“Oh, my love…. My love, I was so frightened!”
“Hush,” he said, his voice muffled against her hair. “Hush.”
He was holding her too tightly for comfort, even for breath, and at last she was compelled to end the embrace. Stepping back, she searched his face with anxious dark eyes.
“Richard…. Richard, what happened this morning?”
“You know what happened,” he said tautly. “Hastings owned up to his treachery and paid the price for it. There’s no more to be said.”
“Yes, but—”
“Anne, I said I don’t want to talk about it! Not now, not ever! Do you understand?”
They’d had arguments before, had shouted at one another and exchanged those hurtful accusations inevitable in any relationship of daily intimacy. But never had he sounded as he did now. His voice was shaking with what she first thought to be anger, now saw to be far more than that.
“All right, Richard,” she said slowly. “We’ll not speak of it again.”
He said nothing, and after a moment she held out her hand. Their fingers touched, entwined together, and he drew her back into his arms, into a wordless embrace that endured long into the twilight dark, that had in it nothing of desire but no small measure of despair.
8
Ludgate Prison London
June 1483
Jane had wept for Will until her eyes were swollen shut, swallowing so many salt tears that she at last made herself sick, retching miserably into the straw of her prison cell. Her gaolers, being young and male, were more sympathetic than censorious. Women knew nothing of politics, they agreed among themselves, invariably made fools of themselves when they tried to meddle in a man’s domain. A pity, though, that so pretty a fly had been caught in the web. They found excuses to look in on her, brought her water in a large clay jug, and when her nausea showed no signs of abating, one even took it upon himself to summon a doctor. As her guards looked on solicitously, Jane managed to choke down a cup of wine laced with henbane. The sleeping draught was a potent one; she’d soon spiraled down into a deep drugged sleep.
She awoke the next morning with a splitting head and a queasy stomach. The aftertaste of the wine rose in her mouth like bile, coating her tongue, sour enough to make her gag. There was all around her the stench of vomit and urine and sweat, the stink of prison. She didn’t want to move, wanted only to keep her eyes tightly shut, to deny this dream any semblance of reality. But it was no dream. She was in Ludgate Prison, facing a charge of treason. Tom was in hiding, and Will…Will was dead. She moaned and sat up.
Once she’d rinsed her mouth and splashed water upon her face, she revived enough to take notice of her surroundings. How lucky she was that her servants were so loyal, so devoted to her! They’d served her well at a time when she’d been too distraught to look to her own interests, had bartered coins for her comfort. As a result, she had a pallet to lie upon where she might otherwise have had only a blanket. She recognized the coffer in the corner, and kneeling before it, found it packed with what her women thought she’d need: clothes, hairbrush, even a hand mirror. They’d seen to it, too, that she had candles, a chamber pot, a green hazel twig for cleaning her teeth, and a basin for washing. But there were no furnishings in the chamber other than the pallet and coffer, and although it must be midday, shadows still held sway, the only light coming from a solitary window high above her head.
With a surge of revulsion, she saw that her gown was stained with vomit and hastily jerked the lacings loose, pulled it over her head. Stale, stagnant air enveloped her like a cloak; she felt a little cooler in her kirtle, but not much. Taking down the last of the pins binding up her hair, she began a vigorous brushing, much as she did every morning, only to stop in midstroke with a choked sob of laughter. What a queer creature of habit she was, that she should be worrying about her hair when she stood in danger of losing her head! But remembering, then, the surprising friendliness of her guards, she decided it made sense to make herself as presentable as possible. Raising the brush again, she didn’t stop until her hair lay smooth upon her shoulders, as bright as sunlight and as soft as silk.
Lying back on her pallet, she closed her eyes, brought one arm up to shut out her surroundings. What would happen to her now? Surely Gloucester’d not send a woman to the block. A shudder passed through her entire body; sweat began to trickle down her ribs, cold and sticky. Prisoners charged with treason were generally confined to the Tower. Wasn’t it, then, a hopeful sign that she’d been remanded to Ludgate? But even if Gloucester could not bring himself to claim a woman’s life, he could hold her in prison till her hair went grey, her limbs gnarled with age. And what defense could she offer? She’d plotted against his life; how could she expect mercy?
Footsteps sounded outside the door. She heard the jangle of keys and sat up on the pallet, her heart beginning to pound. As the door swung open, she caught a glimpse of one of the guards. He gave her a jaunty wave and a wink, and then stepped back to let her visitor pass into the chamber. He was a man in his mid-thirties, tastefully but not extravagantly dressed in dark velvet, had about him that air of prosperous efficiency Jane instinctively associated with lawyers.
She was not surprised, therefore, when he identified himself as Thomas Lynom, the King’s Solicitor. He had the look of a man slumming against his will; she saw how his nostrils pinched as he looked down at the befouled straw. But she saw, too, how his dark eyes followed the plunging V of her cleavage.
“I’d ask you to sit down, Master Lynom,” she said softly, “but as you can see, I’m woefully ill prepared to receive guests!”
He was not amused. “Treason is scarcely a joking matter, Mistress Shore,” he said coolly, and Jane saw that this was not a man to thaw with laughter.
“Indeed it is not,” she agreed hastily. “It’s just that…that I’m so very frightened, Master Lynom, and whenever I’m upset or afraid I seek to hide it with silly jests.” She slipped into her shoes, gave the bodice of her kirtle a discreet tug, came to her feet.
“Master Lynom, what is to happen to me? What means His Grace of Gloucester to do?”
“You’re a very fortunate young woman,” Lynom said dryly. “More fortunate than you doubtlessly do deserve. The Lord Protector has decided not to charge you with high treason.”
“Oh, thank God!” Jane’s relief was such that she swayed a little, had to put her hand on his arm for support.
“Under the circumstances, you’re getting off remarkably easy. Tomorrow you are to do public penance before Paul’s Cross for your wanton living, and you will then be kept in confinement while the search goes on for your paramour, Thomas Grey. As soon as he be found or it seems likely that he is not hiding in London, you shall be set free.”
That was so much more than Jane had dared hope for, was a reprieve she saw as nothing less than miraculous. “Oh, how generous he is, how forbearing! You will tell him that for me, won’t you? Tell him how grateful I am?”
“I rather doubt that the Duke of Gloucester does want your gratitude,” Lynom snapped, startling himself by his own rudeness. But he was disconcerted by this woman who was so little like he’d expected her to be. He was acutely aware of her physical presence, aware of the moist red mouth, the slender white throat, the swelling curve of her breasts; they were surprisingly full for so small a woman, were straining against the silk of her kirtle, almost brushing his arm, for she was standing as close as that, looking up at him with wide blue eyes, the eyes of a trusting child-woman, not those of a jaded wanton. Those eyes lied, he thought, pretended an innocence of spirit that had to be false. He stepped away from her, said sharply, “As I said, Mistress Shore, you be a most fortunate woman. Most who do entangle themselves in treason rarely live to regret it, do pay the price that Hastings—”
“Oh, don’t! Please, don’t!” Jane stumbled backward, brought her hands up as if to ward off a blow.
Lynom was taken aback. This was no pretense, was a wail of pure pain.
“I’m sorry,” Lynom said awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t realize….”
He pulled his handkerchief from his doublet, handed it to her. And then she was in his arms, sobbing against his shoulder, and he found himself stroking the fair head cradled against his chest, entreating her not to weep, and not at all sure how it had come about.
Jane was so thankful to be spared a trial for treason that she gave little thought to the public penance imposed upon her. It was not until the next morning that she began to grow frightened, to look with dread to the ordeal that lay ahead for her. She’d seen women made to do penance for harlotry, seen tradesmen publicly shamed for cheating their customers. Such sights were a common enough occurrence on the streets of the city, and if the mood of the crowd happened to be ugly, the unfortunate penitent could be pelted with rotten fruit or mud, taunted with obscenities. And for her, it would be even worse. She was no common strumpet, was a woman who’d shared a King’s bed, and to see her walk barefoot through the city streets, clad only in her kirtle and holding a candle aloft, would be a rare treat for London’s idle.
Ludgate Prison was built above the city gate of the same name. As Jane emerged onto the street, she saw that a large crowd had already gathered. The sun was high overhead, but goose bumps were rising on her arms, the back of her neck. She felt hands on her shoulders, removing her cloak. She closed her eyes; the noise in the street was a distant roaring in her ears, much like the sound of the sea.
“Don’t look so greensick, sweetheart. A pretty lass like you, you’ll have them eating out of your hand!”
One of her guards was grinning at her. Knowing he meant to be kind, Jane mustered a weak smile, and then reached out to accept the candle. It was unexpectedly heavy, a tall wax taper. She drew a deep breath, closed her eyes again. Mary, Mother of God, get me through this. Let me bear the shame with some grace.
The cobblestones were hot and unevenly paved, stung the soles of her feet. Thank Christ she had so short a route to travel, up Bowyer Row and into the precincts of St Paul’s, there publicly to repent her sinful past at the foot of Paul’s Cross. She stiffened her spine, raised her chin. Tom Lynom was right; she had been lucky to get off as lightly as this. And if she could somehow atone for Will’s death by enduring the taunts and abuse of the London mob, let them jeer, let them splatter overripe apples at her feet, call her whore and slut. That was a cheap price to pay for the death of a decent man.
So wrought up was she that it was several moments before she realized that the spectators lining both sides of Bowyer Row were not jeering. She could hear raunchy comments passing back and forth, heard wagers made that a man could span her waist within his hands, heard herself described as a “right ripe piece.” But such remarks sounded more admiring than scornful, and as she nerved herself to look around her, she saw a sea of smiles.
Londoners had taken the news of Will Hastings’s death with phlegmatic calm. Life they knew to be uncertain and ambition to be the ruin of many a great lord. Some mourned for Will, others felt he’d reaped what he had sown. But Jane had long been a favorite with Londoners. People remembered how freely she’d emptied her purse to help the needy, how often she’d spoken up for the mute, the weak. That her morals were no better than they ought to be bothered Londoners very little; a woman as obliging as she was pretty could be forgiven much. Men who’d taken a perverse pride in the blatant carousing of their late King were not likely to share Richard’s disapproval of his merriest bedmate, and by publicly branding Jane as no better than a harlot, Richard only stirred up for her a backlash of sympathy.
It was a sympathy Jane had not expected. Dazed and disbelieving, she came to an uncertain halt. Blessed Lady, they were with her! They were on her side! Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, smiled tremulously at the crowd.
9
Westminster Sanctuary
June 1483
Bess’s relationship with her mother had deteriorated rapidly under the strain of six weeks in sanctuary. It made no sense to Bess. She loved her uncle, could not in her wildest imaginings see him as a threat to her family. No, had Mama not sought to thwart Papa’s will, none of this need have happened. Once Mama’s initial panic did subside, surely she’d come to see that, would abandon Abbot Esteney’s lodging and take her rightful place at court, as the mother of the King.
But it hadn’t worked out that way so far. It was soon clear to Bess that her mother had no intention of leaving sanctuary until she could wring as many concessions as possible from her Uncle Dickon and the council. Bess was mortified, wanted nothing so much as to disassociate herself from her mother’s maneuverings. But she could not bring herself to leave sanctuary on her own, not when it meant leaving her little brother and her baby sisters. They were so young, looked to her as much as they did to Mama. More, if truth be told. How could she just go off and leave them like that? No, she had no choice but to wait till Mama came to her senses.
So involved was she with the care of her three youngest sisters that Bess was slow to see the significance of Lady Stanley’s visits, slow to suspect the truth. It was Jane Shore who gave it away, Jane who assumed Bess had been taken into her mother’s confidence and thought it a kindness to assure her that she mustn’t fear, that all was sure to go well now that Will had been won over.
Bess had been dumbfounded. Will Hastings despised her mother; why would he be conspiring with her against Dickon? She’d confronted her mother, demanded answers Elizabeth refused to give. Bess had been furious, bitterly resentful that she should, at seventeen, be treated like a child.
Just what did their plot encompass? How far did they mean to go? It was a question Bess had put to her mother, to no avail. A question that need not be asked, for she already knew the answer. For Mama and her kin to regain power, Dickon had to die. They dare not let him live. And what was she to do now? Betray her own mother, her half brother Tom? How could she do that? But if she didn’t, if she said nothing and Dickon died, how could she live with herself?
She arose the next morning hollow-eyed and pale, but clutching to her a shaky resolve. Dickon’s life had to come before loyalty to Mama. She must find some way to warn him, even if it meant Mama would hate her forever for doing it.
She’d spent the morning mentally composing letters of caution, letters that might alert Dickon to his danger without exposing her mother’s complicity, and then in midafternoon had come word of the council meeting at the Tower. To Bess, it seemed suddenly as if the world had gone mad and all in it. That Dickon, of all men, would have sent Will to the block without a trial…and not even a block, but a bloodstained log! Bess shuddered, found she could not stop shivering. Barely two months dead Papa was, and nothing was familiar anymore; she was in a landscape without recognizable landmarks, trapped in a nightmare that daylight wouldn’t dispel.
What frightened her the most, however, was her mother’s reaction to Hastings’s death. Elizabeth hadn’t wept, hadn’t raged, had stared at Bess and then said in a queerly hushed voice, “It’s done then.” And said no more.
Bess and Cecily had never seen Elizabeth like that, were at a loss. She seemed to be in shock, they agreed, but why should Hastings’s death affect her so deeply as this? She’d hated Hastings, could not be mourning him. The plot had failed, of course, but she had nothing to fear for herself. Whatever Dickon might choose to do to Morton, Jane Shore, and the other conspirators, she was the King’s mother, could indulge in intrigue with impunity, and who knew that better than she? Moreover, Tom was still safe, still eluding those hunting him. So why, then, did she lie abed, refusing food and drink? Why did she
stare into space like one bewitched, like one seeing specters that weren’t there?
On Monday morning, a delegation of clergy and nobles came again to the Abbot’s lodging. Bess received them in the Abbot’s refectory, listened attentively as the Archbishop of Canterbury urged her to come forth with her brother and sisters from sanctuary. Madame her mother need not fear, he assured Bess earnestly. The Lord Protector was willing to overlook her treason, would not seek vengeance against a woman. John Howard had interrupted at that, said that the young Duke of York must be yielded up, even if the girls were not. A child had no right to claim sanctuary, he said pointedly, since he was incapable of sin.
Bess understood; her mother’s refusal might not be heeded. So it was up to her, she decided, to make Mama see reason. Bess had no doubts whatsoever that Dickon should join Edward in the Tower. An active, lively child with a normal measure of curiosity and mischief in his makeup, he was thoroughly miserable in confinement, and for what? Why should he continue to pay the price for Mama’s foolishness?
Taking Cecily along for moral support, she went to her mother’s bedchamber, marshaling her arguments in favor of letting Dickon go to Edward. Much to her surprise, they weren’t needed. Elizabeth had listened in silence, and then said, almost indifferently, “Does he want to go?”
Bess nodded. “Yes, Mama, of course he does.” We all do. The words hovered on her tongue; she bit them back, waited.
“Why not? What difference does it make now?”
The two girls exchanged uneasy glances. Mama was acting so strange! Cecily cleared her throat, ventured hesitantly, “Can we not go, too, Mama? Edward’s coronation be set for next week. Surely you don’t want to miss that.”
She flinched then, for Elizabeth had begun to laugh, a strained mirthless sound as chilling as it was inexplicable. “Coronation? There’ll be no coronation. Not for Edward….” She turned her head aside on the pillow, mumbled, “Yes, let Dickon go if he wishes. Maybe it’ll help Edward, having him there when he’s told….”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 98
