The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (18 page)

He stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. His tearful little niece. The relief that so suddenly shone upon George's face as George saw him. His brother's fury. But it was at Richard that he looked the longest, saw the boy's despair. He understood, and his normally phlegmatic temperament suddenly caught fire.
Warwick pulled his daughter to him. "What possessed you, girl? Look what you've done!"
Anne sobbed, stammered what would have been a plea for forgiveness had her words been intelligible.
And suddenly the solar was full of sound.
Isabel cried, "Oh, but it was an accident!"
Nan was shaking her head. "Really, Anne, such clumsiness!"
It was Richard, however, who drew Warwick's attention back to himself, saying swiftly, "Don't blame
Anne, Cousin. The fault was ours. We did distress her with our quarrel."
Warwick released his daughter, swung back toward Richard. The expression on his face was such that
Richard instinctively took a step backward. Warwick acted instinctively, too, grabbed the boy to forestall what he thought to be flight, and jerked Richard roughly toward him. As he did, John moved. In three strides, he'd crossed the solar, clamped his hand down upon Warwick's wrist.
"A word with you . . . Brother," he said tightly, and Warwick, who'd not even noticed his return to the solar, was now further taken aback by the heat in those placid brown eyes.
Before Warwick could reply, John's grip tightened on his arm, and he quite literally pulled Warwick toward the door. And so rare was his brother's rage that Warwick found himself submitting in surprise.
John slammed the solar door shut behind them. In the empty grandeur of the great hall, they faced each other. Warwick was the first to break the silence.
"Well, Johnny," he said brusquely, "what had you to say that was so important it could not wait?"
"What the bloody Hell did you think you were doing in there?" John demanded hotly. "I do understand your anger with Ned. But to hold Dickon accountable for what Ned has done . . . Christ, man, what were you thinking of? He's only a boy, Dick, cannot be blamed for being loyal to his brother. You know he does think the world of Ned!" He shook his head in disgust, said, "You do surprise me, in truth. It did seem to me that you've gone to some pains to win Dickon's affection. Moreover, you always did act as if you were fond of him yourself."
"Of course I'm fond of Dickon," Warwick said impatiently. "He happens to be important to me, to my plans. ..."
"I'd suggest, then, that you do try to remember that in the future,"

John said, in tones Warwick would have accepted from no other man. "Just think on this: what would have happened had Anne not knocked over that tray?"
That gave Warwick pause.
"Perhaps I did lose my temper," he conceded. He fell silent, began to pace.
"Yes, you've a point, Johnny. I don't want Dickon bearing some fanciful grudge for what was said or done in the heat of anger. That's not the way. . . ."
He turned, and not waiting for John, flung the solar door open.
Francis Lovell still sat frozen in the window seat. Under her mother's critical eye, Anne was picking up the scattered wine cups and depositing them back on the table. Isabel watched sympathetically, but it didn't seem to have occurred to her to offer assistance. It had occurred to Richard, but the Countess said rather coolly that he'd caused enough of a disturbance for one evening and Anne could manage without his help. He'd flushed under the rebuke, moved toward the hearth. There he'd been joined by George, who looked as if he weren't sure whether he wanted to offer comfort or box the younger boy's ears. He seemed to be inclining toward consolation, but he backed away hastily from Richard when he saw
Warwick standing in the doorway.
At sight of her father, Anne abandoned her efforts and ran toward him. He looked down into her imploring dark eyes, and then touched her wet cheek. She slipped her hand into his, raised up on tiptoe to whisper, "You aren't still wroth with Dickon, are you, Papa?"
Warwick had to laugh. For a timid child, she could be surprisingly persistent. But her loyalty to her cousin pleased him; he had, after all, done what he could to foster it. He seized upon the opening she unwittingly provided and said, "No, Anne, I'm not wroth with Dickon." He looked across the room at Richard.
"Come here, Dickon."
He saw Richard's reluctance, but the boy came.
"When men are angry, Dickon, they are often intemperate. I fear that was true tonight for us all. I want you to understand that I do not blame you for speaking as rashly as you did."
He paused and dropped his hand to Richard's shoulder. "You are Ned's brother, and it is only right that he should command your loyalties. However, I'll admit to being disappointed in you, Cousin. You see, I
would have thought that I, too, laid claim to your loyalties."
Richard looked stricken. "You do!"
"I would hope so, Dickon," Warwick said slowly. "For I confess, it would be painful to think otherwise."

Francis and Richard were alone in the solar. Warwick had retired for further discussion with his brother and, much to his delight, George, who'd been flattered beyond words at being included in adult politics.
The Countess of Warwick had ushered her daughters toward the door immediately thereafter, with an especially warm hug for Richard now that he'd been restored to favor.
Francis sagged against the window cushions. "Christ keep us," he said softly. He wanted to tell Richard he admired him for defending his brother to the Earl, but he did not think Richard would be receptive to such a compliment. He'd never seen the other boy look as troubled as he did at that moment. No, he did not think the Earl of Warwick to be a safe topic of discussion.
It never occurred to him to bring up the subject of King Edward's incredible marriage. Francis understood perfectly why Edward had sought to keep the marriage secret as long as possible. But what had possessed him to wed a Lancastrian widow in the first place? Love? Lust? Witchcraft, as Isabel suggested? It would have been great fun to speculate upon the reasons for an action unprecedented in the history of the English monarchy. But Francis knew better, knew that whatever Richard thought of his brother's astonishing behavior, no one but he would ever know. George of Clarence, however, was another matter.
"Does not your brother of Clarence like His Grace, the King, Dickon?"
Richard made a sudden grab for the wolfhound, rescuing a candlestick that had fallen to the floor with the tray of silver.
"Sometimes, I do wonder, Francis," he admitted. "There are times when I think he is jealous. . . ."
He stopped, having said more than he'd intended. The candle was so thoroughly chewed that he felt it best to dispose of the evidence, and was moving toward the hearth when the door opened and Anne rushed back ;; into the solar. Darting to the settle, she knelt and rose clutching Francis's journal.
Giving Francis an apologetic smile, she said softly, "Goodnight, Francis, Dickon."
As she passed Richard, he reached out, caught one of her blonde braids.
"If you like, Anne, you may pick the name for my wolfhound."
She nodded. "I should like that." And holding the journal tightly against her, she backed toward the door, keeping her eyes on him all the while. At the door, she paused, gazed thoughtfully at the dog and said, "Let's call him Gareth . . . like the knight."
Richard was testing the name on his tongue, and now looked at the dog. "Gareth! Here, Gareth. Here, boy."

The puppy yawned and both boys laughed, not because they thought it all that funny, but because laughter seemed the safest way to release the pent-up tensions of a night neither was likely ever to forget.
Francis slid off the window seat, stiff with cold.
"Dickon ..." He stopped, realizing there was nothing that could safely be said.
In silence they made their way out onto the covered wooden bridge that spanned the inner bailey and connected the keep with the west-wall chambers. As he snapped his fingers to coax the lagging puppy, Richard's step slowed.
"I wonder . . ."
"What, Dickon?"
He regarded Francis unsmilingly. "I wonder what she will be like . . . Elizabeth Woodville Grey."
LONDON
June 1467
ELIZABETH Woodville may have been the most beautiful woman to ever wear the coronet of an English
Queen. Men who saw Elizabeth no longer shared the certainty of their wives that only witchcraft could have beguiled Edward into so shocking a mesalliance. Even John Neville, quite happily wed to a placid, perceptive woman who was attractive only in his eyes, had been struck speechless at his first sight of
Edward's Queen.
Warwick, too, had been forced grudgingly to concede her astonishing beauty, and lovely women were no novelty to Warwick. He'd had his share of liaisons, and his wife Nan, whom he'd married when he was six and she eight, was not only one of England's greatest heiresses but a pretty hazel-eyed blonde as well. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that he'd never seen a woman as beautiful as Elizabeth
Woodville.

He'd been prepared to dislike her at first sight. It had taken little time, however, for him to learn to hate her, to hate her with the embittered enmity he'd previously reserved for Marguerite d'Anjou. He'd always thought her to be a totally unsuitable Queen for his cousin. Once he came to know her, he thought her to be a bitch as well.
In this, he was not alone. Elizabeth awed with her beauty, but alienated with her arrogance. Warwick doubted there had ever been a Queen as little liked as the woman Edward had taken as his wife.
He would have preferred to believe Edward regretted the marriage; unfortunately, he could find no such indications. As much as it irked him to acknowledge it, his cousin seemed quite content with the beautiful haughty wife he'd chosen for himself. He was not faithful to her, but none who knew Edward would have expected fidelity, and if Elizabeth objected to her husband's adulteries, only she and Edward ever knew.
As yet, though, she'd not given Edward a son; a daughter had been born the previous year. That pleased
Warwick, although he'd never stopped to analyze why it should, for a son was essential to safeguard the
Yorkist dynasty. But he didn't doubt that Edward's unpopular Queen would eventually give him a male heir. Edward clearly found enough pleasure in her bed, even after three years of marriage, to spend considerable time there, and she came from an extremely fertile family.
The very thought of that fertile family of Woodvilles was enough to sour Warwick's day. He found it impossible to resign himself to the rapid rise of Elizabeth's relatives. She'd brought no dowry to her marriage, Warwick thought grimly, but by God, she suffered no lack of blood kin!
She had six unwed sisters for whom titled husbands were needed, and in short order, the heirs of the
Earls of Arundel, Essex, and Kent had Woodville wives and the twelve-year-old Duke of Buckingham was unwillingly wed to Elizabeth's young sister, Katherine.
Five brothers there were, too, to claim their share of their sister's sudden glory. Her favorite brother, Anthony Woodville, was named Governor of the Isle of Wight. Another brother had been knighted. And citizen and courtier alike had been scandalized by the marriage made between twenty-year-old John
Woodville and the wealthy dowager Duchess of Norfolk, who was nearly fifty years his elder.
Elizabeth's father had been titled as Earl Rivers, and Warwick was acutely aware of the rumors that
Edward meant to name his father-in-law as Lord Constable of England, an office of immense power and prestige. But most galling of all for Warwick was the matter of the Exeter marriage.
The Duke of Exeter was an avowed Lancastrian, but he'd consented, nonetheless, to wed Edward's eldest sister Anne in 1447 when he was seventeen and she a child of eight years. The marriage had not won him over to York, however. He'd fought against Edward at Towton and was

now in exile in Burgundy. During a rather troubled marriage, he and Anne had produced a daughter, who was, as the heiress of the Exeter estates, a much sought-after marital prize. The girl had been promised to
John Neville's young son. But that past October, Elizabeth had paid her sister-in-law of Exeter the sum of four thousand marks to secure the young heiress for Thomas Grey, Elizabeth's twelve-year-old son by her first marriage.
Edward professed to be somewhat uncomfortable with this transaction. He had privately apologized to
John and promised to see that John's son would be given a bride no less wealthy. But he refused
Warwick's demands that he forbid the match, and disclaimed responsibility with the rather disingenuous argument that it was a matter between his wife and sister only. Edward ever preferred to dispose of unpleasantness by evading or ignoring it, and while he was too intelligent not to realize a day of reckoning could be deferred but not denied, it never seemed to trouble him unduly.
John understood this; he saw his cousin Ned with affection but without illusions, and so he accepted the
Exeter-Grey marriage with such good grace as he could muster. Only to his wife did he voice his resentment at the way Elizabeth had pirated the Exeter heiress from his own son.
Warwick, not being of so stoic a temperament as John, had raged with a dangerous lack of discretion at what he saw as Woodville perfidy. He never doubted that Elizabeth Woodville had more in mind than gaining a rich wife for her son; he knew she took gleeful satisfaction at taking away from the Nevilles.
BUT on this evening in late June, Warwick's mood was not darkened with any thoughts of the despised
Woodvilles. He had just returned from a triumphant tour of France, a tour that had exceeded all expectations and strengthened his conviction that his future, England's future, must lie with France. Surely now, his cousin the King would see he was right.
He'd been gone for a month's time, was now returning with a French embassy headed by no less a personage than the Archbishop of Narbonne. Arriving at the Herber, he left his distinguished guests in the great hall while he went to advise his wife of his return. He was looking forward to her surprise; he knew she hadn't expected him back so soon.
The scene in the solar was very much a family one. Nan had a satin gown spread out on the trestle table and was showing John's wife Isabella how a steeping in verjuice had removed a stain from the skirt. John lounged nearby on the settle, cracking walnuts for his six-year-old son. Across the solar, his cousin
George sat with Warwick's daughter Isabel,