The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (110 page)

have found a way to keep them both content. He had an uncanny knack for that, for juggling rivalries like so many apples. But I do not. I haven't the patience."
"You're too forthright to play games," Anne said, with such protective warmth that he smiled. "Had Ned rooted out these antagonisms and intrigues when they first did surface, you'd not be facing such problems. Don't ever forget, Richard, that this field was planted long ago, and by Ned, not by you."
Richard surprised her now by saying with no small measure of bitterness, "And a right fine crop he's left for me to harvest, in truth."
She hesitated and then reached over, brushed the hair back from his forehead. "You sound as if you be very angry with Ned, love."
He turned a startled face toward her. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I guess I am."
A silence fell. Anne was content to wait, and after a time, Richard said thoughtfully, "There's been so much anger bottled up within me, Anne, these six weeks past. I've been most angry with those you'd expect, with Elizabeth Woodville and Thomas Grey. But with Will, too, for making things so needlessly difficult. And with myself, for not handling it better. At times with Edward, for what I know he cannot help. With Morton, our thoroughly secular priest. But though I didn't realize it till now, much of that anger was for Ned.
"I have been angry with him. For taking to wife a woman so utterly unfit to wear a crown. For putting
Edward into Anthony Woodville's care, for letting the boy be raised as a Woodville. For turning a blind eye to the hostilities infesting his court. And above all ... for a death that need never have been. That the man who won Towton at nineteen and Tewkesbury at twenty-nine should have died the way he did, dead at forty. . . . No, I cannot forgive him for that."
Nor can I forgive him, either. I cannot forgive him for this legacy he's left you, Richard, for bequeathing us a future of fear. Anne did not speak these words aloud. She was sure that Richard, too, looked to tomorrow with foreboding, a tomorrow when Edward might demand a very high price, indeed, for today's Woodville grievances. That was not a fear to be shared, though. It was one to be buried in silence, neither acknowledged ; nor admitted.

June 1483
EtDWAKD had no memory of his parents. His mother had died two months before his second birthday, and no matter how hard he sought to put her face together in his mind, there were pieces missing. But he never even tried to do that with his father. His father was not a permissible topic of conversation; it was safer not to think of him at all. For a long time, Edward hadn't understood why. Not until a nurse much given to gossip had seen fit to dispel his ignorance, told him that his father had been charged with treason, confined to the Tower, and there executed at the King's command. And that Edward understood all too well. His father had died a traitor's death, had died in disgrace, and it somehow reflected upon him. He never again made mention of his father, asked no more questions.
Edward knew he was the ward of a man he'd never laid eyes upon, Thomas Grey. It was very confusing to him, therefore, to be suddenly summoned to London by an uncle he knew no better than he did Grey.
As best as he could puzzle it out, he was to be his uncle's ward. Edward wasn't sure yet, but he thought he might like that. His uncle had a low, pleasant voice. Edward liked the sound of it, liked the way his uncle tilted his head to the side when he listened, the way he had of laughing with just his eyes. Above all, Edward liked the way his uncle didn't ask him questions he couldn't answer, seemed not to mind that he had so little to say.
Edward had long ago learned not to expect too much. But he found himself wishing that he might stay here at Crosby Place. Especially now that she was here, the slender dark-eyed woman who said she was his mother's sister, said she was his Aunt Anne. She'd arrived yesterday,

had come up to his bedchamber last night to tuck him into bed. No one had ever done that before, and her perfume had lingered in the room long after she'd gone.
That same flowery scent came to him now. He was poised on the threshold of her bedchamber, the one she shared with his uncle. He sensed he shouldn't be here, but the fragrance beckoned him into the room, was in its own way as strong an inducement as the dog. Loki, his name was. His uncle's dog, come yesterday with his aunt from the far North. He looked to Edward like a large grey wolf, but Aunt Anne said he was called an alaunt. All the dogs Edward had known were stable animals, not pets; he'd never before seen a dog that was given the free run of the house.
Loki was stretched out by the bed. He raised his head, regarded Edward with unblinking dark eyes that slanted at the corners like a cat's. Edward edged closer, hoping for some sign of encouragement. But the plumed tail didn't move, lay flat upon the carpet. Edward's disappointment was intense; he'd wanted few things in his life as much as he wanted to make friends with this big dog. He tried to bear in mind what his aunt had told him about Loki, that he was a one-man dog. Alaunts were often thus, she explained, and
Edward nodded dutifully, said he understood. But he didn't, not really, was hurt that Loki was so indifferent to his overtures.
Circling wistfully around Loki, he wandered over to the table that held his aunt's hairbrushes. A blue glass vial caught his eye. He pulled the stopper, rubbed the liquid onto his palm and sniffed; to his delight, he smelled just like roses. So caught up was he in his discovery that he did not hear the approaching footsteps until they neared the door. Startled,;j he turned toward the sound. The vial slipped from his fingers, cracked! against the table, and fell to the floor.
Loki rose, stretched, and padded toward Anne in polite greeting. With an exclamation of annoyance, she brushed past the dog, bent to pick! up the glass scattered about the carpet.
"How in the world did. . . ?" It was then that she saw the little boyi| He was crouched down against the wall, knees drawn up to his chesiif and Anne was stunned by the look of fear on his face.
"Edward? Edward, it be all right." She held out her hand. "You come out now. You'll not be blamed for a mishap. This could happen I anyone."
Having coaxed the boy to her, she slipped an arm around his she ders, led him toward the window seat.
Color was coming back into his face. She smiled reassuringly at him, touched the soft sunlit hair. were a handsome people, her husband's family, but she thought George and Bella's little boy was possibly the most beautiful child s

ever seen. But Blessed Lady, what had been done to him? Could the lack of love do such damage?
"Your sister Meg will be here tomorrow, Edward. Do you remember her at all?"
Edward shook his head. "I don't remember much about . . . about before," he said apologetically.
"No, sweetheart, I don't suppose you do."
He was sitting very stiffly beside her, shoulders hunched up, hands folded tightly in his lap, and she wanted to draw him toward her, to cradle his head against her breast.
"Do you know what we're going to do tomorrow, Edward? You and I are paying a call upon Margaret
Howard, Lord Howard's wife. She told me today that one of their brachet hounds whelped last month, and we have the pick of the litter. Would you like that?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said politely.
Anne was disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm, and surprised, too; she'd seen how his eyes followed
Loki.
"Don't you want a puppy, Edward?" she asked, saw his eyes go round in wonderment.
"You mean . . . it be for me?"
Anne's eyes misted suddenly. Her sister's child. Thomas Grey had much to answer for. And so did Ned, for letting it happen. God forgive him, but Ned's sins of omission were adding up. Who else, she wondered bitterly, would have to pay the price for his lack of care?
anne closed the solar door, wishing she could shut out the rest of the world as easily as she shut out their household. Richard was sitting on the settle, one leg drawn up under him, jotting down notes in a slanting
Italic script. He seemed thoroughly immersed in his task, didn't glance up until Anne leaned over him.
"You've an ink smear on your cheek," she said, held out a dampened handkerchief. "Here, let me." He tilted his face up, and she rubbed until the mark was gone, then dropped a kiss lightly on his nose.
"What are you working on, Richard?"
"Issues to be raised at the council meeting on Monday." He put the papers aside as she settled herself next to him, said, "I'm sorry I didn't 8gt back in time for supper. Did you go to see Edward as you planned?"
Anne nodded. "I went to the Tower this morn. It didn't go too well, I fear. He be at such an awkward age, too old to console as you would a child and not old enough to be reasoned with as you would with an adult." She leaned back so that her head rested comfortably in the crook f Richard's shoulder.

"He did ask me why his mother refuses to come out of sanctuary." She sighed, and felt a slight stiffening of her husband's body.
"He did challenge me with that one, too," Richard admitted. "What did you say to him?"
"Well, I told him that people may fear even when there be no cause; it's not a rational emotion. I could hardly tell him, after all, that we believe his mother to be playing a game of political blackmail! I reminded him that my own mother had taken sanctuary after the battle of Barnet, even though she had no reason to fear Ned's retali-" She never completed the sentence; Richard had stopped her words with his mouth.
"Anne, that was truly inspired! I'd wager that never occurred to Edward before. What was his reaction?"
"Richard, I so wish I could say he was startled into seeing all in a different light. But it's not going to happen that way, love, and you just have to resign yourself to it. He's a very confused boy, and it will take time. You have to remember that whatever I say is doubly suspect in his eyes. Not only am I your wife, I am the Earl of Warwick's daughter, and I don't doubt he's been taught to view my father as the
AntiChrist."
"No," Richard said grimly. "I expect that dubious distinction to be mine. The Woodvilles lessoned him well, you see."
"Lessons can be unlearned, too, love, given time." And because she herself didn't believe what she was saying, Anne reached up, sought Richard's mouth with her own.
The kiss was easy and unhurried, was a pleasant prelude to slowly stirring desire. Richard tasted of wine.
She pretended to nibble on his lower lip, welcomed the touch of his tongue and explored his mouth with her own. When she closed her eyes, he kissed her eyelids, her lashes, and then she felt his mouth move lower, down to her throat.
Anne laughed and tickled his ear with her tongue. They'd made love I more in the past three days than they normally did in the course of a I week. At first Anne had attributed it to their six-week separation.
Now I she thought it was more complex than that. These days Richard's every :| waking hour was weighed down with cares, with choices that offeredhigh risks and little satisfaction. And that, Anne suspected, was why hesuddenly seemed so loathe to leave her bed. He sought in her caresses and the warmth of her body a brief surcease, a respite from problems that had no solutions, from a troubled present and an even more disquieting future.
Richard had slipped his hand into the bodice of her gown; he was M fondling her breast, squeezing slowly. Anne's breath quickened. She could feel her body warming, opening to desire. Her nipple had gone taut against his caressing fingers. She unfastened buttons on his doublet, slid her hand inside his shirt, next to his skin.

"I've an idea," he murmured. "Let's go up to bed."
"At eight in the evening?" Anne teased. "What, and scandalize the household?"
"Well, then, we'll have to make do here, I suppose. Do you fancy the settle? Or would you rather we threw some cushions on the floor?"
He was, Anne knew, paying her back in kind; his need for privacy was only a little less than her own.
She laughed and, wrapping her arms around his neck, slid down on the settle, shifted her position until she could feel the weight of his body on hers. She had no sense of urgency; anticipation did but make carnal pleasures all the sweeter. But Richard was not so patient. He lowered his mouth to hers again, and then said coaxingly, "Come, beloved. Let's go upstairs."
His hand was now under her skirts, had begun a slow, intimate exploration up her thigh. Anne's arms tightened about him, drew him still closer.
"Yes," she agreed huskily. "Oh, love, yes. ..."
She was dumbfounded by what Richard did next. He'd been about to kiss her again; instead, he pulled back with inexplicable abruptness, jerked upright on the settle. She opened her eyes in bewilderment, saw that he was staring past her toward the door, and then saw the Duke of Buckingham standing in the doorway.
Anne gasped, and as color flooded her face, she sat up in embarrassed haste, sought to assure herself that her clothing was in order.
Richard was no less discomfited than Anne, and a good deal angrier. "You're always welcome at Crosby
Place, Harry; you need no invitation. But you do need to be announced. In the future, I'd expect you to remember that."
Buckingham didn't even blink. "This couldn't wait, Cousin. We've news you must hear tonight, news of such import that-" He laughed suddenly, exultantly; there was about him the taut excitement of intoxication, and yet Richard would swear he was sober.
"He's right, Dickon. You do have to hear this." Francis had hung back at first, unwilling to invade the privacy of Richard's solar as blithely as Buckingham had. But he came forward now, repeated urgently, "You have to know."
A third man had entered the room. He seemed very ill at ease, fumbled overlong with the door latch, and when he turned at last, Richard was surprised to recognize his brother's former Chancellor, Robert
Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells.
"Well, since you're here," he said ungraciously, "what is this news that could not wait?"
Buckingham glanced back at Stillington. "Go on, my lord Bishop. Tell my cousin of Gloucester what you did tell us."

Richard had seen few men look as uncomfortable as Stillington did now. He was in his early sixties, yet seemed burdened with an extra ten years. His hands kept fidgeting with a rosary looped at his belt, and watery blue eyes were looking everywhere but at Richard's face.
"My lord. . ." He swallowed, started again. "My lord, I'm . . .I'm not a brave man. I've agonized with myself these weeks past, trying to decide what I ought to do. At first, I thought to . . .to keep quiet. But my conscience would not permit it. Your late brother's right to the crown was not affected, but it be different now. I've no choice but to speak up, to tell what I know. I did come to my lords of Buckingham and Lovell because I knew them to be men you trust. I suppose I should have come to you directly, but I
... I feared you might blame me for keeping silent all this time. . . ."
Richard had been listening with growing impatience. At the rate Stillington was rambling on, they were likely to be here all night. But the aging cleric was a guest in his house, and he said only, "Reverend
Father, I'm sorry, but I'm not making much sense out of all this. What is it you are trying to tell me?"
"It be about your nephew, my lord. It be about the young King." Stillington paused, and then the words came spilling out, in one great gasp. "I did call him King, but it cannot be, my lord. The boy cannot be crowned."
Richard cut his eyes sharply toward Buckingham. "I don't like this, Harry. I don't like this at all."
Unfazed, Buckingham shook his head. "Nay, Cousin, it's not what you think. Hear him out, that be all I
ask."
Now that Stillington's tongue was loosened at last, he suddenly seemed almost eager to tell what he knew.
"I'm not talking treason, Your Grace. I'm saying what I should have said years ago. In the eyes of the
Church, your nephew be a bastard. Your brother's marriage to the Lady Elizabeth Woodville Grey was fatally flawed, for at the time they exchanged vows, he was not free to wed.' More than two years before, I'd plight-trothed him to the Lady Nell Butler, widow of Sir Thomas Butler of Sudley, and younger daughter to John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury."
For the first time, Stillington's tension appeared to ease. With some| thing much like relief, he concluded quietly, "So you see, my lord, the;! coronation must be canceled. The boy cannot be King."
"I don't believe you." Richard's words were instinctive, had comej without thought or volition. Nor were they true. He did believe! Stillington; the man was too frightened to lie. There was wine on a sidef table and he turned toward it, impelled not so much by thirst as by the!