The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (49 page)

Warwick was dead. Nothing was worth that to her. Nothing, she repeated, in tones of implacable ice.
For the men a dream was dying, and they persisted well beyond the boundaries of her patience.
"You've said enough, my lords," she snapped. "We do sail for France and I'll hear no more on it!"
Her son had listened in silence . . . until now.
"No, Maman."
She swung around to confront him as Somerset, Morton, and Devon watched, taut with sudden hope.
"Edouard?"
"I am not willing to take flight, to concede the day to York. If we do not seize our chance now, it will never come again. It grieves me that we must be at variance over this, Maman. But I will not live out my days in exile while a usurper claims the kingship which, by rights, is mine."
She nodded slowly. "Indeed, the crown is yours, Edouard, my son . . . upon the death of your lord father."
He was momentarily silenced by the rebuke. He frequently spoke of his father's suffering, dutifully vowed to avenge his captivity. But the truth was that he often went for long periods of time when he forgot about
Harry of Lancaster altogether. His memories of his father, never vivid, had clouded considerably over the years and were, as well, obscurely unpleasant to recall. Both the memories and the emotions they stirred were unexplored, had never been exposed to the light. Instinctively, he preferred it that way, suspected his mother did, too. He knew now that she must truly be fearful for him, to make such use of his father's name.
Taking advantage of his hesitancy, she closed the space between them. She reached for his hand, her fingers closing around his in a coaxing caress, and the watching men saw that her smile had lost none of its charm during her years of exile.
"I ask you to give up nothing, bien-aime. I ask you only to wait, to wait till the time be more favorable. . .
. No more than that."
"If we leave England now, we lose all," he said flatly. "The chance will not come again."
"Edouard, you do not understand. You do not realize what we risk. . . ."
"I realize what is at stake. The crown of England."
She grasped his shoulders as if she meant to shake him. But she didn't, and after the space of several shallow breaths, she let her arms drop to her side.
"Edouard, my love, listen to me," she said urgently. "You do not

know your enemy. Edward of York is a seasoned soldier, a ruthless man who has never been defeated on the field."
Both Somerset and Devon stiffened at that, for her implication was obvious, but she had no time to spare for their sensibilities now.
"York did swear we owed him a blood debt after Sandal Castle, and though he does lie as easily as other men draw breath, this one time he means to keep his word, has waited ten years to do so. Should we lose, he will accord you no mercy."
She'd blundered and she saw it ... but too late.
"I ask no mercy from York," he flared. "I ask only to see his head on London's Drawbridge Gate, and by
God, I shall!"
"Well said, Your Grace!" Devon interjected, while Somerset and Morton maintained a more prudent silence, unwilling to further offend their Queen when there was no need, knowing now that they would have their way, that their Prince would prevail.
Marguerite knew it, too. That was evident with her next words.
"If I do insist, Edouard?" And the very fact that she needed to ask was in itself a concession of defeat.
"Do not, Maman," Edward said softly.
The ensuing silence was awkward, even for the exultant men. Devon had discovered a wine flagon and cups on the sideboard. He knelt before Edward, holding out a brimming cup.
"I should be honored to drink your health, Highness."
Edward accepted the cup, smiled at him. There was admiration in Devon's eyes; Somerset and Morton, too, were regarding him with approval. Only his mother's morbid misgivings marred the pleasure of the moment. He gave her a look of affectionate impatience, thinking that she'd come to her senses soon enough. She wasn't given, after all, to the foolish fears and fancies that he thought common to most of her sex. This was the woman called "Captain Marguerite" by the Yorkists, the woman who'd routed
Warwick at St Albans with an imaginative flank attack of her own devising. Not that he thought women should take upon themselves the duties and prerogatives of men, but his mother was not like other women. She was Marguerite d'Anjou and he could feel only pride when he looked upon her. Even now, when she was being so unreasonable, so strangely fainthearted.
Leaning over, he deposited a conciliatory kiss upon her taut cheek. "I know you did not expect Warwick to be beaten. But once you do think upon it, Maman, I am sure you will come to see how little we have lost by Warwick's death."
His eyes flickered from her, across to Somerset. "What say you, my lord Somerset? You lost both your father and brother to the Nevilles. Can

you, in truth, tell Madame my mother that you have regrets for Warwick or Montagu?"
Somerset shook his head. "No, Your Grace. I do not weep for Warwick," he said dryly.
Edward turned back to his mother. "When my lord father was taken into custody by York, it was
Warwick who led him through the streets of London to be jeered and mocked by the rabble. It was
Warwick who bound his feet to the stirrups of his saddle, as if he were no more than the meanest, poorest felon . . . and he an anointed King! It was Warwick who dared slur your name and my heritage, Warwick who placed the crown of Lancaster upon York's head."
"You may be sure I have not forgotten," Marguerite said with some asperity.
Unfazed, he gave her his most winning smile. "We are among friends; we may speak plainly. What if it had been York who died at Barnet? We'd still have had to deal with Warwick. We knew the reckoning would come in time; he had much to answer for. But with York dead and Warwick securely in the saddle
. . . Well, he might not have been that easy to unhorse." He grinned suddenly. "No, in truth, Maman, we might even say York did us a service of sorts at Barnet!"
Devon laughed. "His Grace is right, Madame. Men will flock to your banners, men who would scorn to fight for a turncoat like Warwick."
"My Prince," Somerset said suddenly, warningly, for he alone had noticed the girl standing in the doorway. He wasn't sure how long she'd been listening. But he was sure she'd heard words that were never meant for her ears, for he had guessed her identity at once, needed no one to tell him this was
Warwick's daughter, she who was wed to his Prince.
She was unnaturally still; the slender body was rigid. Her gaze was unfocused. For a moment her eyes flickered over Somerset's face, but he felt sure she did not see him. He had marked that look often enough to recognize it now. Men maimed in battle had all too often gazed up at him with that same expression of puzzled intensity, in the fragment of time between the rending and the realization.
He took an instinctive step toward her and then checked himself. He was not the one, after all, to offer her comfort; that was for Marguerite and Prince Edward to do. But neither his Queen nor his Prince gave any indication of doing so. Somerset hesitated; why risk royal disfavor for a misguided moment of pity?
But the girl had begun to tremble. As he watched, she swayed, caught the doorjamb for support.
Somerset swore under his breath, went to her.
"You'd best sit down, my lady," he said brusquely, and taking a firm grip on her elbow, he steered her toward the nearest seat. She didn't

resist, leaned on his arm. He didn't think she was even aware of his assistance. But as he straightened, stepped back, she raised her face to his.
"Thank you," she whispered.
At a loss, Somerset glanced over at his sovereigns. They were watching intently, but it was he, rather than Anne Neville, who held their like dark eyes. He was suddenly angry, with them for their uncharitable indifference and with himself for his reluctance to perform a simple act of kindness. He opened his mouth, words that could compromise him taking shape on his tongue.
"Anne? Sister, what ails you?"
Somerset turned, grateful to relinquish an unwanted responsibility to one better able to handle it. He watched as Warwick's elder daughter bent over her sister. He stood close enough to see the younger girl swallow, to hear her halting words and Isabel Neville's gasp.
She froze and then spun around to face the others.
"Madame, what does my sister say? Surely it's not true!"
Marguerite had seated herself in the Abbot's high-backed chair. Thus appealed to, she looked toward
Isabel, said, "There was a battle fought yesterday morn, near a village called Barnet. York won. Your father and uncle were slain on the field."
Somerset winced; however much he loved his Queen, he could wish she'd found softer words. Behind him, he heard Anne Neville make a strangled sound, and he thought, Christ, she didn't know about
Montagu! Isabel Neville, however, made no sound at all. Her back was to Somerset, but he saw her shoulders hunch forward, saw the shudder that shook her body.
"What. . . what of my husband?"
Somerset was startled. He'd been thinking of the girl as Warwick's daughter, had almost forgotten that she was wife to Clarence, too. It occurred to him that she'd have done better not to remind them of it.
"Your husband?" Marguerite was echoing, in tones that would have chilled a more courageous spirit than
Isabel Neville's.
Somerset saw at once, though, that the girl had misunderstood, for she cried, "Oh, Blessed Lady, he's dead, too!"
"No." Marguerite leaned forward. "He isn't dead. You needn't waste your tears on Clarence. I daresay he thrives; men of his ilk generally do. A fool Clarence may be, but he's been a singularly lucky fool so far. Better you should weep for yourself, Lady Isabel."
Somerset didn't like the sound of that, but Isabel understood only that her husband still lived.
"Where is he, Madame? Will he join us?. . ." Her voice trailed off; instinct was now alerting her to danger yet unknown.

"He isn't hurt?" she faltered.
"No. Your husband emerged unscathed from the battle. Without even a scratch."
Such words should have reassured. They only served to frighten. Isabel waited, mute, for the blow to fall.
"He did betray us."
Marguerite spat the words, saw Isabel react. Satisfied that the girl's shock was unfeigned, she relaxed somewhat, said contemptuously, "He went over to York at the first chance. He abandoned your father . .
. and you, too, it would seem."
"Betrayal is becoming a habit with Clarence," Edward observed, and Marguerite took her eyes from
Isabel's stricken face, looked at her son.
"And I'd wager he never gave a thought to the wife who might pay the price for his treachery."
Somerset did not take her words to mean that she intended to hold Isabel Neville to account for her husband's sins. Marguerite was impulsive but she was no fool. He felt sure she'd never give York so potent a weapon as an accusation that Lancaster had abused Warwick's daughter. Moreover, the girl would make a dubious hostage at best; Clarence didn't seem the sort to be swayed except where his own skin was threatened. But as Isabel shrank back, he saw her face and realized that she did take
Marguerite's implied threat seriously.
Anne Neville came to her feet, so swiftly that she stumbled on her skirts.
"Madame, Isabel is my sister," she said resolutely.
Somerset knew how little that meant. He suspected Anne did, too. From where he stood, he could see the tremor in the tightly clenched small fists, could see how they pressed against the folds of her skirt with revealing urgency.
Isabel Neville, too, seemed to feel she needed a more powerful protector than her sister, and now she looked to her brother-in-law.
"Surely a Prince of Lancaster would not avenge himself upon a woman," she entreated, and if her appeal lacked subtlety, it did not lack for sincerity.
Edward looked amused. Whether he was flattered, as well, by Isabel's plea, Somerset couldn't tell, but he said, not unkindly, "Calm yourself, cherie. While I can think of no more harsh penance than to pack you off to Clarence, if that be your wish, you're free to go."
"Merci, Edouard," Isabel murmured weakly. After a discernable pause, Anne too, added her thanks, almost inaudibly, as Edward looked belatedly to his mother for confirmation. Marguerite was regarding her assertive offspring with a bemused expression, but she did not countermand him. For the first time, she seemed to have taken notice of Abbot

Bemyster. He'd taken no part in the conversation, nor had he made any attempt to console Warwick's daughters. But neutral or not, he was still a priest and not one of her own like Morton. There were certain amenities to be observed in his presence. She glanced back at her daughter-in-law, said dispassionately, "I daresay you and your sister would prefer to retire to your chambers, Anne. You have my leave to withdraw." Adding as an indifferent afterthought, "My condolences upon your bereavement."
marguerite was staring after Anne Neville, her face shadowed in thought. Her expression was enigmatic, unusually pensive, and as he approached her, Somerset wondered if his Queen were as impervious to pity as she would have them think. His speculations were abruptly ended with her next words, a low-voiced directive to her son.
"You know I care not how you choose to amuse yourself, Edouard. But be sure you do not seek your pleasures again in that girl's bed. God forbid if you should get her with child now!"
Edward had been leaning on the back of her chair. At that, he leaned over still further, murmured something too softly for Somerset to hear, eliciting both a reproving look and a reluctant laugh from his mother.
Somerset had stopped, unwilling to intrude upon so private an exchange, but Edward beckoned him forward.
"Seat yourself, my lord." Edward perched on the arm of his mother's chair, favored Somerset with a smile. "Do you know how you may please me, Somerset? You may tell me of York and his brothers.
Well, Gloucester, anyway," he amended and grimaced. "I know more than I care to of Clarence!"
"Well, Gloucester is close in years to you, Highness. If there is any man likely to have York's trust, Gloucester would be the one; it's said they are close. But they be very unlike. Those who do know him say Gloucester is much more his mother's son than are his brothers."
That didn't tell Edward much; he knew little of the Duchess of York. But Marguerite knew a great deal and she said venomously, "There are few more damning accusations you could make than that, to say
Gloucester is like Cecily Neville! She pretends to the piety of an Abbess but her ambitions are very much of this world, I assure you!"
Edward shifted impatiently. He had no interest in the women of York, and as soon as his mother paused for breath, he reclaimed the conversation. "You say York and Gloucester are unlike. Tell me, then, of
York, my lord Somerset."
Somerset considered. "Lazy. Self-indulgent. He denies himself few pleasures, surely none of the flesh.
He's not given to grudges, but he for