir. Kate I have already bestowed.’

  ‘And so you will do exactly as your mother-in-law wishes. Kate has made the best match of all, though I imagine when you put Henry Stafford into wardship in the Queen's household you must have had some such thought in mind. He is the richest youth in the kingdom.’

  ‘And so will be my brother-in-law,’ Edward agreed. ‘There is one thing to be said for a large family; one can make useful connections. Since the boy is already Duke of Buckingham a
nd of our own blood what could be better?’

  ‘Humph!’ was all he got out of the Duchess. She went on: ‘I am more concerned with your sister Margaret. Are you really set on marrying her to Burgundy's son? I'm told he is not well-favoured.’

  ‘A widower twice over with half Europe clamouring for his hand is likely to consider all offers carefully, but I want an alliance with Burgundy. Duke Philip is in his dotage and like to die any day and then Charles will be duke in his place. Margaret is willing and I am determined he shall have her. It is also in my mind that when she is Duchess, George should wed Charles's daughter. She is his only heir at the moment and George is becoming tiresome. He gets drunk and picks quarrels where none need be.’

  ‘I heard he wanted to fight my lord of Oxford over some supposed slight the other day. But you scotched that?’

  ‘I did. Oxford is equally wild and I can't have them setting an example to the rest of my court by slitting each other's throats. And George can be vicious. I tell you that Richard, young as he is, will be more reliable. But if George were married to Margaret's step-daughter she would keep him under her eye. She is the only one of us who can manage him.’

  Cicely smiled. ‘She is strong-minded, I'll grant you that. Have you consulted my nephew Warwick about this?’

  Edward's expression became suddenly withdrawn. ‘He knows my mind and I know his, by God. He thinks of nothing but a French alliance. Do you know Louis sent him a fine charger recently, with a saddle of Spanish leather? Oh, they are very close, those two.’

  The Duchess leaned back in her chair. ‘You must walk carefully, my son. King Louis can be the most charming of men, but also the most wily.’

  ‘And I will keep him at bay with Burgundy. Trust me, Mother.’

  She surveyed him for a moment. ‘Yes, I trust you, Edward, but I could wish you would listen to advice sometimes.’