The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (24 page)

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George disliked him. Blood ties did mean so much to him that he'd refused to recognize they could mean so little to George.
Now it was George who said mockingly, "You know, Ned, I've always wondered how fond you were of your Woodville kin. Clearly enough, you were rather taken by the lady herself, for reasons we all do understand well enough! But what of the rest of the Woodville clan? How do you feel about them? Your father-in-law, say?"
"I don't see how that matters, George, or how it concerns you," Edward said, very evenly, and George smiled lazily at him.
"Oh, but it does, Ned. I'm curious, you see. Indulge me."
The last of Edward's patience ebbed away in the hot sticky silence that followed.
"Lisbet comes from a large family. It is to be expected that I'd not feel the same degree of affection for them all," Edward said wearily, and paused only a beat before adding, "Unfortunately, Brother George, one cannot choose his relatives as he can his friends."
Surprisingly enough, George's smile didn't waver. Edward was suddenly alert; his brother was never one to accept insult with amusement.
"Well then, that does put my mind at ease, Ned, about what I have to tell you."
Edward knew he was expected to probe now for details; he said nothing.
"Did you know . . . no, I expect not; you've been rather out of touch these past eleven days, haven't you, Ned? Well, it so happens that your wife's father and brother John were taken the other day near
Chepstow."
Edward was very still, kept his eyes on George. His brother seemed in no hurry to speak, however. He drained his wine-cup, set it down on the floor rushes by his chair, snapped his fingers at one of
Warwick's alaunts, and at last, glanced up.
"We had them beheaded yesterday noon outside the walls of Coventry," he said and smiled.

MIDDLEHAM
August 1469
In the five years since Edward had taken Elizabeth Woodville as his wife, Francis Lovell had conscientiously chronicled the fragmenting relationship between the Earl of Warwick and his royal cousin and on this humid August night, Francis was flipping back through his journal entries as the Earl's household awaited his arrival with his unwilling guest, the captive King of England.
Francis had been no more prepared for the Earl's action than had Edward himself, and he was still dazed and disbelieving four weeks after the King had been taken prisoner at Olney. He didn't know what
Warwick meant to do, knew only that the entire incredible episode filled him with apprehension.
Apprehension shared by Warwick's wife and daughter Anne, who were now awaiting the Earl in the great hall, word having been sent ahead to expect his arrival within the hour. Francis was sure they'd had no advance warning of Warwick's intentions; the news of Olney seemed to stun them as much as it had the country at large. For if rumor were to be credited, England was in turmoil.
Francis eagerly pounced upon every scrap of gossip that came his way and drew some consolation from what he heard. Warwick, it was becoming increasingly apparent, had misread the mood of his countrymen Even those who were most virulent in their opposition to the Woodvilles had been shocked that Warwick should have moved against Edward himself. Francis knew that was why Warwick had chosen to convey Edward northward to Middleham. Warwick Castle was too close to London, and
London was still loyal to Edward.
Francis closed his journal; it made disheartening reading. Rising, he returned the journal to the security of his coffer and began to extinguish

the candles, one by one. As he did, he heard the barking of the castle dogs.
The great hall was aflare with a score or more of torches, keeping the shadows at bay and casting flickering light over the scene being enacted before Francis's astonished eyes. Standing in the glare of torch-fire, Edward bore little resemblance to a man who'd endured a six-day forced march. Still less did he resemble a man held prisoner for nearly a month's time. He was accepting the deferential but uncertain salutations of the Earl's retainers as if holding court at Westminster, and as Francis knelt before him, he smiled easily.
"Francis Lovell ... Of course I do remember you. Ward to my cousin of Warwick and companion to my brother of Gloucester, as I recall."
His words bore evidence to an uncannily accurate memory. His tone was friendly. But his eyes were opaque, sealed all secrets in a sea of clearest blue. Francis glanced over at Warwick, who was being greeted by his wife and daughter, and then back at Edward. He is far more clever than Warwick, he thought suddenly, and for the first time since word of Olney reached Middleham, Francis was no longer so fearful for what the future might hold.
Prisoner or not, Edward was well able to take care of himself, Francis decided, and gave the Yorkist
King a smile of such unguarded admiration that Edward paused, let his eyes linger on Francis in sudden appraisal.
Much to Francis's secret amusement, Edward greeted Warwick's wife with such warmth that she was visibly flustered, pulled back from his embrace with an abruptness that bordered on rudeness. Edward, appearing oblivious of the unsettling effect he'd had on the mother, now turned toward the daughter, Nan's namesake.
Anne was in the shadows, came forward reluctantly to drop a stiff curtsy before him. He caught her by the elbows, raising her to her feet and drawing her toward him. Tilting her chin up, he stared into her face with an interest that was unfeigned.
Francis, who knew Anne's face as well as his own, found himself studying her with Edward's unfamiliar eyes. Isabel would always overshadow the fragile Anne. But Francis noted now the translucent skin without flaw, the wide-set dark eyes, a warm deep brown flecked with gold. He saw that there was a bright lustrous shimmer to her hair; it had darkened considerably since childhood and was an intriguingly elusive color, shaded under changing light from a sun-streaked chestnut to a burnished russet-gold. Saw, as if for the first time, that her full lower lip gave her mouth a provocative pout, in unexpected and arresting contrast to the

finely drawn cheekbones and narrow straight nose, and thought, in some surprise, Why, she's quite pretty!,,,,, It was a startling revelation to Francis, for until tonight, he always viewed Anne with the same affectionate unseeing eyes that he turned upon his own sisters. His sudden appreciation went no further than that, however; he was well aware that Anne's heart had been given long ago. He did find himself thinking, though, for the first time in many months, of Anna, his wife, who was Anne's age but far more of a stranger to him than Anne could ever be. Had she, too, been flowering toward womanhood? he wondered, suddenly curious.
So caught up was he in these novel speculations that he missed the murmured exchange between Anne and Edward. Edward's comment, rather-for Anne had said nothing. She backed away, bumped into
Francis, and he saw her skin was burning with hot color. "Whatever did he say to you, Anne?" he whispered. She hesitated and then said in a very low voice, so that he had to strain to catch her words, "He said ... he said, 'So, you're Dickon's Anne.'
In mid-September, George and Isabel rode with an impressive entourage into Middleham Castle, and villagers long accustomed to the magnificent pageantry that seemed always to surround their lord of
Warwick were, nonetheless, dazzled by the elaborately staged arrival of the Duke of Clarence and his
Duchess.
It was only then that Edward learned the scheduled parliament had suddenly and without explanation been canceled. Learned, too, that he'd been right in his suspicions as to Warwick's true intent.
It was Isabel Neville who unwittingly confirmed his fears-Isabel, who avoided his company whenever possible, who seemed acutely uncomfortable in his presence. He had no trouble guessing why. Isabel knew what her husband and father were planning, to crown George in his stead, and she did not know how to treat the man they meant to dethrone or worse- He'd amused himself by teasing her at first, but soon saw she was genuinely distressed and, after that, took pity on her, made no further attempts to seek out her company.
He continued to feign nonchalance, was so gallantly attentive to Nan that she finally began to thaw under his smiles and was soon acting as if he were, indeed, an honored guest and no more than that. He'd made a deliberate attempt to charm the unresponsive Anne, before realizing that, as with Isabel, the greatest kindness he could do her was to leave her alone.
Only with George did his mask slip; with George, Edward was hard

pressed to be civil. It was, in part, a natural reaction to George's intensifying hostility. But more than that, it was a bitter reaction to what he saw as a betrayal of his own blood. George was his brother, and to
Edward, that made his treachery as unnatural as it was unforgivable.
As for his cousin, Edward thought it fortunate that Warwick wasn't much at Middleham that September, for he was finding it more and more difficult to deflect the barbs, the sarcasms, with faintly ironic courtesy, to discipline a tongue that had never before known constraints not of his own choosing.
Not only were his nerves fraying under the unrelenting pressure, but Warwick's own affability was souring. Warwick was becoming far more apt to deliberately select words meant to wound, was curt now when he'd been complacent, patronizingly polite, just weeks ago. Edward noted the change with intense interest, understood it meant that his own position was now more hopeful and, paradoxically, more dangerous, than at any time since those first hours at Coventry.
In these weeks since Olney, Edward knew himself to be as close to death as he'd ever been. But even now, he never quite despaired. From boyhood, he'd done as he pleased, taken what he wanted, and had never found the price too high to pay.
Only once had his luck failed him, in the snow before Sandal Castle, and he'd never been able to stifle the conviction that had he been there that December day with his father and Edmund, he'd have somehow been able to keep them from the folly of that fatal assault. He could not believe that he would lose, even though his cousin seemed to hold all the cards and he had only time on his side.
The September sun was slanting through the unshuttered solar windows, touching Edward's hair with coppery glints, setting his rings ablaze as his hand hovered over the chessboard. He claimed a knight and looked up at Francis with a challenging smile, while reaching down to fondle the head pressing against his knee.
Francis watched the alaunt lavish a wet caress upon Edward's hand and laughed aloud.
"It seems even His Grace's hounds have been won over by you, my liege."
"Don't let my cousin hear you say that, Francis. There's no surer way to gain a man's enmity than to win his dogs away from him. Better you should seduce his wife, instead!"
Francis laughed, dared to say, "I doubt even you could seduce the Lady Nan, Your Grace! For her, there is but one man in the world . . . my lord of Warwick."

Edward suppressed the ribald retort that came to mind, in deference to his youthful companion's years.
He said instead, "That may explain then, Francis, why my cousin seems to trust his wife to my keeping and yet does begrudge me the companionship of his daughters."
Francis had noticed, too, how both Anne and Isabel were so little in Edward's company. His discretion had become somewhat lax after exposure to Edward's easy amiability, and now he said boldly, "It may be your brother of Clarence is jealous, my Lord."
Edward gave a noncommittal smile and a shrug. He'd sensed Francis was sympathetic from that first moment in the great hall, and the boy had confirmed it by the eagerness with which he responded to
Edward's friendly overtures. But Francis was stilll Warwick's ward, was wed to Warwick's niece.
Moreover, if his memoiry did serve him, the Lovells held Lancastrian loyalties. He preferred not to commit himself, not until he could be sure he'd securely won the boy's affections.
Now he raised guileless eyes to Francis's dark ones, and detoured the conversation away from the dangerous subject of his brother's jealousies.
"Well, be that as it may, that still does leave the younger girl, and she's been as elusive as a wood sprite.
I've not laid eyes upon her twice in the past week."
Francis stared down at the chessboard, experiencing a protective pang for Anne Neville.
"She was much grieved, my liege,, when you refused to permit her betrothal to His Grace, the Duke of
Gloucester."
"Not as grieved as my cousin of Warwick, I trust," Edward said dryly, and when Francis said nothing, he prodded, "Your move, Francis." Adding, in careless curiosity, "I daresay she was even more grieved, then, that Gloucester would not countenance an elopement in defiance of my wishes as did Clarence."
"No, Your Grace, that's not so," Ffrancis said, with enough emotion to earn him a quizzical look from
Edward. "She knows him far too well for that." He shook his head soberly.. "Your brother of Gloucester did love the Earl once. But he made his choice nigh on five years ago. I know, I was there."
Edward was regarding him with smdden absorption. "I do remember now. . . . You are a particular friend to Dickon, aren't you?" Francis caught the subtle shading of the query, nodded. "I have that privilege, Your Grace."
He swallowed, kept his gaze upon the ivory chess pieces. He knew Edward was watching him, could feel the man's eyes upon him, with a probing intensity that was like a physical touch. He reached tentatively for his endangered pawn, and Edward's hand closed on his. The coronation

ring shone for Francis with a blinding brilliance. He raised his eyes to meet Edward's, knowing what would be asked and what he would say.
"Just how good a friend to Dickon are you, Francis?"
Francis did not need to consider the consequences of his reply. He already knew, had long ago acknowledged a private truth, that his loyalties were pledged not to the Earl of Warwick or the forgotten
Queen of Lancaster, but to the House of York. To Dickon and the man who now gripped his hand across the chessboard.
"There is nothing I would not do for your brother of Gloucester," he said softly, and then his heart gave a guilty lurch, for the incriminating words were no sooner out of his mouth than the solar door opened and the Earl of Warwick entered the chamber.
Warwick frowned at sight of Francis, but forbore to make comment. He could hardly expect to isolate
Edward from contact with all in his household, not unless he had him confined to quarters under constant guard. And even that might not be sufficient.
He still remembered the unpleasant shock he'd felt upon entering Edward's chamber at Warwick Castle, soon after he'd taken his cousin into custody, and finding Edward playing cards with the men charged to guard him. He'd taken steps to see Edward would not be able to fraternize so freely with his gaolers in the future, but the memory of the incident lingered, gave him some uneasy moments. As much as it galled him to admit it, his cousin had a winning way when he so chose, and that, he thought bitterly, made Ned a very dangerous man, indeed. Too dangerous to be set free.
Yet his choices seemed to be narrowing. It would have been one thing to have put Ned to death at Olney or when he'd been brought before them at Coventry. It was quite another to kill him in cold blood after six weeks of captivity. He looked at his cousin, impersonally weighing what he would risk and what he would gain if he did now what he was beginning to believe he should have done at Coventry. He already knew the answer, though, knew that to kill Ned now was a risk he was not willing to take, not unless forced to it.
"You may go, Francis," he said abruptly, and looked at Edward as if daring him to object to this arbitrary interruption of their game. But Edward gestured casually toward the chessboard, said, "We'll pursue this further at a more opportune time, Francis."
Warwick watched as his ward fled the solar and then turned unfriendly eyes upon Edward. There was no reflection of remembered affection in his gaze, only cold, measuring hostility. In the past month, his feelings for Edward had suffered a sea change, had become encrusted with resentment, bleached of all warmth. Somehow, things weren't going