The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (16 page)

Francis was. Before Francis knew what he was about, he stepped forward, caught Francis by the elbow.
"Over here," he directed, and giving Francis no opportunity to object, he pulled Francis toward a bale of hay near the far wall.
"Sit there," he said, still in the same peremptory tone, and as Francis sank down upon the bale, he disappeared into one of the stalls, returning with a pail of water. At that, Francis abandoned pride, leaned over to plunge his face into the water. Rinsing his mouth, he spat into the straw and then took the handkerchief the boy was silently holding out to him.
"Thank you," he mumbled, reluctantly remembering his manners.
The other youngster seated himself beside Francis on the bale.
"Was breakfast as bad as that?"
Francis subjected him to a suspicious stare, but could find no malice in the other's low-key amusement.
"No," he said, and then, with a touch of bravado, "I did see the beheadings."
"I see." The boy was silent for a moment. "That was foolish, you know. Such things must be done. But there's little pleasure in the viewing of them."
He sounded so matter-of-fact that Francis frowned, not sure what reaction he'd expected but vaguely disappointed, nonetheless.
"Did you ever see a man's head struck from his body?" he challenged.
"No," the boy said tersely, but then he gave Francis a sideways grin, confessed, "I don't trust my stomach enough!"
Francis liked him for that, grinned back. "It was ghastly," he confided. "Blood all over." This was the first person who'd been even passably friendly to Francis in a fortnight, and he groped now for a conversational topic.
"I've been here since May seventeenth, but I've not seen you before. Be you in the Earl's service, too?"
A nod. "I've been at Pontefract. We only returned this noon. I knew I hadn't seen you before either."
This last was said with a smile, and Francis was encouraged to probe further.
"Have you been long at Middleham? Do you like it here?"
"Three years come November. And yes, I do like it here very much." Another smile. "Middleham is home to me."
Francis felt a pang at that, a wave of longing for Minster Lovell and his own world. One thing he did know for sure, that Middleham would never be home to him.
"I'm the Earl's ward," he said. "I was wed last month to his niece."
The other boy was leaning forward, sorting through the straw for a

stalk of unusual length. Finding one, he flipped it deftly through the air, watched it sink below the surface of the bucket.
"That will make us kin one day then," he remarked casually. "The Earl does mean for me to wed with his daughter when we're of an age." Francis made no response, struggling with a keen sense of disappointment in his new acquaintance. He knew very well that Warwick's daughter was one of the greatest heiresses in England. The other boy must think him very gullible, indeed, to believe such boasting. His pride was affronted; a skeptical challenge was taking shape. But the other didn't follow through with his bragging, seemed unaware that he'd said anything out of the ordinary. Francis hesitated, and then decided to let it pass. He was finding too much pleasure in the first friendly encounter he'd had since arriving at Middleham to sabotage it willingly.
"If you be the Earl's ward, then your own father must be dead?" the other boy said suddenly and Francis nodded. "Yes. He died on January ninth." "My father is dead, too. Three years last December." They looked at one another, recognizing a common kinship of loss. Francis wanted suddenly to impress his new friend, but didn't know how to best do so. "I once met the Duke of Somerset," he said, after some thought. "He was friend to my father." Honesty compelling him to amend that to, "Well, they did know each other."
The other boy did not look impressed, however, merely shrugged, and Francis tried again.
"I met his brother, too ... Edmund Beaufort. Does he now become Duke of Somerset?" Answering his own question, he decided, "He must, I think, since Somerset died without a son."
"I did meet Edmund Beaufort once." Indifferently. "Or so my lady mother told me. It was years ago and I
truly don't remember him. Your family is Lancastrian, then?"
The question was quietly posed, without undue emphasis. Francis was remembering, however, where he was. This was Middleham. He'd win few friends here by boasting of his Lancastrian ties.
"My father did fight for Lancaster at Towton. But he did then accept King Edward as his sovereign," he said carefully.
He saw at once that his answer had been the right one. The other boy studied him for a moment and then smiled. "What be your name?"
There was no mistaking the friendly intent and Francis smiled, too. "Francis Lovell- he began, and then broke off abruptly, for a man had appeared in the doorway of the stable. The most magnificently dressed man Francis had ever seen, with thigh-high boots of gleaming

Spanish leather, brightly colored hose, and a wide-shouldered doublet studded with gems, a dagger hilt sheathed in gold.
"There you be, Dickon," he said, at the same time that a voice somewhere behind him shouted, "My lord of Warwick is at the stables. Have you word for him on the beheadings ..."
The rest of the sentence was lost to Francis. In his ears echoed only the words "my lord of Warwick."
He scrambled to his feet, stared tongue-tied at the Earl of Warwick, and then at his new friend, who'd risen, too, was moving toward Warwick with no evidence of unease and every evidence of pleasure.
"My girls are waiting to welcome you home, Dickon. Nan sent me to fetch you!" This last said lightly, with the playful indulgence it amused him to assume toward his wife.
"I'm eager to see them, too, Cousin." He turned then, gestured toward Francis.
"This is your ward, Cousin. Francis Lovell, who did arrive in our absence."
Francis remembered little of what followed. In a daze, he mumbled something, he never knew what, to
Warwick's welcome. Saw the way the Earl rested his arm affectionately around the other boy's shoulders, listened as they exchanged the easy banter of intimates.
At last Warwick had gone, and they were alone again. The other boy reached down, picked up his forgotten bridle, hung it on a hook over his head.
"I do have to go," he said. "I'll look for you tonight at supper."
Francis found his tongue then. "You're the Duke of Gloucester," he blurted out, so abruptly that he made it sound almost like an accusation.
He saw the older boy arch an eyebrow at his tone. "Yes, I know," he said, with what, had he been older, would have been unmistakable as irony.
The Duke of Gloucester did not look at all as Francis had imagined King Edward's brother to be. Nor did he act the way Francis fancied a royal Duke would act. It seemed monstrously unfair to him that this boy he'd begun to like should turn out to be Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. The one person who'd been friendly to him ... a Yorkist Prince, blood kin to the awesome Edward!
He tried to remember what his mother had cautioned about court etiquette, knew he was supposed to kneel, but that seemed crazy here in the middle of a stable, especially when the royal Duke had given him his own handkerchief to wipe the traces of vomit from his face. Was a Duke addressed as "Your Grace"
like the King? Or did "my lord" suffice? It was hopeless; it had all gone completely from his head.

"What am I to call you?" he asked at length, too unhappy to hide it, feeling very gauche and lonelier than at any time in this, the loneliest fortnight of his life.
Richard gave him a thoughtful look, and then, a smile of sudden charm.
"My friends do call me Dickon," he said.
8
MIDDLEHAM CASTLE YORKSHIRE
October 1464
Dropping his journal against his drawn-up knees, Francis poised his pen above the parchment, and then began the day's entry, neatly lettering at the top of the page:
Begun this 14th day of October, the 20th Sunday after Holy Trinity, at Middleham Castle, Wensleydale, Yorkshire, in the year of Our Lord 1464, fourth year of the reign of His Sovereign Grace, King Edward.
I write this in the solar of his Grace, the Earl of Warwick. The hearth log has burned fully a quarter since we did hear Vespers rung in the village, so we must soon be abed. We have been playing at Forfeits, with roasted chestnuts as the stakes, Isabel and Anne and Will and Rob Percy and Dickon and me.
Isabel is the Earl's daughter. She is 13 and has very pale hair and green-gold eyes like a cat. She can spit like a cat, too, when vexed.
Her sister Anne is different. Anne rarely gets angry. She has fair braids which Dickon likes to pull and brown eyes like her father, the Earl. Her birthdate is in June. She is 8 years of age, like Anna. . . .

Here his pen faltered, and then he resolutely inked in the words my wife. ` He hoped repetition would make the idea seem less strange to him. After building himself a cache of chestnuts, he resumed:
Will is Will Parr. He is small for his 13 years, like Dickon, but with a face full of freckles and green eyes.
He is unfailingly good-natured and my friend.
Rob Percy is one of the Percys of Northumbria. His family is Yorkist but he is a distant cousin to the
Lancastrian Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, who died at Towton, and to the Henry Percy, his son and heir, sent to the Tower this spring at King Edward's command. The title should have passed to the son, but King Edward did bestow it upon John Neville this May as his reward for the victory at Hexham.
Rob talked too much about how pleased he was that John Neville is now Earl of Northumberland. I think
Rob fears people will confuse him with his Lancastrian cousins, for he boasts about York more than anyone at Middleham, even Dickon! Like all his kin, Rob has hair like flax and blue eyes. He has a quick temper and is overly fond of jests. He is more Dickon and Will's friend than mine.
Dickon is my most steadfast friend. He has hair as black as ink and dark eyes of a color midst blue and grey. He has his right arm in a sling of black silk as he took a bad fall tilting at the quintain two days past.
Her Grace, the Lady Nan, was much disquieted as he'd broken his shoulder in such a fall a few years ago, soon after he'd become attached to the Earl's household. She berated him soundly for his rashness. I
think she suspects he was showing off for his cousins, Isabel and Anne. She is right, he was!
"What are you writing, Lovell?" Rob Percy rose to his knees, leaned closer.
Francis reacted instinctively, jerking the book back, and Rob's curiosity ignited.
"Let me see," he demanded, and reached over to claim the journal.
Evading his grasp, Francis said tightly, "I will not. It's private."
Rob persisted; the page tore and Francis fell backward. Rob glanced at the fragment clutched in his fist, and his eyes widened.
"Jesu, he's writing of us!"
He lunged for the journal, and as the two boys rolled around on the floor, Richard's wolfhound puppy clambered over their twisting bodies and deposited wet kisses indiscriminately. Managing at last to regain his

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feet, Francis shoved the larger boy back. Rob stumbled, lost his balance, and tripped over the wooden mazer filled with chestnuts. Scrambling to maintain his footing, he reached out for support and caught
Richard's sling, sending them both crashing to the floor.
Rob saw at once that the other boy was hurt, and Francis was forgotten. "Dickon . . . Your Grace. I'm sorry, in truth I am!"
Richard's breath was coming back, and he pushed Rob's hand away when Rob tried to help him rise.
Rob backed away as Will and the Neville girls knelt by Richard, all talking at once.
"Will you cease your hovering?" Richard snapped irritably. Using his free arm to push himself up to a sitting position, he glared at Rob.
"You see what happens when you play the fool?" he accused. "Sometimes, Rob, you act as if you haven't the sense God gave a sheep."
He winced as Anne tried to adjust the bandage, and Rob was assailed by remorse. "It was Lovell's doing," he muttered, and Francis, who'd watched transfixed, burst out with a heated denial, which threatened to kindle the quarrel all over again. It was Isabel, with the inbred imperious authority of a
Neville, who silenced them both.
"Clodhoppers, the pair of you!" She pointed disdainfully at the discarded book, lying smudged and torn by the hearth. "Take your silly scribblings. As for you, Rob Percy, just be thankful you didn't cause
Dickon serious hurt!"
She looked back over her shoulder. "Dickon, mayhap we should summon my mother's physician to be sure?"
"Good God, no!" Richard exclaimed, in genuine alarm. He glanced about at the others. "And I'll not forgive the one who says a word of this to the Lady Nan."
Satisfied that his warning had penetrated, he let Will help him to his feet, while Rob seized the opportunity to retreat and Francis to retrieve his journal.
"Dickon . . . does it pain you much?"
"No, not much, Francis." Richard elected to sit on the settle, far more sedately than was his wont. "Were you truly writing about us?"
Francis nodded unwillingly and was relieved when Richard let it drop.
Isabel, growing bored, now departed the solar, and the others, settling down with the mazer of chestnuts, resumed a familiar topic of conversation: selecting a name for Richard's wolfhound. The dog, already enormous at four months and as black as proverbial sin, was a birthday gift from his brother, the King, having arrived by special courier only that week.
The puppy had stretched out at Richard's feet and was covertly

eyeing the soft leather of his shoe. Watching, Francis grinned. He'd been very much impressed that the
King should have remembered the birthdate of a younger brother; he felt sure this was not a common characteristic of older brothers, at least not the ones he'd known. Of course Edward had confused the dates somewhat, as Richard had actually turned twelve on October 2, but Francis knew Edward no longer paid any heed whatsoever to the birthdate of his other brother, George, the fifteen-year-old Duke of Clarence.
Not that he faulted Edward for that. Francis held no high opinion of George, who'd paid an interminable visit to the Earl of Warwick and Richard that summer. Francis was thankful George did not reside in the
Earl's household. When provoked, George had a viper's tongue and he had an unsettling way of finding humor in things that would amuse no one else. Francis found it hard to understand why Richard seemed fond of George. But he had no trouble at all in understanding Richard's devotion to his eldest brother.
Edward had remained in York until mid-July, negotiating a truce with the Scots. Before departing
Yorkshire, he'd detoured north to accept the Earl of Warwick's hospitality at Middleham. His visit had generated much welcome excitement. Their northern neighbors, the Metcalfes of Nappa Hall and Lord and Lady Scrope of nearby Bolton Castle, flocked to Middleham to honor the King. Francis had noted, with secret surprise, that even the mighty Earl seemed less in Edward's presence.
He'd envied Richard sorely in the days following Edward's visit, for the King had made much of his younger brother, keeping Richard by his side long past the boy's normal bedtime, coming to watch
Richard practice with lance and broadsword at the quintain.
Francis now thought Edward's favorite cognizance, the Sunne in Splendour, to be remarkably well chosen. The pale shadow of Marguerite d'Anjou receded, was blotted out by the sun of York, and for the first time, Francis found himself giving credence to the stories Richard told him of the Frenchwoman's cruelties. Perhaps she was not so tragic a heroine, after all, he concluded, somewhat regretfully.
Nonetheless, he felt a lingering pity for the Lancastrian Queen, now living in straitened circumstances in
France with her eleven-year-old son and a faithful few followers like Edmund Beaufort, now Duke of
Somerset, and his younger brother, John Beaufort. He felt some pity, too, for King Harry, reputed to be sheltered by the Scots. But such sympathies Francis did not confide to Richard, or to any others at
Middleham. There were certain sacrifices to be made on behalf of his newly forged Yorkist friendships, and discretion was not the least of such demands.
Now he opened the journal he'd been holding in his lap, grimly