The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (37 page)

felt. Pleasantly light-headed, he fumbled for coins while she reached for the candle, murmuring, "Do you wish to bring a flagon with us?" "No, only you . . . only Marie-Elise and Mary Eliza." She giggled and stumbled, swaying against him so provocatively that he turned, took her in his arms, and kissed her again.
As he released her, a voice said, very close at hand, "I've been scouring the city for you, but I wonder if you'll forgive me for having found you!"
Richard spun around. "Ned?" Incredulously, and then flatly, "This is a surprise."
Fighting laughter and losing, Edward glanced at the girl clinging possessively to Richard's arm. "Yes, I
daresay it is!"
the innkeeper was hovering anxiously in the background, so obsequiously eager to please that Richard knew Edward had been recognized. A flustered serving maid was hurrying toward them with a platter of manchet bread and spermyse cheese, far above the usual quality of food served in the tavern, and the innkeeper himself poured their wine, while surreptitiously wiping the dust from the table with his sleeve.
As Edward bantered with his companions, bidding them to "Debauch yourselves whilst I speak with my brother," Richard reclaimed his seat, none too happy to be the focus of all eyes of a sudden. Drawing the sulky Marie down beside him, he was mollifying her with murmured promises as Edward finally succeeded in dismissing the innkeeper.
"You've time for a drink, I trust, Dickon," he queried, with a malicious solicitude that did not improve
Richard's humor.
"If you wish," he agreed ungraciously.
"I gather you had no luck with the Calais merchants?"
Richard's irritation ebbed, to be replaced with a numbing weariness. "No ... I'm sorry, Ned."
Edward shook his head. "Don't be. I expected as much."
With an effort, Richard forced animation into his voice.
"I had another letter from Meg yesterday. She seems most hopeful that she can persuade Charles to open his coffers to us."
"And how many ships can we man with hope, Dickon?" Edward asked pleasantly.
Richard stared at him. This was the closest Edward had yet come to conceding that aid from Charles might not be forthcoming. It chilled him to hear his own fears so unexpectedly expressed aloud, but he rallied and said gamely, "I've never yet known Meg not to have her way. If Charles

dared refuse us, she'd make his life one merry Hell and he does know it."
"You put too much faith in Meg, Dickon. You've yet to learn that women generally play a very small role in the scheme of things."
"Women seem to play a very large role in your scheme of things!" Richard jibed; but his banter rang hollow, even to him, and he abandoned further pretense. "You know Meg's loyalties are to York, to us.
Why, then, do you suddenly discount her influence? Is there something I don't know, Ned?"
Edward didn't respond at once, and Richard was quick to draw the darkest conclusions from his silence.
"I'm right, aren't I? Something has happened. ..."
"Yes."
"You've had word from Charles, haven't you?"
"No. But I did have word from Meg. I don't know if she told you or not, and if not, I'd rather you heard it from me. Last week Warwick's Anne was wed to Edward of Lancaster."
That wasn't what Richard was expecting to hear. "Yes, I know," he said, very evenly.
Edward looked relieved. "Do you want to talk about it, Dickon?" he asked, after a pause.
"No."
"As you wish," Edward agreed, so readily that a shadowy smile tugged at the corner of Richard's mouth.
"Don't push so, Ned."
Edward had the grace to laugh. "I admit it would be an unfamiliar role for me, that of Father Confessor.
But if you've a need to talk of the girl, I'm willing to listen."
Richard shook his head.
Edward now felt compelled to persist. "You are sure?"
"Ned, I don't want to talk and I doubt that you want to listen. I'd rather you let it lie."
"As you say," Edward said equably. Unsheathing his dagger, he cut into the loaf and spread a chunk of the herb-flavored cheese onto the bread.
"Here, help yourselves," he invited, sliding the platter toward them. Marie complied, welcoming the luxury of sampling bread baked with white flour, but Richard ignored the food. He was playing with a strand of
Marie's hair, entwining it around his fingers, but he wasn't looking at the girl. He was watching the candle flare with each draft from the opening door, unaware of Edward's appraising eyes.
"You've been to the races at Smithfield, haven't you, Dickon?"
Richard looked up with a quizzical half-smile. "Yes, why?"
"Were you lucky in your wagers?"

3 1
A shrug. "Sometimes."
"Surely it has occurred to you that this time you may have wagered on the wrong horse?"
"No," Richard said, too quickly and too loudly. "No, by God, it has not!"
Edward disregarded the denial. "It was different with Will and Anthony. They could expect nothing from
Warwick. But you had a choice, Dickon. You mattered to Warwick, both as kinsman and ally. I know how actively he did seek your support; I've always known. Had you heeded him, you'd not be here in
Bruges tonight."
"Ned, I said no!"
"You'd be in England . . . with your cousin Anne."
Richard came to his feet so abruptly that the table rocked and Marie's startled exclamation turned heads in their direction.
"Damn you, don't!"
Edward didn't move, didn't take his eyes from his brother, and under his level gaze, color burned into
Richard's face and then ebbed, leaving him white and shaken.
"Sit down, Dickon," Edward said, with so little inflection in his voice that it could have been either a command or a request.
Seconds slid by ... and then Richard sat down again next to Marie.
Edward shoved the flagon across the table, and when Richard didn't touch it, he poured a generous amount into Richard's cup.
"So, you've never thought of that," he said, very dryly.
Richard was silent. Beside him, Marie squeezed his arm in uncomprehending, instinctive sympathy, but he paid her no heed.
"Yes," he conceded bitterly. "You're right. Anne would not have been bartered to Lancaster had I served you as George did. But I would think you'd be the last man to remind me of that."
Edward leaned across the table. "Why do you think I did, Dickon? Do you think I was merely amusing myself? That I meant to hurt you? You know better than that.
"I said what I did because it was true. I've always known what Warwick meant to you. I know now what the girl means. And I need no one to tell me where your loyalty has led-to Bruges."
"Ned. . ."
"Do you not think it time we were honest with each other, Dickon?"
Their eyes met, held.
"It doesn't look good, lad. It doesn't look good at all. ... Isn't it about time we admitted it?"
Richard nodded. "I know," he said bleakly.
They looked at each other in silence, while around them swirled the sounds of a Remish tavern.

Reaching for the flagon, Edward refilled his cup; Richard's was still untouched.
"No ... no more game-playing, Dickon," he said softly. "I haven't the heart for it... not tonight. I've a brother-in-law who's bidding fair to embrace the Neville Bear and Ragged Staff, a wife in sanctuary, a son I may never get to see . . . and the worst of it, Dickon, is that so much of it is my own damned fault."
Richard made a tentative, indecisive movement; his hand brushed Edward's sleeve.
"I'll concede you George if you'll own up to Johnny," he said at last, and Edward gave him a look that was at once amused, mocking, and affectionate.
"Poor Johnny. . . . Between us, Warwick and I did put him on the rack, in truth." Edward shook his head slowly. "Dick Neville was once my friend and there are times, even now, when I do remember that. But my deepest regrets are for Johnny . . . and the choice I forced upon him."
This was the first time they'd spoken openly and honestly of John's betrayal. But Richard had thought of little else these three months past, thought he could understand why Johnny made the choice he did. He was convinced that it would never have happened had Ned not taken the earldom of Northumberland from Johnny. Yet now, hearing his brother say aloud what he'd so often thought, he was perversely driven to defend Edward against the very conclusions he himself had drawn.
"You didn't force a choice on Johnny, Ned. It was his to make and he alone made it. It didn't have to be that way."
"I appreciate your loyalty, Dickon, but we both do know better. If a man be in robust health, it's likely he can suffer a sudden river-dousing without taking a chill. But if he were burning with fever when he had such a mishap, it's apt to be the death of him. Johnny's loyalty to me did cost him dear; he loved his brothers. When I took the earldom from him, I did ask for one sacrifice too many. I should have seen that. You did. . . . Didn't you?"
Richard hesitated and then nodded. "I had no idea how deep the hurt did go with him. But that he was hurt . . . Yes, that I knew." He wished that he'd not broken his self-imposed silence on Johnny. Talking about it didn't help, didn't ease the ache at all.
"Francis Lovell wrote me that Johnny did look heartsore upon his entry into London," he said softly.
"I don't doubt it, Dickon. Johnny's one of the few truly decent men I've known. Betrayal wasn't in his nature. Yet he must live with the fact that he did betray his sovereign, betray men who did trust him. I
suspect

he's finding that harder to live with than ever he did with any wrong I may have done him."
Neither spoke for some minutes after that. Never had Richard felt closer to his brother. Close enough to ask the one question he'd not have thought could be put into words between them.
"Ned ... If Charles won't aid us ... what do we do, then?"
Edward seemed to have been expecting just that question. "Ask me that next week, next month, and I
might have a different answer for you. But tonight there's only one answer I can give you, Little
Brother-that I don't know."
Richard would have insisted he'd wanted an honest answer, no matter how disheartening, and would have believed he meant it. Now he knew better.
Beside him, Marie had been fidgeting with increasing restlessness, and now she seized upon one of the few English words she knew.
"Brother?" she echoed. "Vous etes freres?"
When Richard nodded, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, laughing at his reply and pressing her body against him, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth.
Richard, meeting Edward's amused eyes, smiled self-consciously. "She doesn't believe we are brothers, not with our unlike coloring," he said, with the wry resignation born of a lifetime of such comments, as the dark one in a fair family.
"I explained, though, that you were a changeling," he added, and Edward grinned.
"Now that I think of it, that might well account for George! He is Irish-born, after all, and God knows, he's acted as one bewitched from the day he first found his tongue."
"Not bewitched, Ned," Richard said, and sighed. "Just accursedly weak."
"Well, whatever, be thankful you and Brother George are so little alike. . . in any respect!" Edward tilted his head to the side appraisingly. "Actually, you look rather like Edmund. You have his eyes, and his hair was dark, too, though not as dark as yours."
He misread Richard's startled look. "But then, you were only seven when he died. No wonder you don't remember."
"I was eight," Richard corrected, "and I do remember. It wasn't that. . . . It's that you so rarely speak of
Edmund."
"I know," Edward acknowledged. "But for longer than I care to recall, it was too painful."
Richard was at a loss for words. Edward didn't share his griefs; Richard had not thought that the wound left by Edmund's death might

still be unhealed even after ten years. He realized suddenly that he was jealous and, shamed by that realization, he made amends by saying, "My memories of Edmund are all of the two of you together. I
remember how intrigued I was at the way you'd converse in half-finished sentences, a code no one else could comprehend . . . as if you didn't need words between you."
Edward laughed. "Most of the time we didn't, Dickon. There was just a year between us. ... It was often as if we shared one life, we were that close. Oh, we had our share of squabbles, too. But not when it counted. When he died, I felt as if I'd been split in half."
Richard was quiet, and after a prolonged pause, Edward said, "I was at Gloucester when word reached me of the battle fought at Sandal Cas-
tie. It was a bloody December day for York. To be told I'd lost father, brother, uncle, and cousin. . . .
But it was Edmund's death that I found hardest to accept. I couldn't believe it. Not Edmund. If he could die, then anyone could . . .even me!"
He grinned unexpectedly, but the blue eyes were dark with memories long repressed. Picking up his cup, he raised it to his mouth and then set it down, untasted.
"Jesii, but I've not thought of this in years," he confessed. "I had so little time to grieve. . . . Suddenly all eyes were looking to me, and God Above, how fast it all did come, Dickon. ... I remember being angry more than anything else. Christ, it was so stupid. They should never have ventured from Sandal Castle. It was sheer folly, should never have happened. . . .
"I did know for a certainty, though, that I'd never dare trust another living soul as I did Edmund. That was the worst, I think, even worse than the loss of his companionship. For nigh on eighteen years, the whole of my life, I'd had a constant confidant . . . and suddenly there was no one."
"What of Will Hastings? Or Jack Howard. . . ."
"I'm not talking of friendship, Dickon. I'm talking of trust."
"But . . ."
"Ah, you think they're one and the same?"
Richard considered. "Yes, I do."
"Not for Kings, Little Brother. Not for Kings." Edward's mouth tightened; for a moment, he permitted the bitterness to show. "If ever I did think so, our cousin Warwick taught me otherwise."
Richard was unable to restrain himself any longer. "Do you not think you can trust me?"
Edward drank to conceal his smile. "Well ... I surely trust you more than Brother George!"

"Thank you." But the sarcasm went awry, and Edward saw and relented.
"Trust is a learned response, Dickon. While I've always been unaccountably fond of you, Little Brother, I
can't say that I trusted you more than . . . well, more than a score of others I could name." He paused.
"That is, not until you gave me reason to trust you."
He laughed suddenly. "And if memory serves me right, you first gave me such reason for trust some eleven years ago, in a meadow not far from Ludlow Castle!"
"Do you mean to tell me that you still remember that? After all those years . . . and all those women!"
"Of course I remember. It was then that I first suspected you might be an ally worth having! And I
confess, time has not proven me wrong in that."
Richard was pleased but shy to show it. "And for my part, I think I might safely say as much for you," he said generously.
Edward grinned. "Hell, you'd trust me unto death and we both do know it. Face it, Dickon, you've always been a faulty judge of character!"
As Richard laughed, Marie stirred and, yawning, settled herself back against his shoulder. "Soon, cheri?"
"Soon, sweet," Richard said automatically, but he kept his eyes on his brother. "Ned, you said you were seeking me tonight. . . . Why? If it was just to tell me of Anne's marriage, I can't believe you wouldn't have waited till I got back."
"You're right, I would," Edward admitted, unabashed. "Mayhap you're a better judge of character than I
thought! No, if you want the truth of it, I did feel the need to talk, and the need was such that I cared not if you had . . . more pressing needs of your own."
Richard glanced at Marie, who was amusing herself by polishing the pendant on the hanging sleeve of her gown.
"Now that you do mention it," he said wryly, "it is not that I don't enjoy your company, but. . ."
Edward laughed, but then he reached across the table and laid his hand on Richard's arm.
"I should have told you at once, Dickon. I did mean to. But there were other things, too, that needed to be said between us."
Richard's throat was suddenly tight. Jesus God, did all news have to be bad these days? All at once he knew that he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to know the worst; even if they were doomed, he wanted Ned to keep it to himself, at least for this one night.
"What has happened now?" he asked dully, and then wondered if