The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (61 page)

face. The dark one in a fair family. Her cousin Richard. The last time she had seen him, there had been no laughter between them, only silence. But he was laughing now, here in the courtyard at Coventry, giving commands with the sureness born of birth and a remarkable victory just seven days past... and
Yorkshire, what could Yorkshire and Middleham possibly be to him now?
She turned away from the window. The minutes dragged by. And then with surprising suddenness, Richard was there, standing very still in the doorway, with a greeting frozen on his lips and eyes only for
Anne. Edward was grinning. "I do believe, Dickon, that I neglected to tell you this was the day Stanley would be meeting us at Coventry with the French harlot . . . and our fair kinswoman, Anne Neville."
He didn't linger; his sense of the dramatic was too finely honed and his sense of timing was inbred, instinctive. "Well, lad, I'd venture you need me here as much as Egypt did need the ten deadly plagues!"
The door closing on the echoes of his laughter.
Richard came swiftly to Anne. His first impulse to take her in his arms, he carefully confined himself to the most cousinly of kisses; his lips barely grazed the corner of her mouth. "Welcome home, Anne."
He was unconsciously echoing his brother's greeting, but no one had ever said her name as Richard did now, as the most caressing of endearments. Anne betrayed herself with hot color, but still she said nothing; she couldn't, not trusting her voice. Once, years ago, she had accepted a childish dare from
Francis Lovell and drank two goblets of burgundy in quick succession. She felt like that now, giddy and light-headed, her face scorched, her hands icy. How grey his eyes were! And yet she'd always remembered them as blue. She could still scarcely believe he was truly here, close enough to touch. She need only reach out. But nineteen months . . . Nineteen months was a lifetime; for them both, a lifetime.
Richard hesitated. He was disconcerted in equal measure by her nearness, after so many months, and by her continuing silence. This was not how he'd meant their reunion to be. She seemed fearful. . . . Not of him, surely? He found such a thought intolerable, but what occurred to him next was worse. Was it that she had learned to love Marguerite's handsome son, after all? Did she grieve for Lancaster? Was it for him that she wore black?
"I truly regret your father's death, Anne. I would never have had it so."
She inclined her head. That she knew, with the same certainty that she knew the sun would rise each morn from the east, that His Holiness the Pope was infallible, and that ambition, more than any sin decried by Holy Church, brought men to ruin.

Strangers, Richard thought unwillingly; it was as if they were strangers of a sudden. He stepped back, appraising. She was taller, perhaps, since he'd last seen her, and softer, too, curved in places he remembered as flat, becomingly flushed; but too tense, too thin, and he found her wedding ring to be glaringly and blasphemously bright against the drabness of her mourning gown. She seemed reluctant to meet his eyes and was staring at the broadsword on his hip. Was she visualizing it wet with the blood of
Barnet and Tewkesbury?
"Anne, I'd not lie to you now; I never have. I don't regret Lancaster's death. Had we met on the field that morn, I would have done my best to take his life myself. Yet I do regret, very deeply, any grief his death may have caused you."
"Grief?"
Anne stared at him, open-mouthed. Grief? For Lancaster? Blessed Lady, he couldn't think that she'd cared for Lancaster, that she'd gone willingly to his bed!
"Oh, no, Richard!"
Saying his name aloud at last, she felt the need to repeat it, as if to prove she could, after a full year of enforced silence, a year in which she so often heard his name spat as profanity.
"Richard, do you want to know how I felt when I was told that he was dead?"
She had moved closer, or perhaps he had, but there was no longer space between them. He nodded tensely.
"I could tell only you . . . only you," she said, very softly now. "No one else, for it is a shamefully cruel and un-Christian admission to make. You see, I was glad, Richard. I was so very glad. ..."
He didn't reply at once, reaching out to trace the curve of her cheek, his fingers light and cool to the touch against her skin.
"I think I would have given all I have to hear you say that," he said, and the room blurred for her in a dazzling blaze of misted sunlight.
So close were they that he could see the shadows cast by downswept lashes; they showed golden at the roots, quivered against her cheek as he touched his lips to hers, very gentle and easy but far from cousinly, nonetheless.

COVENTRY
May 1471
Bt
BECAUSE Coventry was in ill favor with the King for having given aid to Warwick during his rebellion, Prior Deram and Lord Mayor Bette had determined to honor their disgruntled sovereign with hospitality so lavish he could not help but be more favorably disposed toward their city. An elaborate banquet was planned for that Sunday in St Mary's Hall, at the city's expense, but this Saturday noon it was the Prior's turn. The dinner brought before the Yorkist lords in the Prior's great hall was impressive even by
Edward's luxury-loving standards, and Will Hastings cheered Prior Deram immeasurably when he vowed that not even the Lord of Bruges, Louis de la Gruuthuse, had set so fine a table.
Will had not exaggerated by much. The usual royal dinner of two courses consisting of three or four dishes each had been replaced by no less than four courses, each of five separate dishes, served on plates of gilt. As it was a Saturday, meat was denied them, but the Prior's cooks had produced a variety of fish dishes sure to tempt even the most jaded appetite: porpoise, pike stuffed with chestnuts, roasted eel, sturgeon baked in a "coffyn" with raisins, cinnamon, and ginger. Sugar, rather than honey, served as a sweetener, wine cups were kept filled with vernage, hippocras, and malmsey, and each ending course was graced with the appearance of an elaborate sugared "subtlety," sculptured into unicorns, St George slaying the dragon, and the White Roses of York.
Will had enjoyed himself enormously, although it was his taste for malicious amusement rather than for the highly spiced dishes that had given him the greatest pleasure. For Will, the fun had begun when Richard brought to the King's table a girl who, both by blood and marriage, was tainted with treason. Will had been hard put not to laugh at the

befuddlement of the marshal charged with seating the high-ranking guests. However, the man had not been so flustered as to argue when the Duke of Gloucester insisted that the Lady Anne be seated at his left, even though that did disrupt the entire seating arrangement. By now it was becoming apparent to all that upon Richard shone the brightest rays of the Sunne of York. That, Will did not find so funny, but he hoped in time that he'd learn to live with it.
What followed was for him a very entertaining spectacle, with one of Edward's brothers seemingly intent upon the most subtle of seductions and the other barely able to force malmsey past the gorge rising in his throat.
It was customary, of course, for a couple to share a wine cup and trencher plate, and good manners required that a knight would see to his lady's eating pleasure before his own, just as a well-bred youngster sharing a plate with an elderly companion would select those morsels tender enough for aging teeth. But Will had never before seen politeness given such a high gallant gloss, and watching as Richard lavished upon Anne Neville so much care that he scarcely touched his own food, Will watched, too, as
George's complexion turned an interesting shade of green, and he was well content.
Once the meal had ended and the uneaten food was scraped from the trenchers into alms dishes for the poor, once Edward had dispatched eight shillings to be shared among the priory cooks and lavers of scented washing water had been brought for the guests, all scattered to their own pursuits. After ascertaining that Edward had no need of him at present, Will chose to follow Richard and Anne into the
Prior's presence chamber, for George had done likewise, and Will was drawn irresistibly by the lure of coming strife.
George was standing with the Stanley brothers, for Thomas, Lord Stanley, had made haste to submit himself to Edward at Coventry, to disavow any allegiance to Warwick and to vouchsafe his rather tattered loyalties to York. As Will moved toward them, he nearly bumped into John Howard, who was making haste to put distance between himself and the very men Will was intent upon seeking out.
"There's an unholy trinity for you, Jack," he murmured wryly, and Howard grimaced, looking back at the
Stanleys and George with distaste.
"As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly," he said quietly, but no less scathingly for all that. "Any other man would thank Almighty God fasting for his good fortune in having a brother willing to forgive his treason. But not that one. . . . He does seem Hellbent upon his own destruction."
"I do most fervently hope so!" Will grinned, and with a wink at Howard, moved discreetly within hearing range.

"By the Mass, if she sits any closer, she'll be in his lap ... or worse!" George hissed.
Will's eyes strayed from George to the couple in the recessed oriel window seat. He heard Richard laugh, oblivious of his brother's rage. None who saw them together could doubt that Gloucester was smitten by Warwick's daughter. And with Gloucester to plead for her, Will thought, Ned might not be so inclined to let Clarence strip her of her inheritance.
William Stanley guffawed, but Thomas Stanley nodded, said something soothing about my lord of
Clarence's commendable concern for the honor of his sister-by-marriage.
"Precisely, my lord Stanley." George suddenly seemed to see an acceptable outlet for his anger, for he said indignantly, "The girl is my wife's sister, after all. It is my duty to see that she not be taken advantage of, that her name not be sullied. I'll let no man, be it my own brother, make a slut out of her!"
Will let out a whoop of laughter, and as they spun around to seek the source, he hastily backed away, out into the great hall, where he could indulge his mirth at length. It was, he decided, going to be an interesting summer.
COVENTRY'S Lord Mayor was explaining at length to Edward how it was that the city had happened to cast its lot with Warwick. As he told it, it began to sound more and more like a vast misunderstanding, the too- trusting citizens gulled by the power-hungry Earl.
Richard soon lost interest, found his eyes wandering toward the window, where the sky was reddening in a dying blaze of light, in as beautiful a sunset as he could recall. He sighed, reluctantly sat up straighter in his chair as Edward gave him a look that was both admonitory and amused. What a waste of time suddenly precious! If the man would only get on with it, he might still be able to escape out into the gardens with Anne, watch together the passing of day.
Glancing around for a servant to refill his wine cup, Richard saw with surprise that Rob Percy was hovering in the open doorway, seeking anxiously to catch his eye. Richard slipped unobtrusively from his chair, crossed quickly to his friend.
Rob at once grabbed his arm, pulled him aside, and blurted out in an urgent undertone, "Get you to the great hall, and fast! Anne be in much need of you, and so, too, is Francis!"
As they hastened down the winding stairwell, Rob elaborated upon his breathless summons. They'd been talking with Anne, he panted, when the Duke of Clarence did stride up and, without so much as a by-
your-leave, told Anne that she was to depart for London within the hour.

When she objected, he'd grabbed her arm and seemed about to take her from the great hall by force if need be. It was then that Francis tried to stop him. There was fear in Rob's voice, fear Richard could understand. George was a dangerous man to defy; Francis's foolhardy heroics might cost him dear.
The same thought had obviously occurred to Francis. He was saying in a low conciliatory voice, "It's not my intent, Your Grace, to intrude into your affairs. It's only that I think your brother of Gloucester would wish to speak with the Lady Anne ere she ..."
Unlike Francis, who had no more color in his face than new-fallen snow, Anne was so flushed she looked feverish. Seeing Richard now, she gave a glad little cry, let go of Francis's arm, and started toward him. Richard had reached her before George even realized he was in the hall, and as he looked down into her face, he was suddenly swept by a protective urge so strong it blotted all else from his brain.
"Oh, Richard, thank God you've come! Your brother . . . He says I must go to London, says I have no choice but to do what he commands!"
"Hush, sweetheart. It be all right. No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to do, not ever again. That I do promise you, Anne."
"Don't make promises you cannot keep, Dickon!"
Anne had an instant of instinctive recoil before remembering that she now had no need to fear George's threats. She raised her head, stared defiantly at George.
Richard, too, was staring at his brother. But he was aware, as well, of the others. Will Hastings was watching with alert interest; his eyes gave him away, however, glinted with suppressed laughter. John
Howard, less urbane, showed only disapproval. Beyond Howard, Richard saw both Stanleys, and in the doorway, the Earl of Northumberland, looking on with the rather distant disdain of a Percy for the lower orders of mankind.
"I would suggest we discuss this in private, George," Richard said, very low, and jerked his head toward the presence chamber.
"There is nothing to discuss. Anne is my sister-in-law, and if I choose to send her to my wife, it be none of your concern."
"Anne is very much my concern," Richard said evenly, "and she does not want to go to London."
A queer greenish light had begun to flicker in George's eyes. "I tell you she goes to London tonight and you have nothing to say about it!"
"No? You'd best think again, George!"
Richard's voice had changed, betrayed his rising anger. Why George should have gotten it into his head to make a scene like this before a chamberful of avid witnesses, he didn't know, no longer much cared.
All

that mattered to him at the moment was the troubled look on Anne's face, the way she clutched his arm.
He shifted slightly so that he stood between her and George.
"I warn you, Dickon, keep out of this!"
At that, Richard lost all patience. "I take no orders from you, George!"
He turned toward Anne, intending to take her from the hall. As he did, George grabbed his arm, wrenched brutally to swing him around, and suddenly Richard was aware only of physical pain, a searing surge of raw sensation unlike anything he'd ever experienced in his life. It took his breath, sent a sickening wave of queasiness up to lodge in his throat, and for several shuddering seconds there was only pain in his world, to the exclusion of all else. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard Francis's heated protest.
"That be his bad arm!"
George's grip had already begun to ease. Even through the red mists of an anger bordering beyond control, part of his brain recognized that something was wrong, took note that Richard had gone white as chalk, that sweat suddenly stood out on his forehead, his upper lip. He turned his head sharply as what
Francis said registered with him, jerked his hand back as if burned.
There was disbelief on his face, but the first flickerings of uncertainty, too. "His arm was healing. Barnet was more than three weeks ago!"
Francis was momentarily too outraged to remember he addressed a Prince of the blood, and one, moreover, of a particularly unforgiving nature.
"It was healing!" he snapped. "But he did lay it open again last week at Tewkesbury!" He looked toward
Richard then, said with concern, "Be you all right?"
Richard had managed to fight back the nausea, had managed to draw air back into his lungs. Not yet sure what control he exercised over his voice, he nodded and then looked at his brother. George was the first to look away, and was the first, too, to exit the hall. Men moved hastily aside to let him pass.
nothing was the same after that for Anne. She knew she could never face a second meal in that hall, and she begged Richard to let her miss supper. Much to her relief, he agreed at once, said he wasn't hungry either, and as Vespers sounded, he led her, instead, out into the twilight dusk of the garden arbor that stretched north toward the River Sherbourne.
Anne's nerves were so taut that it was some time before she could