Anne was standing in the middle of the bedchamber, not liking what she saw. There was an oversize feather bed with richly stitched coverlets, a Flemish carpet of brightly woven gold and green, and the walls were hung with expensive arras, but the room lacked the sunlit windows and soaring ceiling of her bedchamber at Crosby Place. Baynard’s Castle had been built some three hundred years earlier, built for defense, and no matter how luxurious the furnishings, it could not compare in comfort to their house on Bishopsgate Street.
And yet this room held many memories for her. It was in this bed that she and Richard had consummated their marriage on a warm April night eleven years ago. “Eleven years,” she whispered, and shook her head in wonderment. Without warning, tears filled her eyes.
“Anne?” Véronique was looking at her with concern she couldn’t conceal. “Anne, would it help to talk?….” She stopped, seeing then the small coffer lying open on the table; it contained the soft linen cloths Anne used as napkins for her monthly flux. She understood and felt a sharp pang, so closely could she identify with Anne’s disappointment. Anne had confided that she was two weeks late, and although she’d acknowledged that it was too early to hope, Véronique knew she had, nonetheless.
“I’m sorry, chérie,” she said simply.
“No, Véronique, there’s no need. I’m to be blessed with but the one son. It’s time I accepted that as God’s will and stopped breaking my heart over what cannot be.” Anne’s words were brisk, matter-of-fact, carried no conviction. Closing the coffer lid, she put it down on the floor, out of sight.
“I couldn’t help hoping, though,” she admitted. “To have a child now, Véronique, now of all times…. It truly would have been a gift from God, a holy sign that Richard was right in taking the crown. And I think had I been with child, I would not have minded so much then…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but Véronique did it for her.
“Being Queen? Ah, Anne. Anne, don’t look so surprised. After thirteen years, do you not think I know your heart, your mind?”
“Richard mustn’t ever know!” Anne warned, and at once wished she hadn’t. Véronique would be the last one on earth to betray her secrets. “Forgive me, I know you’d never share a confidence. It’s just that I don’t want Richard to know I do feel this way, that I can take no happiness in the thought of queenship. That I ache so for Middleham, for the life that was ours….”
The sympathy on Véronique’s face was dangerous, was an invitation to self-pity. Anne drew a deep breath, said very evenly, “Nor have I the right to complain. You see, Véronique, I did all that I could to convince Richard he must take the crown.”
“What choice had you, Anne?” Véronique had wandered to the window. She knew that Richard was formally handing over the Great Seal to Chancellor Russell and she said now, “The meeting’s done. Chancellor Russell is coming out with Bishop Stillington and the others. And there’s…” She hesitated, finding it strange to refer to Richard as “the King,” and yet no longer comfortable in making free use of his given name. She compromised upon “…your husband,” and said to cover her confusion, “He’s leaving? It’s nigh on four; where goes he so close to supper?”
“To the Tower,” Anne said reluctantly. “To see his nephew.”
“Oh.” A long pause. “Do you…think that wise?”
Anne looked up, slowly shook her head. “No, I do not. But Richard felt he did owe Edward that much.”
Véronique said nothing, but the look on her face spoke volumes. After a few moments, Anne joined her at the window. The Duke of Buckingham was now below in the inner bailey, too, but Anne watched only Richard.
“Richard’s brother was a controversial King, Véronique. Many men did hate him, and he was often lied about, accused by his enemies of evils he hadn’t done. He was blessed, though, in that he was truly indifferent to such slander. You see, he didn’t care what others thought of him, and that did save him so much grief. He just didn’t care,” Anne repeated, sounding almost incredulous, as if marveling at a phenomenon that passed understanding.
“But Richard does care,” Véronique said, and Anne nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Richard does.”
Véronique turned her eyes away from Anne’s troubled face, back toward the activity below in the inner bailey. She was thinking of the local gossip. Once the danger of the Hastings-Morton conspiracy was past, Richard had sent word to York to delay the departure of troops for the capital. He had wanted to be sure there’d be no question of intimidation, that none could say his claim to the crown rested upon the presence of his troops in the city. Yet Véronique knew that in any tavern or alehouse, she could find men tipsily certain that Richard had meant from the first to lay claim to his nephew’s crown.
The truth never quite catches up with hearsay and rumor, she thought, and sighed. London had ever been fertile ground for gossip, but she’d never seen the city so rife with rumors, not even at the time of George’s downfall. There’d even surfaced again the slander that for twenty years had muddied the House of York, the calumny that Edward had been a bastard, born of the Duchess of York’s dalliance with an archer in Rouen. Richard had been infuriated, had no more luck in tracking down the source of this scandalmongering than had his brother, and impulsively insisted that Anne move their household from Crosby Place to his mother’s residence at Baynard’s Castle. A gesture, Véronique thought, one that only inconvenienced Anne and showed how vulnerable Richard was to idle tavern-talk.
“I know he’s not accustomed to having men question his motives, Anne, but I fear he must learn to expect that from now on. That be the ugly underside of kingship.”
“Yes,” Anne said bleakly. “I know.”
Glancing back toward the bailey, Véronique saw that Richard had gone, but Buckingham still lingered. He was, she thought grudgingly, a man to draw all eyes, like some exotic flower long neglected and now flourishing in the light of public acclaim. Such plants must be watched with care, though; too often they did sprout up so greedily that they crowded all surrounding shrubs into the shade. But she had to admit the man had a flair for calling attention to himself. Had he not taken Will Hastings’s servants into his own household within hours of Hastings’s death? That was the sort of dramatic, flamboyant gesture the Kingmaker himself might have envied. How he must have resented the late King for so long denying him his place in the sun, Véronique thought, and blurted out, “Francis thinks that Buckingham might have been responsible for the resurgence of that preposterous tale alleging your lady mother-in-law to’ve been an unfaithful wife.”
Seeing Anne frown, she made haste to say, “We’re not impugning his loyalty, Anne; Francis would be the first to concede that he has been steadfast in support of Richard. But he is a man of overweening pride and he had no reason to love Richard’s brother, the late King. I do not think he would be sorry to see Edward’s name besmirched, in truth I don’t.”
“Francis doesn’t like Buckingham,” Anne said challengingly, but Véronique refused to take the bait.
“No,” she agreed easily, “he doesn’t. Do you, Anne?”
Anne didn’t answer at once. “I do owe him my husband’s life,” she said at last, “owe a debt that can never be repaid. But no, Véronique. No, I do not like him.”
Véronique had to ask. “Does Richard?”
“I don’t know,” Anne said thoughtfully. “I doubt whether it would ever occur to Richard to ask himself that question. Richard gives his loyalty for life to those who do deserve it, and Buckingham stood by him when it did count the most.”
That, Véronique couldn’t argue with. She nodded, watched Buckingham make an ostentatious exit, trailed by so many retainers that the inner bailey seemed to have burst into bloom with the Stafford Knot.
“I wish,” she said suddenly, “that your husband were not going to the Tower. I fear he’ll regret it.”
Anne looked at her. “So do I, Véronique.”
John Argentine was the only one of the att
endants chosen by Anthony Woodville who’d been allowed to remain with Edward. He greeted Richard with deference, but his eyes were not friendly, conveyed a resentment he dared not voice aloud.
“Your nephew is upstairs in the bedchamber, Your Grace. Be it your wish that I do summon him to you?”
“Yes, Doctor, it is,” Richard said curtly, reacting in spite of himself to the other’s unspoken hostility.
Finding himself alone in the room, Richard started to sit and then changed his mind. A game of draughts was spread out on the table, along with quill pens, paper, and several half-open books. They were not, Richard saw, books for children. Edward was apparently very well read for his age. But then, he was a King’s son, had been trained from birth for that day when he would wear a crown.
Richard moved abruptly to the window, unlatched it, and stared down into the constable’s gardens below. So taut were his nerves that he spun around with a jerk when the door banged behind him.
Dickon was some three months younger than Richard’s son Ned, but he was both taller and heavier, gave promise of having inherited his father’s height. No less handsome a youngster than his brother, he now looked thoroughly bedraggled, muddy to the knees, his face grimy, his hair full of straw.
“Good God, Dickon! What have you been up to?”
At sound of Richard’s voice, the boy jumped, looked around with a start. He was yanking on a long lead, pulling a resisting spaniel through the doorway. Now he let it go slack, said, “Uncle!” Sounding startled but not in the least alarmed, he carefully wiped his hands on his hanging shirttail, came forward to greet Richard politely.
“I was down at the Lion Tower. They were feeding the big cats. Huge chunks of raw meat like this….” He spread his hands wide. “They let me throw a piece into the tiger’s cage, but Robyn”—pointing to the spaniel—“Robyn was scared, kept whining as if he thought he was to be next on the menu!”
He leaned against the table, began to move the draughtsmen around, to pile them one upon the other until he had constructed a lopsided tower, watching Richard all the while. “Be you here to see Edward?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet he’ll not want to see you, Uncle. He says you did mean from the first to steal his crown and murder our Uncle Anthony.” This was said very matter-of-factly, was not an accusation, merely a statement of his brother’s belief. The blue eyes regarding Richard were sharp with curiosity, showed no emotion other than interest in how Richard would respond.
“Yes,” Richard said slowly, “I suppose he would think that. But it’s not true, Dickon, could not be further from the truth. Do you believe me?” He realized at once that this was not a fair question to put to a child, but he saw, too, that it had been the right question, nonetheless, gave Dickon the opening he needed.
“I don’t know what I believe anymore. Ever since Papa died, nothing makes sense. Papa named you Lord Protector, so he couldn’t have believed you’d take Edward’s crown away from him. I know Mama never liked you, but Papa told me that you were the one man in Christendom he truly trusted. And Bess and Cecily trust you. Bess said it was silly for us to go into sanctuary, that there was no need.” Momentarily sidetracked, he confided now, “I hated it at the Abbot’s lodging. There was nothing to do and Bridget got sick and cried all the time and Mama cried, too, but she wouldn’t let us come out, not till Bess and the Archbishop talked her into letting me join Edward last week.”
He shot a quick look at Richard, saw that his uncle was listening with an attentiveness few adults had ever accorded him, and reassured, he felt free to admit, “I get so confused by it all, Uncle. And Edward be no help. He doesn’t want to play or shoot at the butts, and all he wants to talk about is our Uncle Anthony being executed and you taking the crown. Of course, it was his crown, so it hurts more for him, and he loved our Uncle Anthony while I…well, I didn’t ever see him all that much. And then, too, I know Papa always liked you much better than Uncle Anthony and I…I just get even more confused.”
Richard could think of nothing to say. He reached out, brushed some of the straw from the boy’s hair.
“I guess I don’t look too neat, do I? Uncle…. I want to ask you something. The Archbishop came to us yesterday, told us about Papa being plight-trothed to another lady before he married Mama. Edward says it’s not true, but everyone else says it is, the Archbishop and Lord Howard and…well, what I want to know is this. If Edward cannot be King, then I guess I cannot be Duke of York, either?”
“No,” Richard said reluctantly. “No, lad, I fear not.”
“That’s what Lord Howard said, too, but…well, it’s going to seem strange. And Edward had even more titles than me, Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester and Duke of Cornwall and I forget what else, and now to have none…. It doesn’t seem quite fair, Uncle. Maybe he wouldn’t mind not being King so much if you could give him one of them back?”
Richard wanted nothing so much at that moment as to be able to give Dickon the assurance he sought. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the boy. “I cannot do that, Dickon. But you’ll want for nothing, that I do promise you.”
Dickon was obviously hoping for more than that. He busied himself in adding more draughtsmen to the board, building battlements around his tower. “Edward says you mean to keep us here, like prisoners. I told him I didn’t believe that, but…But what is going to happen to us?”
That was a question Richard had often asked himself in the past fortnight. Could a place be made for them at his court? Dickon, maybe, but Edward? No, the boy was too bitter for that. Thank Christ Jesus he was still so young, young enough to be protected from the plots and intrigues of men who’d use him for self-serving ends. Perhaps by the time he was old enough to involve himself in such schemes, he’d have come to terms with the plight-troth, with his disinheritance. And if he didn’t? Richard looked down unseeingly at the draughts board, thinking of Henry Tudor, thinking of Édouard of Lancaster. A pretender’s lot was not an easy one; it was a life of false hopes and great dangers. That was not a fate he wanted for his brother’s son.
Dickon stirred uneasily. “Uncle? You have such a strange look…. Are you not going to answer me?”
“Yes, Dickon, of course I am,” Richard said swiftly, cursing himself for letting the boy see his misgivings. “As soon as I can make the necessary arrangements, I mean to send you and your brother north, to my castle at Sheriff Hutton. I think you’ll be happy there, Dickon. The North be a fine place to grow to manhood.”
Dickon considered. The prospect of living in Yorkshire was not an unpleasant one to him, and he nodded agreeably. “When? I can take my dog, can’t I? What of my sisters? Will they come, too?”
Richard had no chance to respond, for at that moment Edward appeared in the doorway. Dr Argentine was behind him, had a supportive hand on Edward’s shoulder; when the boy balked, the doctor propelled him gently forward into the room.
Edward’s face was swollen, splotched with uneven color; he looked feverish, like one suddenly roused from sleep. He drew an audible breath, took a step toward Richard.
“What do you want?” His voice was high-pitched, tremulous, sounded as if he were choking back tears, and Richard knew he’d made a grievous mistake.
“To talk to you, Edward, to tell you…” Richard stopped. No one had ever looked at him with the hatred he now saw on his nephew’s face.
“Tell me what…Uncle?” Edward all but spat the word. “That I should trust you? That you’re sorry you stole my crown? Or maybe you want to tell me about my Uncle Anthony? Oh, yes, I know about that, too, know you’ve condemned him to death! Should I fear that, too? Or will you be content to let me keep my life now that you’ve taken my crown?”
Richard had gone very white, but he said nothing, made no attempt to defend himself. There was nothing, he knew, that Edward would believe.
“Murderer!” Edward’s mouth had contorted with a rage indistinguishable from grief. “My uncle’s blood be on your hands, an
d God curse you for it! God curse you—” His voice broke on a sob. He whirled and, jerking loose from Dr Argentine’s restraining hand, fled back up the stairs.
“Edward!” Dr Argentine’s cry was cut off by the slamming of the bedchamber door. Very slowly, he turned to face Richard.
“You must excuse the boy, Your Grace. He’s been under a great strain, doesn’t mean what he said.” His voice was dispassionate, polite. Only his eyes gave him away, eyes that accused, judged, condemned. “Is it your wish that I fetch him back?”
Richard swallowed. “No,” he said softly. “Let him be.”
The chamber seemed to echo with Edward’s sobs; in reality there was no sound but the clicking of draughtsmen as Dickon continued to stack them in precariously balanced columns. He looked from Richard to the doctor and back to Richard again.
“I tried to tell you, Uncle,” he said composedly, “that he’d not want to see you.”
11
Minster Lovell
July 1483
Emerging from one of the ground-floor garderobes in the southwest tower, Francis caught his breath, dazzled by the beauty of the red-gold sky above his head. Even the river was ablaze, reflecting the flaming brilliance of the dying sun. He stood there for a time by the river wall, savoring the moment, and then walked slowly across the inner courtyard. Supper was to be later than usual that evening; trestle tables were being set up, draped in snowy linen cloth. His best silver plate was on display, polished to a blinding gloss, and the great hall had been swept clean, carpeted in a fresh layer of fragrant rushes. Everywhere he looked, Francis saw cause for satisfaction. Smiling, he moved toward the doorway behind the dais, passed through.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 100
