The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (23 page)

shoved past Richard and Hastings, entered the inn. Only then did he let his eyes seek those of his brother and Lord Chamberlain.
The inn suddenly emptied of people. Most were hastening from the courtyard to follow the progress of the Archbishop and the King through the village, watching until the last of the soldiers had disappeared down the road that led west, toward Coventry.
Richard and Will Hastings stood in silence in the deserted courtyard. Richard had been grasping the hilt of his dagger, clutching it as if it were a lifeline. Now, as his hold suddenly slackened, his fingers began to tingle with the returning rush of blood. He flexed them absently, and then looked down at the dagger as if becoming aware of it for the first time. It slipped smoothly from its sheath, a beautiful lethal weapon, slender of blade and jeweled of hilt, engraven with a tusked boar.
Suddenly he was running, across the courtyard and out to the village well. He didn't pause, leaned over, and dropped the dagger down into the depths of the well. The water closed over it at once, with hardly a ripple. As he watched, the surface smoothed over, so that none could tell it had been disturbed at all.
11
WARWICK CASTLE

The night was unbearably hot. Edward sat up, unfastened his shirt. It didn't help. He leaned over, began to rummage through the stack of books piled on the floor by the bed. He selected several at random, settled back against the pillows.
The first one he opened was a slim volume bound in Moroccan leather, a thirteenth-century Latin poem, The Debate of the Body and the Soul. He began to read.
Thou, that ivert ever wont on prancing steed To ride abroad, by country or by town;
Thou, that wert known for many a shining deed
Of high emprise, a knight affair renown; How are thy swelling honors stricken down, Thy heart of lion-daring lowly bowed! Where now is thy imperious voice, thy frown
Of withering hate? Thou, that wert so proud, What dost thou lying here, wrapt in a vulgar shroud?
Edward laughed, with considerable bitterness. A good question, that last. Why, indeed, was he lying here in a stifling bedchamber in his cousin's castle? Because he'd been a bloody trusting fool, that was why.
How could he have been duped by that Robin of Redesdale ruse? How could he have been so gullible?
Where is thy arras stiffening with gold, Thy couches all with gorgeous hangings strewed, The ambling jennets, and thy destrier bold, The hawks and hounds, that came to thee for food?
Where now the troops of friends that round thee stood?
That was another intriguing question. He'd have given a great deal to know the answer, to know the whereabouts of his friends, his supporters. Had the entire country passively acquiesced in his captivity?
What of London? He'd always been well liked in London; had the citizens meekly submitted to
Warwick's assumption of authority?
He slammed the book shut. That was the worst, the not knowing. The utter isolation. For eleven days now, he'd had no contact with the outside world, knew no more of what was happening in his own realm than he did of the goings-on in Cathay.
His own realm. A rare jest, that! At the moment, he had no more control over events than that pitiful fool reading his prayer missals in the Tower. It was four years now since Harry of Lancaster had fallen into
Yorkist hands, and it was said he seemed more content in confinement than ever he had in the days of his kingship. Edward wondered if it had occurred to his cousin Warwick that he held no less than two Kings of England in his power. Doubtless, it had. That was just the sort of irony to appeal to Warwick's monumental pride.
Yet had it not been for that very pride, Edward was convinced, he'd have been dead these eleven days past. It was Warwick's vanity, his glorified image of himself, that had stayed his hand, kept him from murder. For the moment.
Edward believed Warwick was no more eager than the Archbishop of York to take upon himself the onus of killing an anointed King. But he

Knew Warwick, knew he'd have done it had he felt no other choice was open to him. He was alive now because he'd taken his cousin by surprise with his surrender, with his willingness to accede to Warwick's wishes, to sign what he was told to sign, to play the puppet King. All under the guise of flawless courtesy, the gracious host and the grateful guest. It was a deadly little game he and his cousin were playing. How long it could last, he didn't know, doubted that Warwick did, either.
He reached for another book, flipped through it listlessly.
Winter rouses all my grief; Branches strip til they are bare, And sighing in sorrow, I despair That earthly pleasures come to nothing.
Seed I planted green now withers, Jesus, your high purpose show; Stave off Hell, for when I go From here, and where, I do not know.
That was too much. Edward yielded to impulse, sent the book sailing across the room. It slammed into the door, and the voices in the outer chamber ceased at once. He didn't doubt his "BODYGUARD'S"
were alarmed, wondering how their King was amusing himself. Amusing himself! Christ, he was going mad with sheer boredom. In some ways, that was even worse than the uncertainty of what each dawning day might hold. He'd never experienced a period of forced inactivity beffore, had never before been denied those pleasures he'd always taken for granted.
He closed his eyes, put off summoning a servant for a while longer. Warwick saw that his needs were well served, had arranged for a man to act as his body squire. Edward did not credit that to Warwick's generosity. He knew that as long as he was cooperating, it was in Warwick's interest to preserve the aura of kingship.
After a few moments, he sat up again, shoved the pillow back in shape. Not that all his needs were being served. Except for rare bouts with illness or during campaigns, this was the longest that hie'd gone without a woman in his bed. And now, more than at any other tiime in his life, he needed the relief, the distraction. He should remind hiis cousin that it was customary to offer a condemned man one last meal!
Not surprisingly, such thoughts brought Elizabeth to his mind. He wasn't all that worried for her physical safety, for he did not think Warwick would harm a woman. She must be frantic, though,, must be wild with fear. And with more reason than any others knew. She'd

joined him briefly at Fotheringhay last month, and had told him then that she thought she might be with child.
She still hadn't been sure, and none had been told. Thank God Jesus for that! The only one he'd mentioned it to was Dickon, and the boy was bright enough to hold his tongue. No, it was best if
Warwick did not know Lisbet was breeding again, that she might be carrying the son who would take from George his one dubious distinction, that he stood between Edward's little girls and the throne.
Not that he could be sure that was Warwick's intent, to claim the crown for George. He was damned well sure, though, that it had occurred to them both and frequently. If they did think they could get away with it ... If they thought the country would accept George ... If Johnny could be persuaded to hold aloof
. . .
He knew he was tormenting himself for naught, that such feverish speculation did him no good, but he couldn't seem to stop. His head was throbbing again, had been paining him for days now. The strain was telling. He awoke at night drenched in sweat, jerked from sleep by the pounding of his own heart.
He found himself recalling a sardonic jest he'd once made when Will had chided him for wandering about
London with only a token escort. Who, he'd laughed, would be willing to kill him, knowing that meant
George would then be King? Those within earshot had been much amused, but Edward now found nothing remotely amusing in the memory.
The door opened. One of his guards stood there, conspicuously ill at ease.
"Your Grace . . . my lord of Warwick has ridden in this night from Coventry. He requests that you do join him in the presence chamber."
Edward didn't move, stared at him. Remembering a summer night two years ago when he'd refused
Warwick's demand for a midnight audience. It was, he reckoned, nearly midnight now.
The documents had been spread out on the table for him, awaiting his signature. Edward read rapidly. He was not surprised to find Warwick was claiming for himself the office of Chief Justice and Chamberlain of
South Wales, a post that had been held by Lord Herbert, who'd gone to the block at Warwick's command just eighteen days ago. He scribbled his signature, reached for the next document.
This one gave him pause. Warwick was appointing Will Hastings as Chamberlain for North Wales.
Edward felt a surge of relief, for that meant Warwick had decided Will was worth winning over. Yet at the same time,

he could not deny a certain disquiet. Will was his friend. He trusted Will as much as he trusted any man alive. But his trust was not what it once had been. He'd once trusted Warwick; he truly hadn't believed
Warwick would ever resort to armed rebellion, not after all they'd shared.
It occurred to him now that there was no man he could trust without reservations. Not one. Not Johnny.
Not Jack Howard. For sure, not Lisbet's Woodville kindred! Not even Will and Dickon, for Dickon was an untried boy and Will . . . Will was Warwick's brother-in-law. It would seem, he thought bleakly, that he'd just discovered yet another unpleasant aspect of confinement, the erosion of trust.
"I assure you it is all in order, Cousin."
Edward looked up, met Warwick's eyes. "I've no doubt of that," he said coolly, "but I was once told that a man who signs any paper without reading it beforehand is a fool twice over."
Warwick's mouth quirked, as if he'd suppressed a smile. "As I recall, I was the one who did so caution you."
"Yes, I know. It was during those months we spent in Calais, after we were forced to flee Ludlow."
This time their eyes held. By the hearth, George watched with displeasure. There was much about his cousin's relationship with Ned that he found hard to comprehend. He thought Warwick had every reason to hate Ned and most of the time acted as though he did. And then suddenly he'd let himself be caught up in some common memory. Once, much to George's exasperation, he'd even found them laughing together over some stupid incident that had happened years ago. It irked him that Warwick seemed unable to sever all ties with the past, that he did let memories matter. It was only today that counted. And today, Ned was a threat.
George did not trust Ned in the least, however amiable he was making himself out to be. George knew
Ned too well for that, and for the first time, he found himself wondering if Warwick's perception of Ned weren't flawed. Unfortunately, he knew Warwick wasn't likely to heed him. There were times when it seemed to George as if his father-in-law of a month took him no more seriously than did Ned.
It would have been so much easier had Ned offered resistance at Olney, been killed in the fighting.
George had been sure that would happen, had been truly shocked when Ned surrendered himself into
Warwick's hands without so much as a struggle. George had only recently admitted it to himself, would never have said it aloud, but he would rather his brother were dead. Ned's death would be the solution to all their problems.
He did not want, however, to have a hand in Ned's murder. Not when he thought of his lady mother, thought of Meg and Dickon. He'd

never be able to face them if that happened. Never. Not unless Ned gave him no choice.
Well, it might not come to that. Warwick had a scheme, one that gave George a great deal of excitement.
There were other ways to depose a King than by death, after all. There was, Warwick had pointed out, that rumor put about years ago by enemies of York, that Ned was, in fact, illegitimate, was not the true son of the Duke of York.
George doubted if even the most devout Lancastrian had ever believed it, but belief wasn't all that important. It could be used, could give parliament the excuse it must have to act, to confer the crown upon him. He did not permit himself to tarnish his dream by considering his mother's reaction to such an accusation. He'd convinced himself that she'd understand it was Warwick's doing, not his.
Still, though, it was risky. So very risky. His smile faded. No, far better for them if Ned were dead. He studied his brother with cold eyes. What a pity he'd not died at Olney!
Edward reached for the last of the documents put before him. But with the first words, he stiffened, stared down in disbelief.
"The King, to the venerable father in Christ, Thomas, Cardinal and Archbishop of Canterbury, greetings.
Because on the Friday before Michaelmas next to come, We decree to hold a parliament at York, We order you to be present in person on the day and place aforesaid-"
Edward's head came up sharply to find Warwick watching him with a sardonic smile.
"As you can see, Ned, there's to be a parliament in York on the twenty-second of next month. I want you, therefore, to send out writs under the privy seal to the prelates and peers of the realm."
Edward stared at him. His mind was racing. A parliament. . . why? To confer the crown upon George?
"I see," he said slowly.
"I rather thought you would, Cousin." Warwick saw with satisfaction that some of Edward's vaunted control had slipped; there was a tightness about his mouth that hadn't been there moments before.
"George did think you might refuse. Why, I don't know."
Warwick was enjoying himself. There were times, he admitted, when the unreality of their situation struck him with overwhelming force, when he found it impossible to believe he and Ned had ever come to this.
But not now. Now he relished this particular moment, thought it ample payment for what he saw as years of Woodville-inflicted humiliations.
"I did tell George he was wrong, of course. I said I was sure you'd appreciate . . . the necessities involved, would be quite willing to cooperate."
Edward's fist had clenched. He gazed down at the whitened knuckles,

the ruby-red coronation ring. A moment passed, and then another. And then he reached for the pen.
"Why not?" he said briefly, and Warwick looked over to smile at his son-in-law.
"That's a trait I've often admired in you, Ned," he said pleasantly. "You've always been a realist."
He moved to the sideboard, signaled for a servant to pour him wine.
"Now your brother Edmund, as I recall, took a rather pessimistic view of events. And Dickon, God help him, is both an idealist and a moralist. But you've always taken a very clear-sighted approach to life, uncluttered by lofty notions of chivalry or high moral principles. That's commendable, Cousin, it truly is."
Warwick heard George laugh, but Edward refused the bait, said only "You're slighting your son-in-law, aren't you, Dick? What of George?"
"I think he can speak for himself! Tell us, George, how would you describe yourself?"
George was watching Edward, even as he answered Warwick's playful query. "As a man who knows how to make the most of an opportunity," he said softly.
The chamber was silent for some moments after that. Both Warwick and George were watching Edward as he wrote. Warwick sipped his wine, savoring both the taste and what was to come.
"There is one more thing, Ned. You'd best prepare yourself for a journey."
He saw Edward's pen pause and then continue smoothly across the page, and he felt a flicker of admiration. He'd seen few men who could equal Ned's coolness in a crisis. With a smile that was almost affectionate, he said, "Yes, I've decided your interests would best be served by a stay at Middleham."
Edward betrayed himself at that; his pen jerked involuntarily. Middleham! Two hundred fifty miles from
London. In a region that had long held for Lancaster, had high regard for Warwick. But not for him, not for the House of York. He saw he'd blotted ink upon his signature; The first four letters of "Edwardus
Rex" were unreadable. He crossed it out, wrote above it in a slanting scrawl quite unlike his usual Italic hand, and then looked up.
"It's been five years since I've been North. I'd say a visit is long overdue," he said calmly, and saw
Warwick was amused by his unruffled response, that George was not.
It was queer, Edward thought, that George should have proven to be the most difficult to deal with. He'd never before realized just how much