The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (19 page)

and by the hearth, Anne, his youngest, was playing chess with Richard.
Warwick stayed motionless and unnoticed for a moment in the doorway. Isabel was two months shy of her sixteenth birthday, and each time Warwick looked at her, he felt a throb of paternal pride. Isabel had flowered in the past year, had begun to turn male heads. And much to Warwick's satisfaction, none seemed more captivated than George.
He'd always meant, of course, that George should one day wed Isabel, and had, without undue difficulty, conditioned them to view such a marriage as quite the most natural thing in the world. That spring, he'd instructed his brother, now the Archbishop of York, to open secret negotiations with the Vatican, and he was already setting aside the gold it would take to secure the papal dispensation that would enable
George and Isabel to wed. Such a dispensation was required by the laws of consanguinity, George and
Isabel being first cousins once removed. And the negotiations were being conducted in secrecy to circumvent Edward's anticipated opposition to the marriage; so strained had the relationship between the two men become that Edward now looked with disfavor upon any alliance between his brothers and
Warwick's daughters.
Warwick had no intention, however, of having his cherished plans thwarted by his cousin, King or not.
He felt quite confident that the papal dispensation would be forthcoming, for Edward's own agent in
Rome was secretly sworn to act on his behalf, having been won over with lavish offerings of Neville gold.
Isabel was holding George's hand between her own; she now made an elaborate show of tracing his lifeline for him. That was not an activity Warwick's wife would normally have sanctioned, for it was too close to soothsaying. But she made no objection, even smiled, knowing full well that it was only an excuse for touching. Warwick smiled, too, and then looked toward Anne.
That winter, Anne had taken it into her head that she wanted to learn to play chess. At last he'd yielded to her importunings and agreed to teach her, but with no expectation of success. Warwick did not think women were capable of the intellectual concentration needed for so demanding a discipline as chess, and felt himself vindicated when the second chess lesson ended with Anne in tears and the board on the floor where he'd flung it in disgust. When Richard had then volunteered to teach her, Warwick wryly wished him well. But secretly, he'd been pleased, for he'd sensed a change in Richard; the boy had been drawing away from his Neville kin.
No, that wasn't strictly true, he conceded. Dickon was still on the best of terms with Johnny. He was as friendly as ever with Isabel. And with Anne, nothing had changed; he teased her and kept her secrets and was as protective of her as any brother could have been. No, it was not

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his Neville kin he'd begun to avoid. As little as Warwick liked to admit it, he was the one Dickon no longer seemed comfortable with.
Warwick knew why, of course, and mentally heaped more curses upon the head of his cousin, the King.
The chess lessons pleased him, therefore. While it was true that Dickon's blind loyalty to Ned was proving to be irksome, Warwick was far from ready to give up on the boy. He knew Dickon's heart was at Middleham; knew, too, that Dickon had no liking for his brother's Woodville in-laws. He did not imagine life could be very pleasant for the boy at the Woodville court. For that was how Warwick now saw his cousin's court, as infested by Woodvilles.
Apparently, Richard had proven to be a more adept tutor than Warwick anticipated; both youngsters seemed thoroughly engrossed in the chessboard. Warwick moved into the room, and his wife looked up, cried, "Dick!" Warwick laughed, came forward into the warmth of their welcome.
the French King had honored Warwick with a magnificent golden goblet studded with emeralds, rubies, and diamonds, and the family passed it around with murmurs of admiration. But it was the gifts Warwick himself had brought back that elicited real excitement. King Louis had opened the famed textile shops of
Rouen to the English. Now Nan and John's Isabella and Warwick's daughters exclaimed with delight over the bolts of crimson velvet, patterned damask, and cloth of gold.
George was equally delighted with what Warwick had brought back for him, a small rhesus monkey imported to Rouen from the Holy Land. George had never shown much interest in pets, but he found such a novelty to be irresistible, and announced at once that he would call his new possession Anthony.
As that happened to be the name of Anthony Woodville, best-loved brother of the Woodville Queen, it seemed likely that the monkey would attract more than its share of attention when he flaunted it at
Westminster. But George seemed to thrive upon such borderline insolences, and here in the House of
Neville, his choice evoked only laughter.
For John, Warwick had a magnificent leather-bound edition of Froissart's Chronicles, that renowned work of the fourteenth-century French historian. He knew, of course, that John was far from an avid reader, but the ownership of books was becoming as much a status symbol as was the possession of cut window glass or Flemish carpets.
He deliberately saved his gift for Richard till the last, knowing the boy expected nothing, and then presented his young cousin with proof positive of the superior skill of French craftsmen, a slender-bladed dagger that shone like silver as Richard unwrapped it.

Warwick leaned over to point out the unique carving upon the hilt, the Whyte Boar of Gloucester, a remarkably accurate depiction of the cognizance Richard had in the past year chosen for his own as an anagram for York Richard said little, merely mumbled his thanks. But Warwick had been `lose enough to the boy to see the sudden tears that had blurred his first sight of the Whyte Boar, tears that had been blinked back so hastily none but Warwick had noticed, and that involuntary response old Warwick all he wanted to know, showed him that his young cousin's loyalties were painfully divided, and he was content.
Settling down with some of the Bordeaux wine he been given by the Kmg offtake, he began to relate a tale of triumph Withthat flair for the theatric which was peculiarly his, he described the lavish welcome he'd been given by King Louis, described his spectacular entry into Rouen, with the citizens bearing flowers and banners of Neville crimson, and the priests holding aloft flaming torches, holy water, and crosses of beaten gold He told them of the avowals of friendship made by the French King He told them that Louis had made a most handsome offer for the hand of Ned's sister Meg, a marriage with the son of the Duke of Savoy Meg was at twenty-one, overly ripe for marriage; after all, most girls were wed by age fifteen or thereabouts.
He did not tell them, however, of the secret talks conducted in a Dominican friary. He said nothing of the planned destruction of France's hated enemy of Burgundy, or that Louis had suggested that the provinces of Holland and Zeeland, now held by the Duke of Burgundy, should then pass to his friend, the Earl of
Warwick. Why should not his dear friend hold both an English earldom and a principality in what had once been Burgundy? Warwick agreed; why not, indeed?
Instead he related to them a lurid tale told him by King Louis, of the mysterious winter disappearance of a rural woodcutter's family, believed to have been trapped and eaten by a pack of starving wolves.
For the first time since his brother's return, John allowed himself to relax felt some of his tension ebb, for it now seemed as if the reckoning would be put off until morning. He listened with amusement as his cousins and nieces discussed the killer wolves with considerable animation. No wolves had been seen in
England for years; the few surviving animals had long since retreated into the mountains of Wales. But the youngsters at once accepted Warwick's account as true. It was only to be expected, they agreed, that wolves should still roam French roads!
Warwick frowned at that, and John hid a smile. The English dislike of the French ran deep. If it surfaced in Warwick's own household, John thought, it must flow like a river through the streets of London. He did not understand how his brother could so easily discount so ancient a bias. France was England's traditional enemy; since the middle of the last century,

the English Kings had claimed the French throne. John understood that the English did not want a treaty with France; they wanted another Agincourt. His cousin Ned also understood this very well. John wondered why his brother did not.
He grinned, for Richard was now assuring Anne and Isabel that their father's cherished alaunt hounds were blood kin to the wolf, so closely interbred that it was too dangerous to use alaunts for hunting wolves. Greyhounds and mastiffs had to be used, instead, Richard explained; the risk was too great that the alaunts would revert back to the wild and turn upon their masters.
Both girls were now casting suspicious looks at the alaunt bitch stretched out by the hearth, seeing in her slanted amber eyes and twitching wolflike ears confirmation of Richard's tale. It was only when Richard could contain his laughter no longer that they realized they'd been hoodwinked. They were threatening dire recriminations in soft ladylike tones that would escape their mother's hearing when George said suddenly, "The wolves have been on the prowl here, too, Cousin, while you've been away. But here they do go by the name Woodville."
Only iron control and the fact that George was not within range kept John from backhanding his cousin across the mouth. George saw his anger, but it didn't faze him; he was not that attached to John. He leaned forward, facing the cousin who did matter.
"It seems Johnny and Dickon are shy of telling you, Cousin. But you must know what was done in your absence."
Warwick glanced over at his brother, back at George. He was fond of the boy, but he did wish George didn't derive such relish from bearing bad tidings.
"If you refer to the visit of the Burgundian delegation, I am well informed on that matter, George. The visit was planned ere I left England, after all. Moreover, it was my understanding that the Burgundian envoys have departed back to their country upon learning of the Duke of Burgundy's death a fortnight ago."
"Not all of them, Cousin. Louis de la Gruuthuse has remained behind ... to resolve the final points of the marriage contract."
Warwick had been aware, of course, that Charles, Count of Charolais, son and heir of the recently deceased Duke of Burgundy, had evidenced an interest in a marital alliance with England. Edward had seemed rather intrigued by the prospect, much to Warwick's annoyance. Quite apart from his political preference for France, Warwick had a personal aversion to the Count of Charolais, now the new Duke of Burgundy; they'd met the year before at Boulogne and had taken an instant and hearty dislike to one another.
But Warwick had not taken the Burgundian proposal that seriously.

He knew Charles of Burgundy liked nothing so much as baiting his avowed enemy and nominal liege lord, the King of France. He knew, too, that Charles was sympathetic to the House of Lancaster, was sheltering both Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Edward's Lancastrian brother-in-law, the
Duke of Exeter, at his court.
Most importantly, he did not think his cousin Ned would pay so little heed to his counsel. The Woodville marriage . . . well, that was an act of lust, inexcusable yet understandable. Politics was quite another matter. He did not think Ned would dare choose an alliance he so firmly opposed.
"Marriage?" he now said slowly. "You don't mean . . ."
George nodded. "Yes, I do. Ned has agreed to wed my sister Meg to Charles of Burgundy. Nothing has been put to paper as yet, but he has consulted Meg, to make sure she is willing." He paused. "It seems, Cousin, that she is."
Warwick was staring at him incredulously. "He would so dare . . ." he said softly, but with such intensity that George found himself hesitating before telling his cousin the rest, the worst.
"There's more, Cousin. Ned did invite the Burgundians to attend the opening session of parliament. Your brother George, as Chancellor, was to make the opening address. But at the last moment, he sent word he was ill. Ned . . . well, Ned seemed to think our cousin wasn't ill at all, that he was showing his displeasure that the Burgundian envoys had been accorded so much favor.
"On Monday last, Ned did ride himself to your brother's manor in Charing Cross and demand that he relinquish to him the Great Seal of the chancellorship. He then gave the chancellorship to the Bishop of
Bath and Wells, Robert Stillington, Keeper of the Privy Seal. ..."
George trailed off. Even though his loyalties were undivided, were given gladly to his cousin of Warwick, he was vaguely disturbed by the fury he saw in the Earl's face. Men who looked like that most generally had murder in mind, he thought uneasily.
George did not like his brother, had not liked Edward for years now, not since the early days of
Edward's kingship, and perhaps, even before that. He'd always resented the way Edward had favored
Richard, a favoritism that seemed to him to grow more pronounced with the passing years. He resented, too, what he saw as Edward's refusal to take him seriously, resented the way that all seemed to come so easily to Edward, with so little effort, and that Edward would deny him the right to wed Isabel Neville.
Above all, he resented the fact that the gold circlet of kingship was Edward's and would never be his, except in the unlikely event that Elizabeth Woodville kept giving Edward only daughters, and George knew better than to count on that.

But as little as he liked Edward and as much as he liked his cousin of Warwick, George was unnerved by
Warwick's wrath. He'd expected his cousin to be angry, of course. But not as angry as this.
WHEN Warwick stormed from the solar, John had not at first realized his intent. Warwick had thus gained an invaluable advantage in time and distance, was probably already at Westminster. John forced himself to sit back in his barge, to stare at the passing blackness that hid the houses clustered along the riverbank. And he tried not to think what he might find once he at last reached Westminster.
Westminster Palace was dark. As John scrambled onto the King's dock, he could hear the clock in the outer bailey marking the midnight hour. Guards stepped from the shadows to bar his way and at once moved aside in respectful recognition. Trailed by a handful of retainers, he made his way to the King's chambers, and there found his worst fears realized.
The antechamber was ablaze with torches. The door to Edward's bedchamber was blocked by men wearing the Yorkist badge of the Sunne in Splendour. They were very polite to His Grace, the Earl of
Warwick, and very adamant. The King's Grace had retired for the night, could not be disturbed, not even by my lord of Warwick. Warwick never traveled without a sizable escort, and now his men crowded around their lord, staring defiantly at the King's servants.
"I did say I would see my cousin, the King," Warwick said, in the tones of one accustomed to unquestioning obedience.
Edward's men, however, did not budge, and this time the refusal given was not quite so polite.
Warwick's men began to murmur among themselves; the growing ill will between Warwick and Edward had begun to filter down to their followers. Someone must have spread the word, for men were now moving past John into the chamber, men who wore the livery of York.
One of these new arrivals bumped into a Warwick retainer. With what was either incredibly bad luck or the most deliberate provocation, as he stumbled, his hand clutched at the other's sleeve, tore away the
Neville badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff. Warwick's man gave an outraged gasp and then lunged at the Yorkist.
John had never moved so fast in his life, would never know how he'd managed to cross the chamber in time to grab the offender. But the tension in the room wanted only a spark to flare into violence, to turn an ugly incident into the unthinkable, a brawl between the men of the King and the Earl of Warwick in the
King's own chambers.
"Stay there," John snarled to the man he'd shoved against the wall,