The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (124 page)

Because they were children, my brother's children. But he didn't say it. Remember who she is, for God's sake. In her eyes, he was guilty of her brother's death, guilty of usurping her nephew's crown. She's right;
why wouldn't she believe it?
"But you did begin to have doubts?"
"Yes," she admitted, "once the shock wore off, I did. It... well, it just didn't make sense to me. I know
I'm not clever like Lisbet, but I'm not as stupid as Harry always said, either. The more I thought on it, the more I began to wonder. You could only have done it to make sure there'd be no risings on their behalf, so there'd be no point in killing them and then keeping their deaths a secret; even I could see that. Yet that's what Harry would have me believe. And what would happen when people learned they were missing? No, it made no sense. And so ... and so I began to think that perhaps Harry had lied, that they weren't dead at all."
"When did you learn the truth?"
"When Reginald Bray came to Brecknock. Henry . . . my youngest son . . . had been running a high fever and his nurse and I were up with him most of the night before Bray's arrival. Around midday I began to suffer from the lack of sleep, so I went up to our bedchamber, drew the bed-curtains and lay down upon the bed.
"Sometime later I was awakened by voices. It seemed a God-sent way to find out what Harry was truly up to, so I just lay still, thinking to feign sleep should I be discovered. Harry was telling Bray that Edward and Dickon were dead, that you'd dispatched orders to Brackenbury after departing on your progress.
There was a silence when he stopped speaking and then Bray, he ... he laughed! He laughed and said how very obliging that was of you, to have done Henry Tudor so great a service!
"Harry became very defensive, demanded to know what Bray meant by that. Bray just laughed again, said not to mistake him, that he thought it a right clever slander. Harry snapped that it was more than slander, that it was true, and Bray said, very sarcastic, that if it were so, it could only mean that you'd lost your senses, and wasn't it strange that none had yet heard about the King's sudden fit of madness!
"Harry flew into a rage at that, called Bray a fool and worse, said he'd be damned before he'd deal with the likes of Bray. Bishop Morton Wed to mediate then, but Harry was not to be placated and he slammed ut of the chamber, telling Bray to take himself back to London at first light "No sooner had the door banged than Morton turned on Bray, began to berate him in language that ill became a Bishop."
Catherine's lips Bitched, in a ghostly parody of a smile.
"But Bray was not cowed, and said that the stakes were too high for

such game-playing. He said that if you were to be accused of murdering your nephews, well and good;
he was sorry he hadn't thought of that himself. But he wasn't about to go back to Lady Stanley and tell her that such a tale was true. She valued her son's life too highly, he said. Suppose they did stake all upon this story that the boys were dead, and you then paraded them through the streets for all London to see!
If Tudor was to risk all upon an invasion, seek to overthrow a crowned King, he was entitled to know the truth about the dangers he'd be facing, and he for one would not assure Tudor the boys were dead unless he was damned well certain that they were.
"Morton heard him out and then asked why Bray was so sure they weren't dead. Bray was scornful;
even your most bitter enemies, he said, had never accused you of being an idiot, and only an utter idiot would've gone about it in the way Harry claimed. You'd have waited till they grew to manhood, he said, and then found an excuse to send them to the block, or you'd have done it the way your brother did with
Harry of Lancaster, but what you'd assuredly not have done would be to arrange for a mysterious midnight disappearance. They couldn't, he said, have been so lucky!"
Katherine drew an uneven breath. "Lying there, listening, I felt a surge of pride. Here were two men as clever and worldly as any in the kingdom, and their conclusions were the same as my own! But then . . .
then Morton asked Bray a question. 'Assume the boys are dead,' he said, 'that they were secretly put to death in the Tower this past July just as Buckingham claims. Now tell me who would benefit and who would suffer.'
"Bray seemed to be humoring him, but he said, 'As for those with the most to lose, that be easy enough to answer. The Woodvilles, for obvious reasons. And Gloucester, since he'd be saddled with the crime.
Those who'd benefit? Well, we would, for certes! So, too, would the French.' And he went on to say that had you been King eight years ago, there'd have been no Treaty of Picquigny, and the French well know it, that they dread the day when you're secure enough on your throne to look Channelward, to seek another Agincourt.
"Morton wanted to know who else would benefit, and Bray said, 'Well, Buckingham, of course; he can't put in his own bid for the crown . unless he can so discredit Gloucester that he'll suddenly start to look positively pure in comparison!' I'd suspected, of course, that Harry had designs on the crown for himself, but it was still a shock to hear Bray put it so baldly as that. And I wondered if Harry suspected that these menj meant to use him the way he was using them.
"Bray had begun to laugh, was referring slightingly to Harry as 'ouli hot-headed host.' But then he stopped abruptly, almost as if a hand had|

been clapped over his mouth. There was a sudden silence and then I heard him say, 'Holy Mother of
God!' But even then, I didn't understand . . . even then. Not until Bray said, 'You're saying that it be
Buckingham's handiwork!' And Morton said ... he said, 'You've redeemed yourself, my young friend, just in time. I was beginning to fear I might have to draw you a diagram!'
"I don't remember much of what they said after that. Bray became very excited, and they agreed that he must apologize to Harry, eat humble pie if need be. 'Smooth our pigeon's ruffled feathers,' was the way
Morton put it. With that they left to find Harry and I ... I lay there on the bed. I just lay there."
Tears were filling her eyes again, glistened like liquid gold in the reflected glow of candlelight. Richard found a handkerchief, silently handed it to her.
"You said . . . said you'd seen the truth in Harry's face?"
Catherine nodded. "That night in bed, he wanted to lay with me and I... I couldn't bear for him to touch me. I refused him and he ... well, he became furious and we got into this terrible quarrel. One angry word led to another, until I heard myself screaming at him, telling him what I'd heard Morton and Bray say, demanding to know if it were true."
She'd crumpled Richard's handkerchief, began self-consciously to smooth it out upon her lap. "He denied it, of course, and I pretended to believe him. But in that first unguarded moment, I'd seen his face and I
knew."
They looked at each other as the silence spun out, the moments ebbed away. The fire had burned out;
the hearth held only smoldering embers and charred ashes. Richard tilted his head, listening. He could hear a distant chiming, Gabriel Bells echoing on the icy night air. Glancing back at Catherine, he said softly, "I would never have hurt those children."
Catherine's eyes searched his face. "I believe you," she said simply.
AS she started her ninth month in sanctuary, Elizabeth made a halfhearted attempt to shake off the deep despondency that had engulfed her with the failure of Buckingham's rebellion. Tom had been able to get away, was now safe in Brittany. So, too, were her brothers Lionel and Edward. Couldn't she be thankful for that? She was; of course she was. But it just wasn't enough. Not when her own future was so bleak, so barren of hope. What was going to become of her?
She'd learned from John Nesfield that close to a hundred men were to suffer forfeiture of property when parliament convened, and while that was less than the number Ned had attainted after Towton, it didn't bode

well for a future of forgiveness. Ten men had gone to the block, among them her son's friend, Thomas St
Leger. But Morton, who had the Devil's own luck, somehow slipped through Richard's net, had surfaced in France. And Lady Stanley had once again managed to evade the consequences of conspiracy. She didn't get off quite so lightly this time, had been stripped of her titles and lands and remanded into her husband's custody, but had I been Richard, Elizabeth thought coolly, I'd have introduced that slender white neck of hers to the axe.
Strange, this reluctance that some men had to spill a woman's blood. Ned had shared it, too, would no more have sent a woman to the block than would Richard. Though there was a certain logic to Richard's forbearance. He needed Stanley; it was as simple as that. And because Stanley had shown himself loyal under fire, Richard had seen that he was well rewarded for it. He'd been given the constableship, given, too, the lifetime use of his wife's forfeited estates.
Ned had faced much the same problem; what to do with Stanley? The man was a weathercock, went whichever way the wind blew; in one year alone, he'd changed sides no less than four times. The trick, Ned had discovered, was to make it worth his while to be loyal. He'd made Stanley a member of his council, named him as Steward of the Royal Household, and it had worked; for more than twelve years, Stanley had faithfully done Ned's bidding, stuck to Ned like glue. So it didn't surprise Elizabeth any that
Richard was trying the same tactics. And it might well work for Richard as it had for Ned. That is, provided nothing happened to undermine Richard's hold on the throne. There were men who reacted to weakness like wolves to the scent of blood, and Stanley was one of them. So Ned had believed, and whatever Ned's other failings, he'd been a shrewd judge of men.
And so what now? Tudor? Even if he found the backbone to try again, what chance would he have to defeat Richard in the field? And what if he did, if he somehow managed to get the victory? While
Buckingham lived, he and Tudor would have canceled each other out. But now ... by publicly vowing to wed Bess, Tudor had committed himself to nullifying the plight-troth, and what then could she expect for
Edward? For Dickon? That she knew well enough. In pledging to make her daughter his Queen, Tudor was passing a sentence of death upon her sons; he'd have no choice.
No, whichever way she looked, she found only blind alleys, locked doors. What could she do except come to terms with Richard? And what had she left to bargain with? Her daughters were still his kinswomen, but how much did that truly matter to him?
No, she mustn't despair. He did want them out of sanctuary. It had to be an embarrassment for him, if nothing else. It was in his interest, too,

that she should come forth with her daughters. She must remember that, somehow turn it to her own advantage.
By the hearth Cecily and Bess were playing an indifferent game of chess. Snow had glazed the windowpanes, and all Elizabeth could see of the inner court was a blur of white.
"Madame?" John Nesfield stood in the doorway. "Madame, His Grace the Duke of Norfolk be without."
Elizabeth's lip curled. "Whatever else be said of your uncle, girls, there is nothing paltry about his payoffs!" she said bitingly, and felt no surprise whatsoever when Bess at once took issue with her.
"Mama, that's not fair. You know the duchy of Norfolk should have passed to Jack Howard two years ago. Our Dickon held it only by right of his wife, the little Mowbray heiress, and when that poor child died, it ought to've gone to Jack, and would have had Papa not gotten parliament to vest title in Dickon."
"Have a care, Bess. That remark could be read as being critical of your sainted father, and we'd surely not want that, would we?"
Bess flushed, but Elizabeth gave her no chance to speak, snapping, "No back talk, not now. Go look in on your sisters, both of you. I shall want to receive Howard alone."
"But I want to talk to Uncle Jack, too!" Bess protested. "We've seen no one from outside for weeks and weeks, and I want to hear what he has to say."
"Me, too, Mama," Cecily chimed in. "Please let us stay."
Elizabeth had no time to argue, for at that moment Nesfield escorted John Howard into the chamber.
Elizabeth's eyebrows rose, for she recognized the man with him as Sir Robert Brackenbury, Constable of the Tower. Rising unhurriedly to her feet, she tried to conceal her excitement, her conviction that these men must be here on Richard's behalf, that they must have been authorized to make her an offer. But then she gave a surprised gasp.
"Katherine!"
Katherine pushed back the hood of her cloak. "Lisbet. Oh, Sister. ..."
Elizabeth's smile faded. "Katherine? Be you all right? You look ghastly, in truth!"
Katherine had yet to move, and Elizabeth's eyes flicked past her, to the silent men. All her expectations had been dashed at sight of her sister. It didn't make sense that Katherine should be here with these men.
Something was wrong; one look at Katherine's face told her that. Their faces, too, warned of a coming grief. Howard was even grimmer than usual, and Brackenbury . . . well, he had the look of a man with a gnawing pain in his vitals. Elizabeth's fear was purely instinctive, had not yet

reached a conscious level of awareness; she knew only that her mouth was suddenly dry, that sweat was trickling down her ribs, and whatever they'd come to tell her, she didn't want to hear.
"Lisbet, I don't know how to tell you. . . . Harry, he . . .he wanted to be King. So much that nothing else mattered. He made sure that the men taking care of Edward and Dickon were his, and then he . . . he . . .
Oh, God. God help me, but I can't. . . ." Katherine's voice broke on a sob. "I can't. . . ."
"Madame. . . . Madame, I blame myself." Brackenbury sounded scarcely more coherent than Katherine.
"I have children of my own, and had I even suspected for a moment, I'd have posted guards around the clock, God's blessed truth. ..."
Elizabeth took a step backward, and then another. "No," she said, very distinctly. "No, I don't believe you. I don't . . . don't want to hear any more. I don't."
Cecily stood very still, staring at her mother. Bess alone moved, turning instinctively toward the man who'd been her father's friend.
"Uncle Jack? I don't understand. What doesn't Mama believe?" She tried very hard to keep her voice steady, tried and failed.
Howard came forward, caught up her hands within his own. "It be bad, sweetheart. As bad as it can be."
As if in a dream, Bess saw that this seasoned soldier, this man who'd won such success at the point of a sword, now had tears in his eyes.
"It be your brothers, Bess. The lads be dead."
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WESTMINSTER
February 1484
A
LNNE settled herself deeper in her husband's bed, drew the coverlets up under her chin. The bed-curtains screened out the light but not the noise, the sounds Richard's attendants made as they