“Give me something to drink,” she said, saw that he had anticipated her need, was holding out a cup. She took it and drank in gulps. After a time, she asked, “Where is she? Why has she kept silent?”
“She’s dead. Not long after I revealed our marriage to my council at Reading, she did enter a convent in Norwich. She died four years later, was buried in the church of the Carmelites.”
“And yet she held her tongue? She must have loved you very much,” Elizabeth said nastily, saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Yes,” he said unwillingly. “She did.” They stared at each other, and Elizabeth gained a small victory in that he was the first to look away.
“Who else knows? Gloucester? Hastings? Who, Ned?” It was the first time she’d made use of his name since he’d told her about Nell Butler. She wished that she hadn’t, didn’t want to sound as if they were back on normal terms, as if he could be forgiven.
“Only Stillington. No one else knows. Oh, Will and my mother and a few others knew about my involvement with Nell, but they never knew the truth of it. And Dickon was only ten or so at the time. No, you needn’t—”
“Oh, my God!” Elizabeth sat upright, eyes suddenly going wide with horror as the realization hit her. “Stillington! And you said a convent in Norwich! That’s what George said! Norwich! He knows! Ned, George knows!”
“I’m not sure,” he said grimly. “But I fear so.”
Elizabeth’s control gave way then; frightened tears began to spill down her face, splashed on his restraining hands. “Don’t you see what that means, Ned? When you die, the crown will pass to George! To George…not our son. And he knows that now, George knows!”
“No!” He was gripping her shoulders, shaking her. “No, Lisbet, no. I won’t let that happen. I swear to you I won’t.”
The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and Elizabeth’s panic began to subside. He meant what he said. That was something she could hold on to, a lifeline, however frayed. She was able to ask, more calmly, “How did he find out? Did Stillington tell him?”
“No.” Edward moved back to the chair, ran his hand through his hair, pressed his fingers to his temples.
“I said Nell did keep my secret. Well, that’s not quite true. She did while she lived, but when she was dying, she made a deathbed confession. The priest was bound by the confessional, of course, could not reveal what she told him. But apparently it weighed heavily upon his mind. Last winter he was stricken with a mortal illness and decided he must not take the secret with him to the grave. So…he did write to George, to the man he saw as my rightful heir.”
“Jesus, no…” Elizabeth breathed, and he shook his head, said quickly,
“No, he didn’t reveal Nell’s story in its entirety. For that much, we may be thankful. But he did say enough to kindle George’s curiosity, told him to ask Bishop Stillington about Nell Butler and me. And, of course, George wasted no time in doing just that. He went to Stillington with his suspicions, with some very awkward questions.”
“But you said Stillington didn’t tell him!”
“I don’t think he did. He says not, and I tend to believe him. But he admits he was taken off-guard, could think only to deny that he’d even heard of Nell Butler. A clumsy lie, one George would have been able to disprove easily enough; Stillington’s association with Nell’s family goes back nigh on thirty years.” He grimaced at that, and then said, “For all his failings, George is no fool. He’s quite capable of making the natural deduction, that if Stillington lied about knowing Nell Butler, there must be a reason why. He’s capable, too, of hitting upon the truth, or enough of it to be dangerous.”
“You mean he might conclude there was a secret marriage between you and Nell Butler?” Elizabeth demanded.
He shrugged, said wearily, “What else would he think?”
For a moment, Elizabeth forgot how much she did need him. “Yes,” she said acidly. “I can see how he would. Your past record does naturally lend itself to such speculation, doesn’t it?”
He looked up sharply at that, eyes as blue and unrevealing as the summer sky, and she expected stinging sarcasm, expected the mockery he knew how to wield so well. Instead, he grinned.
“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose it does.”
Elizabeth was caught off-balance, flinched away from him as if she’d been struck. “Damn you,” she said helplessly, and turned her head aside on the pillow. “Damn you, Ned, damn you!”
He wasn’t affronted, and dimly she understood why. He’d won. She’d said she’d never forgive him, but in truth nothing would change between them. They’d go on as before. She’d share his bed, bear his children, and the worst of it was that it wasn’t just because she had no other choice. The worst of it, she thought, was that she’d want it that way.
It was this realization which made her lash out at him now, made her say with sudden venom, “Nell Butler had to be the greatest fool in Christendom! Had it been me, I’d never have kept silent, never!”
She’d hoped to hurt him, saw that she hadn’t. “I don’t doubt that for a moment, sweetheart,” he said coolly.
Elizabeth struggled upright again, started to rise. As she did, her gaze fell upon her wedding band, bright burnished gold and emeralds to match her eyes. She stared at it, fingering it as if it were a talisman. And then she raised her head, said in a voice that was tightly controlled, dangerously so, “As far as I am concerned, I am your lawful wife and Queen, and the crown is my son’s natural birthright. Your son, too, Ned, and it be up to you to protect that right. I want you to tell me how you do mean to do that.”
He shoved the chair back, came abruptly to his feet. “I don’t see how George can have more than suspicions,” he said, seemed to be choosing his words with care.
“I’m not a fool, Ned, so don’t treat me like one! I know your brother; I know how he thinks. He needs no proof. With George, the mere suspicion would be enough.”
He’d moved away from the bed, toward the hearth. Elizabeth followed him, caught his arm so that he had to face her.
“You can’t let him live, Ned. You know you can’t. There’s no other way of keeping him silent. Sooner or later, he’d start to talk, would find those willing to listen. There are men still loyal to Lancaster, men who look to the Tudors as the last of the Lancastrian blood. You think they wouldn’t make use of George? Think, Ned, think! What of Bess? What chance would she have to become Queen of France should it ever be alleged that she was born out of wedlock? And our sons…. What of them?”
She paused, her eyes searching his face intently. And then her hand slipped from his arm; she stepped back. “But you already know that,” she said slowly. “Of course you do.”
Still he said nothing. A muscle twitched suddenly in his cheek, what she knew to be a symptom of extreme strain.
“You haven’t answered me, Ned. What of our sons? Earlier tonight, you did swear that you’d not let George do them harm, that you’d not let him lay claim to the crown. You must tell me, Ned, tell me if you truly meant it.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I meant it.”
12
Westminster
October 1477
Edward’s chambers were hazy with eye-stinging smoke, strident with laughter. In the uncertain light of flaring wall cressets, servants passed back and forth with food and drink. For most of the day a chill autumn rain had been falling, but the heat in the room was oppressive, stifling. Richard’s barge had tied up at the King’s Wharf but moments before, and that first sweltering blast of stale air sent him reeling back, breathless. The noise level was considerable, and his senses were at once assailed by a multitude of competing aromas: burning yew logs, spilt ale, dogs and body heat and the musky fragrance of powdered perfumes.
For some moments, Richard stood motionless and unnoticed in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. He didn’t see his brother at first glance, but most of the faces were familiar to him. The men, that is; the women were strangers
, but all having in common extreme youth and a certain provocative prettiness. They all seemed to be amusing themselves just as they pleased. Voices pitched too high rose and fell in the clamor to be heard. One couple was dancing, apparently oblivious of the fact that Edward’s minstrels had long since ceased playing. Others were watching as several men fed spoonfuls of ale to a small bear cub; someone set a shallow bowl of mead before the little animal and, when it began to stagger and wobble about, all laughed. But the focus of attention was a dice game being staged in the middle of the floor. Midst jibes and cheers, one of the women players now raised her skirt and kirtle, slowly slid a silk-fringed garter from her knee. Her shoes and belt and rings had already been discarded in the center of the circle; as Richard watched, she added the forfeit garter to the pile, winning for herself a round of tipsy applause.
An empty wine flagon lay in a sodden pool at Richard’s feet; he had to kick it aside in order to close the door. It was then that his eye was caught by a swirl of bright blond hair, and turning, he saw Thomas Grey.
Thomas was paying no heed to the dice game, was giving all his attention to a young woman in bright clinging silk. Richard’s mouth twisted down, as if he’d just tasted something foul. How in Christ’s Name could Elizabeth’s own sons be so willing, eager even, to take part in Ned’s carousings? Did they not care at all that Ned was so openly unfaithful to their mother? It was beyond his comprehension, and he found himself thinking that Warwick had been right in this if in nothing else, that the Woodvilles had poisoned his brother’s court no less surely than salt poured down a well.
Thomas had backed his companion against the wall, barring her way with an outstretched arm, and now he reached over to share her wine cup in a gesture that was ostentatiously intimate. Not wanting to have to acknowledge him, Richard was turning away, when he heard Thomas say in a loud carrying voice, “That’s not a jest I do find to my liking! I want an apology from you and I do want it now!”
Richard glanced back, saw that Thomas and the girl had been joined by Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. It was Buckingham who’d apparently provoked this outburst from Thomas, although he seemed innocent of any such intent, saying something too softly for Richard to hear, his shoulders lifting in a good-natured shrug. Thomas did not appear placated. He stepped toward Buckingham, and the latter shook his head, still smiling. As he did, Thomas suddenly swung at him. He’d meant to drive his fist deep into Buckingham’s midsection but the other man pivoted at the moment of impact and the blow encountered only air. Off-balance, Thomas stumbled and nearly fell, but he quickly righted himself and swung again.
The blow never connected. Buckingham had prudently backed out of range, and at the same time, Richard moved, grabbed Thomas by the arm and swung him around. He had no trouble at all in shoving Thomas back against the wall; the younger man was too startled to offer resistance.
“Where the Hell do you think you are? This be the King’s chambers, not some Southwark alehouse!”
Thomas had been gaping at him, unable to believe that anyone would dare to lay hands on him like this. Now shock was giving way to outrage. His first impulse a violent one, he fumbled for his dagger hilt.
The advantages all lay with Richard; he was completely sober and in control of his temper. Using more force than was actually necessary, he pinned Thomas’s hand with his own, leaned into him so that the weight of his body held Thomas immobile.
“I could almost wish you’d draw that dagger,” he said contemptuously. “But you’re not that drunk, and we both do know it. Now get hold of yourself before we do start to attract attention!”
Thomas blinked; his head began to clear. Focusing on Richard for the first time, he suddenly realized who it was who’d come between him and Buckingham. With recognition came horror at what he’d almost done. Holy Jesus, it be bad enough to have come to blows with Buckingham, but this! If Ned were ever to know…. That thought was enough to sober Thomas rapidly; he looked about hastily to make sure Richard was right and no one was watching.
As soon as he felt Thomas’s muscles slacken, Richard let him go, stepped back. Thomas straightened, started to move away, and then said in a very low voice, “I suppose…I suppose you’ll want to tell your brother about…about all this?”
Thomas had his mother’s fair skin as well as her temper, and any strong emotion scorched his face with quick color. Now he flushed deeply, having come as close as he could to asking a favor from a man he hated.
Richard hadn’t thought to do so, but he saw no reason to ease Thomas’s mind. “If you’re asking me not to, I can make you no promises.” Adding with a touch of malice, “I should think you’d be more concerned with what Buckingham might say. He, after all, be the one you did most sorely offend.”
Thomas’s alarm was almost comical. Leaving him to deal with it as best he could, Richard walked away.
Stopping a servant, he questioned the man about Edward, but encountered only apologetic ignorance as to his brother’s whereabouts. He was turning to exit the chamber when he felt a light touch on his arm.
Blue-grey eyes the exact shade as his own were regarding him with flirtatious wonderment that was contrived, but not entirely so.
“I’ve always wanted to witness a miracle. But I think that was as close as I’ll ever get, to see Thomas Grey back down like that! Who might you be…Merlin?”
By now Richard had recognized her as the girl Thomas had been trying so hard to charm. He felt an instinctive prejudice against her for that, found himself judging her by the company she kept. Nor was she making a favorable impression on him now. The face upturned to his was a pretty one, but her mouth was painted a bold bright red unknown in nature, her eyebrows had been plucked in fashionably extreme arches, and her perfume clung to her hair, her gown, the exposed hollow of her breasts, enveloping them both in a cloud of lavender. He found the fragrance overpowering, cloyingly sweet, and would have moved away had she not kept her hand on his arm.
“I do want to thank you, sir.” As she spoke, the blue eyes were studying him in unabashed, unhurried appraisal, taking in the jeweled rings, the soft Spanish leather boots, the fur-lined cloak. Instinctively amending her mode of address, she smiled at him, said, “It was most kind of you to intervene as you did, my lord. I was truly fearful we were to have a brawl here in the King’s very chambers. Had you not taken Tom in hand…and then, when I saw him reach for his dagger, Lady Mary forfend!”
“You needn’t have worried. Thomas Grey is not one to draw a dagger if there be any chance some of the blood spilled might be his.”
She gave a startled laugh. “Jesú, but you are blunt-spoken, aren’t you? Oh, I know Tom is not much liked at court, but he’s not such a bad sort; in truth, he’s not. That brawl with Buckingham now…he was very neatly goaded into it.”
Richard was skeptical. “That wasn’t the way it looked to me.”
She nodded triumphantly, as if he’d just proved her point. “Exactly! My lord Buckingham does have a flair for that, for drawing blood with a smile! That was what he did with Tom, telling him to take care, that poaching in a royal forest be a hanging offense.”
“Why should that have provoked Grey into making such a fool of himself?”
“It be clear you’re not much at court. It was me Buckingham was baiting Tom about…. I’m Jane Shore.”
She said it as if it should mean something to him. The name was vaguely familiar, but for the moment the association eluded him. Seeing that, she gave him a pitying smile, explained patiently and with a certain naïve pride, “I’m the King’s mistress. Now do you see why Tom was so touchy?”
With that, Richard remembered where he’d heard her name. Véronique had come back from London last year with some startling gossip, claiming that Edward had gotten the Pope to grant a divorce for one of his mistresses on the grounds of her husband’s impotence. So this then was Jane Shore. This was the woman Thomas Grey was lusting for. Ned’s favorite bedmate. Jesus!
“I sup
pose then, that you’d be the one to ask,” he said, with irony that was neither friendly nor flattering. “Is he here?”
She nodded, tossed her head in the general direction of the closed bedchamber door. “In there. He was feeling greensick…too much madeira.”
Knowing his brother had always had a notoriously steady head for drink, Richard frowned, looked about him at the crowded chamber. For the first time, he noticed Will Hastings, sprawled in one of the recessed window seats. But even as he recognized Will, he realized there was no point in approaching him. Will was genially drunk, holding on his lap a girl who looked to be sixteen, seventeen at most. Richard watched Will fondle the girl, watched the drunken bear cub weaving in erratic circles, and knew suddenly that he would not wait for Ned, that he did not want to talk to him here, not tonight.
“You don’t much like what you see, do you?”
He started, had almost forgotten Jane Shore was still standing beside him. “No,” he said curtly. “No, I do not.”
Jane was accustomed to being the center of male attention, to having men look upon her with desire, and it was gradually becoming apparent to her that this man did not. But the resentment she felt now was not on her own behalf, it was indignation that he should dare to criticize Edward, even indirectly, and she said with sudden heat, “You need not share the King’s pleasures, but I think it rather presumptuous that you should pass judgment on them!”
Richard stared at her and then laughed abruptly as the ludicrousness of his position struck him, that he should find himself debating morality with his brother’s harlot. He was amused that she should be so protective of Ned, but he found it faintly touching, too, and she rose a bit in his estimation. For the first time, he thought he could comprehend why she had such appeal for Ned; she and Elizabeth were as unlike as any two women could be.
“You think a King does not need to be able to relay, to be able to put his troubles from his mind if only for a few hours? And now more than ever, what with the strain of these past weeks, with his own brother to be charged with treason….”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 80
