The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (133 page)

"We all do fear that," Elizabeth said softly, "a long drawn-out death that does only prolong our suffering, that of our loved ones. When there be no hope, it's a mercy if death comes quickly."
Bess nodded. "Oh, Mama, you're right. It would be better for Anne to die, it would. She doesn't deserve this, never hurt anyone. ..."
"Does she suffer greatly?"
"No, thank God. At least she's been spared that. There be discomfort . . . her cough, the sweating, diarrhea. But not that much pain. Her strength just keeps ebbing away, like a candle flame burning down to the wick." Bess wiped her eyes with the edge of the sheet, said huskily, "I overheard Doctor Hobbys talking one day with the doctor who'd treated Anne's sister Isabel; he said she'd hemorrhaged again and again in her last days, that she choked to death on her own blood. . . ."A shudder passed through her body. "I. . .1 don't think Dickon could ever endure that, Mama. If Anne suffered pain like that, I think
Dickon would ..." She swallowed convulsively, sought to keep her voice steady, with limited success.
"She's so thin and drawn now; when we bathe her, I swear you can see every bone in her body, and lying there in that big bed, she looks for all the world like a lost frightened child. But she has more courage than I would, Mama, much more. She tries so hard to keep the worst of her illness from Dickon, tries to spare him all she can. To look at her, you'd never think she had that strength of will. ..."
"Does he know, Bess, that there be no hope?"
"Yes, Mama, he knows." Tears welled up again in Bess's eyes. "At first he'd come in the evenings and play chess with Anne. But she's too weak now, and most nights he brings books and reads to her until she falls asleep. He sits with her for hours sometimes, just watching her while she sleeps, and there's so much pain in his face that I ... I feel as if it were my own, Mama."
Elizabeth said nothing, but she reached out, squeezed her daughter's hand, and Bess gave her a look of grateful wonderment.
"Mama . . . why could we not talk like this before?"
"I don't know, Bess," Elizabeth said slowly, surprised to find that she spoke no less than the truth. She was quiet for several moments, twisting her wedding ring with nervous fingers. So important to choose just the right words, such a delicate line to walk, with no margin for error.
"I never thought I'd say this, in truth I didn't, but after listening to you, Bess, I find myself feeling sorriest of all for Richard. Anne . . . well, she'll soon be at peace, beyond earthly pain. But for him, the worst may be yet to come. It always be hard to lose a loved one, but for a King, a King without a son and heir ..."
Elizabeth paused significantly, saw Bess frown.

"You mean . . . that he'll be totally alone?"
"No, dearest. I mean that they'll not give him time to grieve for Anne. No sooner will she be buried than they'll be pressuring him to wed again. The council, parliament, the Church . . . from all sides he'll hear but one refrain, that he must take another wife, a wife who can give him the sons Anne couldn't."
"Oh, Mama, no! He'd not want that, not want to wed again, I know he wouldn't! At least, not for a long time!"
"I'm sure you're right, but what you don't see, Bess, is that he'll have no choice. There be duties inherent in kingship, one of them being to provide a stable succession, a son. They'll push him into it, into an alliance with a foreign Princess, some woman he's never laid eyes upon, a woman like as not who'd not even speak English, and homely in the bargain." Elizabeth smiled thinly. "You, my dearest, were that rarity, a truly beautiful Princess, a creature as uncommon as the unicorn. Most of them be as simple as sheep and as plain as homespun. No, I fear Richard's future holds little happiness for him. He's not a man, after all, to seek consolation outside the marriage bed."
Bess was quiet, unnaturally so. Elizabeth was content to wait.
"Mama. ... I know Dickon, know how miserable he'd be in such a marriage. To wed a woman he'd never even seen, a woman foreign to the ways of England. . . . He deserves better than that, deserves a woman who'd love him like Anne, a woman who could make him happy. ..."
"I agree," Elizabeth said quickly, "but do you not realize, dearest, that you've just described yourself?"
Bess's head jerked up. "Me? Mama, he's my uncle!"
"And Anne is his cousin, once removed. Ah, Bess, blood be no impediment to marriage; have you never heard of papal dispensations?"
"Of course, but-"
"Wait, Bess, hear me out. I realize the idea may take getting used to, but it has much to recommend it.
What am I talking about, after all? About a marriage that would make you Queen, that would restore your sisters to their rightful rank. You have it in your power to do that for them, Bess, you and you alone."
"But the plight-troth, Mama, it-"
"Could be dealt with, Bess, trust me. The Beauforts, too, were illegitimate once; why could parliament not pass a similar act for you?"
"Mama, stop! Don't talk like this. It . . . it be wrong."
"Why? Because of Anne? She's dying, Bess. You'd be taking from her nothing that was still hers, that wasn't already lost to her. Whatever you do or do not do, she's still going to die and Richard is still going to need a wife, a wife to give him the son and heir he must have. Those be facts, Bess, facts you can't change. But you can turn them to your advan-

tage, our advantage." Elizabeth leaned forward, grasped Bess's hand between her own.
"You'd be a Queen, dearest! Think what that would mean to you, to your sisters. You'd be able to . . ."
But Bess was shaking her head stubbornly, almost desperately. "No, Mama, no! Please don't!"
"Why not?" Elizabeth was unrelenting. "He's going to have to wed again, so why shouldn't it be you? If the Pope sanctions the marriage, why then should you balk? Unless it be Richard you object to? Is that it, Bess? Do you find him unattractive as a husband, a lover? You'd not want to share his bed?" And she saw Bess crimson, saw tell-tale color burn brightly into her daughter's cheeks.
"You could make him happy, Bess. You could ease his grieving, bring joy back into his life, give him sons. You could do that for him, dearest, could-"
"Mama. ... I don't know. I need time to think. I ... I never thought of Dickon that way." Bess flushed even deeper. "I didn't, I swear it!"
"I know you didn't, dearest," Elizabeth said smoothly. "But such a marriage would solve so much, wouldn't it? For you, for Richard, for us all. You'd be good for him, Bess, you know that. You've believed in him, trusted him. Why shouldn't he prefer you to a stranger, to a dowdy pious foreigner with queer habits and-"
But Bess was staring over her shoulder, staring at the door, and Elizabeth turned abruptly, saw Cecily standing motionless in the doorway.
Elizabeth recovered first. "You did startle us, Cecily! Have you been there long?"
"Too long, Mama." Cecily came forward into the room, toward her sister. "Bess, you mustn't listen to this, you mustn't! She's wrong, such a marriage could never be, never-"
Bess jumped to her feet, filled with a sudden inexplicable sense of shame. "I don't want to talk about it, Cecily. No, Mama, not with you, either. I'm . . . I'm going out to the stables, going to check on my mare." She snatched up her cloak, all but ran from the room.
Cecily took a tentative step after her, paused, turned back to face her mother. "Oh, my God, Mama, what have you done?"
Elizabeth's eyebrows arched upward. "I should think it would be obvious. I'm trying to make your sister
Queen of England. And if you have a brain in your head, you'll do what you can to help me, to-"
"Mama, don't! Dickon will never marry Bess, Surely you must know that?"
"I know nothing of the kind. Nor do you, Cecily. Now suppose you do sit down and keep still while I
explain-"

"Mama, I heard, heard it all, about the papal dispensation, the Beauforts, all. And I tell you it could never be. The English people would not accept such a marriage; the blood ties be too close. And even if they would . . . even then, it couldn't be. Yes, the Beauforts were legitimized, but this be different, Mama;
can't you see that? To make Bess legitimate would make Edward and Dickon legitimate, too; it would be like a signed confession from Dickon that his nephews were dead. And even if there was some way to get around that, though how I can't see, if Bess could be legitimized now, why could not the same have been done for Edward two years ago? For Dickon to marry Bess would be to admit his own right to the crown was flawed, false. He'd have nothing to gain by such a marriage and a great deal to lose. You be the one, Mama, who keeps telling us that men always act in their own interest, remember? Well, how could it possibly be in Dickon's interest to wed a girl branded as a bastard by parliament, his own niece?
How, Mama?"
Elizabeth moved to the dressing table, picked up a mirror. "I realize there would be difficulties to overcome, Cecily, a great many. But what you don't understand is that everything in this life be a gamble.
However little chance there might be of bringing about such a marriage, there's no chance at all if we don't even try for it. Just think, Cecily, think of all we have to gain; doesn't that make it worth the risk?"
"And what of Bess, Mama? What of all she has to lose?"
Elizabeth slid a pot of lip rouge toward her, applied it with a practiced hand. She didn't want to quarrel with her younger daughter, was too pleased by the way her conversation had gone with Bess to let anything irritate her, even Cecily's obstinate opposition.
"Your sister loves Richard," she said coolly. "Perhaps you didn't realize that, dearest."
"Yes, Mama, I knew," Cecily said flatly, and Elizabeth turned, gave her daughter a surprised look.
"Indeed? Well then, surely you see that I'm trying to give her what she most wants, to make her Richard's
Queen."
"She didn't want that, Mama. Not until you put the idea into her head."
"You think not? But then, you're very young yet-"
"Mama, I know Bess, better than you. Yes, she was drawn to Dickon; I saw that months ago, and I
understood. Dickon was the mar closest to Papa, and in this past year she got them mixed up somehow in her head and heart. She had a need and Dickon was there to fill it. Then, too, he's had naught but grief this twelve-month past and Bess has ever been tenderhearted, easily stirred to sympathy. But she didn't fully realize herself how she felt; I know she didn't. And in time it would have

8'ft
Bess stiffened at the sound of Richard's voice, turned to face him with something much like reluctance.
Richard looked toward his wife's bedchamber. "Is Doctor Hobbys within?"
"No, he . . ." Bess swallowed. "He had to insist that Anne's mother
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passed, Dickon would've found a suitable husband for her, and her feelings would've been forgotten, with no harm done. But now . . .
"God forgive you, but you've not only forced her to acknowledge to herself a forbidden attraction, you've told her that it be perfectly all right to feel that way! I heard what you were telling her, Mama, that happy-
ever-after ending you were spinning out for her! How could you be so cruel? How could you do this to
Bess, give her hope when there be none?"
"Cecily, there be no point in discussing this further. You know nothing yet of that which takes place between men and women. People don't always act from logic, as you'll doubtlessly one day learn for yourself."
"You're using her, Mama!"
Elizabeth slammed the mirror down upon the table. Why that accusation should sting so, she didn't try to puzzle out, said angrily, "That's not true! I'm doing this for Bess!"
Cecily shook her head. "No, you're not, Mama, and we both know it."
"Wait. . . where are you going?"
"I'm going to find Bess, to talk to her."
"I don't think she'll want to hear what you have to say, Cecily."
"I know. But I'm going to try, anyway."
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WESTMINSTER

retire to her own chambers, and he went with her to make sure she did as he bade. I think he wanted her to take a sleeping draught. She just cannot cope with . . . with ..." Her voice trailed off.
Richard nodded, was turning away when Bess reached out; her hand hovered over his arm, never quite making contact.
"What is it, Bess? You have something to say to me?"
"Dickon, I..." For the first time her eyes met his. "I've been praying for Anne," she said. "I have, truly I
have!"
Richard was struck by the feverish intensity in her words, her manner. For some days now he'd been vaguely aware that something was greatly troubling Bess, but his own resources were too depleted to allow for more than a flicker of puzzled pity.
"I know you have, lass." It was the best he could do. He had no comfort to offer Bess, or Nan, his distraught mother-in-law, no comfort to offer anyone at all. The door to Anne's bedchamber was ajar; he could hear the hacking cough that now haunted him even in sleep.
Veronique opened the door wider for him. They came into each other's arms by unspoken accord, stood for a time in a wordless embrace, and then Richard crossed the chamber, leaned over his wife's bed.
"I'm here, beloved. Can I get you something . . . anything? Wine?"
"Yes . . . please," Anne whispered, watched as he poured it himself.
Sitting on the bed beside her, Richard put an arm around her shoulders, gently lifted her up so she could drink, held the cup to her lips until she was done. He could feel the mute disapproval of the doctors, no less censorious for being unspoken, utterly impossible to ignore, and he turned his head, said with frozen dangerous rage, "You're dismissed, Doctor Bemesley. All of you. Leave us."
"You shouldn't blame the doctors, love," Anne chided softly, as soon as they were alone. "They do but fear, and rightly so, that you might become infected. ..."
"H
"Let's not talk of that now. Are you comfortable, Anne? Shall I prop your pillows up for you?"
Anne nodded, for the same reason she'd asked for wine, because she understood his need to do something for her, however trivial. Turning her head aside, she coughed into a crumpled handkerchief, let it drop inconspicuously to the floor. She knew the doctors had told Richard that her phlegm had begun to come up flecked with blood, but she did not want him to see the evidence with his own eyes. For herself, she felt only thankfulness that the blood-spitting was so mild; what had most terrified her about her illness was that she might hemorrhage, bleed her life away as her sister had done, and she now knew she was to be spared that much, at least.