The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (62 page)

appreciate just how beautiful an evening it was. He'd found for them a secluded retreat within a wall of willow and whitethorn; the sky was darkening into a delicately tinted violet and a crescent moon silvered the circling clouds over their heads. It was very quiet. She heard only the soft trilling of night birds, was becoming aware of the heavy honeysuckle scents of spring. She should have been able to draw comfort from such surroundings; somehow, it didn't help at all.
Richard didn't seem to be deriving much pleasure from the garden, either. Tense and edgy, he suddenly seemed to have little to say. She didn't believe his denials, knew his arm was paining him a great deal; she could see it in his face. She could see, too, that he'd been shaken by the quarrel, and with a pang of remorse, she remembered that he'd always been on fairly good terms with George. Until now.
For the first time that day, she was unwilling to have a silence fall between them, felt driven to link them with words, any words, and she began to talk at random about events that had happened long ago at
Middleham, when the world was still a safe place and she'd been as sure of her tomorrows as she was of her yesterdays.
Richard, leaning against the trunk of a nearby birch, listened to her in silence, his dark head tilted to the left in a gesture long since burned into her memory. So often she'd seen him stand that way. She'd seen him do, too, what he now did-break off a sprig of thyme from the surrounding shrubbery. He was twirling the narrow leaves around nimble restless fingers, absently chewing on the mint-flavored stem, and she smiled sadly, thinking that in all the years she'd known him, he could never be still. He had always to be in motion, even while attending morning Mass in Middleham's chapel. She could see him even now, never able to kneel sedately for long, shifting impatiently on his prayer cushion, fidgeting with the ornate belt at his hip or with a ring, leafing through his Book of Hours until a frowning rebuke from her mother would propel him upright . . . briefly. She sighed softly, not sure why the memory should make her sad, but it did. It was such a long time ago . . . and so much had changed, changed forever, even if he did still seem so heartbreakingly familiar to her, as if they might have been parted only yesterday.
Reaching over, Richard lightly stroked her cheek with the last of the thyme flowerlets.
"If it is George who brings such shadows to your face, Anne, try to put your mind at ease. He'll not trouble you again. I'll see to that, ma belle. I do promise you."
She shook her head, took the flower, and let her fingers linger on his. "No, it wasn't George. I was . . .
remembering."
His hand tightened on hers, and suddenly she was saying with breathless urgency, "I never wanted to marry Lancaster, Richard. Never.

I did try to resist. But I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't gainsay my father, not for long. ..."
So many subjects had gone unmentioned that day. By tacit consent, they'd drawn only upon the brightest splashes of color, clung to the illusory security of Middleham memories. No explanations, just "Do you remember?" And now she'd conjured up the most dangerous spirit of all, summoned Edouard of
Lancaster into the garden to reclaim her as his wife, his would-be Queen.
Richard seemed no happier than she with this sudden intrusion of Lancaster into their refuge. She saw he was frowning, and before he could speak, she touched her fingers to his lips.
"No, Richard. . . . Can we not forget I did say that? I didn't mean to, truly. I don't want to talk of
Lancaster. . . . Not now, not ever. I want only to forget. ..."
He was so close to her now that she knew he could have but one intent in mind. She waited, breathless, and then felt his fingers on her throat, caressing, tilting her face up to his. She let him kiss her, and rather timidly, put her arms around him as he drew her into a closer embrace.
He was not as gentle as he'd been that morning. His mouth was more insistent, until, without wanting to, she parted her lips for him. Of all she'd had to endure as Edouard of Lancaster's wife, she'd hated his kisses the most, hated the penetration of her mouth even more than of her body. During the act of coupling itself, she could at least try to separate her mind from what he was doing to her, but there had been no escaping the violation of her mouth, and only by swallowing convulsively could she keep from gagging at the feel and thrust of his tongue. She tensed as Richard kissed her, and then felt a sweet surge of relief when the familiar revulsion didn't come. How foolish she'd been! How could she have imagined it might be the same with Richard? Richard, whom she'd known and loved all her life. His mouth was warm and tasted pleasantly of mint. She relaxed, and accepted the first kisses of her life that had not been forced upon her.
She closed her eyes, felt his mouth against her lashes, her eyelids, and then her throat. She drew a deep breath fragrant with lilac and clover, rested her cheek against his chest. Her tension was ebbing, already seemed to be part of another girl's past. She was finding it surprisingly pleasant to be here alone with him in the warm dark of the garden, to be held and touched and stroked, to hear her name whispered into her hair.
When it began to change for her, she couldn't say for sure. Perhaps when his kisses began to change;
they were hotter now, more demanding. His body was hard against hers, suddenly unfamiliar. His breathing had quickened considerably; hers came swift and shallow as she tried to overcome it, this sudden smothering sensation, unpleasantly akin to the

dreadful trapped feeling Lancaster had sparked each time he'd pulled her to him.
She was no longer holding on to Richard, had brought her hands up to rest against his chest, but she didn't know how to tell him of her reluctance, of her returning fear. He was murmuring endearments she couldn't hear, for she couldn't seem to slow down her senses long enough to take in what he was saying, heard only his voice against her ear, low, coaxing.
He was caressing her breasts now; his hands were warm, like his mouth and his voice. He was far more gentle than Lancaster, seemed to be as intent upon learning her body as claiming it. But she knew it wouldn't last, this easy unhurried tenderness of his. She knew what would inevitably follow. Lancaster had taught her that. His kisses would grow wetter, deeper. Like Lancaster's. He would fondle her with increasing impatience, abrupt, eager, intent only upon taking his own pleasures, those urgent male pleasures she could neither comprehend nor share . . . like Lancaster. And afterward, he'd watch her with puzzled dissatisfied eyes. He'd not reproach her for her lack of response, not call her "cold" as
Lancaster had done. He'd not have to; his eyes would say it all.
Twisting suddenly against him, she tore her mouth from his. "No, Richard, don't! Let me go!"
Richard released her at once, so abruptly that she had to reach for an overhanging branch to keep her balance. He was stunned by her rebuff, by the violence of her rejection, his senses still reeling from the taste and touch and feel of her. His past passions had not prepared him for this intense and intoxicating need he had for Anne. He'd never wanted anything in his life as he now wanted this girl, wanted to make her soft fragrant body his own, to see that wealth of chestnut hair spread out on his pillow, to find her beside him when he awoke. A hunger she alone could fill. A hunger she didn't share.
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "It was not my intent to ... to take advantage of you in any way."
"Oh, Richard . . . don't!" Her voice was trembling; she seemed on the verge of tears. "You owe me no apologies. You did nothing wrong. And I ... I was not rejecting you. It wasn't that. It was ..."
She turned away, retreated into the protective shadow of a white ash. "I was afraid," she said, very low.
"If you do want the truth, there it is. I was afraid."
Anne's face was burning, and she rested her cheek against the spongy damp moss that crept like a patchy grey-green carpet up the side of the tree. Its coolness didn't help; she still felt as if her blood had been scalded, her skin blistered from within.
"Anne ..." Richard was beside her now under the ash, but he

made no move to touch her, was unsure what to say. His own emotions were in such a state of confusion that he doubted he'd ever be able to sort them out. Relief, relief infinite and overwhelming that he'd so misread her reluctance. Jealousy, and an embittered futile anger, futile in that the object of his rage was beyond all retribution, could never be called to account for the hurt he'd done Anne. Above all, a sudden surge of tenderness such as he'd never before felt for anyone, not even Kate.
"Anne, I... I'm sorry I didn't understand. I know you don't want to talk of Lancaster, and in truth, neither do I. I just want to say ... to say that I'd never cause you hurt. Never, love." He touched her cheek, in a caress as uncertain as it was gentle, and was much relieved when she turned her head, brushed her lips against his fingers.
"I know that, Richard," she whispered. "Truly I do."
"Anne. . . . There be this I must tell you. We've got to be able to be honest with each other, and I want you to know that I'll understand if . . . if it does upset you."
Her eyes were enormous, looked suddenly frightened, and he said hastily, "You know I did command the vanguard at Tewkesbury for Ned, and he was most generous afterward, told me to name my own reward. Anne . . . I've asked him for Middleham."
"And you thought that might upset me?" Anne was staring at him in unfeigned astonishment. "Oh, Richard, how could you think so? I did know Middleham would be forfeit; there was never any question of that.
And there is no one I would rather see have it than you. No one! I know how you love it; Middleham was home to you."
"And to you," Richard said quietly. He very much wanted to kiss her; he didn't, took her hand, instead.
"Come," he said. "I'll lead you back."
A strange expression crossed her face, both wistful and bitter. "If only you could," she whispered.
richard had become accustomed to being summoned to his brother without warning and at odd hours of the day or night. Generally, he was flattered by such tangible proof of how much Ned had come to rely upon his judgment, but not tonight. Tonight the last place he wanted to be was in Ned's bedchamber while his brother related a rather lengthy account of his meeting that afternoon with Lord Mayor Bette.
One of Edward's servants was leaning over Richard with a silver flagon, and he nodded, reached for his cup as soon as it had been refilled. So far the wine hadn't helped much, but it might if he had enough of it.
He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt so out-of-sorts. As much as he hated the thought of it, he'd have to see Ned's physician to

night, for if he didn't get something to dull the pain, he'd be awake till dawn. Though if he were to be honest with himself, the major source of his discomfort was not his arm. It had been several years since he'd suffered the uncomfortable aftermath of-thwarted desire; he'd forgotten how bloody awful it felt. He wondered briefly if it was too late to do something about it. It was nigh on ten; the inns would be closed by now. A town the size of Coventry would surely have its share of bawdy houses. But he didn't want a whore. He wanted Anne.
Edward was saying something about taking from the city their civic sword and Richard made an appropriate sound that could pass for agreement. How was it that he'd not even remembered he'd had an arm when he was with Anne and now it did feel as if it were being held over a roasting spit?
He found some relief in silently cursing his absent brother, but not much. George wasn't the only fool in the family. How could he have been so blind? She was so fearful. . . . Why hadn't he foreseen that? He should have known, should have been better prepared for this. But how could any man have maltreated
Anne? Anne, who was so fragile, so utterly without defenses. To hurt Anne would be like turning a gerfalcon upon a butterfly. He drank again, beckoned to the hovering attendant.
But what if he couldn't overcome her fears? She'd said she wanted only to forget. What if she couldn't?
The truth was that he had never tried to coax an unwilling woman to his bed. He was accustomed to ardent bedmates like Kate and Nan, or to knowing harlots. How would he go about gentling the fears of a girl who knew only the worst of what a man could teach a maid? Patience. ... As much patience as his own needs would allow. But was that enough? A pity there wasn't some way he could seek Ned's advice without asking outright. From what he'd seen of Ned's appetites in the past year, Ned didn't seem much inclined to bed a woman who wasn't as hot for it as he, but he must have had some experience in overcoming the qualms of timid virgins. When it came to hungers of the flesh, Richard suspected there was very little Ned didn't know about, and what there was most probably wasn't worth knowing. But he could not possibly ask Ned without betraying himself.
"... and so there you have it, Dickon. If they cannot pay the ten thousand marks by noon Monday next, a gallows shall be set up in Cross Cheaping and-"
"Ten thousand! Gallows . . . Ned, what ..." Richard caught on, but too late. He waited patiently until
Edward had stopped laughing at him, and then said ruefully, "Mea culpa; I confess I wasn't listening!
What did you truly choose to assess against Coventry?"
"I did declare the city liberties forfeit, and graciously agreed that they could be redeemed by the payment of five hundred marks. I shall later let

myself be persuaded to accept only three hundred marks and they'll consider themselves quite fortunate;
far more so than if I forbore to claim any penalty at all!"
Richard laughed, but stopped abruptly when Edward said, "Now, shall I give you some advice?"
"No!" he said hastily, and Edward grinned, not at all put out.
"Ah, but I shall, anyway! It's plain enough that you've had a falling- out with your little cousin, else you'd not be brooding about like a man expecting a visitation from the Angel of Death. So, for what it's worth, my advice is this. . . . Give the lass time. Her whole world has been torn asunder in little more than a twelve-month. Give her the chance to come to terms with it all."
Richard had been braced for the worst, all too aware that his brother's sense of humor was unpredictable at best, and knowing, too, that Edward tended to view women with the appreciation of a skilled huntsman for a particularly elusive quarry. What Edward had just said was so sensible, so far removed from the ribald jest he'd been expecting to hear, that he found himself asking, "What, then, would you suggest?"
"I'd send her on to London, to Isabel." Seeing Richard's protest taking shape, Edward forestalled it by saying, "I was watching your Anne at dinner. When she does look at you, her heart shows in her eyes, as if you'll disappear into smoke should you be out of her sight for even a moment. But what does show, too, is that she's been ill used. She needs time to comprehend fully that she's truly free of Lancaster.
Time, too, I would wager, to convince herself that you do still care for her. Give her over into her sister's keeping for now, Little Brother. It is scarcely the separation of a lifetime, after all. We will ourselves be in
London within the fortnight."
After a long silence, Richard nodded reluctantly. "There is sense in what you say," he admitted, for it occurred to him that he, too, could use some time to think upon his feelings for Anne.
Since boyhood, he'd taken it for granted that he and Anne would one day wed; the seed planted by
Warwick had taken root so gradually that he could not recall a time when he hadn't expected to marry
Anne. It made sense, after all. Anne was pretty, sweet-tempered, an heiress. She'd make a most suitable wife for him, and such a match would please two men he cared greatly about pleasing, his Neville cousins. But it was not until Anne was plight-trothed to Lancaster that he'd realized just how much he cared.
Richard slouched down in his seat, tried in vain to find a position that would ease his aching arm. Raking up the past was irrelevant. What did matter were his feelings now. If Anne did love him, he must be very sure in his own mind as to what she meant to him. What if she gave her heart