The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (103 page)

shared her son's stubborn refusal to face the truth, she had no sympathy to spare for him now. Her need was too great.
"I tell you, he's dying," she cried, "and saying it isn't so won't buy him a blessed moment more of life! He's dying! Do you hear me, Tom? He's dying and leaving as his heir a boy not yet thirteen!"
She was perilously close to hysteria. It was in the sudden shrillness of her voice, in the glassy green eyes, pupils shrunk to flickering pinpoints of fear. Now, as she clutched at Thomas, her nails scored painfully, causing him to pull his hand from hers. Thoroughly alarmed, he fumbled for words of comfort, said soothingly, "I know Edward be very young, Mother, but he's a bright lad, has been raised since birth to be King. And he'll have us to guide him, have you and Anthony and me. ..."
Elizabeth stumbled to her feet. "Be you so sure of that? Well, there's something you'd better hear. This afternoon Ned did summon his executors, did make a codicil to his will. Shall I tell you what it said, Tom? He did leave all to his brother! God forgive him, but he did name Gloucester as Protector of the
Realm!"
While Thomas was undeniably dismayed by his mother's revelation, he did not see it as the unmitigated catastrophe she obviously did. It was unthinkable to Thomas that they should yield up the reins of power to Gloucester. And so they wouldn't. To him, it was as simple as that. What frightened him far more was the unstable state of his mother's nerves. Never had he seen her like this. His world was already reeling;
that his stepfather could be dying struck at the very heart of all that was secure and certain in his life, and it was only a little less chilling to see Elizabeth so frantic with fear, fear he didn't fully understand.
"Mother, I know you're overwrought, but you've not thought this through. Gloucester may have the protectorship, but we've something far more important ... the trust of the young King. Whom do you think Edward will turn to? To you, his mother, and to Anthony, the uncle who has been his governor and guardian for the past ten years! Can you doubt it? Gloucester be a stranger to Edward, and you may be sure Anthony has given him no reason to look on Gloucester with love. Don't you see? We do hold the winning hand!"
Elizabeth's breathing was constricted, coming in short strangled bursts. "You don't understand! Oh, merciful Jesus, if you only knew!"
"Knew what? What is it I don't understand? Mother, tell me!"
She backed away from him, shaking her head. "I cannot, Tom," she whispered. "God help me, but I
cannot."
17 hurt almost unbearably to breathe. Each time he drew air into his lungs, Edward felt as if a knife had been plunged into his chest. The sheet clung

damply to his body; he made a feeble attempt to free himself from its clammy folds, only to have other hands at once tuck it firmly around him. His fever had raged unchecked for three days now, resisting sage and verbena, resisting sponge baths and prayers; his body was quite literally burning itself up.
Dr Hobbys was bending over the bed. Poor old Hobbys. He looked verily like the wrath of God. As if it were somehow his fault.
"Your Grace, I beg you, don't try to talk. Save your strength."
For what? But that was a jest that would never be made. He was too tired to talk, was finding it took an extreme effort of will just to keep his eyelids open, to keep from slipping down into darkness, into the exhausted sleep that promised surcease.
"I should never have let you do it. I knew how hard it would be on you."
Edward had known it, too. But he'd had no choice, had insisted that the lords be summoned to his bedside. Lisbet's two sons. Her brothers Edward and Lionel. His Chancellor, Rotherham. Will ... a good man, Will, and loyal. John Morton, the clever Lancastrian. Tom Stanley, who'd I turned his coat too often to be trusted. The other members of his council, those then in London. But so many were beyond summoning. Anthony 'I at Ludlow with his son, with young Edward. Jack Howard on his estates in
Essex. Buckingham at Brecknock, in south Wales. Northumberland oii| the Scots border. And Dickon at
Middleham, more than two hund miles to the north, at the time when he was most needed.
He'd done what he could, had gotten them all to reavow their giance to Edward, to his son. It had not been easy for him. Each br was precious, came with no small struggle, and it was that which lent the greater weight to his words; they could see the cost. They must re cile their differences, he pleaded. Must make peace for the sake of Er land, for the sake of his son. Between coughing spasms so violent |
seemed as if each might be his last, he entreated them to forget grievances. By now, only Tom Stanley and John Morton were dry-i both Will Hastings and Thomas Grey were unashamedly weeping, at his urging, they clasped hands, pledged to bury the past, to his brother Richard their support in governing the realm until his came of age.
But was it enough? He doubted it. Jesus wept, how they did de each other! Will had no use for Tom
Stanley. Northumberland was; ous of Dickon for winning the allegiance of the North away from8 Percys.
Jack Howard couldn't abide Morton. And all did hate Lisbet her Woodville kin. He'd never cared before, never taken their grud heart, knowing he was strong enough to keep peace among them

had even amused him a little, knowing these rivalries only made them all the more dependent upon him.
But now . . . what would happen now? Would Dickon be strong enough to hold them all together? He had to be. For if he could not. . .
"Your Grace, you must rest. You're fighting sleep and you shouldn't be."
Edward's eyes moved past Hobbys, to the table pulled up close to the bed. It was cluttered with medicinal herbs, a crucifix of beaten gold, and a goblet studded with rubies. It was to the goblet that
Edward looked, and Hobbys, quick to comprehend, at once put it to the younger man's lips.
"The Queen. ..." Edward drank again, sank back on the pillow. "Send for her."
At least Lisbet wasn't weeping. Thank Christ for that. Jane's flood of tears had been hard to bear. So much he wanted to say. So much. If only he could be sure Lisbet understood. A woman could not be
Regent. The country would never accept her. She had to yield the power, had to let go. Twice in the past hundred years the crown had passed to a child, with disastrous consequences for all. That mustn't happen to his son, mustn't happen to Edward. But did Lisbet truly understand the danger? Understand what men would do to gain control of a boy King? Dickon alone could keep Edward from becoming a political pawn, manipulated by first one faction and then another in the struggle for sovereignty. Did
Lisbet see that? There was no love lost between her and Dickon, but that mattered for naught now. She needed him, but did she realize just how much? Let her see that. Sweet Christ, let her understand.
Her hand was icy in his. Or was it that his own hand was afire? He felt like he was. It was becoming difficult to keep his thoughts from drifting. His eyelids were getting as heavy as stones. But he mustn't give in to it, not yet. Still too much to tell her. Stillington. . . . Must reassure her about Stillington, tell her the old man would hold his tongue. Had to believe that, had to. ... If only Edward was here. Shouldn't have kept him so much at Ludlow. Better to've brought him more often to court, let him get to know Dickon.
Too much in Anthony's keeping. . . . Make it harder on him now, having to put his trust in Dickon and
Will, men he didn't know. ... But too late. So much too late. So much should've een done differently.
Poor Lisbet. So beautiful once. So very beautiful. Nineteen years. children, children to be proud of.
Should be something to say, some- mm- . . Not always easy for her. Warwick. Giving birth to Edward in
Actuary. No, not easy. And then Nell. What was she thinking? If only 8he'd look up. ...

"I did love you. . . ." Scarcely more than a whisper, but he saw she'd heard. Her head came up, her lashes lifted. Her eyes were wide and staring, free of tears, free of all save a terrible fear.
Edward was appalled. "Christ, Lisbet! Don't. . . don't do anything stupid! You mustn't. ..."
But by then, his throat was closing, his chest heaving and his body convulsed by a coughing fit, one that left him gasping for air, that brought up sputum ominously streaked with red. Elizabeth watched in horror as Dr Hobbys hastened toward the bed, and then she began to back away, bringing up her hands as if to blot out that which she couldn't face.
THE sky above Thomas Grey was swathed in clouds, the stars smothered in swirling blackness. He stood for a time on the steps of St Stephen's Chapel, staring blindly into the deserted dark of the gardens. So quiet was it that he could hear clearly the lapping of water against the river wall. There came to him now the resonant sound of church chimes. The monks of the great Abbey of St Peter were being summoned to Matins. Almost at once, he corrected himself. No, it was a "passing bell," meant to remind all within hearing range to pray for the soul of their dying King.
Thomas shivered. It was cold for early April, but he could not bring : himself to go back into the palace.
Still less did he want to return alone to 5 his magnificent mansion in the Strand.
Thomas had been just seven when his father had died fighting foil Lancaster at the battle of St Albans.
Three years later, his mother had! married the Yorkist King and the world as Thomas knew it was changed. To an impressionable youngster, Edward truly was the Sunr in Splendour, and in the turbulent years that followed, Thomas hadcontent to bask in his stepfather's reflected glow. Had he loved Edwa
That was a question he'd never thought to ask himself, could not have I swered even now. But the times when he'd been happiest had been the occasions when he'd succeeded in winning for himself Edward's at tion or approval. Now Edward was dying, and Thomas found hit adrift upon a sea that was dark, foreboding, and unfamiliar.
On impulse, he climbed the steps, entered the chapel. Cresset'. flared high up on frescoed walls, upon jewel-colors and stained-gla scenes of glowing splendor. But by chance, the first sight that caug
Thomas's eye was a vivid depiction of the Crucifixion of the Lord Jesus Calvary, a gruesomely accurate rendering of mortal suffering. It was no vision to give comfort to an already overwrought imagination, Thomas wheeled about. As he did, there came to his ears a soft my sound, much like the mewing of a hungry kitten. Retracing his steps,

moved forward into the nave, saw a woman's figure huddled on the floor before the High Altar.
Kneeling beside her, Thomas gave a startled cry. "Jesii! Jane!"
She raised her arm to shield her face from the light. Her eyes were almost swollen shut, absurdly smudged with kohl, her face streaked with tears and grime. She looked at Thomas without apparent recognition, but made no protest when he lifted her up in his arms.
"Come, Jane. Come, sweetheart. I'm going to take you home."
She didn't have a cloak. Thomas didn't realize it until he was lowering her into the waiting arms of his boatmen. Jerking off his own, he wrapped her in it and settled her beside him in the barge. The boatmen pushed off from the dock.
Jane continued to weep as the barge moved slowly downriver, hiccuping like a small child and burrowing her face in the crook of Thomas's shoulder. He stroked her hair, murmuring meaningless sounds meant only to soothe, and all the while, he was racking his brain as to what to do next. The house Edward had leased for her was on the corner of Gracechurch and Lombard streets, some distance from the river, and
Jane was clearly in no condition to walk.
As he pondered the problem, there shone through the darkness shrouding the shore the lights of a great house. Coldharbor, the riverside mansion once owned by Edward's deceased sister, the Duchess of
Exeter. Her husband, Thomas St Leger, still made use of it, with Edward's permission. St Leger wasn't in
London right now, but he and Thomas had emptied too many wine flagons together for Thomas to hesitate.
"Put in at Coldharbor," he instructed his boatmen.
If St Leger's servants resented being roused out of bed in the middle of the night, any such resentment was prudently masked upon identification of the unexpected arrivals, and they were quick to put St
Leger's stables at the disposal of the Marquess Dorset, stepson to the King. A short time later, Thomas was lifting Jane from his saddle, carrying her up the stairs of her own house.
pOR some moments, Thomas stood staring down at Jane, and despite himself, all he could see was she and Ned lying naked on this bed. She was no longer sobbing, but seemed totally oblivious of all around her, mumbling brokenly and plucking at the coverlets with aimless fingers. He
Wondered suddenly if she could be feverish; God only knows how long
" lain there on those icy tiles. Touching his lips to her forehead, he as relieved to find it cool. Her lips, however, were warm, tasted of salt.
Never had he known grief to affect one like this. Almost, he thought,

she might be drunk. Even when he found a wet cloth and scrubbed off her smeared eye makeup, she didn't stir. Sitting beside her on the bed, he removed her shoes, and then unrolled the stockings gartered at her knees. Her feet were small and icy; he rubbed them briskly between his hands to warm them and then leaned over to taste her lips again.
Her gown was of the newest fashion, off the shoulders, plunging into a deep V neckline. Telling himself she'd be more comfortable this way, he began to untie the lacings of her bodice.
It was not that satisfying. On occasion, he'd lain with women too drunk to fully comprehend what was happening, and it was much that way with Jane. She neither helped nor hindered him, lay limp and uncaring, tears squeezing past her lashes and trickling into her hair, down onto an already sodden pillow.
He came quickly to orgasm, rolled off Her and onto his back, feeling somehow cheated. For years he'd lusted for this woman, fantasized about her in Ned's bed. Now that he'd had her, why was there so little pleasure in it?
She'd begun to shiver; he could see tiny goose bumps on her arms, the swelling curves of her breasts. He reached for the discarded coverlet, pulled it up around them. She moved closer, instinctively seeking his body warmth, and at last, fell into an exhausted sleep. The best Thomas could manage was a fitful doze, and he was still awake when a golden haze began to spread over the city, streaking the sky with the glories of an April sunrise.
Thomas was strangely affronted that so beautiful a day should be dawning, would rather the morning be grey and damp and dark. Beside him, Jane was stirring. Her eyes were swollen with sleep, with the shedding of too many tears. They widened now, a startled silver-grey.
"Tom? Tom, what? ..."
Before she could say more, he rolled over on top of her, stopped her mouth with his own. She seemed to be trying to push him away, but he paid no heed, let his hands move familiarly and caressingly over her body, exploring her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She'd soon stopped struggling, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck, sought a closer embrace, he gave an excited exultant laugh. But his triumph was not all he'd thought it to be, for when he brought her to climax, the name she gasped against his ear was "Ned."
"MY lady, it be your health that does concern me now. Will you not try to| get some rest? As feverish as the King be, he doesn't even know you're| here."
Bess shook her head stubbornly. "You can't know that for sure, Albon. And even if you be right, I don't care."