The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (33 page)

the reins trailed loosely through lax fingers. Milky blue eyes blinked repeatedly, as though unused to the light. An unfocused smile would shape his mouth from time to time, but he seemed not to understand that the tepid cheers of "God save the King!" were meant for him.
Will Parr watched as Harry of Lancaster rode by. For a moment, the pale eyes looked in his direction;
Harry smiled, a smile of singular sweetness, and Will saluted his King, thinking, The poor witless creature, God pity him . . . God pity us all.
"Where do you think they will go after they make offerings at St Paul's?" he asked his companion, low-voiced.
"Warwick will doubtlessly stay at the Bishop's Palace, or perhaps the Herber, and I expect they will take his Grace the King to Bedlam."
Bedlam was the popular name for St Mary of Bethlehem Hospital, London's asylum for the deranged of mind . . . and Francis had not troubled to drop his voice. Laughter rustled through the crowd, and disapproving murmurs as well, motivated, perhaps, more by expediency than loyalty to Lancaster, but dangerous withal.
"For Christ's sake, Francis, guard your tongue!" Grabbing Francis by the arm, Will jerked him back, pulling him hastily toward the nearest cross street.
"This way ... and hurry! You may not care if your head graces Drawbridge Gate, but I've no wish to be carrion for the ravens!"
Francis didn't resist, following as Will roughly shouldered his way through the crowd. Once they moved away from Lombard Street, the path of the procession, the congestion eased considerably and Will slowed to glare at his friend.
"Why not just shout for York on the steps of St Paul's and have done with it?"
Francis had the grace to look contrite. "You're right, Will. I didn't mean to endanger you. But when I saw that poor pious fool with the crown of England on his head ... I couldn't bear it," he concluded simply.
Mollified, Will patted his arm in an awkward gesture of comfort. "I know. I was at Middleham, too, Francis. But it won't change things if I die a martyr for York . . . and the same holds true for you. Try to bear that in mind."
Francis nodded. "Rob Percy was with Dickon; did you know that, Will?" he asked, after they'd walked a full block in silence.
"No, I did not. Be you sure?"
"I left York on September eleventh for the Fitz-Hugh manor at Tanfield, and Rob was still there, with no plans to depart."
"They say Edward ordered his army to scatter. Rob may be back in Scotton even now."

"You know better than that," Francis said shortly, and Will frowned.
"Yes, I confess I do. If the tale be true that they have fled to Burgundy, then Rob is in Burgundy, too."
"I heard today that their ship was sunk in a gale, with the loss of all aboard," Francis said, in so neutral a tone that Will turned a sharp inquiring look in his direction.
"And I heard that they were taken by the French; would you rather believe that? Jesu, Francis, you know better than to heed idle tavern talk! Not even Warwick knows for certes the whereabouts of Edward of
York."
Francis had no chance to respond. A cascade of greasy water gushed from an upper window of an overhanging second story. Francis, cat- quick, pulled Will back in time, but two other passersby were not as fortunate and were drenched. Understandably outraged, they directed a stream of sputtering oaths upward, where a woman's face appeared briefly to assess indifferently the damage done and slam the shutters on their tirade.
"The graceless jade!" One of the victims appealed angrily to Will and Francis. "You saw. . . . Look at my jerkin; I'm soaked through!" Raising his voice to a shout.
"Plague take you, you careless bitch! May your man lay with harlots and bring you back the pox! May you have even as many griefs as the Woodville slut!"
Francis and Will walked on, leaving him to rant under the streetwise eyes of two small boys and an emaciated mongrel dog.
"A week ago, he'd have said that at the risk of his head," Francis said bitterly. "God, how quick they are to pick the bones clean!"
cecily Neville, Duchess of York, had long shown a preference for her rural retreat at Berkhampsted over
Baynard's Castle, the London palace of York. But with the approach of All Hallows' Eve, she was once more in residence by the River Thames, and each time she ventured forth to attend Mass at St Paul's or to make charitable offerings to the hospitals of Si Bartholomew and St Thomas, Londoners remembered her son, the young Yorkist King.
It was dusk. Earlier in the day a festive procession had thronged the city streets, moving from the guildhall in Aldermenbury Street through Cheapside, Fleet Street, and the Strand, toward Westminster, where the newly elected Lord Mayor of London would take oath of office. Now, however, the streets were passable once more and Francis had no difficulty in engaging a barge to ferry him from Southwark to
Paul's Wharf, within walking distance of Baynard's Castle.

The presence chamber oriel window faced south, and Francis had an unobstructed view of the Thames, where flickering lights marked the passing river traffic. He'd not really expected the Duchess of York to receive him, and he was beginning to regret the impulse that, in the common room of a Southwark inn, had seemed inspired, but in the presence chamber of Baynard's Castle, seemed audacious in the extreme.
She'd come in so silently that he'd heard neither the door nor the light step, and he spun around, startled, as she spoke his name.
Her first words brought her sons vividly to his mind, for she shared with all of her children an uncommonly pleasing voice, well modulated, melodious, not easily forgotten. She extended her hand to him and he kissed the long tapering fingers, barren of jewelry save an ornate wedding band of heavy gem-encrusted gold.
She held a folded paper in her other hand, and as he straightened, she passed it to him with the faintest glimmer of a smile.
"I would caution you not to commit your indiscretions to print," she said coolly. "You'd best burn this."
Francis crumpled the message which had gained him entry. "I am proud to be friend to His Grace, the
Duke of Gloucester. Nothing which has happened in the past four weeks has changed that, Your Grace."
"You shall not prosper, I fear, under Lancaster, Francis Lovell."
"I should not care to, Madame."
"Why did you wish to speak with me?"
The grey eyes were disconcertingly direct, and he felt compelled to speak the truth.
"London has become a virtual cesspool for rumors and gossip . . . of the vilest sort." His mouth twisted.
"The scandalmongers and doomsayers delight in the most outlandish tales, each one warranted as gospel truth."
"Ah ... I see. You fear the stories are true? That Edward did drown while attempting a Channel crossing?"
"I do not know, Madame," he conceded quietly. "And that is what I cannot endure. I truly believe I
would rather know the worst than know nothing at all. I thought, perhaps, that you would have word . . .
that you might know. ..."
"Edward came ashore at Texel in Holland nigh on a month ago, the same day that Richard's ship put in safely on the island of Walcheren in Zeeland. They were reunited at The Hague on the eleventh of
October."
"Deo gratias," he breathed, so sincerely that she gave him a smile such as she reserved for very few.
Scorning the cushion he offered, she seated herself in a heavy high- backed chair, and indicating the nearest footstool, bade him do likewise.

"What I am to tell you comes from the pen of my daughter, Duchess of Burgundy, written in her own hand and dispatched by secret courier as soon as she learned of Edward's landing in her husband's realm.
"There is some truth in those grim tales being traded in London alehouses. The Easterlings were on the alert for the Yorkist ships; the captain who captured Edward of York could have claimed his own reward from the French King. They pursued Edward into the very port of Texel, but it was ebb tide and neither ship could dock. The Easterlings dropped anchor, were waiting till the tide would rise enough for them to board Edward's ship."
Francis gasped. "What saved him, Madame?"
"His gift for friendship," she said, and smiled at his surprise. "When the Burgundians were negotiating for the marriage of their Duke to my daughter in the summer of 1467, Edward won the admiration and affection of one of their envoys, Louis de Bruges, Seigneur de la Gruuthuse. Most fortuitously, he is now
Governor of the province of Holland, and when he heard of my son's plight, he compelled the Easterlings to withdraw and gave Edward safe entry into the harbor."
"It was a propitious day for York when the Lady Margaret did join her House to that of Burgundy,"
Francis said warmly.
The graceful white fingers were suddenly still, linking in her lap. "I suspect Charles of Burgundy may think otherwise."
Francis frowned. "But surely he will give aid to York? He is King Edward's brother-in-law, after all. ..."
"As George is Edward's brother."
Francis stared at her. "Are you saying Charles will not help your sons, Madame?"
"I would say that he ... lacks enthusiasm for such a venture. He wants no war with England, and if he backs Edward, he gives Warwick reason to join forces with the French King against Burgundy. He can scarcely deny his wife's brother refuge, but he refuses to meet with him, and Edward would be hard-pressed, indeed, were it not for Gruuthuse's generosity."
She gave Francis a sober, searching look. "They had little more than the clothes they wore when they fled
England, after all, and Edward had only a cloak of marten fur to give to the captain of his ship."
Shaken, Francis could think of nothing to say. His fear had been that Edward and Richard would not reach Burgundy. Once there, he'd taken it for granted that Charles would give them the gold and soldiers they'd need to challenge Warwick. Now his mind was filled with one image and
English name for the German cities which comprised the Hanseatic League.

one image only: Edward Plantagenet, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, paying for passage with a fur-lined cloak.
The Duchess of York did not seem uncomfortable with the lengthening silence. Rising, she brushed aside his helping hand and crossed to the prie-dieu that faced the hearth. Picking up a coral rosary, she fastened it about a slender wrist and then turned back to the boy, who was regarding her with anxious eyes.
"Tell me, did you ever take notice of a pilgrim token worn by my youngest son? A small silver coin graven with a Latin cross?"
Mystified, he nodded. "Yes, Your Grace, I did. As I recall, he was never without it during our years at
Middleham."
A magnificent arras hanging covered the entire east wall of the chamber, an elaborately detailed depiction of the Siege of Jerusalem. She was staring past Francis at the tapestry, tracing the familiar intricately woven patterns of topaz and russet as she said, "When I was in my fifteenth year, I was stricken with the tertian fever. I was not expected to live . . . and my favorite brother vowed that if I did, he would make a pilgrimage to the Blessed Shrine of St Caecilia at Trastevere."
She gave him a distant smile. "I did live and he kept his vow and I wore his pilgrim pledge on a silver chain around my neck for nigh on thirty years."
Francis made a properly pious reply, hoping his face did not betray his bafflement.
"When my husband, my brother, and my son Edmund were murdered at Sandal Castle, and my nephew
Warwick defeated at St Albans, I feared for the lives of my youngest sons, resolved to send them to safety in Burgundy, beyond the reach of Lancaster.
"That night I removed the pilgrim cross for the first time. I fastened it around Richard's neck and I
entrusted my sons to the mercy of the Almighty, not knowing if I'd see them again in this lifetime."
Francis did not know the response expected of him. It was a vivid, poignant tale, yet told as dispassionately as if she were relating her household accounts.
"I'm sure he wears your cross even now, Madame, and it will safeguard him as once it did before."
"Richard is no longer eight years old," she said icily. "He is quite able to fend for himself."
Francis blinked. "Madame?"
"I find your pity presumptuous, as I do your assumption that I am a grieving mother to be indulged and consoled with platitudes. I assure you I had quite a different purpose in mind when I related that story."
Her lip curled. "I have my failings, Francis, but I am never maudlin."

"No, Madame, indeed you are not he agreed, so fervently that she relented, said with uncharacteristic patience, "I wanted you to understand how it was here in the city when word reached us that Warwick had been beaten at St Albans. I knew what would happen when London fell to Lancaster. The night that I
hastened Richard and George aboard ship for Burgundy, I fully expected the Lancastrians to be in
London within hours. The city was in a panic. Shops were boarded up; men were frantic with fear for their wives and daughters; the streets were deserted as if it were a plague town.
"All seemed lost. And then, by the grace of God, came word from Edward. Warwick had reached him with the dire news of St Albans and he rallied a force, was racing Hell-bent for London.
"On February twenty-sixth, nine days after Warwick lost St Albans, Edward won London. You will never in your lifetime see such a scene as greeted him upon his entry into the city." A smile came and went, so quickly he couldn't track its passage. "On that day, Londoners made his cause their own.
"Three days later, a deputation of nobles led by Warwick came here to Baynard's Castle and, in this very room, offered him the crown.
"His coronation, however, had to wait. In just eleven days, he mustered a fighting force and marched north. He overtook Marguerite's army at Towton, twelve miles from York. The battle was fought in the worst snowstorm in years and lasted ten hours. When it was over, they say the River Cocke Beck ran pure crimson and twenty thousand men were dead or dying. And Edward had the victory.
"Just three months lay between my husband's death at Sandal Castle and Edward's triumph at Towton.
What my husband could not do, what Warwick could not do, Edward did . . . while still a month shy of his nineteenth birthday.
"Do you understand me? My son and I have often disagreed. He is a true Plantagenet and given to sins of the flesh and a prideful arrogance which served Warwick all too well. But this I do tell you for a certainty
. . . that nothing on God's blessed earth shall keep him from returning to claim what is his. If Charles of
Burgundy refuses him aid, he'll seek it from Francis of Brittany or John of Aragon . . . and if need be, from the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire.
"I know my son. He will return . . . and when he faces Warwick across a battlefield, he will prevail."
"Yes," Francis said softly. "I do believe that." Honesty compelling him to add, "I have to believe that."
Cecily looked at him. "So do I," she said evenly.