The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (143 page)

There was a self-conscious challenge in that last word, as if he feared he was taking a liberty that might not be permitted. But neither Cecily nor Jack thought to dispute him. They knew Richard would have been pleased to have Wrangwysh call him friend.
For a time, quiet prevailed, a silent shared grieving for a man each remembered all too well. Cecily raised her hand to her face, was dully surprised to find it wet. "You must tell me," she said, and her voice was tremulous, pleading. "I know naught of battles. My uncle's death. . . . Was it quick?"
A long pause, and then Sponer nodded. "Very quick, my lady." But none of the men would meet her eyes. She braced herself against the back of her chair, clutched the armrests with icy fingers; she was cold, so very cold. Before she could speak, Thomas Wrangwysh said hastily, "You should know that Doctor Stillington has been arrested, Tudor giving the order the very day of the battle. He was brought into York two days past, is to be taken to London to the Tower. He's in a pitiful state, sore crazed by reason of his troubles. We did what we could; our Lord Mayor insisted that he be allowed to stay within the city for a few days. But we do only delay the inevitable. ..."
Jack stood up suddenly. "I thank you both for coming to me. And for confirming what I'd already suspected . . . that I'd best make my peace with God while I still can. With all the sins I have to answer for, I'll need more time than most men, I daresay."
It was a game attempt at a jest, one that fell utterly flat. Cecily made a small sound, quickly stifled.
Sponer stared down at his hands. But Wrangwysh shook his head.
"No, my lord, mayhap not. Yorkist loyalties did not die with King Richard at Redmore Plain. A good portion of the country still holds for York. Tudor knows that; whatever else the man may be, he's no fool.
Cotam told us that if you be willing to swear allegiance to Tudor, he'll spare your life, may even find you a place in his government."
Jack gave a strained mirthless laugh. "For how long?"
At that Sponer spoke up. "He cannot charge you with treason, my lord. You weren't at the battle, didn't fight for King Richard."
"But. . . but how could Tudor charge anyone with treason?" Bewildered, Cecily looked from one man to the other. "He cannot attaint any of my uncle's supporters. For how could men fighting for an anointed
King ever be accused of treason?"
"Quite easily, my lady," Wrangwysh said bitterly. "Tudor means to date his reign from the day before
Redmore Plain!"
Cecily stared at him, stunned. "But surely he'd not get away with that? It be so blatantly illegal, so unjust.
..."
"Unjust?" Sponer could contain himself no longer. "You think men

like Tudor and the Stanleys know aught of justice, of common Christian decency? After what they did to
King Richard's body ..." He caught himself, but not in time.
"What mean you by that?" Jack demanded, and when Sponer still hesitated, he snapped, "He be my uncle, damn you! Tell me!"
Sponer's face was bloodless, as if all vitality and life had been sapped by his flaming thatch of red-fire hair; livid freckles stood out across his nose like pinpoint wounds.
"He never had a chance," he whispered. "That damned crown, it drew all of Stanley's cutthroats down on him. He died shouting 'treason,' died hard. They kept stabbing and hacking at him long after he was dead; I heard it said that men sickened afterward at sight of his body. They stripped him naked, knotted a felon's halter about his neck, and slung him over a horse, made one of his own heralds ride it back into
Leicester, where they dumped his body in the court of the Grey Friars, left it there for two full days ere they'd allow burial. I heard it said, too, that some anointed him in his own blood, that they even-"
Cecily didn't realize she'd cried out until they all turned toward her, until Jack pulled her to her feet, into his arms. "Hush, lass, hush. . . . Don't think about it, Cecily, don't. ..."
He was giving her wine; she drank, choked, and began to sob. Jack reclaimed his wine cup, drained it in one long swallow.
John Sponer was on his feet, too. "My lady, forgive me! God curse my stupid tongue, I never meant for you to know. ..."
"No," she said faintly. "Better that I do, that I know the nature of the man we be dealing with. But Jesu, to so dishonor the dead. . . ."She shuddered and then straightened up, moved out of Jack's embrace.
"You must promise me ... all of you. You must swear by all the saints that you'll not say a word of this to my sister. She mustn't be told, mustn't ever know!"
"She won't, Cecily," Jack said swiftly. "I'll see to it, I swear it."
"Lady Cecily. ..." Thomas Wrangwysh rose, came toward her. "Upon the health of my soul, I'd not grieve you further. I would to God I need not burden you with yet more cares. But you must understand what be at stake.
"Your brothers. ... It be known that they've not been seen in London for these two years past. That never troubled us in York; it be clear as well-water that King Richard had them moved, had them settled somewhere safe. He has . . . had any number of secluded moorland castles. ..." He paused, waiting for a response. When it didn't come, he continued reluctantly, "I don't mean to frighten you. But know you if your uncle made provisions for the boys in the event of his defeat? He must've known they'd not long survive him should Tudor win the field,

that they'd have to be smuggled out of the country, to Burgundy. . . ." Cecily roused herself, said, "You needn't fear for my brothers, Master Wrangwysh. They be beyond Tudor's reach."
"God's blessed truth, it's glad I am to hear you say that," he admitted. "For Tudor has no choice but to repeal the Act of Titulus Regius, to declare the plight-troth fraudulent. He's committed to it, has sworn a public oath to make your sister his Queen, and Cotam says he means to hold to that oath. She be a threat to him, you see, Edward of York's firstborn. He'll not let her go. He can't risk having her find an ambitious husband eager to advance the claims of York on her behalf." "You're saying, then, that she must wed with Tudor?" He nodded. "My lady, listen to me. You know that your cousin, the Earl of
Warwick, is to go to London with you and the Lady Bess. But Cotam told us that the lad is then to be escorted to the Tower and there confined."
"Christ," Jack said softly. Cecily felt his hands tighten on her shoulders.
"But he be so young," she whispered. "Just a little boy. . . ." "Aye, but he's also the Duke of Clarence's son, and that be what matters to Tudor, to"-his mouth twisted-"our new King. Now do you understand, my lady? Your sister must marry him; she'll be given no choice. You must make her realize that, must-"
"She already knows, Master Wrangwysh." Cecily turned away, blinking back tears. "Lady Mary pity her, she knows. ..."
3 0
WESTMINSTER
December 1485
, BESS was holding her five-year-old sister upon her lap. "Listen now, Bridget," she murmured, "and I'll teach you a Christmas carol. . . like this:
I

Noel, all, all, all Now is well that ever was woe. At Bethlehem, that blessed place The child of bliss born
He was, Him to serve, O give us grace, O lux beata trinitas.
Bridget listened intently and, as Bess repeated the verse, the little girl chimed in. It was Cecily's favorite carol, reminded her of too many Christmas seasons past. She looked away.
"How long now till Christmas, Bess?"
"Just three days, Bridget. This is Thursday, and Christmas comes on Sunday."
Thursday, the twenty-second. Four months since Redmore Plain. Cecily had gone to St Paul's that morning, had secretly arranged to buy Masses for the repose of her uncle's soul. She wondered if Bess had done likewise, but knew she wouldn't ask. There were any number of subjects she and Bess no longer discussed, even in utter privacy. They never talked of Redmore Plain, of their brothers who were dead or their little cousin Edward in custody at the Tower. And they never talked of Richard.
December 22. In less than a month, Bess would be Tudor's Queen. He'd had the Act of Titulus Regius repealed, had all copies burned, and on the eighteenth of January, he and Bess were to wed. That, too, they never talked about.
"I saw Jack this morning at St Paul's, Bess." Cecily hesitated, dropped her voice still lower even though they were alone. "Think you that he'll be safe once you're Queen?"
Bess kissed Bridget, set her down on the floor. "I don't know." Nothing of her thoughts showed in either her face or her voice, and Cecily, whose every memory of her sister was one of warmth and expressive emotion, could no longer keep silent.
"Ah, Bess, don't," she entreated. "Don't shut your heart to me, too."
She was never to know how Bess would have responded, for at that moment the door opened and
Elizabeth entered.
"You have a visitor, Bess," she said lightly, "your lord husband-to-be."
Cecily stiffened, sank down before Henry Tudor in a deep curtsy, as she'd never done in the private presence of her father or uncle.
He was a young man, not yet twenty-nine, but it was not a young face; the insecurities of exile had taught him to guard his secrets well. Too

well, Cecily thought. She was ill at ease with this man and uncomfortably aware that he knew it. The eyes meeting hers now were a light clear grey; as fathomless as the depths of a well, they were not the windows to his soul, reflected only what he chose to share.
The strain in the room was palpable. Elizabeth alone refused to acknowledge the tension, made inconsequential social conversation with the ease of long practice. Cecily knew her mother's true feelings for Tudor, and she marveled how adroitly Elizabeth camouflaged her disdain. But she saw something flicker in his eyes as Elizabeth called him "Henry"; it was more than a distaste for the assumed intimacy, and she thought in alarm, He doesn't like Mama, not at all.
She was right. Henry Tudor's aversion to Elizabeth was so pronounced that he was hard-pressed to be polite to her; she was for him the epitome of all that he most detested in women-conniving, deceitful, and haughty. Much of his reluctance to wed Bess could be traced, in fact, to his assumption that as is the mother, so is her daughter, and he'd begun to thaw toward Bess only when he realized that Elizabeth and
Bess were as unlike in temperament as wine and milk.
Once he and Bess had been left alone, an awkward silence fell. There was more ease between them now, but not enough to make their meetings comfortable. He wanted it to be otherwise, did not want to take a stranger to his bed, but the ambivalence in his emotions was such that he found it almost impossible to lower his defenses. He knew she was no more eager for their marriage than he and resented her for it; resented her, too, for the Plantagenet blood that flowed in her veins, for the Yorkist loyalties she could command among his disaffected subjects. And yet he had to admit that Bess had conducted herself with dignity under circumstances far from easy. She'd shown, too, a lack of artifice that he found very appealing, that meant almost as much to him as her undeniable beauty.
He looked at her, at the soft red mouth, the full breasts, her graceful bearing, and acknowledged to himself that this marriage-of-state had attractions separate and apart from political considerations; he wanted this girl in his bed.
He followed Bess to the cushioned window seat, sat down beside her in the winter sunlight. Her perfume put him in mind of the exotic scent of sandalwood, and acting on rare impulse, he leaned over, kissed her on the mouth. She accepted the caress passively, and after a moment, he drew back. The continuing silence was threatening to become embarrassing, and he was grateful now when Bess began to talk of commonplace matters, asked him politely how his day had gone.
"Quite well. I met with Bishop Morton for most of the morning. He will, of course, be my choice for the chancellorship He went on to talk

of his council meeting that morning, speaking in generalities, for he did not believe women should be privy to the secrets of government. Bess listened attentively, making the proper responses. Only once did her mask slip; when he made mention of William Stanley, he saw her hands clench in her lap, saw her knuckles go bone-white in sudden tension.
The corner of Tudor's mouth twitched in a secret smile. He was quite willing to indulge her in this, her hatred of Will Stanley, for his own opinion of the man was far from favorable. It was true, as Stanley boasted, that he'd made a King on Redmore Plain, but he'd also taken his own good time in coming to
Tudor's rescue, had waited almost until it was too late, and Tudor had not forgotten. They'd been the worst moments of his life, troubled his sleep even now, four months later. Unable to retreat, for to show cowardice before his men would be as fatal to his cause as the battle-axe Gloucester was wielding with such lethal skill. Yet knowing he couldn't hope to best the other man in combat. Watching helplessly as his executioner bore down upon him, a madman on a bloodied white stallion, on his helmet the gleaming gold Tudor had yearned for, schemed for, and would now die for.
Tudor blinked, mentally cursed his own memory for the clarity of his recall, for the merciless reality of his remembrances. Why must he be haunted by what was done and past? He hadn't been the one to die;
instead, it had been Gloucester, trapped and alone in the midst of Stanley's murderous Cheshiremen.
Stanley had come in time to save his life, after all, but had delayed long enough to endanger it, delayed too long to deserve gratitude.
A book lay on the window seat beside Bess, and he reached for it, welcoming a neutral topic of conversation. It was an elegantly bound edition of The Pearl, a touching lament for the death of a beloved child. Opening it at random, he began to flip through the pages, and he was pleasantly surprised when
Bess leaned over to point out her favorite passages, pleasure that lasted only until he turned to the flyleaf, saw the name written in a dead man's hand: Richard Gloucestre. He stared for a moment at the slanting signature, said tersely, "He gave you this?" "Yes/He slammed the book shut, tossed it on the table. A
letter fluttered from its pages, fell to his feet. Picking it up, he started to hand it to Bess, but stopped as the words "my castle at Nottingham" caught his eye. Unfolding the letter fully, he rapidly began to scan the page:
Dearest Bess, I've had time this summer to consider all that happened, and I think I do understand now how you and I
found