The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (109 page)

lied to me! You told me you meant my uncle no harm, and now you seek to charge him with treason!"
What Good Samaritan, Richard wondered wearily, had he to thank for this? Morton, most likely. He'd hoped to have more time, to be able to explain it to Edward himself, was in no mood to deal with the boy's Woodville-bred suspicions. He tried, however, reminded Edward quietly of the discovery of the wagons of armor and weapons, of the actions they'd taken to deprive him of the protectorship, their seizure of the treasury.
He was, he soon saw, wasting his breath. Edward had lapsed into a sullen silence; his words were falling on deaf ears. And how could it be otherwise? How could he expect a twelve-year-old boy to understand, to forgive?
It was uncommonly hot for mid-May and the chamber was stifling. Sun filtered through the windows with the thickness of smoke, and dust particles danced on the air, settled upon their clothing. A dull, persistent pain had begun to press against Richard's temple.
"I know there is much you find hard to understand. All I can tell you, Edward, is that I am trying to act in your best interests. I would hope you'll come in time to see that, even if you cannot just now."
"How is it in my best interests to separate me from my Uncle Anthony?" Edward's breath was coming very quick; his voice rose unevenly. "It's not because of me at all, it's because you do hate him, because you've always hated him! He told me, told me you've long borne a grudge against our family!"
Our family. The Woodvilles. Damn you, Ned, but what were you | thinking of? Richard shook his head, said slowly, "That's not true, I Edward. I'll not deny I've little liking for your lady mother's kin; I'll not | lie to you about that. But they did force my hand at Northampton. It need not have happened. I'd not make use of the protectorship to settle old scores. And your father knew I would not; for that reason, he did name me and not your Uncle Anthony as Protector."
"You say my father trusted you, but all I know is that my uncle does not! Nor does my mother! Why else would she have fled into sanctuary, | still be refusing to come out unless she feels she has cause to fear you?"
That was a jab into a festering sore. Richard's mouth hardened; he| said sharply, "Fear hasn't a damned thing to do with it! It be malice, pure| and simple!"
It was the first time Edward had seen his uncle angry, and he shrank back. Richard caught himself, would have given a great deal to be able toi| call his words back. It was, of course, too late.

RICHARD had spent several harried hours at Westminster, dispatching writs for the coming parliament.
It was late afternoon before his barge started downriver. The sun was low in the sky, a red-gold haze along the horizon, but the air still smoldered with heat. It shimmered upon the water, seared Richard's skin and trickled sweat into his hair. The smell of the river was all around him, rank and rancid. Along the shore, he could see a man emptying slop pails into the water, in defiance of local ordinance. The citizens of York were no less careless of health considerations; they, too, used the river as a convenient dumping ground for refuse. But for the moment, that was forgotten. Richard gazed moodily at the debris floating past his barge, and it seemed to him to be characteristic of all he found abhorrent and distasteful in
Westminster.
By the time he reached Crosby Place, his shirt was sticking damply to his shoulder blades and his head was throbbing. He was supping that evening with John Howard, had just time enough to bathe and change, and he was far from pleased to find Will Hastings awaiting his return.
Will made desultory conversation for some minutes, the sort of idle, amusing talk that passed the time and said little. But as soon as Richard's servants had withdrawn and the two men were alone, Will's demeanor changed abruptly. Setting his wine cup down, he said bluntly, "You did surprise me this morn, in truth you did. You be as good a battle commander as any I've seen, yet you did forget one of the most elemental rules of warfare. . . . At all costs, cover your flanks."
Richard did not need to be told that; nor did he much like hearing it from Will, who'd voted that morning with Morton, voted down a charge of treason. "That be a lesson you've learned, at any rate," he said coolly, saw a faint discomfited red dye Will's face and neck.
"Look, Dickon, between you and me, I'll freely admit you're in the right about the Woodvilles. There's not a one of them be worth the hanging. But don't expect me to say that in council. We've got a boy King who does have a genuine affection for his Woodville uncle, and I've no intention of forgetting it. Now if that does make me a hypocrite ..." He shrugged. "Well, so be it."
His candor was disarming, struck echoes in Richard of his brother. It was, he knew, the same sort of calculating common sense he'd have gotten from Ned, and some of his resentment began to ebb. He could hardly blame Will, after all, for being smart enough not to get entangled in Morton's snare.
"If you are, you're honest with it," he said with a faint smile. Will smiled back, and Richard found himself recounting that disastrous noon- fane meeting with his nephew. Will listened in silence, shook his head when Richard was through.
"Do you know what Ned once said about you, Dickon? He said you

thought patience to be one of the Seven Mortal Sins! He was right, you know. Edward's a bright youngster, and he'll come around in time. But it won't be tomorrow or next week or even next month.
Woodville has had him for nigh on ten years; we've had him but a fortnight. You should try to bear that in mind.
"No, the problem as I see it is not with Edward. The problem be Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham."
Richard straightened up; wine splashed on his wrist. "Christ, Will, not that again!"
"Yes, that again," Will said grimly. "Be it true that you mean to appoint Buckingham as Chief Justice and
Chamberlain for North and South Wales?"
"Yes, I do."
"That be a mistake, Dickon. Buckingham's not a man to entrust with that much power. Take my word for it."
"I need more than that, Will. Harry's given me no reason to doubt him and every reason to trust him. Had it not been for him, I might well have ridden into a Woodville ambush. I owe him a great deal."
"So, I believe, Ned once said of Warwick!"
"What would you have me do, Will? By blood alone, he's entitled to a place in council. He's stood with me from the first, backed me at a time when none knew if I'd keep either the protectorship or my life.
I've had nothing from him but wholehearted support. And this be how you'd have me repay him, by denying him the voice he deserves in my government? And why? Because you don't happen to like the man! Jesus God, Will!"
"Ned didn't like Buckingham, either," Will said sharply. "Have you never wondered why?"
"And are you saying that Ned never made an error of judgment? The man who married Elizabeth
Woodville and turned his son over to her| brother to raise?"
"Oh, Ned made mistakes, all right; more than his share, perhaps. But Buckingham wasn't one of them.
Buckingham is yours." Will shoved] his chair back, came to his feet.
"Loyalty is an admirable trait, Dickon. Unless it does blind you to thej flaws all others see. I watched you delude yourself with Warwick and your brother Clarence, watched you learn the hard way that they we not the men you thought them to be. At the risk of giving offense, you', not the best judge of character, Dickon. You've too often given your loy alty to men who didn't deserve it."
Richard, too, was on his feet now. "If loyalty distorts judgme what then, of jealousy? That be what we're truly talking about, isn't Buckingham has my trust and you don't like it. I expected better of yc

Will. You know the men we have to deal with: Morton, Rotherham, Stanley-self-seekers, all. Yet you'd have me shut out a man who's proved beyond doubt where his loyalties lie, and for what? So that you can have a bigger portion of the pie!"
Will had gone rigid with rage. "I'll take up no more of your time," he said stiffly, strode across the chamber, and reached for the door latch. Richard watched in silence. His anger had not completely obscured his common sense; he knew he shouldn't let Will leave like this. But he couldn't bring himself to make the first move. He was tired and resentful and it was easier to say nothing, to tell himself that he was in the right, that Will must be the one to make amends.
THE bedchamber was awash in June sunlight. A trail of clothing led across the carpet toward Richard and Anne's bed, the black sendal of his mourning doublet, her dark gown, a frothy lace-edged kirtle.
Anne turned her head on the pillow, studied Richard through her lashes. She was still surprised by the intensity of his greeting. However ardent he might be in private, Richard was generally rather circumspect in public; it was unusual for him to be more demonstrative than hand- holding or a discreet kiss. She'd not been prepared, therefore, for an impassioned embrace on the outer steps of the great hall, within full view of half the household of Crosby Place. For once totally uncaring of the amused approving eyes upon them, Richard had taken Anne directly up to their bedchamber. She'd not even unpacked; her coffers were still downstairs in the great hall.
He'd surprised her, too, by the urgency of his lovemaking. Her lips parted, curved upward; she felt a languid warmth laying claim to her body again, a sensation both indolent and erotic. She wasn't sure she would want Richard to make love to her like this every time; tenderness was too important to her for that. But it had been exciting. She laughed softly. In truth, it had been that.
"What be so funny, sweetheart?"
She moved closer, shifted so that their bodies touched at hip and thigh and shoulder. "I was thinking of the pleasure you gave me, and how much I do love you," she murmured, saw him smile.
He'd lost weight since she'd seen him last. She saw it in the hollows under his cheekbones, in the tightness of the skin along his jaw. The creases around his eyes were more pronounced, too. She traced their path with a light finger, wondering why people called them "laugh lines" when they were anything but that.
He listened attentively as she reassured him about his sons, shared fhe news of Middleham, relayed to him messages from the York city

council and Lord Mayor. But he'd volunteered little of his own activities these six weeks past, and now she hesitated, not wanting to interrogate him and yet anxious to know what had been happening.
"I did as you requested and stopped at Berkhampsted on my way south, Richard. Your mother gave me a letter for you; it be in one of my coffers."
"Did you ask her to reconsider her refusal to come to London?"
Anne nodded. "Yes, love, I did. She said she hoped you'd understand why she could not. She's not left
Berkhampsted since she did take vows, nigh on three years now; not even for Ned's funeral." She paused. "I don't think you should urge her further, Richard. We all have to find our own path, and the way she's found be right for her. I'm sure of it, for never have I seen her so tranquil in spirit, so at peace with herself."
"I do envy her that," Richard said briefly, and then, "Did I write you that I'd sent for George's children?
Grey had them sequestered on manors in Devon, and for five years they've been kept apart, have not seen each other even once in all that time. The girl will be here by week's end, and the boy did arrive yesterday."
"Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick,'' Anne said softly, somewhat sadly, and then she smiled ruefully.
"Lord help us once we have Ned here, too. How we'll tell all these Edwards apart, I've no idea! Tell me about George's little boy. What is he like?"
"He be the very image of George at age eight. But in temperament, they do seem like day and night.
George was born to mischief. His son, though, be very quiet, very shy, and far more timid than is natural for a boy his age. But it may be that he's just not yet at ease with me. I don't," Richard said with sudden bleakness, "seem to be having much luck these days with any of my nephews."
"Richard, talk to me. Tell me about it... please. You need to share the burden, love, in truth you do."
She was right, Richard thought; he did. "I've never felt like this before, Anne ... so frustrated, so at the mercy of events beyond my control." He propped a pillow behind his head, turned toward his wife.
"Every day seems to bring naught but more problems. Money, for one. Although all but two ships of the fleet deserted Edward Woodville, he did keep command of the ship carrying the bulk of Ned's treasury, got it safe to Brittany. And here the council is unable to agree on anything. The only men of the entire council I can count upon be Buckingham and Jack Howard. Having a boy King does bring out the worst in men; they see him as a puppet whose strings be up for the taking, and some of our venerable Bishops be the worst of the lot!"
"But what of Will Hastings, Richard? Can you not rely on Will?"

Richard's mouth twisted down. "Will and I do not see eye to eye on much these days. He does greatly resent Buckingham, and I admit Harry does not ease the situation any. There be times when the tension between them be thick enough to be sliced and served up on trenchers."
"Have you tried talking to Will, Richard?"
"What can I say to him, Anne? I cannot tell him that I do agree with his suspicions about Buckingham, and that be all he does want to hear. I don't know; I guess I don't know him as well as I once thought I
did."
Anne was frowning. "But you do still trust him, don't you?" And was relieved when Richard said without hesitation, "Yes, I trust him. He may be making an ass of himself over Buckingham and playing the fool with that
Shore woman, but Will's no Morton, no Stanley. I'm beginning to wonder about his judgment, but his loyalties aren't in doubt."
"Will and Jane Shore? But Francis wrote Veronique that she'd become Thomas Grey's mistress!"
"She had. But now that Grey's keeping to sanctuary, she's taken to sharing Will's bed, or so rumor has it."
Anne raised herself up on her elbow, read in Richard's face her own distaste. Jane Shore had to have been more to Ned than a warm beautiful body; no man keeps a mistress for nigh on nine years unless he does care for her. Anne sighed. Maybe she was squeamish, but she didn't like to think of a woman Ned loved being passed about among his intimates like a wine cup or serving knife.
"What of the Queen, Richard? Be she still in sanctuary?"
"Yes. "Tersely.
"But it's been more than a month! What does she hope to gain by this . . . this charade?"
"A great deal. With each day that she stays in sanctuary, she does cause me embarrassment, stirs up dissension in council, and makes it less and less likely that I'll ever win Edward's trust."
Anne sat upright. "Oh, how I hate that woman!"
"I'll never forgive her for this, Anne. Never. But however much I need her out of sanctuary, I'll be damned before I do pay her price. Her terms, you see, be full pardons for all her kin and seats on the council for Anthony Woodville and Thomas Grey. And there be no way on God's earth that I will ever agree to that."
"Well, she cannot stay in sanctuary indefinitely. Once she sees she's not going to get her way, she'll come out. What does worry me more be this jealousy between Hastings and Buckingham. What mean you to do about it, Richard?"
"I don't know," Richard conceded. "I don't doubt that Ned would