The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (104 page)

She was grateful when Dr Hobbys beckoned to his colleague. He at least understood, she thought, knew how much she did need to be here.
But Dr Albon was most likely right. Papa didn't seem to know her, didn't seem to know anyone. Master
Gunthorp, the Dean of the Royal Chapel, had assured her that he was at peace. While still in his right senses, he'd made confession, had shown contrition for his sins, and having given affirmative answers to the Seven Interrogations put to him by the priests, the Body and Blood of Our Lord had been placed upon his tongue. Once a man was shriven, he turned his thoughts only to God, Master Gunthorp reminded Bess, went to his Maker with a tranquil heart and soul purged of earthly evils.
Bess very much wanted to believe that. But why, then, were Papa's fevered murmurings so disquieted?
Those tales the minstrels delighted in, of unfaithful wives betraying themselves in the babblings of fever. . .
. They simply weren't true. She could make little of what Papa was saying, an occasional name, no more than that. But what was unmistakable was the troubled tenor of his thoughts. He did not sound in the least to Bess like a man freed of mortal cares and concerns.
In his delirium, he spoke often of her Uncle George. Was that what was haunting him so? she wondered;
was he regretting George's execution? Once he startled her by jerking upright and crying out "Dick," with sudden clarity. Bess had thought he was calling for her uncle, or perhaps her little brother, but then he'd mumbled "Warwick," and she realized his ghost was the cousin dead these twelve years past on Barnet
Heath. She found it unnerving, listening to him grapple with his past, with people long dead, people she didn't know, and when he looked at her without recognition and called her "Nell," she'd burst into unstrung sobs.
With the coming of dawn, however, he'd grown less agitated. She thought she heard him say "Edmund,"
and hoped it was so; hoped he was back in his boyhood at Ludlow. Bending over the bed, she laid a fresh compress on his forehead. How strange it was, that not once had he called for Mama.
Bess had ambivalent feelings about her mother. She was very much in awe of Elizabeth, sought earnestly to please her, despaired of ever equaling Elizabeth's striking silver-blonde beauty. But as she reached her midteens, she found herself turning upon her mother an increasingly critical eye. Bess was not blind, was well aware of her father's excesses. If . if Papa was truly happy with Mama, then he'd have no need of other women. So Mama must be failing him.
But what Bess could never forgive her mother for was her failure to be here at Edward's bedside. How could Mama not want to be with him? How could she be so cold, so unfeeling?
She'd said as much to her sister, and was surprised to find that

Cecily was less judgmental. "It doesn't mean she doesn't care, Bess. I think ... I think it does frighten her to see Papa like this, so helpless. He was always so strong, so much in command, and now ..."
Bess wasn't altogether convinced, but she resolved to give her mother the benefit of the doubt... if she could. For all that she was only fourteen, Cecily had shown herself to be uncommonly sensitive to the unspoken needs of others, and Bess had come to respect her younger sister's intuition.
She wished that Cecily were here with her now. But a few hours ago, Edward's shallow, swift breathing had begun to be interspersed with audible sounds low in his throat. Both girls had known without being told what it was-the death rattle. That had been too much for Cecily; she'd fled the chamber, leaving behind her a trail of broken sobs.
Strangely enough, Bess wasn't frightened by the sound. She could even take a perverse comfort in it, for no longer had she to follow with apprehensive eyes the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The sound reassured her he still breathed, still lived. For all that she thought she'd accepted the death sentence passed by Doctors Hobbys and Albon, she had yet to abandon all hope.
She rose from her seat, approached the bed. A little trail of spittle glistened at the corner of Edward's mouth; she wiped it away with gentle fingers. There'd been another change in his breathing. It was coming now in deep gasps at surprisingly long intervals. Behind her, she heard Dr Hobbys say softly, "You'd best prepare yourself, my lady. It'll not be long."
She knew he meant to be kind, but she had to fight the urge to spit at him, to scream that he was wrong, that she didn't want to hear it. She touched her fingers again to her father's face, and as she did, his eyes opened. They were glazed a brilliant blue with fever, were sunken back in his head. But they were lucid, looked at her with full awareness for the first time in hours.
"Bess. . . ."
"Yes, Papa, yes! I'm right here."
"Sorry ... so sorry. . . ."
"For what, Papa? You've nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all." She! could see him straining to speak, and knew she should urge him to be | still, but she could not; these last moments of coherent communication ;| were too precious to lose.
"Sweet Bess ... so loved." He made an uncertain movement;!; she knew he was searching for her hand and quickly laced her fingers! through his.
"Don't worry, Papa. Please don't worry."
"Do you know . . . what be the worst. . . worst sins?"

She bent closer, not sure she'd heard him correctly. "No, Papa. What be the worst sins?"
The corner of his mouth twitched, in what she knew to be the last smile she'd ever see him give.
"The worst be," he whispered, "those about to be found out."
Bess didn't understand. "Rest now, Papa. It will be all right for us, truly it will. Rest now."

MIDDLEHAM
April 1483
lichard was standing just to Anne's right. In passing, she gave his elbow a playful squeeze, but so engrossed was he in what John Scrope was saying that he didn't even notice. The conversation was not one to give Anne comfort; he and Lord Scrope were discussing the latest intrigues of James of Scotland's malcontent brother, the Duke of Albany.
As little as Anne liked to admit it, she was well aware that another war with Scotland was inevitable.
James had managed to regain his freedom, but he was a weak King, and for that reason, a dangerous one. She knew that neither Ned nor Richard trusted James in the least, were convinced that sooner or later he'd resume raiding across the English border. Moreover, English prestige was at an all-time low abroad. Ned desperately needed a triumph to outshine the shame of the Treaty of Arras, and there is no greater success than that won in the field.
Anne was determined, however, not to let anything cast a shadow over so special an evening. She'd not think of this now, not of Scotland or war or the dying spider on the French throne. She had her husband back at Middleham, she was surrounded by friends, and it would soon be spring-all reasons for rejoicing.
Glancing about the great hall, she saw with satisfaction that her guests all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Supper had been a lavish affair, lasting almost three hours, and Richard's minstrels were now providing entertainment. How it would gall the Earl of Northumberland, she thought, should he learn how little he'd been missed!
Northumberland had politely sent his regrets, begging off because of a slight indisposition of the lower back. This had prompted Richard to 4uip that it wasn't his back which was out of joint, it was his nose.
Re

membering, Anne grinned. She didn't doubt that Richard was right. For all the care Richard had taken not to slight Northumberland's authority, he'd never succeeded in breaking through the man's guard. Even after ten years, relations between the two men were characterized by a chill politeness. Northumberland was a reserved, cautious sort, not easy to know, and neither his Lancastrian heritage nor the fact that his
House of Percy once reigned supreme in Yorkshire had been conducive to the development of any genuine warmth between him and Richard.
But Northumberland was the only northerner of note missing from Middleham on this Tuesday eve in mid-April. The great hall was full of familiar faces. John and Alison Scrope. Dick and Agnes Ratcliffe.
Rob and Joyce Percy. The Metcalfes of Nappa Hall. Lord Greystoke. All of the FitzHugh clan.
With that last thought, Anne was unable to keep from shooting a quick look in Veronique's direction.
Almost at once, she chided herself. Veronique and Francis were far too discreet to show the slightest sign of intimacy in front of his in-laws. Such a suspicion did injustice to them both.
Anna Lovell had chosen to remain at Minster Lovell, and Anne was glad of that, for Veronique's sake.
She still worried about her friend, still wished Veronique could have fallen in love with a man able to marry her. Anna Lovell was as dependent as a child, and Anne seriously doubted whether Francis could ever bring himself to divorce her. But she no longer doubted his love for Veronique. Few illicit liaisons could endure for almost eight years unless there was a deep and genuine caring on both sides.
After instructing the minstrels that dancing would soon begin again, Anne moved to join Francis, Rob and
Joyce Percy. Rob had recently come back from Calais and he was regaling them with the latest rumors about the ailing French King.
"Is it true, Rob, that Louis does sleep at night with so many candles that his chamber does look like midday even at midnight?"
"So I did hear. Since last September, he's been completely sequestered at his palace at Plessis-de-Parc
Les Tours." Predictably, Rob man-1 gled the French almost beyond recognition. Unfazed, he was the first to laugh at his own tangled tongue, and then launched into an enthusiastic account of current Calais gossip.
"They say he's forbidden his servants to make use of the word death ; in his presence! Truly, his fear is great, indeed. Since he was stricken with the half-dead disease, he's spent several hundred thousand livres in offer-1 ings alone. He did beg from the Pope the sacred Corporal, the altar linen| which St Peter did use to say Mass, and he's dispatched ships as far asj the Cape Verde Islands in search of remedies.
..."

Anne was no longer listening, was watching the man being ushered into the hall. She'd seen enough couriers in her life to recognize one on sight. It was unusual, however, for a messenger to appear before a lord like Richard in such travel-stained disarray. That he was unshaven, grimy with days of hard riding, told a tale in itself; his message must be urgent, indeed. The unease that was never far from conscious thought flickered, threatened to come to life. But then she saw that the messenger did not wear the royal colors, and her frown vanished. An urgent message from Ned was sure to mean bad news, to mean another Scots or French campaign. But there was no such danger in a communication from William
Hastings, and she turned back to Rob, asked curiously, "Rob, does there seem to be much anxiety among the French people over the coming death of their King? His son is only thirteen, after all."
Rob nodded, and unable to resist quoting Ecclesiastes, intoned gravely, 'Woe unto thee, O land, when the King be a child.' You may be sure that's much on men's minds. Look what did happen here in
England when Harry of Lancaster came to the throne as a babe. . . . Chaos and bloodletting and conspiracies. All of which I do most devoutly wish upon the French once Louis dies and his boy heir takes the throne!"
"Anne." Francis touched her arm lightly. "I'm not sure, but I think something might be wrong."
There was an unnatural immobility about the scene that now met Anne's eyes. Hastings's courier still knelt before Richard, in his outstretched hand a sealed paper. Richard had yet to take it, was regarding him with a curious lack of expression. There was nothing in his face to give alarm, yet people were beginning to glance in his direction, attracted, perhaps, by the utter stillness of his stance.
"Oh, dear God!" Anne never even knew she'd spoken. Shoving her wine cup at Joyce, she began to move toward her husband. The look on Richard's face was one she'd seen before. Marguerite d'Anjou had listened with that same stunned blankness as William Stanley informed her that her son was dead.
Before she'd taken more than a few steps, however, the frieze shattered. Richard swung around, abruptly exited the hall, roughly shouldering aside a startled minstrel unlucky enough to be blocking the doorway.
Conversation came to a sudden halt, then started up again with a vengeance. Hastings's messenger came stiffly to his feet, held out to Anne the still sealed message.
Anne's recoil was physical; she actually put her hands behind her back like a reluctant child. She did not want to know what was in that letter/ dared not take it, sensing that what it contained would forever change h er life, the lives of those she loved.
"Madame? Madame, I do come from Lord Hastings." The man's

voice was hoarse, thick with fatigue, but his eyes were full of unsettling sympathy.
"I regret deeply that I must be the one to tell you. The King is dead."
the candle had been marked to count the passing hours; it was now burning down toward one o'clock.
Three hours he'd been gone. Three hours. Where was he? Let him come back. Blessed Lady, let him be all right.
Without even realizing it, Anne had begun to pace again. Knowing Richard as well as she did, she should have realized, should have guessed what he'd do. She just hadn't been thinking clearly. She'd gone first to their bedchamber, then to the chapel. By the time it occurred to her to check the stables, it was too late.
A bewildered groom confirmed that Richard had roused him from sleep, demanded that he saddle a horse. It had been a good quarter-hour since the Duke had ridden out, he told Anne apologetically, adding in uncertain concern, "My lady, be there trouble? The Duke did spur his stallion through the village like the hounds of Hell were on him!"
Since then, Anne had worn a path to the solar window facing north, was drawn toward it now. The village was cloaked in dark, and beyond, all was utter blackness. A man could so easily lose his way; his stallion | could stumble, pull up lame.
She mustn't torment herself like this. Richard did know the dales of I Wensley and Cover as well as any man in Yorkshire. Yes, but he was rid-1 ing White Surrey, the fiery-tempered destrier Ned had given him last;! June at Fotheringhay. A horse bred for battle, as high-strung as it waSi beautiful. What if it bolted and threw him? Or if it blundered into a sink hole? Who would know? A man grieving might well make a careless mis| judgment, and on the moors such mistakes were often fatal.
Perhaps she should send men out after him? But he'd never forg her for that, never. She'd wait awhile longer. Surely he'd be back soortl He hadn't taken a cloak, and winter lingered late in Yorkshire. At nighf an icy chill came down off the Pennines.
Loki, the alaunt she'd given Richard to fill the void left by Gareth'l loss, rubbed against her skirts like some huge silver-grey cat; the slanti dark eyes were so sorrowful that Anne found herself blinking back tea She mustn't give way, though. She had to hold herself together, hadbe ready to comfort Richard when he returned. Oh, God, what could: say to him? He'd loved Ned so much.
She had to stop this. Richard was a man well able to look after ] self; she must try to remember that. A
quick glance toward the candle TT her it was nigh on 1:30. Mother of God, where was he?