The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (68 page)

was over, they looked at each other, and he saw in her eyes his own reluctance to speak, to run the risk of words. She moved back into his arms and he held her close. For the moment, that was enough.
He was in the path of the sun and he closed his eyes against the glare; he could feel her hands sliding up his back. She seemed frighteningly fragile to him, and he thought she could be so easily hurt, with so little intent, could be bruised by a breath. He began to kiss the face upturned to his, took his time in finding her mouth. He could feel her tension, her uncertainty; there was a stiffness in the slender body he held. But she was of her own accord parting her lips under his, inviting him to take her mouth in kisses as impassioned as he chose to make them. It was an invitation he could not resist, that he now saw no reason to resist.
After a time, he heard her say his name, say in soft protest, "Richard . . . Richard, I cannot catch my breath. . . . Oh, love, wait. . . ."
She seemed content to stay within his arms, however, and he took reassurance from that, murmured against her hair, "It be all right, beloved. I do promise you. I'd never cause you hurt, never. . . ."
Her eyes were darker than he ever remembered, gave shadowed refuge to those memories she could not, even now, forget. God damn Lancaster and Warwick both for what they'd done to her. God damn them all, he thought, with a sudden bitter tenderness, and kissed her again, in that moment making a vow that she would forget, that he'd somehow make her forget, no matter how long it took, whatever the price he'd pay it, for she was worth it, worth it all and more.
MIDDLEHAM
September 1471
A
strained silence gripped the small crowd assembled before the market cross to watch a man die.
Francis's stallion shied, lashed out with both forefeet, and he realized he'd unknowingly tightened his grip upon the reins. Hastily getting his mount under con

trol, he glanced sideways at Richard, flicked his eyes over his friend's frozen profile and back to the man kneeling before the block.
The priest from the village church had invoked the names of St Alkelda, Middleham's own saint, and St
Matthew, whose day it was; was making the sign of the cross over the condemned man. Thank the Lord
Jesus that Fauconberg was choosing to die well! When Edward had executed Fauconberg's ally, the renegade Mayor of Canterbury, at the end of May, it had degenerated into a spectacle that haunted
Francis even now. Of course that unlucky soul had been condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and so gruesome a death as that was enough to break the spirit of all but the most stoic of men. Francis had found it enough of a horror merely to watch; at least Fauconberg faced only the axe.
An expectant hush now descended upon the square, a collective catch of breath. Francis braced himself.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Rob, felt a keen throb of envy, for Rob looked impressive to the point of indifference. The same could not be said of Dickon, Francis thought. Richard was taut, his mouth tightly drawn, his eyes grey and guarded. But then, Fauconberg was dying this September noon at
Richard's command, and that was not a command a man could give with indifference.
It was also a command Francis knew he was not capable of giving himself. He agreed thoroughly with
Richard that Fauconberg had to die. This new treason of his with the Scots was as treacherous as it was stupid. But however much he felt Fauconberg deserved to die, Francis knew this execution was something he could not have done. He'd have opted for the easier way, would have sent Fauconberg under guard to London, let Edward be the one to collect the debt Fauconberg now owed.
The axe flashed upward, sent shivers of sunlight into the sky before Francis's eyes. A sigh swept the crowd as it started on its downward swing, and suddenly Francis was somersaulted seven years back in time, was once more in a shadowed slaughterhouse, watching as a man's life came to an abrupt and bloody end before the horrified eyes of a ten-year- old boy. He blinked, and was back in the present, was able to look down with controlled distaste at the body of a traitor twice over.
He watched as Richard gave the necessary commands, as the villagers began to drift toward the local alehouse to discuss what they'd just witnessed. It was, he now saw, a beautiful autumn afternoon. He spurred his stallion after Richard, caught up with him at the drawbridge of the castle. Now that it was over, it showed more in Richard's face, what Francis had already guessed, that to read a death sentence over Somerset and men already doomed was not the same as condemning a man whose treason was not forgivable and yet could have been forgiven.
It had not been a particularly good summer for Dickon, he thought, not a good summer at all. He knew
Dickon had not wanted to go north,

was far more interested in making his own peace with Anne Neville than in striking a truce with the Scots.
God's truth but it had been a blessing of sorts that Tewkesbury had come so hard on the heels of Barnet, giving Dickon little time to grieve for his dead, for Thomas Parr and Tom Huddleston, for the cousin he'd once loved and the one he loved even now. Now he did have the time, and his grieving was all the more painful for being so long repressed. His way of dealing with it had been to concentrate all his energies upon ending the border raids, with a grim resolve that soon brought the results he sought. In early August, James of Scotland signaled his readiness for a negotiated settlement.
Dismounting in the inner bailey, Francis found himself remembering what Richard had done as soon as he was free to follow his own inclinations, remembering that awkward uneasy pilgrimage they'd made to
Isabella Neville, John Neville's widow.
Francis hadn't wanted to go, was sorry that he'd let himself be talked into it. She'd been polite, almost too much so. But there was too little to be said and too much to be remembered. And there'd been the children, John Neville's five daughters. Their newly wary faces, pinched with bewildered pain, had bothered Francis immeasurably, and if he felt that way, how must Dickon have felt?
It was the child who wasn't there who'd bothered Francis the most, however, John's son. The little boy had been sent to Calais for safekeeping, had only that July been returned to England. He was in London now and Isabella Neville was desperate to have him with her. Richard had been able to ease her anxiety somewhat, assuring her he thought it very likely that Edward would permit her to retain custody of her son. It would be an unusual generosity if so, since women were rarely given such wardships. Francis hoped Richard was right, hoped the youngster need not be uprooted, need not find himself the ward of strangers. He was just ten, the same age Francis had been when he'd lost his own father.
No, the visit had not been an easy one. Francis had thought of the fatherless Neville children far more than he wanted to in the days that followed, and for a week or so thereafter, it seemed that Richard couldn't pass a village church without stopping to buy Masses for the dead, for his cousin Johnny.
Francis handed the reins to a groom, found himself lingering there in the September sunshine. It seemed strange to be back at Middleham and stranger still that it should feel strange, for so much of his life had been passed within these massive ashlar walls. He watched Richard's enormous wolfhound circling about in the inner bailey, seeking out its master. No, it had not been a happy summer.
There'd been that trouble, too, about Richard's son. The little boy was a week shy of six months, was now securely settled at Sheriff Button

Castle, the Neville stronghold ten miles north of York. But that had been no simple thing, either; there'd been a time when the child's future had been to Richard yet another source of concern in this summer of so many.
Richard was not quite so reticent these days as he'd once been, and Francis now had facts enough of
Richard's liaison with the baby's mother to fill in much of the details, as well. The girl had been young, pretty, and newly widowed; had shared with Richard a passing passion and the bad luck that brought into being the child neither of them wanted. Francis could imagine just how frantic she must have been, to find herself with child and Richard suddenly a fugitive under sentence of death. It was quite another matter now, of course. He knew Richard had at once taken measures to see to her security, and to ensure the future of the little boy christened John and called Johnny.
On their way north that July, Richard had confided to Francis that Nan wanted to wed, laughing at
Francis's startled look and saying, "No, thank God, she has someone other than me in mind!" Francis wasn't surprised that she'd found a willing husband with such ease, not if she was as fair as Richard said she was, and not if Richard had been as generous as he suspected. For a pretty, well-dowered wife, there'd be no lack of men willing to overlook any damage Richard had done to her name.
To Francis, it seemed to be a fortunate turn of events for all concerned, and he was not shy in saying so.
Richard had nodded, but then said rather reluctantly, "It would be, Francis, but for the fact that the man she wants to wed is not willing to take Johnny."
Nan had assured him, he went on to say somewhat skeptically, that this would pose no problem; it seemed that she had an aunt who'd be happy to take the baby, to raise him as her own. The more
Richard thought on that, the less he'd liked it. Too often, he said, such children were passed around as casually as a shared cup around a campfire, sometimes to those who did want them and, oftentimes, to those who did not. And it be enough of a burden for a child to make his way in this world without birthright; to deny him a sense of belonging, too, was a far greater sin than the sin of fornication that had brought him into being. It was only then that Francis realized what Richard meant to do, to take Johnny himself.
Not surprisingly, Nan had readily agreed, and she and Johnny had soon after been conveyed north to
Sheriff Button, were now comfortably ensconced in what was to be Johnny's new home. Nan was to stay with him till a competent nurse could be found, and Richard had just that week returned from a brief visit to make sure all was well with them, only to be confronted upon his return to Middleham with indisputable proof of Fauconberg's renewed treason, this time with the Scots.
Mounting the stairs leading up into the keep, Francis gave one last

look at the sky above him, thinking that it ever seemed bluer in Yorkshire than elsewhere, and then moved into the shadows of the great hall. It would, he thought, be good to get back to London. Good for them all.
THE late afternoon sun was filtering through the west windows of the solar, pleasantly warming upon
Francis's face. He watched for a time as Richard devoted his attention to the sheaves of correspondence piled upon the writing desk that had once been used by the Earl of Warwick.
Richard's powers of concentration were not as unscathed as he'd have had them appear, however. More than a few times, Francis had caught him staring into space, thinking of anything but the script before him.
Francis knew Richard was feeling the aftereffects of that noonday execution, and why not? For all that he was Lord Constable and Lord Admiral of England, Great Chamberlain, and Warden of the Marches toward Scotland, Francis reminded himself now, Dickon was still ten days from his nineteenth birthday.
He didn't know what to say, however, so he said nothing, and watched Richard seek to lose himself in surveillance reports sent him from the border. Where had Rob gotten to? Didn't he realize Dickon would be in need of companionship after the beheading?
As if on cue, Rob appeared in the solar doorway, trailed by Dick Ratcliffe, a friend of their Middleham days.
"I've been to the buttery," he announced. "It did occur to me that there was still begging to be drunk those flagons of brandywine sent by Lord Scrope as a peace offering. Brandywine which some idiot-no names mentioned, Dickon-did order to be stored away untasted!"
He slammed the door, set about filling cups and passing them around. As he sloshed a cup into Francis's hand, he winked, and Francis felt a prick of guilt for having once again underestimated the discerning power of Rob's eye, for assuming that Rob was less sensitive than he to the unease of mind that must inevitably follow an execution. No less sensitive and, at times, a great deal more astute, Francis conceded and reached gratefully for the cup.
francis was feeling sentimental, was finding that the solar was peopled with ghosts for him.
"It be nigh on seven years ago," he announced to the room at large, "that we were in this very chamber to hear Warwick denounce the King's marriage. Even Gareth there; it was that same night that Anne did pick his name for you, Dickon. ..." He started to elaborate further, then wondered if that were truly such a good idea. He looked down at

Richard, reclining comfortably against Gareth's accommodating bulk, decided that might not be a memory Dickon would enjoy reliving.
"Dickon, your letter from the King! It came this morn and you had not the time to read it then. ..."
"Jesii, it did go completely from my head!" Finding it still tucked away safely within his doublet, Richard smiled at Francis, settled back against Gareth to read it.
"What be the news from London? Good, I hope!"
"As it happens, yes. The Queen is with child again."
Richard waited as they responded with polite enthusiasm, said, "The babe be due in the spring, Ned says. If it be a girl, he means to name her after my sister Meg, and if a boy, after me."
Francis thought it was very pleasant to be lounging here before the solar hearth, listening as the King was referred to as "Ned"; it wasn't often that he was given a glimpse of England's sovereign in the more intimate guise of a brother. He looked to see if Rob, too, shared his thought, saw that it hadn't even occurred to Rob, who'd managed to lose the dice and was making several half-hearted sweeps of the carpet.
Richard had resumed reading, now drew a surprised breath. "I'll be damned! He's given George the estates the Courtenays did hold in Devon and Cornwall!"
They were all equally startled at that, it being the general consensus that Edward wasn't likely to give
George the time of day if it could be avoided. After a moment, Richard laughed, said wryly, "He says he hopes I do appreciate the sacrifice he makes on my behalf!"
He didn't explain why Edward should be giving George land to please him, but Francis thought he understood; Richard had confided some in him about George's obsessive hunger for the Neville and
Beauchamp lands.
Richard sat up so suddenly that Gareth grunted a muted protest. "Christ! He's gone and made Thomas
Grey an Earl!"
Discretion was one thing; Thomas Grey was quite another. Francis echoed Richard's disgust. Rob was still hunting the dice, mumbled something unintelligible that, nonetheless, sounded suspiciously far from congratulatory. Dick Ratcliffe observed placidly in the silence that followed, "Since Grey be the Queen's son and thus stepson to the King, does that not make him kin of some sort to you, Dickon?"
"It does make him a millstone around my neck, that I do know for certes," Richard said, somewhat absently; he'd gone back to reading his brother's letter. Now he laughed again, said, "Here's news worth hearing. Ned has named Will Hastings as Lieutenant General of Calais!"
"I thought that post was held by Anthony Woodville."