The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (63 page)

over into his keeping and he then found that what he felt for her was no more than memory and desire colored by pity? He didn't think that was true, but could he be sure? He'd been shaken by the fear she'd shown tonight, more than he liked to admit. One thing he did know, that he couldn't tolerate the thought of her being hurt again.
"You did have Dr de Serego look at that arm, I trust? I know you shy away from doctors like a skittish horse from snakes, but infection could set in if you don't take care. You did see him, Dickon?"
Richard wasn't all that surprised by this abrupt interrogation; he'd more or less been expecting it.
He nodded, said with resignation, "Who did tell you?"
"Who didn't?" Dryly.
"Good Samaritans, all," Richard said, with some bitterness, and Edward shrugged.
"You could hardly have expected otherwise, Dickon. What does surprise me is that you didn't see this coming. The signs were there, as far back as Windsor."
"For God's sake, Ned, don't gloat!"
Edward looked mildly offended. "I assure you that was not my intent." But after a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Yes, I guess it was! But can you honestly fault me for it? There's no sweeter temptation, save one, than to say 'I told you so,' after all!"
"I can see little humor, Ned, in what did occur this afternoon," Richard said coolly, started to rise.
Edward waved him back into his chair. Adept at reading voices, he'd caught the undertones of hurt beneath the surface gloss of anger; his grin faded.
"You're right, of course, Dickon. It wasn't funny. It wasn't funny at all. Look, I do admit I find a certain satisfaction in having your eyes opened to George as I know him to be. But I take no pleasure in your pain, lad. And I do understand. You've always been the one to speak up for George. Only Meg turned a blinder eye to his faults. If there is any man who'd have the right to expect his goodwill, that man should be you."
That was precisely how Richard did feel-betrayed. His mouth twisted. "If I have his goodwill, then Christ keep me from his enmity!"
They were now alone in the room; Richard reached for the wine flagon, poured for them both.
"I cannot figure him, Ned," he confessed. "Does he truly believe it is the Warwick lands I want, not
Anne? Does he know me as little as that?"
"As to your first question, he doesn't need to believe it; for George, the mere suspicion is enough. As to your second question, I don't think he can accept what is to him incomprehensible, that money motivates you

so little. You must remember, Dickon, that with George, more is never enough!"
"Yes, but-" Richard stopped so abruptly that Edward looked up in surprise, saw that Richard was staring over his shoulder toward the open doorway. He turned around in his seat just as George walked into the chamber.
BY the time he'd retreated from the great hall, George's anger was no longer pure, was diluted by a clouded, murky splash of shame. Nothing had turned out as he'd intended. He'd not meant to feed gossip with a scene sure to give such pleasure to those who did hate him. Nor had he meant to cause fresh hurt to Dickon's arm. He remembered now that Ned had, indeed, said something to him about the arm, said that Dickon had inflamed it again with his exertions upon the field Saturday last. But it had gone completely from his head. All he'd been able to think of was the way Dickon was meddling where he had no right to meddle, making a fool of him before a score or more of witnesses. Surely Dickon must know it hadn't been deliberate! But a nagging uncertainty remained, fueled by the memory of that incredulous accusing look on his brother's face.
He found himself wishing that the entire unpleasant encounter had never happened, and for the first time within adult memory, he was pulled by vague ill-formed promptings toward an apology of sorts. He felt somewhat better after making that decision, and before long, another idea, too, had come to him, startling at first in its novelty but intriguing, nonetheless. Why not talk to Dickon, openly and honestly, about the lands? Dickon was fair more often than not, in all matters not touching upon his besotted unreasoning loyalty to Ned. Perhaps he could be made to see the unfairness of it. He had no need for the Warwick and Beauchamp lands. Ned was sure to load his coffers with silver, to give him first pick of the estates forfeited by the Lancastrian rebels. Lands Ned was not bloody well likely to share with him! All he had were the Neville estates. It wasn't fair that Dickon should cast covetous eyes upon them, too. It wasn't fair.
But George's conciliatory impulses were given a severe jolt at sight of Edward and Richard sitting together, like two conspirators bent upon excluding him from their confidence, their company. He held to his resolve, however, even summoned a passable smile.
"I hope you didn't take our set-to this afternoon too much to heart, Dickon."
"I took it for what it was worth," Richard said, with an icy unfriendliness that could not have quenched
George's forgiving spirits more thoroughly than if he had upended his wine cup in George's lap.

"I see," George said. Oh, yes, indeed he saw! His eyes cut to Edward, quick enough to catch an amused gleam.
"I should have known you'd have wasted no time in going whining to Ned!"
"I'm beginning to think that what you know could be inscribed upon the head of a pin, and with space to spare!" Richard snapped, and Edward said hastily, "Enough, both of you!" He no longer saw anything funny in this, not at all. It was one thing for Dickon at last to see George as he truly was. It was another thing altogether to have them seriously at odds. He'd seen all too well with his cousin Warwick the dangers that discontent did breed.
"Dickon did not come to me carrying tales, George. You should know him better than that. I assume you have something on your mind? Well then, I would suggest you sit down and we do hear you out."
George did, and after some moments of awkward silence, blurted out, "Look, Dickon, about your arm. .
. . That was pure bad luck, no more than that."
Richard said nothing, and George fidgeted in his seat, finally forced himself to offer, "If you do want me to say I'm sorry . . ."
"I'll tell you what I do want from you, George. I want you to keep away from Anne, to stay out of her life. Be that clear?"
George's outrage was now all the greater because he could assure himself that he'd done what he could to put things right between them.
"You seem to forget that Anne is my sister-in-law, and Bella would little like the way you've been fondling her sister within sight of all! Still less would she like what was being whispered about the great hall this noon, that if Anne's not to be Lancaster's Queen, she's now quite willing to be Gloucester's harlot!"
Richard's hand tightened convulsively upon his wine cup. But even as he formed the intent to fling it in his brother's face, he felt Edward's hand clamp down upon his wrist.
"Careful, Dickon, you almost did spill your drink. As it happens, George, your touching concern for your sister-in-law's honor is somewhat misplaced. Dickon and I were only a short while ago agreeing it would be best for the lass if she were sent tomorrow to Isabel."
"You did!" George gaped at them in utter astonishment, and then turned upon Richard a blindingly radiant smile.
"I cannot tell you how that does relieve my mind, Dickon! I have a duty to the girl, after all; surely you see that?"
Richard was not pleased with Edward for intervening as he did, and he said swiftly, intent upon wiping that triumphant smile from George's face, "I think Anne does have need of Bella, and that is why I agreed
. . .

for that reason and that alone. But this I do tell you, George, and you'd best heed what I say. She stays at the Herber only until the day she does complain to me of the first discourtesy you do show her . . .
however slight."
"I am not one to maltreat a woman, Dickon, and I do resent you implying it were so!"
"Just be sure you do treat her kindly, George. If not because she is your sister-by-marriage and kin to us both, then you'd damned well better do so because I mean to make her my wife."
This was not strictly true; Richard was not yet sure of the exact nature of his feelings for Anne. He did know how he felt about George, though-angrier than he'd ever been in his life, angry enough to want to wound, to hit where it would hurt the most. He saw at once that he'd succeeded beyond all his expectations.
George was momentarily rendered speechless by this sudden shocking confirmation of his greatest fear.
"Blood of Christ!" he managed to get out, in a voice nearly strangled with emotion. "You cannot mean that! That you truly crave Middleham as much as that, enough to take Lancaster's leavings in order to claim it!"
For a big man, Edward could move with surprising speed when the need arose. As quick as Richard was, he was quicker; as Richard lunged forward, he found himself flung back into his chair and held there, far from gently.
"Easy, lad," Edward said soothingly, but at the same time not scrupling to use ample force to keep
Richard penned against his chair.
Richard was no match for his brother's strength. Moreover, he'd done his injured arm no good. The sudden pain went far toward clearing his head; he stopped struggling.
As soon as he did, Edward let him go, turned pale fathomless eyes upon George.
"Passing over the blatant bad taste of that remark, George, it's far from accurate. Dickon doesn't need
Anne Neville to lay claim to Middleham."
George, who'd been taken aback by Richard's violent reaction, swung around to stare at Edward. "What mean you by that, Ned?"
"I think my meaning should be clear enough. Middleham was Warwick's, was not part of his wife's
Beauchamp estates. That means it now belongs to the crown ... to me, George, to do with as I please.
And it pleases me to give it to Dickon."
"Ned, you can't! It's not fair!"
"No? Well, take a deep breath, Brother George," Edward said derisively, "because Middleham is only a portion of the grant I do intend to

make. Of the lands Warwick held in the North, Penrith and Sheriff Button too, are to go to Dickon."
"God damn you, you can't!" George's voice was shaking. "I'll not let you! Those lands by rights are mine!"
Edward's temper wanted only a spark to ignite it, now kindled. "I'd advise you to guard your tongue," he said warningly. "Or perhaps you do need a reminder that what you do hold today, you hold only at my sufferance."
George gasped, and then suddenly struck out at the wine cups and flagon, sent them spinning with a wild sweep of his arm. Richard and Edward came hastily to their feet, Edward staring in disbelief at the wine splashes on his hose.
"If I did think you meant to do that ..." He came around the table so rapidly that George took a backward step. But he retreated no farther; instead, repeated hoarsely, "Ned, you can't do this. You can't."
Edward had himself in hand again. He unclenched a fist, reached out to catch George's wrist in a grip that would later leave bruises.
"If I must take the time and trouble to teach you what I can and cannot do, George, I can promise you it will not be a lesson to your liking."
George jerked free, opened his mouth, embittered accusations blistering his tongue. But the words caught in his throat, as his body reacted in instinctive understanding to what he saw within his brother's eyes, a small raw flame that measured, appraised, made a promise that was, in every sense, a threat.
He turned blindly to go, only to be frozen into immobility by the sound of Edward's voice, the sound of sovereignty, devoid of all but authority.
"I did not hear you ask for my leave to withdraw, my lord of Clarence."
Moving as jerkily as a puppet with tangled strings, George managed to come forward; his lips grazed his brother's coronation ring, set in a blaze of blood-red rubies.
edward turned to Richard, said with a snarl, "I swear to Christ I think maggots do rot his brain! What queer, twisted logic guides him, I'll never know, but never have I seen a man so eager to doom himself."
He raged on for several moments longer, but his temper was already cooling rapidly; he was beginning to see what a problem was posed by George's intransigence. He knew George to be capable of any folly.
He was vexing beyond endurance, stupid in a sly sort of way, and lusted for

land as another man might lust after women. But he was dangerous, too. He'd proven that more than once.
He'd have to be given something, have to be bought off in some way. Either that or have his head stricken from his shoulders. If he only knew how thin ran the blood that now stood between him and the block on Tower Green! But bought off with what? Dickon would be well content with Middleham alone.
But it was his need, not Dickon's, that did concern him. He meant for Dickon to hold the North for him.
That was more important than anything else, to have a man he could trust to keep the country quiet north of the Trent. That meant Dickon had to hold Sheriff Button too. He inhaled sharply, let his breath escape very slowly. Perhaps it was just as well that the Countess of Warwick had chosen so conveniently to sequester herself at Beaulieu Abbey.
He looked down in disgust at the scattered wine cups, swore again, and then said abruptly, "What you saw tonight is but a foretaste of what you'll have to contend with from George if you do, in fact, want to wed the Neville girl. If you should decide you must have her, I'll back you; that goes without saying. But I
cannot very well cage George within the Tower because he covets land that isn't his . . . however much I
might like to! So I would ask this much of you. Be sure that you truly want the girl, that she be worth all the trouble you'll have to go through to get her. Just be sure, Dickon."
LONDON
May 1471
CHARD had been given the honor of leading the victory procession into London, mounted on a burnished chestnut stallion, his armor ablaze with light, damascened with his brother's Sunbursts and his own Whyte Boars. The sky was a sea of blue over his head; white roses rained from open windows, lay browning in the sun in dying tribute to the victorious
Yorkists. Pretty girls waved scarves of murrey and

blue, and veterans of the French campaigns saluted him as he rode by, drank his health in oceans of ale.
Richard was flushed with pride; to be acclaimed as a battle commander of proven abilities was the highest accolade he could imagine. Laughing, guiding his mount through a shower of flung white roses, he thought this was a day he'd never forget.
THE Yorkist cavalcade had ended at the Tower Palace, where Edward's Queen and children awaited him. George had ridden at once to the Herber, the manor house he'd taken over upon Warwick's death.
Richard, who was to leave at dawn the next day in pursuit of Fauconberg, hoped to find the time that night to visit the Herber himself, for he'd not seen Anne for nine days now. But first he'd gone to
Baynard's Castle. Almost at once, though, had come a courier from his brother, summoning him back to the Tower.
Mounting the stairs that led to the top floor of the White Tower keep, Richard found himself wondering why Ned should so suddenly have need of him again; he'd not have thought Ned likely to leave
Elizabeth's bed till Vespers. But all such speculation was forgotten at sight of the woman emerging from the Council Chamber, a handsome rather heavy woman in her early thirties, his sister Anne, Duchess of
Exeter.
Taken aback, Richard supposed she'd come to plead for her husband. Exeter had been severely wounded at Barnet, was lodged here in the Tower as a prisoner of state.
"Dickon! Dearest!"
He was even more taken aback when she enveloped him in a perfumed embrace, smeared lip rouge liberally across his cheek.
"You must come and dine with me at Coldharbor. I shall be looking forward to it!"
Ned must have agreed to pardon Exeter, Richard decided, marveling at her sudden sisterly affection; on the occasions he'd seen her in recent years, she'd shown him little more than absentminded politeness.
Edward was standing by an open window, looking down upon the royal residence that lay just east of the
Garden Tower. He turned now, said with a smile, "I see you bear the brand of Sister Anne!"
Richard found a handkerchief, swiped once or twice at his cheek. "What did bring her here, Ned? She wants Exeter freed?"
"Not unless it be by way of the executioner's axe!" Seeing Richard's surprise, Edward gave a brief laugh.
"No, it is her own freedom she does seek. It seems that while Exeter was in exile, she did find another to take to her bed. I daresay it was a grievous disappointment to her that he did survive Barnet! Be that as it may, she wants my support in dissolving the marriage; wants, as well, my consent to marry her present paramour. Not