The Sun in Splendour (The Plantagenets Book 6)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Fitchett was carrying in a large package. ‘It is from Master Paston at Caister, my lady,’ he said, ‘a gift of carp from his ponds, I think.’

  ‘So do I, from the smell,’ she agreed. It was galling to have to accept such frequent gifts from a man who had once wanted to marry her and whom she had spurned as far beneath her, quite apart from the fact that he had ignored Thomas's call to war, but her straits were such that she felt obliged to do so.

  ‘There's a letter too,’ Fitchett added. He had escaped from Bosworth with no more than a scratch and had dragged the wounded Robert Bellasis after him, finding horses to bring them both safely home. It was he who had told her that Thomas was a prisoner. ‘I saw one master die,’ he had said, ‘praise God I did not see another. He'll come back, my lady.’ His optimism remained and now he said hopefully, ‘Tis from Lord Oxford. Maybe it's good news.’

  Bess gave him a little smile. ‘I expect it is no more than his usual courtesy message. Do take that carp away.’

  Fitchett went off in the direction of the kitchen and at that moment Annette came down the stair. ‘Did I hear someone come? Was it –’ Her anxiety was always there, a sudden eagerness every time hooves sounded outside.

  ‘It was fish from Master Paston and a letter,’ Bess said, regarding her daughter thoughtfully. Margaret had been wed some time now but though Annette was betrothed to Lord Dacre and should really have been married long since, she had begged that the wedding be deferred until her step­father was freed. Time was passing, though, and Lord Dacre growing impatient for his bride. It would have to be arranged this summer, whether Thomas could attend or not, for Annette was already twenty-three.

  Her care for her mother had been paramount through these trying years and she said now, ‘You look tired, Mother. Come and sit in the library to read your letter.’

  But Bess had already broken open the seal. It was strange that Oxford, that wild young man who had caused so much trouble in his youth, should have turned into so able a commander and royal servant, and to her so staunch a friend. She began to read. His lordship wrote that since the Earl of Surrey had refused a secret invitation to escape the Tower and join the Earl of Lincoln's ill-fated rebellion last year, the King was disposed to look more kindly on him. Lincoln was dead and Clarence's only son, the Earl of Warwick, in prison and without all his wits about him, and the Plantagenet cause lay dead. Therefore the King had decided to release the Earl who would doubtless reach her shortly after this letter to the satisfaction of his friends of whom Oxford would, he trusted, remain to be a good lord to them both. For a moment the hall reeled about her and then, clutching the letter, she caught Annette in her arms. ‘He is coming home! Annette, my love, he is coming home at last!’

  The house was suddenly full of joy, Annette laughing and crying, the boys shouting with delight, servants hurrying in to hear the good news. Bess ran upstairs, searched out a pretty gown she had not worn since her London days, snatches of thanksgiving to the Blessed Virgin breaking from her even as she rummaged.

  She called to Elysia to find her velvet head-dress, and Elysia, her own face alight, dressed her mistress's hair as if it were the old days and she going to court.

  Bess snatched up the mirror. Those lines about her mouth were recent, her eyes had lost some of their brightness and there were weary shadows beneath them.

  ‘Oh, I am growing old! There is much grey in my hair,’ she cried out and Elysia laughed and said, ‘Do you think Sir Thomas will mind? I've no doubt prison has changed him too. He will care only to be with you again.’

  Oddly, into Bess's head came a memory of that day long ago when he had sat in Humphrey's chair and she had disliked him so much. She would never have believed then that she would one day be preparing with such joy for his homecoming.

  The past was gone, buried. It was a changed world but henceforth at least she and Thomas would live in it together. King Henry had spared him, returned him to her, and that was all that mattered. The dead glory, the splendour of her sun when he had been at his height, were memories treasured but hidden away now. So too must be the doubts and suspicions that had clouded Richard's last months, the horror of Bosworth and the bloodshed. All must be thrust away because Thomas was coming home.

  Towards evening as the sun was going down she saw a rider coming between the trees and gathering her skirts she ran out of the house to meet him. It was as if she were suddenly a girl again, despite her forty years, and as she reached him he leaned down from the saddle to embrace her so that they made one long shadow across the grass.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Bess's son Edmund married Joyce Culpepper and became the father of Catherine Howard, while her daughter Elizabeth, born after Thomas Howard's release, married Thomas Boleyn and became the mother of Anne Boleyn. Thus Bess was grandmother to two of Henry VIII's wives, both of whom were executed. Her son Sir John Bourchier became famous as a soldier and diplomat and as the translator of Froissart's Chronicles into English.

  Thomas Howard eventually regained his title and as Duke of Norfolk and Earl Marshal, at the age of nearly seventy, became the victor of the battle of Flodden Field, having faithfully served both Henry VII and Henry VIII.

  THE COMPLETE PLANTAGENET LINE

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