The Sun in Splendour (The Plantagenets Book 6)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘Richard is a good fellow,’ John began but this time Lady Tilney cut him short.

  ‘He is not suitable, Master John. Your sister can be better wed than that.’

  ‘She'll have him all the same,’ John said. ‘She's as determined as Mother.’

  Bess laughed. ‘Poor Margery! Lady Paston, if the King could marry his true love on a May Day morning, can Margery not do the same?’

  Both ladies turned to look at her in surprise, and Bess, realizing she had implied private knowledge, averted their questions by hurrying away to order dinner.

  The King came the following day. Fortunately the household was well prepared, for Master Thomas Howard rode in with barely three hours warning for them. Bess received him coolly and when he said in his blunt way that the King had decided late last night that he could reach Ashwellthorpe before noon, she remarked that it was a pity Master Howard had not taken the trouble to ride on then so that the cooks could have had time to produce adequate dishes for the King.

  Master Howard did not answer but went off to drink a cup of wine with Sir Frederick while Bess and her mother hurried into the kitchen to set the place to work, and even Margaret Paston rolled up her sleeves to join in the preparations. In the end it was a very tolerable dinner of roast meats and pasties that was set before Edward.

  His first words to Bess were; ‘My Queen is gone to Fotheringay, and I wish that you will join her there.’

  ‘But, sire, my babes – I have only just come and my parents have so looked forward to seeing them.’

  ‘Leave them here then,’ he said. ‘Indeed it would be better so. The Queen has need of your company. Ride with us to Norwich this afternoon.’

  It was not a suggestion but a pleasant order and Bess stifled a gasp. Such a sudden re-ordering of all her plans took her breath away, but as always she could not refuse him. She wondered whether Elizabeth had really asked for her. Since the birth of her own John the Queen's manner had been distinctly cool, her jealousy such that she barely enquired after the babe. However it was, ride to Fotheringay she must, and her face grew warm at the thought of the unexpected journey there in his company. She glanced up and saw that Humphrey was looking at her. Her blush deepened as she gave him a faint smile and raised her brows. He must not misunderstand that sudden colour.

  Edward sat at the head of the table, eating enormously, talking with his host, laughing to scorn the rebel who threatened him. ‘He may call himself Redesdale but the mayor of York writes to me that he is suspected of being my cousin of Warwick's creature. Montagu and I will deal with him, but God knows what Warwick may be stirring up with that precious brother of mine.’ He glanced at the slight figure on his other side and added, ‘But they could not prise you from me, eh, Richard?’

  The Duke of Gloucester, now nearly seventeen, was a surprise to Bess. He had ridden in with an air of command, seen to the settling of his men and ordered every detail of their needs himself. He had not grown much but he had a more confident air and when Bess asked him if soldiering was to his taste his answer was, ‘Yes, my lady, I like it above all things.’

  ‘Indeed? I thought –’

  He smiled, and the smile lent a gentleness to his grave face. ‘You thought me too small to be a fighting man. I assure you it is not so now. I practise with my weapons every day and already my right arm has the strength of two. I am to be one of my brother's commanders.’

  ‘You are very young,’ she ventured and again there was that odd withdrawn look.

  ‘In years maybe, but I trained under my uncles of Warwick and Montagu and you will agree that is a hard school. Also when one does not have the great stature of such a man as my brother one has to make up for it somehow. The north breeds tougher men than the south.’

  ‘Perhaps you will ride to Middleham. Will the Countess and her daughters be there?’

  She saw that she had blundered for he half turned to dip his fingers in the little bowl between them before wiping his fingers on a napkin. ‘No, madame,’ he answered at last. ‘They are in Kent. As for Middleham I cannot say where Edward will make his headquarters, though I could wish it would be there.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she said impulsively, though she was not sure what for, but he took up her meaning at once.

  ‘You know that I love the Lady Anne,’ he said in low-voiced honesty. ‘She told me that she had confided in you. But until this wretched business is settled my marriage is the last thing to be considered. Even then –’ he broke off. ‘Pray keep my counsel, Dame Bourchier.’

  It struck Bess then as odd that despite her tendency to say the wrong thing, people often told her their secrets as the Lady Anne Neville had done one day last year. Bess had found her in floods of tears in a corner of a window seat and discovered it was because Edward had taken Richard from her father's charge and brought him to court. Anne was afraid Richard would be given some foreign princess as a bride and in any case her father appeared to have other plans for her, hinting confidently at rich prospects abroad. ‘And all I want is Richard and Middleham,’ she had sobbed. Bess told her firmly but kindly that as the daughter of so great a man she would have no say in the matter at all – poor comfort, as she knew. Anne was no Margery Paston to hold out for her own desires.

  To Richard she now said, ‘My lord, the Lady Anne's secret and yours is safe with me, and I will pray for a good conclusion to it. May I in turn ask a favour? Lady Paston is in dire need of help. If I might explain it to you perhaps you could approach his grace for her?’

  An hour later, when only the King's immediate circle were gathered in the solar, Richard with his usual swift desire for justice did broach the subject of the Paston grievance against the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk. ‘They have behaved very ill,’ he said. ‘Why, we passed Hellesdon manor as we came and you saw the state to which our brother Suffolk has reduced it.’

  ‘Good God!’ Edward roused himself from the comfort of Sir Frederick's large chair. ‘We are not come here to settle local feuds. Sir John Paston must take his quarrel to the proper court. And I'll not have brawling among landowners here when there are more urgent matters to occupy us all. Nor when I am enjoying a pleasant afternoon with friends. Anthony, if there is a lute to hand, sing to us while we finish our wine.’

  Richard sent an apologetic glance in Bess's direction as the Queen's brother ran his fingers over the strings. He had a fine voice and the sound of it followed Bess as she slipped away to her bedchamber to order Elysia to pack her clothes once more. She was to see little of Ashwellthorpe after all. She kissed young John in his cradle, bidding his wet-nurse care for him well, while promising the little girls sweetmeats and ribbons if they were good until her return. It was the first time she had ever left them and there was a sob in her throat as she turned from the nursery stairs.

  Humphrey was on his way up. ‘Tears, my love? It will not be for long, I am sure. We will soon send these rebels home in a very different manner for their insolence. Anthony has been trying to persuade Master Paston to ride with us but do you know what the silly wight said? That he could not do so without his elder brother's permission! They are too thick with my lord Oxford for my liking and I'd trust him no further than that door.’

  At that moment Bess cared nothing for the Pastons, old friends though they were, nor for the Earl of Oxford, nor even the great Warwick himself. She thought only of leaving this house where she had arrived so happily only a week ago.

  ‘Come,’ Humphrey said, ‘our babes will be safe enough here with their nurses and your mother to watch over them.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She laid her head against his shoulder. ‘But I wish I had not to leave them.’

  ‘At least we shall not be parted for a while,’ he pointed out. ‘We will make pilgrimage together, wife.’

  When they joined the pilgrims’ way to Walsingham it was crowded as always. At the Slipper chapel, a mile from the shrine, they dismounted and prayed, crammed into the tiny place a few at a time, and afterwards they all
walked barefoot, shoes in hand, to the Holy House itself. The men and women trudging along gave way as soon as they became aware who was leading the richly dressed party, kneeling as the King passed. He smiled on them all, calling out greetings and God's blessing on them, and Bess, walking beside him with Humphrey and Lord Hastings, thought that simple folk might well remember seeing their tall handsome King for longer than they recalled the pilgrimage itself.

  The road was hard and her feet sore, but though she tried to keep her mind on their purpose her prayers were a jumble of requests for Edward's safety, for her own husband, for her children left behind, all mingled with the fascination of the whole scene. It was the feast of St. Botolph, the Lincolnshire saint so familiar to her from childhood, and this had drawn many people from that county, long lines of poor folk who had saved every groat to make this journey and seek some favour from the Blessed Virgin. Little favours, Bess thought, as nothing compared to the King's momentous needs, yet everything to them – one man seeking healing for a diseased foot, a barren woman praying for a child, a girl with a harelip for a husband, a man with a hideous skin disease for a cure. Many spent their last coin on one of the holy relics sold by pedlars, and Bess saw one poor woman look longingly at a medal bearing an image of the Virgin, take out her purse and then, finding it empty, shake her head.

  ‘I will buy it for you,’ Bess said and opened her own purse. She held out the little medal made of cheap metal and the woman took it as if it were a very holy thing. She thanked Bess with tears in her eyes and insisted on kissing her hand.

  The King had watched this little interchange and said, ‘That was kindly done. Are you tired, Bess?’

  ‘A little,’ she confessed. ‘I'll be more comfortable when I put my shoes on.’

  ‘And I,’ he agreed under his breath as two attendant priests hovered, their offering bowls held out. He gave a purse of gold coins to each and just before he entered the shrine he added, ‘Need I ask your prayers for one particular petition?’

  She shook her head, understanding him well, and he disappeared into the building. Lord Hastings followed, then Anthony and Earl Rivers, and when it was their turn Bess entered reverently, her hand in Humphrey's. She had been here before as a child but it seemed a long while ago and she had forgotten the smallness of the place. It had been built by a lady four centuries before in response to a dream in which the Mother of God herself gave precise instructions as to how it should be fashioned into an exact replica of the Holy House at Nazareth where the Saviour Himself had lived as a boy. And here it was, of wood and thatch, lit by many candles, the altar ablaze with gifts of gold and silver and bright jewels. Humphrey had put their offering in the priest's bowl and now, for once in his life entirely grave, he whispered a thanksgiving for the gift of their children.

  ‘Amen,’ Bess said and then was seized with a sudden flood of feeling, part spiritual exaltation, for surely God and His Mother were here, and part love and pleading for Edward. ‘Give him a son,’ she prayed silently. ‘Oh grant him a son and would that it could have been mine!’

  And then she put both hands to her face and two horrified tears ran down her cheeks. Humphrey thought she wept again at leaving their children and outside, surrounded by pedlars and pardoners, pilgrims and priests, he said, ‘For God's sake, Bess! If you are so foolish as not to trust the babes at Ashwellthorpe for a week or two I had best ask the King to send you back, though I doubt he'll be very pleased.’

  She caught his hand in one of hers and with the other brushed away the moisture. ‘No, no, please don't. I am all right. It was only that place. It is so – so holy and I thought of Our Lady and her sweet Son.’ Was it blasphemy to pretend to such thoughts? She did not know but a little shudder ran through her.

  Humphrey was smiling. ‘And your warm heart overflowed into a shower of rain! Now we'll enjoy ourselves. See, I'll buy you one of these little brooches.’

  ‘Well,’ Elizabeth said, ‘God knows how long we will have to stay here, but this castle is at least comfortable.’

  ‘It was my father's favourite home,’ the King said. ‘Don't you remember coming here when we were children?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she agreed petulantly. ‘But it is hardly a place to hold court, not like London or Windsor.’

  ‘I am not here to hold court. I wait only for Lord Herbert from Wales. I can trust him to bring a great number of Welsh bowmen, and Lord Stafford is on his way from Devon with men of the west country, so we shall have a sizeable army. Well, Humphrey?’ as the door opened, ‘what is it?’

  ‘A letter, my lord, from Bruges. The messenger came in great haste. He says he's winded two horses getting here from Harwich.’

  ‘Then it must be of moment.’ Edward took the sealed parchment. ‘From my sister Margaret. What can be the cause of such urgency, I wonder?’

  They were in the Queen's bedchamber awaiting the supper hour, Bess and Lady Scrope in attendance. Bess noticed that the King was dressed today with great care that he might look every inch the martial figure to inspire men to join him. The two little princesses had been left at Eltham Palace but Thomas Grey was there with his mother, his eyes also on the King, for he foresaw a golden future with his stepfather raising him to giddy heights. He was now fourteen and learning the duties of a squire.

  The King read the letter once and a dark flush coloured his cheeks; a second time and he slapped the paper with his hand. ‘Holy Christ, but Warwick will live to regret this! How dared he, without my permission? And how dared George?’

  ‘What has happened?’ Elizabeth pushed aside the maid who was brushing her hair. ‘Go, girl, go. Edward, tell me what Margaret says.’

  ‘She writes that Warwick got a dispensation from the Pope by bribing my representative at the Vatican – mine! – and has had Isabel married to Clarence. God, was there ever such treachery?’

  The Queen rose, her face stiff with anger. ‘George is quite impossible to tolerate, Edward. Do not let him return to England; banish him, and that detestable Warwick too.’

  ‘I can't,’ he answered shortly. ‘They are already back unless God has raised a storm to drown them. Margaret says her information was that immediately after the ceremony my precious cousin and brother sailed for England.’ He consulted the letter again. ‘She begs me to forgive George, she is sure he means no disloyalty. No disloyalty! Would he have to murder me before she thought him disloyal?’

  ‘She never cared for anyone but him,’ Elizabeth said spitefully, ‘though why, God knows, since he cares for no one but himself.’

  Bess, standing silent and shocked behind her, listened to the conversation and into her mind came a memory of the joust at Smithfield and the handsome George asking a favour from his sister. Smiling and handsome, aye, she thought, but false and despicable if he could betray a brother such as Edward.

  ‘And,’ the Queen went on, ‘they mean to have your throne, maybe your life, Edward. Warwick has hated me ever since you wed me. And I loathe him.’ Her voice shook with passion. ‘He wanted you to be a puppet, dancing to his tune, and when you would not, this is how he treats you.’

  Edward laughed, the sound jarring and harsh. ‘Well, he has mistaken his man. If he thinks to put George in my place –’ Suddenly he picked up a handbell and rang it loudly. When a page appeared he sent him for the Duke of Gloucester and within a few minutes a slight figure appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You wanted me, brother?’

  ‘Aye,’ Edward said, and threw him the letter.

  Richard read it and then, folding it neatly, laid it on the table. ‘George has been wrought upon. You know him. Warwick has dangled his daughter and his wealth and the promise of God knows what else in front of him and George yielded to the lure. Warwick tried it with me, too.’

  ‘Did he, by God.’ Edward was startled. '‘You did not tell me that.’

  ‘It was not important,’ Richard shrugged. ‘He invited me to join him and George at Warwick Castle last Christmas, reminding me I had spen
t my childhood under his care, as if I needed reminding of that! Oh, he hid his designs under much smooth talk but I could see it was only for the purpose of drawing me from you, though I did not see how sinister the purpose was or I would have spoken of it.’

  Edward flung himself down in a chair by the empty hearth. ‘And what lure did he swing before you?’

  ‘Naught in words.’ Richard turned away to look out at the slope falling away to the moat. Beyond the imposing barbican was a clump of trees and the crows' nests were built high in them. ‘It should be a good summer,’ he said irrelevantly, and then added, ‘But by implication, the Lady Anne.’

  There was silence. At last Edward said, ‘I know your mind, Dickon. And yet you refused that bait for love of me.’

  ‘And would do so again. I am my own man – and yours. Edward.’

  ‘I know.’ The King's face softened. ‘And if it is in my power you shall have your wish.’

  Richard strolled to the door. ‘If it is God's will I shall have her.’

  Within half an hour the whole castle knew what had happened and preparations were made for the army to be ready to link up with Lord Herbert and Lord Stafford. Dinner was a hasty meal, the King conferring with his captains as he ate, the Queen and her ladies dining in her apartment. Halfway through the meal a man was admitted and at once fell on his knees before the King.

  ‘My lord! Sire! I am from Kettlethorpe and I brought you this.’ He produced a crumpled piece of parchment. ‘An army marched through our village, coming south, sire, and there's a man who calls himself Robin leading it.’

  ‘Redesdale!’ Hastings exclaimed. ‘Well, fellow, tell the King – how many men and what is that paper?’

  ‘Many men, my lord, and well armed. As for this, it was nailed to our church door. I can't read it, sire,’ he explained to Edward, ‘but our priest said it must be sent to you at once.’

  Edward snatched it and for a moment his fury was such that he banged on the table with his fist, speechless. Lord Hastings took it from him and read aloud, ‘Whereas we ... who, in God's name? . . . damn the Earl Rivers and all his family . . . damned impudence himself . . . as avaricious favourites who play upon our realm for their own good and our ill . . . God, what a farrago!’