The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (17 page)

assessing the damage Rob Percy had done. Plague take him for his prying! With Rob sure to bear a grudge, how could he dare keep the journal? Percy would ferret it from the most secret hiding place, and
Francis would burn each and every page before he'd risk having Rob set eyes upon them. Defiantly, he reached down and picked up his pen. Smoothing the page with his sleeve, he wrote:
Will favors Gawain for Dickon's dog, being much taken with Gawain and the Grene Knight. Anne fancies
Robin. She has a spaniel which she calls Maid Marian. Dickon says that if the dog were but a bitch, he could name it Marguerite d'Anjou. That amuses Will but is lost on Anne.
Dickon is out of sorts tonight. His arms pains him, I think. Dickon endures pain without complaint, but he accepts inconvenience with poor grace and now he is vexed because he cannot shell the chestnuts with his left hand. Anne offers to share hers.
Will now suggests that Dickon name the dog Somerset after the man the Earl claims to be the true father of Marguerite d'Anjou's son, and Dickon laughs. But I fear the puppy will be grey with age ere he decides.
"Francis?"
His pen jerked, smeared the page.
Anne had slipped silently from the settle and was standing before him. "Francis ... if you like, I could keep your journal safe for you. I know you've little privacy, sharing quarters with Rob and Dickon and the other pages. I could fetch it for you whenever you wished to write in it."
When he didn't respond immediately, she colored. "I'd take a solemn vow, in the Blessed Lady's name, that I'd not read it, and I'd never profane such an oath, Francis, truly I wouldn't."
Francis no longer hesitated, held out the journal to her. "I need no such oath from you, Anne. I would be much beholden to you if you would keep it in your chamber for me."
"I'll not tell a soul where I store it," she promised gravely. "Not even Dickon."
He had no chance to reply. Isabel was back, breathless and eager to share her news.
"Dickon! Father is here! He has just ridden into the bailey and Uncle Johnny and George are with him."
Richard looked pleased. "I thought he was to remain at Reading with Ned till after Martinmas. Have they moved up the date for the York parliament?"

Isabel had no interest in parliaments. She shrugged, shook her head.
"I don't know. But this I can tell you, something be very wrong. I saw Father briefly as he came up the stairs into the keep, and he's in a tearing rage. Never have I seen him so wroth." She paused; she had an intuitive flair for the dramatic. "And it is your brother who has riled him so!"
Richard showed little surprise. "What has George done now?"
"Not George." Triumphantly. "Ned!"
"Ned?" Richard echoed incredulously, and she nodded. Her excitement ebbed somewhat and she said earnestly, "Dickon, I think Ned must have done something truly dreadful."
They had not long to wait. Within moments, the youthful Duke of Clarence strode into the solar, shouting for Richard even as he came through the doorway that led out into the great hall.
"Dickon! Wait till you hear . . ." He paused, his eyes flickering incuriously over Richard's black silk sling.
"What the Devil happened to you? You'll not believe it, God's truth you won't. I tell you, he's gone mad, stark raving mad!"
Richard was frowning. "What are you saying, George?"
"We were at Reading and the council was meeting. Our cousin Warwick reported that the negotiations were proceeding well for Ned's marriage with the sister-in-law of the French King, when Ned suddenly announced that such a marriage was out of the question, must be dismissed out of hand. And when they pressed him on it, he shrugged and said it so happened that he already had a wife!"
George paused, letting the suspense build to a gratifying pitch before saying with heavy sarcasm, "It seems Ned made a secret May marriage . . . and then forgot to mention it all those months that our cousin was laboring on his behalf to conclude the French marriage."
"A secret marriage?" Richard repeated. He sounded stunned and Francis well understood why. If
George was to be believed, Edward had done what no other King of England had dared to do in the four hundred years since the Norman Conquest, chosen a wife for his own pleasure.
George nodded. "You did hear me, Little Brother. A secret marriage ... to a wench he found fair to look upon! Little wonder our cousin Warwick is sorely affronted!"
"Who is she?" The question coming in perfect unison from Richard and Isabel.
"He was wed in a clandestine ceremony this past May at Grafton Manor in Northamptonshire ... to
Elizabeth Grey."
Richard spoke for them all. "Who," he asked, "is Elizabeth Grey?"
George turned brilliant blue-green eyes upon Richard, eyes that took the light like turquoise. "That is the truly incredible part of this charade.

She's a Woodville, the widow of Sir John Grey, who died fighting for Lancaster at St Albans! She has two sons by Grey, one nearly as old as you, Dickon! And she's a full five years older than Ned!" He laughed suddenly.
"A twenty-seven-year-old widow with two sons," he repeated, drawing the words out with evident relish.
"And if that weren't damning enough, she's distant kin to Marguerite d'Anjou! Her aunt was wed to an uncle of Marguerite's! Christ on the Cross, Dickon, do you not see now why I say Ned must be mad?"
"Or bewitched!"
All eyes turned toward Isabel.
"What other explanation could there be, George? Why else would he marry her if she'd not resorted to witchcraft?"
George dutifully crossed himself, but he looked skeptical. "Knowing Ned," he said cynically, "it would take no more to bewitch him than white thighs, a rounded belly, and-"
"Hold your tongue, for pity's sake," Isabel interrupted hastily. "You know my lady mother does frown upon such bawdy talk in Anne's hearing. Or mine," she added as an afterthought, and she and George grinned at each other.
"Jesu, but you're quiet of a sudden, Dickon!" George glanced quizzically at the younger boy, and when
Richard didn't reply, he laughed.
"You're not often so loath to make known your opinions. What say you of our brother's folly? Bewitched as Bella does suspicion? Or just overly eager to ride the Grey mare?"
He laughed but Richard did not.
"I should like to know," he said, very low, "why Ned's falling out with our cousin seems to give you such pleasure."
No longer laughing, George said curtly, "You're daft."
It was then that the Earl of Warwick came into the solar.
Francis was shivering; the north-wall window seat was swept by drafts. But he dared not move, fearful of calling attention to himself. If only he'd taken the chance to slip away with Will! He felt sure he was not meant to be a witness to the Earl's wrath. Richard and George, after all, were Warwick's cousins. But he was not blood kin, and he waited apprehensively for the Earl to notice his obtrusive presence, to order him from the solar for a birching.
Isabel had been right; Warwick was in a tearing rage, awesome even for a man whose tempers were known the breadth and length of England. Ostensibly, his tirade was directed at the Lady Nan, his
Countess, and his

brother John, newly named Earl of Northumberland. Francis sensed, however, that Warwick was speaking to one man and one man only, his cousin the King, saying all that must, of necessity, have been choked back at Reading. For surely he'd not have dared to say to Edward what he was now saying in the solar of Middleham Castle. At least, Francis didn't think he'd have dared; even from the Kingmaker, such words bordered on the treasonous.
"Woodvilles," Warwick spat, and in his mouth the name became profanity. "I tell you, Johnny, it defies belief. Anthony Woodville faced Ned at Towton, and now he's to be embraced as a brother-in-law?"
"So it seems," John said. Rising from the settle, he approached the other man. "I like it no more than you do, Dick, but it's done. He's wed the woman and whatever we do think of her family, she's to be
Queen-"
"Queen? By the Mass, man, how can the very words not choke in your throat? The granddaughter of a squire, the widow of a Lancastrian knight ... A right fine wife Ned has chosen for himself! If she's fit to be
Queen of England, I'm bidding fair to supplant His Holiness the Pope!"
John didn't argue, and after a moment, he went quietly from the solar, as Francis yearned with all his heart that he might follow. He wasn't surprised when John yielded; there were few men who would willingly face down the Earl of Warwick in a rage. Francis felt a sudden surge of admiration for King
Edward, who had dared the Earl's wrath so cavalierly.
The Lady Nan was now at the Earl's side, speaking too softly for Francis to hear, and he took the opportunity to observe how his companions were bearing up under this prolonged exposure to
Warwick's wrath. Never had he seen such tense, unhappy faces . . . with one singular exception. George was following the Earl's words with alert interest, a suggestion of a smile quirking the corner of his mouth, and Francis thought, Dickon was right; he is enjoying Edward's fall from grace. He knew a certain strain had surfaced in Edward's relationship with George, but only now did he see how deep it ran.
Turning his gaze from George, he glanced briefly at Warwick's subdued daughters and then sought the eyes of his friend. But Richard was bending over the wolfhound puppy and all Francis could see was a thatch of dark hair, falling forward to screen his face.
"How in Christ's Name do you expect me to react?" Warwick said suddenly, with such violence that
Francis flinched. "He played me for a fool, Nan. Am I to forget that he stood mute all the while I dealt with the French, striving to bring about a marriage for England's good? Am I to allow him to humiliate me before the whole of Europe for the sake of a

parvenu trollop? I tell you, Nan, it isn't to be borne! He's made me the laughingstock of England, and all for a slut shrewd enough to keep her legs closed to him till he was hot enough to wed her!"
Francis was shocked; he'd never heard the Earl speak so crudely in the presence of his daughters.
George laughed aloud, a startling sound in the sudden silence. That should have earned him a disapproving rebuke from the Countess, but she didn't even deign to glance in his direction, not taking her eyes from her husband.
There was a stifled sound; Isabel coughed, trying to choke back a nervous giggle, and to Francis's horror, it proved contagious. He found himself struggling against a diabolic urge to laugh . . . until he saw the expression on Richard's face. He had jerked his head up at Warwick's words, and Francis felt his heart begin to pound sickeningly against his ribs. Richard was flushed, taut as a bowstring, and for an appalled instant, Francis thought him to be on the verge of speech. Dickon, no! he willed silently, and sighed deeply when Richard kept still.
"And what am I to tell the French? How do I explain that there's to be no alliance, no French bride . . .
because my cousin the King is such a fool that he values a strumpet's white skin and green eyes more than the weal of England!" "No!" "Oh, Jesus God, Dickon," Francis whispered through frozen lips as the
Earl spun around.
"Come here, Dickon."
Richard came slowly to his feet, obediently moving to stand before
Warwick.
"You spoke, lad?"
Richard was mute, and after a long, searching look at the boy's tense face, Warwick said, a shade too dispassionately, "You may speak freely. You are Ned's brother, after all, and his marriage does concern you, too. Say what is on your mind."
Richard swallowed. Always soft-spoken, he was almost inaudible now as he said, "I'd . . .I'd rather not, Cousin."
"Surely you don't approve of this marriage, Dickon? Does this woman sound as if she should grace a throne?"
"No," Richard admitted, and Francis slumped back in the window seat, weak with a relief that dissipated with Richard's next words.
"But. . . that choice was not mine to make. It was Ned's."
"I see." Very softly. "Are you saying then, that the choice being Ned's, I should forbear to find fault with it?"
"Cousin . . ."
"Christ, Dickon, have you not heard a word I've said? How can

you justify Ned's actions? A clandestine marriage to a Lancastrian widow. . . . How does that serve
England?"
Richard hesitated and Warwick snapped, "I'm awaiting your response. Tell me how your brother has served England with this accursed marriage!"
"I don't know," Richard conceded huskily. "I know only that Ned would never act dishonorably."
"Indeed?" Warwick said, and the inflection in his voice chilled all within the room.
Francis was trembling, burning with a bright blasphemous rage, rage directed against the Earl of
Warwick, the Kingmaker, who was choosing to vent his anger at King Edward upon Dickon. Anne was crying softly, Isabel on the verge of tears; and George, no longer amused, was pinioning his lower lip, blue-green eyes flickering from his cousin to his brother and back again and, at last, to the Lady Nan.
His silent appeal seemed to work, for she took a step toward her husband. But she went no farther. Nor did she speak.
"So Ned could not act dishonorably," Warwick echoed, savagely sardonic. "You have a queer concept of honor, by God. He married in secret, married a woman who has no attributes for queenship, married her for no reason save that he desired her body. And then he said nothing while I planned a French marriage, knowing full well such plans must come to naught. Tell me the honor in that, Dickon. I should truly like to know!"
Richard was staring at his cousin with the strained, exhausted look of one condemned and no longer even hoping for reprieve.
"I cannot speak for Ned. But you were the one who sought the French marriage, Cousin. Perhaps . . .
perhaps you misread Ned. Perhaps you acted without making certain that he did indeed favor the marriage. Ned . . . Ned did tell me this spring that he thought you to be too fond of your friend, the King of France. ..."
His voice trailed off, in belated realization of a broken confidence. Color had scorched Warwick's face.
He took a step toward the boy, and the sound of metal striking wood resounded loudly behind him. A
silver tray and wine flagon had been placed on the heavy oaken table. Tray, flagon, and wine cups now lay scattered on the floor. The patterned Flemish carpet was darkening with a spreading reddish stain, and wine was streaking the polished wood-grained table legs, splashing the lime-green of his daughter's bodice.
"My God, Anne!" He stared at the girl and then at the wreckage- strewn floor. Anne stared, too, at the havoc she'd wrought and burst into tears. It was then that John Neville came back into the solar.