Richard shook his head. “No, let’s walk, Rob.”
Richard remembered little of those unhappy months he’d spent in Bruges and Utrecht as an eight-year-old fugitive from Lancastrian vengeance. Seeing Bruges now as an adult, he’d fallen at once under the spell of this walled city crisscrossed with canals and arched stone bridges. The streets were cobbled and far cleaner than those of London. Gardens flourished for much of the year, and the houses of the citizenry were substantial structures of brick and stone, with multicolored slate roofs which shone in the sun in silvery hues of green and blue and bright hot shades of red. Swans vied with small craft for the right-of-way on the canals; scores of windmills, a novelty to Richard, silhouetted the city skyline, and even in his present frame of mind, Richard was able to derive a degree of pleasure from his surroundings.
Rob, who was blind to beauty in all but women, was still wishing Richard had chosen to ride. Unlike London, Bruges had no ordinance requiring street lanterns to be hung, and dark was rapidly descending. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword as they crossed the bridge spanning the Dijver Rei and turned into Wolle Straete, for several men were staggering from a tavern just ahead, and more than a few of the Yorkists had been bloodied in street brawls or in fending off would-be robbers. The men passed them without incident, though, and he relaxed somewhat, for they were entering the torch-lit square, known as the Grote Markt, the site of tournament jousting, market trading, and public executions.
Above the covered market called the Hallen rose the graceful silhouette of the Belfort. It was now chiming the hour, in melodic warning that the nine city gates were closing for the night. Two of the uniformed scadebelleters of the city Watch were posted at the belfry doorway; another stood guard over the lone wretched man imprisoned in the wooden pillory, the leather purse dangling from his neck giving evidence to the crime of theft. He moaned as they passed by, mumbling a plea in the guttural Flemish that eluded Rob so completely.
“What does he say, d’you think?” he speculated, and Richard, who’d not even glanced at the prisoner, shrugged.
“Who knows?” he said without interest, and pointed left down Sint Amands Straete, toward a lighted doorway.
“Shall we stop for wine?”
The Gulden Vlies was small and rather shabby, but the innkeeper spoke English and his inn had quickly become a favorite meeting place for the homesick English exiles. Edward himself had, on occasion, forsaken the princely hospitality of the Herenhuis Gruuthuse for the more dubious pleasures of the Gulden Vlies.
Rob acquiesced with enthusiasm, and after exchanging a few pleasantries and a few coins with the innkeeper, they found themselves seated alone at a corner table. The common room was not yet crowded and Rob failed to find a familiar face. He was disappointed, for he did not feel comfortable midst so many foreigners.
Bruges was the commercial center of Europe, and merchants from the Italian city-states and Spanish kingdoms mingled freely with traders of the Holy Roman Empire and the Hanseatic League. Tonight, though, Rob would have welcomed even the presence of the English merchants, who’d so far kept a prudent distance from their Yorkist countrymen. But for the moment, at least, he and Richard appeared to be the only English-speaking patrons in the inn.
Rob drained his wine cup, far too swiftly for one who hadn’t eaten since noon. But Richard was already signaling to the serving maid, and this time she left a flagon on their table.
Briefly, Rob debated telling Richard about the troubles with his landlord, decided against it. Richard had already made one trip to see the man, promised to assume personal responsibility for all the debts his men incurred. Unfortunately, the promise of one under sentence of death in his own land carried less and less weight as the debts mounted.
Rob glanced pensively at his companion. He knew Richard was as unhappy as he was, and he would have liked to talk about it, but he did not know how. Richard had never been one to share his innermost thoughts and Rob was unaccustomed himself to expressing emotion in words. He’d never before felt the need to confide in others, to confess his fears for the future. But then, he’d never been in exile before, either.
It occurred to him that it made no sense that he and Richard could risk death together and yet not be able to confess to homesickness or fear…. But there it was. He drank again, broodingly. With his other companions, pride compelled him to adopt a bravura posture, as if the loss of family and home were well worth the sacrifice if honor be saved. With Richard, though, he should be able to speak the truth, and he was frustrated and discontented because he could not.
“Do you think much of home, Rob?”
He looked up quickly. Richard was giving him the chance he wanted. He need only say the words that burned so bitter on his tongue…and he found he could not do it. Habit was too strong, his nonchalant pose too familiar. But he was silenced above all by a question, a question that was never far from his conscious awareness these cheerless December days. Had he fully realized just what foreign exile would mean, would he still have chosen to sail with Dickon and Edward to Burgundy?
In the chaos that was Doncaster and in the frantic flight that followed, there’d been little time to think clearly. Edward was his sovereign and Dickon his friend. How could he do otherwise than share their fate?
Now, however, he was confronted with the shabby realities of exile, with hostile Flemings and no money and the dawning realization that he might never see England again, that he might end up having to sell his sword to one of the princes of the Italian city-states. Now he could no longer be sure what he would have done at Doncaster. But nothing on earth could have induced him to admit that to Richard.
“Oh, at times, I do,” he said carelessly, and grinned. “But it’s not as if we’ll not soon be returning! And till then, there are many ways a man may pleasure himself here in Bruges!”
Richard regarded him with unreadable dark eyes. “To pleasure, then,” he said and raised his wine cup, touching it to Rob’s in mock salute.
Rob scanned the room again, searching in vain for English faces. His eyes flickered over the Flemings and Italians, returned to a girl poised on the stairway that led to the upper chambers. She had hair like wheat, a painted red mouth and a low-cut bodice that barely contained its bounty. Intercepting his stare, she smiled and gestured in a communication that needed no translation.
Rob returned the smile. Her name was Annecke, and he’d not found his lack of Flemish or her lack of English to be more than an inconvenience on the two occasions past when he’d shared her bed above-stairs. In London the brothels were licensed and confined to the more disreputable areas of the city, but the prostitutes of Bruges often kept rooms in those inns where they were most likely to find willing customers, a practice Rob found both convenient and sensible.
He made no move to rise, however, and reluctantly withdrawing his eyes from Annecke’s highly visible charms, he saw that Richard, too, had noticed the girl.
“My compliments upon your taste, Rob…. It’s improving.”
Rob laughed. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I’d hope not! But I’d suggest you act before her attentions are otherwise engaged.”
Rob shrugged, saying nothing.
Richard hesitated, as if weighing his words, and then unfastened a leather pouch from his belt, spilling coins out onto the table. Separating them into two approximately equal piles, he shoved half across the table toward Rob.
“It almost did slip my mind…. I owe you for our last game of Tables.”
When Rob didn’t touch the money, Richard said softly, “For God’s sake, Rob, don’t deny me this much, at least.”
Rob needed no further urging, reached for the coins. “I know of no reason why you should think yourself indebted to me, Dickon. But I am rather short and I’ll accept this…as a loan. Agreed?”
Richard nodded. “Now go on with you. She’ll not wait on you for long.”
“You’re sure? I shouldn’t like to le
ave you alone—”
“Jesú, do I need a nursemaid? Moreover, with luck I’ll not be alone for long!”
Rob grinned and pushed the bench back. “For God and York!” he said, and Richard laughed.
Richard poured himself a full cup, hoping the wine would warm. He was accustomed to the bitter winters of Yorkshire, but he was not accustomed to being without fur-lined jackets and heavy traveling cloaks. But his pride had so far prevented him from asking Gruuthuse for yet another loan; they were already so deeply indebted to the Lord of Bruges that Richard wondered how they could ever possibly repay him.
Setting the cup down, he slid the candle toward him. Within its faltering light, he withdrew from his doublet a neatly folded linen handkerchief, which he carefully unwrapped to reveal a packet of well-worn letters.
The top paper was smudged and bore the seal of the Duchess of York. His mother’s letter was brief, characteristically concise and to the point. She recounted, without comment, that Warwick now styled himself as King’s Lieutenant of the Realm, that he was once more Captain of Calais, Lord Admiral, and Great Chamberlain. Warwick had as yet taken no reprisals against Yorkist supporters, but when parliament met, both Richard and Edward had been attainted. Edward had been declared a usurper and John Neville had been compelled to make public apology for having stayed loyal to Edward as long as he did.
At that, Richard felt a familiar ache. Be you happy now, Johnny? He very much doubted it.
John, she wrote, had not been restored to the earldom of Northumberland, but Warwick had taken from Henry Percy the office of Warden of the East Marches toward Scotland and given it back to his brother. This, Richard had already known; Edward was in secret correspondence with Percy, doing his best to foster those suspicions that must surely be festering in Percy’s mind, asking Percy how long he thought he’d keep his earldom once Warwick had consolidated his power enough to feel secure.
Brother George had been restored to his former post as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He had also been named as Lancaster’s heir should Prince Edward and Anne Neville have no children, and he was given the right to lay claim to the duchy of York, as the eldest born legitimate son of the late lord Duke of York. Cecily added laconically that she’d received a message from George in which he’d begged her pardon for the parliamentary act that did brand her as an adulteress. George claimed that it was Warwick who thus slurred her name and none of his doing.
Knowing his mother as he did, Richard read volumes into the single slash of black ink which underlined the word legitimate. Nor was he surprised that George had not dared to face her after this latest outrage. He was discovering that, as his own troubles mounted, he was less and less inclined to take a charitable view of George’s follies.
He resumed reading, even though he knew the words by heart. Edward’s infant son was doing well, as were the boy’s sisters. Richard grinned at this: not a mention made of the children’s mother, her daughter-in-law! London was quiet; waiting, she said, for whatever was to come. But for now, they’d accepted Lancaster.
Only in the last sentence did she permit emotion to surface, and even then, under considerable constraint. “Our cause is just, Richard, and will prevail. My dear son, you must not despair.”
The opening paragraphs of the letter from Francis were stilted, marred by crossed-out words and the ink blots of a hesitant pen. What does one say, after all, to a friend in exile? Their boyhood lessons in the social graces did not cover that subject, Richard thought, with a flicker of black humor.
But Francis soon found his stride. He described Warwick’s entry into London. “As prideful as a peacock.” A reference to George had been thought better of and was carefully inked out. But with an acid pen, he brought Harry of Lancaster, whom Richard had never seen, vividly to life in the pages of his letter: the long greying hair lying limply over the collar of Edward’s blue robe, the untroubled eyes of a child, wobbling in the saddle like a sackful of straw.
England’s King, Richard thought, with wonderment and a fair measure of bitterness. Warwick must be as mad as Harry.
Francis had reported, too, and here a hint of genuine pity colored his narrative, that it was said Harry had scribbled on the wall of his Tower chamber, “Royalty is only care.”
Richard rapidly scanned the rest of the now-familiar letter. He was amused by Francis’s mock expression of regret that they had found it necessary to take a sea voyage for their health; and he was touched by Francis’s concluding confession, that he was hard put to wait for spring, when the white rose would once more be in season.
Not for the first time since his mother’s courier had brought him the letters, Richard thought, Christ keep Francis if this be his notion of discretion! He set the letters down to refill his cup and emptied it again before he picked up the third letter.
This letter was not as creased and frayed as the other two; it had arrived only the day before from Aire, in Artois, where his sister Margaret was in residence. Margaret’s letter was stubbornly cheerful, almost fiercely optimistic; just as Margaret herself had been during their brief reunion at Aire soon after he and Edward arrived in Bruges.
Margaret expressed confidence that Charles would soon see fit to give them a more princely sum than the five hundred crowns she’d wangled from him to help defray their expenses. She glossed over the fact that Charles had once again refused to meet with them, and said nothing at all about the continued presence at his court of the Dukes of Somerset and Exeter, men as dedicated to the cause of Lancaster as Marguerite d’Anjou herself.
She told Richard that Saint-Quentin, which had been besieged by the French since December 10, had finally fallen. She confided that she had received a letter from England, from one whose welfare was dear to them both, from one who was realizing the folly of having heeded Warwick’s honeyed words. She would relate more on this subject when next she did see him. But he should not make mention of this to Ned, not yet.
She had no other news to report, other than that Marguerite d’Anjou still tarried in France, delaying departure for England once again…. How little she must trust Warwick! She was in Paris now, having left Amboise within the past week, accompanied by her son and his wife, for he’d finally wed Warwick’s daughter on December 13. The Countess of Warwick was with them, too, and George’s wife, who was said to be ailing.
Richard read no further, replaced the letters in his doublet. He hadn’t misled Rob; he’d not minded being left alone. In fact, he’d welcomed the solitude. As Gruuthuse’s houseguest, he had to ride his emotions with a tight rein, knowing that an offhand remark made in an unguarded moment might give rise to rumor that could be exploited by Lancaster.
But he was finding that his solitude was illusory. He was surrounded by phantoms who sat at the table with him and shared his wine flagon and mocked him with memories that served no purpose but to inflict pain. And so, when he felt a light touch on his arm and looked up into sea-green eyes that offered to share far more than the companionship being offered so demurely, green eyes to banish the most stubborn spirit, he welcomed the intrusion with genuine relief.
She settled herself beside him with a self-possession that belied her age, which he judged to be close to his own, and for a time, kept his ghosts at bay with an animated cascade of questions.
He was English, no? He spoke French better than most of his countrymen; had he spent time in France, perhaps? Yes, she would like wine, or ale, if he’d as lief have that. She herself spoke French and Flemish equally well…. She was from the capital, Dijon, but had lived here in Bruges since she was fourteen. She spoke some German, too, and even a little Italian…. Where had she learned them? Could he not guess?… In bed, of course!
Had he been long in Bruges? He had not the look of a merchant…. Was he, perhaps, in the service of the exiled Prince who was brother to their Duchess? Yes, she thought as much! Did he think he would soon be returning to England?
“I would to God I knew,” Richard confessed morosely, an
d washed his words down with wine. When he raised the cup again, she leaned over, catching his hand. Her fingers slid along his wrist, under the cuff of his doublet, her nails lightly scraping the skin on his forearm.
“Softly, sweet, softly,” she smiled coaxingly. “If you’ve a need to forget I can offer you more than wine.”
Her hair was long and straight, a firelight brown shot through with gold and deep glints of copper, and caught the candlelight as he fanned it through his fingers.
“The color of darkest honey,” he said admiringly. “All russet and gold like autumn leaves.”
She laughed, moving closer on the bench. “I thought you English were partial to flaxen hair!” she teased. Blue eyes and golden hair… Was that not the measure of beauty in England? She’d often wished she had sunlit hair like her friend Annecke…. But at least she did have light eyes; some girls were unfortunate enough to have eyes of brown…verily like gypsies.
She’d long ago learned to read the moods of men, and she saw at once that she’d somehow blundered. Loosening his hold on her hair, he let it slip through his fingers and reached for the wine flagon.
“Yes, brown eyes are unlucky,” he agreed tonelessly.
“Your thoughts are straying again, Richar’,” she chided, reclaiming his hand.
“Richard,” he corrected, giving his name the English pronunciation and then smiling at her appealing attempt to anglicize French vowels.
“What would my name be in your language?”
He hesitated, not remembering, and was reprieved when she entreated, “Marie-Élise…Say it in English?”
“Mary…Mary Eliza,” he translated, and she burst out laughing, mouthing the unfamiliar words with infectious amusement.
“How queer that sounds! I much prefer Marie.” She reached under the table to tug at her skirts, and her hand brushed his leg, came to rest on his thigh.
“Yes, Marie is kinder to the ear,” he agreed. “And softer to the touch….”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 31
