The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (45 page)

chamber; he has asked for you twice already while you were gone from the castle."
Richard nodded, gave Francis a look of resignation, and rose reluctantly.
Francis rose, too. "I was rather surprised myself to find you gone. I'd have thought you'd be meeting throughout the day with the King."
"I will be for the rest of the day, I daresay. We march tomorrow; did you know?" Richard didn't wait for
Francis's response, said instead, "As to where I was about, I was to Westminster ... to see my son."
Francis was staring at him, and he grinned.
"I didn't know. . . . Not till this morning. Nan had written me at York last fall that she was with child. But you know what did happen next. . . ." With an expressive shrug.
"I thought often of her and the babe. I had no way to know how she fared, and I confess that did bother me, Francis-to have gotten her with child and then to be able to do nothing for her. I knew my daughter
Kathryn would not want; I'd seen to that. But Nan's letter reached me just two days ere we heard
Warwick had landed in the South. And less than a fortnight later, I found myself at Doncaster."
He dismissed Doncaster with a grimace and then grinned again. "But Nan fared better than I dared hope, and she gave birth to a healthy boy, born two weeks ago today, on the twenty-ninth. That's the date Ned won Towton; lucky, don't you think?"
"Very," Francis agreed warmly, trying to think when he'd last seen Richard so unguardedly happy, so openly elated; he decided he hadn't. He wondered, too, who Nan was; thought it unlikely Richard would ever say.
"I thought to name him John. You like it?"
Francis nodded. "That was my father's name."
"I had a brother named John; did you know that? He died long ere I was born, of course. But it's a name
I've always fancied."
It occurred to Francis that Richard had a cousin, too, named John. He brought his wine cup up to his face, but not in time. Richard's smile faded.
"You've not changed, Francis. You're still as easy to read as any schoolboy's hornbook."
With John Neville in both their minds, Francis now saw no reason not to ask.
"You've had no word from Johnny, have you, Dickon?"
Richard shook his head. "No word . . . unless you count his action twenty-three days ago, when he held his army at Pontefract and let us pass unmolested." He looked somberly at Francis. "My brother did offer him a pardon, too, when he sent word to Warwick at Coventry. Warwick,

as you know, spurned us. Johnny made no response at all. George Neville was quick enough to jettison
Warwick to save his own skin. But not Johnny. He'll not betray his brother, Francis."
Unlike Clarence, Francis thought, and then he smiled. "Welcome home, Dickon!"
MUCH to his surprise, Francis found himself feeling some sympathy for George. He'd not expected that;
as far back as he could remember, he'd thought George to be a burr under the saddle of York. But now he watched George make stilted and guarded conversation with his Yorkist kin, and he could pity
Richard's brother ... a little.
Edward was friendly enough, and twice, when allusions to George's erratic loyalties threatened to become accusations, Francis saw him adroitly act to spare George embarrassment. But Francis saw deep festering wounds, and with pessimism, wondered if they were not beyond healing.
There was much hatred for George in this room, all the more intense for being unspoken. Whatever
Edward's feelings for his faithless brother, and he'd shown little love for George in the best of times, Edward's Queen had not forgiven George his betrayals, his complicity in her father's death. Francis did not think she would ever forgive. Nor would her kin. And in this, if in nothing else, the Woodvilles were in full accord with Will Hastings, who'd long ago learned to convey contempt with a smile, an upraised brow. Watching now as John Howard gave terse unresponsive answers to George's equally labored questions, Francis wondered if George could cope, knowing that he was seen as Judas. He rather doubted it.
A squabble suddenly erupted among the three children deemed old enough to join their elders. Bess and
Mary had been delighted by the appearance of Richard's wolfhound and with Jack de la Pole, the young son of the Duchess of Suffolk, they were subjecting the big dog to an enthusiastic mauling. The animal, with commendable patience, had so far submitted to their affectionate attentions, even to suffering Mary to clamber up onto his back. Now, however, Jack yanked once too often on the wolfhound's tail and
Gareth spun around with a sudden flash of fangs. Jack retreated hastily and the girls squealed.
Richard, deep in a discussion of tactics with his brother and Will Hastings, glanced up, snapped his fingers. At once the dog bounded across the room and into the window recess.
Edward, regarding the wolfhound with little favor, drew back as the sweeping tail brushed by his face.

"Before God, I'd dared hope you'd lost that monstrous beast, Dickon," he complained, and Richard grinned, looking over at Francis.
"I feared I had. But he was given sanctuary by a friend."
"I'd have thought the return of one prodigal son to York would have been more than enough."
Richard wasn't amused. Instinctively, his eyes sought George, to make sure he was safely out of earshot.
"You did promise, Ned," he said quietly, and Edward sighed, and then swore as the wolfhound knocked over his wine cup.
Will was laughing. "Perhaps we should take the return of all the lost sheep to the fold as yet another sign of St Anne's favor," he suggested lazily.
Francis was confused; he knew neither Richard nor Edward to be under the special protection of St
Anne. This must be yet another of those private jests they shared among themselves, jests of risks taken, hardships endured, memories of Doncaster and foreign exile and those first harrowing days in Yorkshire.
But even as he thus accounted for Hastings's puzzling reference to St Anne, he saw that the curiosity of another had been piqued.
"Why St Anne, Lord Hastings?"
"You have not heard, then, Madame, of the miracle of Daventry? I thought sure His Grace would've told you."
Elizabeth did not look pleased that there was something she did not know. "Perhaps you would like to tell me," she said coolly.
"The Queen commands," Will said and smiled. Conversation around them quieted, ceased entirely as he began to speak, to relate what had happened Sunday past in the parish church of Daventry. Directly in front of the King had been an alabaster shrine of St Anne, hidden from view behind four wooden doors, it being Lent. Midway through the Mass, the doors of the shrine had suddenly opened wide, although not touched by the hand of any man.
"The congregation was much awed, as you can well imagine, Madame . . . and His Grace the King was given to remember how he had prayed to St Anne during the storm of March fourteenth, entreating her to see him safely to England.
"Upon hearing this, all present did at once agree that this was, indeed, an omen of blessed fortune, a sign that Heaven smiled upon the House of York. And His Grace vowed that he would name his next-born daughter Anne, to honor the mother of the Virgin," Will concluded with a flourish, "and was roundly cheered by the people, who then offered up fervent prayers for York."
At that, Edward nodded complacently, then grinned. "However,

blessed St Anne shall have to wait. I told Meg I would name my next girl after her, and I did promise her first!"
Francis had been watching the Duchess of York, and now saw a flicker of disapproval crease her brow.
He was reminded suddenly of the story she'd related here in this room not six months ago, of St Caecilia and her brother's pilgrimage. He tried to imagine Edward on pilgrimage, couldn't, and turning abruptly to
Richard, asked him if he still wore the pilgrim's cross he'd had at Middleham.
Richard gave him a bemused look. "Ye Gods, but your mind takes odd turns at times, Lovell!" Tugging at the collar of his doublet, he managed to fish out a thin silver chain for Francis's inspection.
"I've had it as long as I can remember. I'd feel near naked without it, I daresay," he was explaining to his curious young nephew Jack, as Francis glanced back across the room, and was warmed by Cecily
Neville's smile.
jack de la Pole, the eight-year-old Earl of Lincoln, was growing restless. He trailed after his grandmother as far as the door, and then wandered back to the window seat where he sank down, bored, upon the cushions scattered about the floor. But within moments, he'd brightened considerably, for it seemed that his uncle Clarence was about to quarrel with the Queen's brother.
"For once in your life, you are right, my lord Rivers," George said bitingly. "I did, indeed, do all in my power to effect a reconciliation between my brother and the Earl of Warwick, and I shall continue to do so. I make no secret of it, and I most assuredly do not seek your approval!"
"It doesn't surprise me that treason seems so insignificant a sin to you, my lord of Clarence, but there are those of us who find it far less easy to forgive! You might bear that in mind for your own-"
Edward had turned at sound of raised voices. Now he intervened without apparent haste, but cutting
Anthony off, nonetheless, in midsentence.
"You can scarcely fault my brother of Clarence for urging Warwick to come to terms with me, Anthony.
It's just a pity he'd not heed George. You need only think of the blood that will be shed-"
"Be you serious?" Anthony asked incredulously.
Edward wasn't accustomed to being interrupted, but he said mildly enough, "Quite serious. If I could have brought about his surrender without the need for battle, I should've been a fool not to do so.
Unfortunately, he was not yet desperate enough-or perhaps, was too desperate-to content himself with what I could offer him: his life. But

why sound so surprised? You know I did offer Warwick a pardon at Coventry."
"Yes, but I never thought you meant it!"
The room was very quiet. Edward looked pensively at his brother-in-law.
"Not only did I mean it, but it is my intent to spare his life if possible when we do meet across a battlefield."
"Ned!"
Elizabeth was on her feet, in a blur of silk and saffron. "You cannot mean that!"
An expression of impatience shadowed Edward's face. "How often must I say it to be believed? I do not seek the deaths of my Neville cousins. I never did. I do intend to take from Warwick all else, however, and for a man such as my cousin, who does hold power more dear than his life, he might even prefer the martyrdom of the executioner's axe. But that is a martyrdom I prefer not to give him."
Elizabeth came swiftly to his side, grasped his arm. "Ned, he did order the deaths of my father and brother! Surely you've not forgotten that!"
They stared at each other, and for the moment, the others were forgotten.
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I do understand, Lisbet. But I cannot be the instrument of your vengeance."
"Cannot?"
"Will not, then."
She spun around, pointed toward her mother. "She wears black because of Warwick. Do you think I
can forget that? Forget what he has said of me, my family? I've spent six months in Hell because of him, and now you speak of sparing him? I tell you no! I'll not have it!"
Edward looked down into the tense, flushed face upturned to his. "You'll have what I give you, my love,"
he said very evenly. "No more, no less."
Elizabeth drew an audible breath. Darker color spread across her cheekbones, burning skin already well scorched with heat. Her mouth contorted. And then she turned away, sat down abruptly in the nearest chair.
The silence in the room was absolute by now. Even Edward's small daughters dared not move. The
Woodvilles were the most shaken, for none had ever seen Edward and Elizabeth quarrel in public before.
Anthony moved toward his sister. Her head was tilted forward, her face partially veiled by the shimmering misty silk that floated from her butterfly headdress. But he saw the tremor in the jeweled fingers that

flexed and twisted together in her lap; saw the lacquered nails dig into her palm, deeply enough to make him wince, as if the pain were his.
"What then of Lancaster?" he asked bitterly. "Are you to show Marguerite d'Anjou and her bastard-born son the same mercy? Christ, Ned, is this what we've fought for, bled for ... so that you could forgive the
Nevilles their past treason as you did Clarence?"
He saw George stiffen, saw Richard come swiftly to his feet, saw Edward's eyes narrow, go suddenly dark as he'd never seen them before. But it was his sister who claimed his attention. Elizabeth was staring up at him, and there was fury in her face.
"Oh, you fool," she said, hissing the words through her teeth. "You stupid fool!"
Edward had moved; he now stood behind her. "What you've fought for, bled for?" he echoed, and there was disbelief in his voice and the first flames of anger.
"Ned, I did not mean ..." But Anthony could not go on, made mute by what he saw in Edward's face.
"Who are you to tell me what you've sacrificed for York?" There was no mockery or sarcasm now.
Edward was in earnest, giving in to a rare rage, such as few of those in the room had ever seen him show.
He swung around, and Anthony flinched, drew back. "My liege . . ."
"What do you know of sacrifice? Need I tell you of York's dead . . . of Sandal Castle? My brother did survive the battle, his first. He was seventeen and he entreated them to spare his life. They cut his throat.
Their heads were then impaled on York's Micklegate Bar to please the House of Lancaster, to please a harlot and a madman. She had my father's head crowned with straw and she left a spike between the two. . . . That one, she said, was for York's other son."
He drew a deep breath before adding tonelessly, "Three months later, their heads were still rotting on
Micklegate Bar when I rode into York the day after Towton. I had to be the one to order them taken down, to be sent to Pontefract for burial."
No one moved; no one spoke. Francis began to pray that something, anything, would happen to dispel the tension that now blanketed the room like woodsmoke.
The door opened, drawing all eyes. Reentering the room, the Duchess of York paused, taking note of their stares, the silence. Her instincts, as ever, were sound; she said, "Edward?"
Edward turned, said tautly, "Nothing, Ma Mere. . . . Nothing's amiss. A difference of opinion as to the merits of mercy, no more than that."
She gave him an unsmiling, appraising look. "Divine mercy is