The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (50 page)

gets nothing; the man's memory is truly remarkable. Charming when he so chooses. The morals of a tomcat and the luck of the angels. He is surprisingly careless of ceremony, mingles with the common people like no monarch within memory. I was told that when he departed Bruges, he did insist on walking the three miles to the quay at Dammne so the populace could view him at first hand!"
At Edward's expression of distaste, Somerset smiled slightly, nodded. "I agree, Highness. Such conduct scarcely becomes the dignity of a King. But he did win much favor among the people by so doing."
"He does not sound like a foe worth fearing," Edward said disdainfully. "You describe a lecher, a rakehell caring only for his own ease."
Marguerite was frowning. "He is a dangerous man, Edouard! Lecher and rakehell he may be, but he is also a battle commander with few peers, and Somerset will admit as much." Stabbing Somerset with a wintry stare. "Won't you, my lord?"
"Madame your mother speaks true, Your Grace," Somerset said grudgingly. "York fights like a man who cannot conceive of defeat, and that is no small advantage. When you asked me for my opinion of the man, I did not mean to belittle his prowess on the field. That would indeed be a mistake."
Marguerite was not yet satisfied. "He is a calculating and arrogant man untroubled by moral scruples.
Moreover, he does not seem to know the fears and self-doubts that do plague other men. Such a man is not to be underestimated, Edouard."
Edward was regarding her with a sulky expression, which she knew from experience to mean he was growing bored. "If it will ease your mind, Maman, I shall endeavor to view York as the Anti-christ," he said flippantly. The dark eyes moved past her, to Somerset.
"I have one question for you, my lord Somerset . . . only one. Can we defeat York on the field?"
"Yes," Somerset said without hesitation.
Edward nodded slowly. "That is all I need to know," he said, and smiled. Somerset smiled, too.
Marguerite bit her lip, said nothing.
edmund Beaufort was a great-grandson of John of Gaunt and therefore related by blood, if rather remotely, to the captive Harry of Lancaster. He was also the son of the man the Yorkists claimed to have been Marguerite's lover. The title he bore was one of England's proudest, but the years of his youth had been far from privileged, had been for him a time of turmoil and sudden griefs.
Edmund was thirty-three, had spent years in impoverished exile

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abroad before being given sanctuary by Charles of Burgundy. He had long ago pledged his honor to
Lancaster, and was in total and heartfelt agreement with the concerns voiced the night before by Prince
Edward. He, too, thought this would be the last chance for the House of Lancaster.
The cloisters were quiet, dappled in mellow morning sun. At most times of the day, the walkways enclosing the green-carpeted garth would have been alive with activity, with servants and visiting laymen and the shadowy forms of the black-garbed monks. But soon after the conclusion of the Morrow Mass, Abbot Bemyster and the monks had gathered in the Chapter House situated along the east walkway of the cloisters. Somerset knew this daily meeting would continue for another hour or so. Taking advantage of the solitude, he loitered there in the flowering garth and then began to walk along the sheltered walkway that led toward the church.
Entering the south aisle of the nave, where the lay people heard Mass, he paused, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, and then made his way through the rood creen that separated the nave from the choir, where the monks worshiped. He remained there for some moments, kneeling before the high altar, offering brief prayers for the repose of his father and brother. He had turned back toward the door that led from the south transept when he heard a sound behind him, seeming to come from the Lady
Chapel to the east of the altar.
Stepping into the chapel, he came to an abrupt halt, at once regretting the impulse that had prompted his entry. A young girl stood before the altar, turned a startled face toward him. With recognition came the reluctant realization that to withdraw now would be to make an awkward encounter even more so.
"I ask your pardon, my lady. I did not mean to intrude upon your prayers."
She shook her head. "I was not praying, my lord."
He hesitated, then said, "I am Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset."
"Yes, I know," she said politely. Like a child attempting adult courtesies, she extended her hand and as he bent over it, said, "I am Anne Neville."
Now he was the one to say, "Yes, I know." Noting, as he did, that she identified herself as Anne Neville, not as the Princess Anne. Princess of Wales. . . . He wondered how long she'd keep the title now that her father was dead.
He opened his mouth to offer his formal condolences, but found he couldn't say the words. He could still see her as she was last night, and remembering how she had learned of her father's death, he was not will

ing to demean her grief with conventional expressions of unfelt sympathy. If he could do nothing else for her, he could accord her that much respect.
She was watching him, said, "Will you tell me of Barnet, my lord Somerset?"
The request did not surprise him; he thought she was entitled to know. He joined her before the altar, gave her a carefully edited recounting of the battle that had been fought two days ago at Barnet Heath.
She listened attentively, with the detached calm of one hearing a story that was interesting, but however interesting, was a story of strangers, withal. He'd have been better able to cope with tears; this brittle composure made him uneasy, wondering if and when it would shatter.
Only when he spoke of the confusion over the banners, related how in the mist her uncle Montagu's men had mistaken Oxford's Streaming Star for the Sunne of York, did a flicker of emotion cross her face. He said, with some bitterness, that he could understand how men did think York was favored by evil auspices, for that had indeed been a stroke of uncanny fortune for York, a diabolic blessing.
A faint smile touched her mouth; she shook her head. "Ned has ever been lucky," she said.
That was too easy an explanation for him; he preferred the hint of sulfur. The name jarred, too, the unexpected intimacy of "Ned." For the first time, he considered how closely allied this girl was to York.
The Duchess of York was her great-aunt; she was cousin to Edward; had grown up with Gloucester;
was sister-in-law to Clarence. And she was to have been Lancaster's Queen! He permitted himself a tight smile at the madness of it all, marveling anew at the cunning of that arch-conniver, the King of
France.
But if he rejected her as a Queen, he pitied her as a pawn, and searched for words of consolation. At last finding comfort he could offer with honesty, he said, "Your father died well, my lady. You may take pride in that."
She made no response; her lashes hid her thoughts. With her kinship to York in mind, he thought it a kindness to confide, "York dispatched a herald to spare your father's life. He was not in time."
She glanced up at that; their eyes met. "I do not think my father would have done as much for Ned," she said softly.
He had no answer for her. She, too, seemed to sense there was nothing more to be said. He fell in step beside her and they walked in silence from the chapel, through the choir, out into the sunlit cloisters. She apparently had been considering his story, for she now said, "One thing I do not understand, my lord. . . .
How is it that you know so much of what did happen on the Yorkist side?"

He smiled grimly. "A stroke of luck named Hugh Short."
At her puzzled look, he explained, "A Yorkist deserter who'd had his bellyful of fighting and was unlucky enough to run into some of Devon's men after the battle. From him we were able to learn a great deal.
He'd been felled early in the fighting and, by chance, was being treated in the surgeon's tent after the battle at the same time as Gloucester . . . and ere long, York himself rode up to check on his brother. It was there that they had word of your father. From what Short told us, they did, in truth, wish to spare your father's life. They'd not be dissembling among themselves, after all."
She'd stopped, was staring at him. "You say he was hurt?"
He looked at her in astonishment, wondering if her nerves were giving way at last. "Your father was killed, my lady," he said, measuring his words with some care.
She shook her head impatiently. "No . . . Richard of Gloucester. Was he bad hurt?"
His reaction was one of relief that her question was rational, after all.
"No, I think not. The lad Short said he was on his feet all the while the surgeons worked on his arm, and the wound didn't keep him from galloping off with his brother as soon as they had word that your father .
. . had been found."
Not wanting her to dwell on that last image, on the body sprawled in Wrotham Wood, he said hastily, "Gloucester was lucky, I hear, to get off as light he did. By all accounts, he was in the thickest press of the fighting. Short said he did lose both his squires; he heard them talking of it."
He saw her face change, saw her shock, and reached for her as she stumbled back.
"Oh, my God . . . Thomas!" She'd jammed one hand to her mouth; he could feel her trembling. He tightened his grip on her shoulders, shaking her none too gently.
"Who? I don't understand," he said, sharply enough to assert control. It worked; she blinked, swallowed, and answered obediently.
"Thomas Parr. . . . He ... he was at Middleham, was squire to Richard ere as long as I can remember.
He . . . oh, God ..."
"I do forget," he said softly, "that they are men to you, Lady Anne, men of flesh and blood, not mere names. ..."
"Poor Thomas," she whispered. There were tears in her eyes; they glistened but did not fall, not yet.
"I could not weep for my father, yet I can cry for Thomas Parr. Do you not find that strange, my Lord
Somerset? I do . . .1 find it passing strange. ..."
He'd feared this would happen, had been sure the moment would

come when her control would fragment, had not wanted to be present when it did.
She read his reluctance in his face and struggled to staunch the flow of tears with pride.
"You needn't fear, my lord. I'll not embarrass you with tears or-" She stopped abruptly, before her voice could further betray her.
He found a handkerchief for her, watched uncomfortably as she knotted it with fingers that shook.
"Can I not summon someone for you, my lady?"
"Whom would you call, my lord?" she asked unsteadily. "My sister departs this noon for London, there to join her husband. And my mother . . . my mother will not be meeting us at Weymouth as planned. We learned this morning that she has fled to sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey. . . . Did you know?"
He nodded. He had his own opinion of the Countess of Warwick, who had chosen to see to her own safety rather than be with her daughters when they learned of their father's death and Clarence's betrayal.
It was not a charitable one.
"I think it best you return to your chambers, Lady Anne," he suggested gently. "There is still time for you to lie down; we won't be departing for Exeter till midafternoon."
"Exeter?" she said uncertainly, and he saw that none had even bothered to tell her of this change in plans.
Footsteps now sounded on the flagstone path, and they turned to see Marguerite d'Anjou coming up the west walk toward them. Beside him, Somerset saw Anne Neville stiffen; the arm he held communicated sudden tension.
Marguerite extended ringed fingers for Somerset to kiss, acknowledged her daughter-in-law's dutiful curtsy.
"Your sister is seeking you, Anne. She prepares to depart and wishes to bid you farewell."
"Thank you, Madame. I shall go to her, with your permission."
Marguerite nodded, and Anne glanced back at Somerset. "Thank you, my lord, for telling me of Barnet."
somerset looked down at the crumpled handkerchief that Anne Neville had pressed into his hand. He refolded it, replaced it in his doublet, and raised his eyes to find Marguerite regarding him with sardonic amusement.
"So, my lord Somerset pities the little Neville nestling?" "Yes, Madame, I do," he admitted, and she linked her arm through his, said with a smile,

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"Come, walk with me, cher ami. I wish to speak with you."
"When Madame commands, it is my pleasure to serve," he said with studied gallantry. But his smile was wary; he was sure he knew what she would say.
Her first words, however, were not of her son and flight to France, as he'd feared. "So, tell me, my lord .
. . what did you find to discuss with Warwick's daughter? Did you dry her pretty brown eyes and assure her that her father was a knight sans peur et sans reproche?"
He was silent, and she gave him a speculative sideways glance.
"How easy you are to read, Monsieur mon chevalier!" she said, with mockery but no malice. "You think we've ill treated the girl, do you not?"
"No, Madame," he said, with so little conviction that she made a wry face, laughed at him.
"What a poor liar you are!" But her mood abruptly altered, sobered almost at once.
"Granted, my son is none too fond of the Neville girl, but she has given him no reason to care. She did not want to marry him, went to her marriage bed like one condemned to the gallows. Can you truly blame Edouard for feeling little tenderness for a wife who did not want him and cared not at all who knew it?"
"No," he conceded, "I think not. Was she so devoted to the Yorkist cause, then, as that? Queer that a lass of fifteen should be more steadfast than the Kingmaker himself!"
She shrugged. "Who is to say? But I did not seek you out to speak of Anne Neville. The girl doesn't matter now; she's of no use to us without Warwick."
She stopped on the path, turned to face him.
"Somerset, I am so afraid."
He was at a loss; her raw, wrenching candor was embarrassing, did not accord with his memories. The
Marguerite d'Anjou he remembered had feared no man walking God's earth.
"You must trust in Almighty God, Madame. You must have faith in His mercy and divine wisdom."
She stared at him, and then she laughed, a hollow hurting sound. "It is not God's judgment I fear," she said, very low. "It is Edward of York's."
His pride was affronted; he'd seen considerable service with the army of Charles of Burgundy and felt himself to be a battle commander fully as capable as Edward of York.
"A dead man passes no judgments, Madame," he said coolly. "I do believe before God the Father and
Christ the Son that when we face York across a battlefield, the victory shall go to Lancaster."
"S'il plait a Dieu," she murmured. She reached down, picked a