The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (74 page)

struggling to free a cart mired down in the muddy swamp the streets had become after three days of heavy rains. They'd attracted a small crowd of spectators, one of whom now detached himself from the other onlookers, began to follow Veronique up Addle Street.
Her suspicions at once flared up into active alarm. She quickened her pace, and glancing back over her shoulder, was panicked to see that so had he. She never for a moment considered that he might have made the same mistake the guards had, might have taken her for a woman of the streets. To Veronique, this man stalking her up Addle Street could only be one of Clarence's hirelings, and she began to tremble with fright.
She had to lose him, could not lead him back to the inn, to Anne. By now she'd reached Carter Lane; he was still behind her, had narrowed the gap somewhat. A large crowd was thronging the churchyard of St
Paul's, gathered for the St Edward's Day High Mass, and she plunged into their midst. Ignoring the curses and punishing elbows of people she was dispossessing, she forced her way into the churchyard.
Not daring to look back, she shoved and pushed until a path opened for her, darted through the side door leading into the nave of the cathedral. She stumbled at once into disaster, tripping over one of the tables set up in the west end of the nave, where scribes wrote letters and legal documents for any willing to engage their services. As she lurched against it, the trestle board buckled and dumped the contents of the table onto the floor. The scribe stared in dismay at the ruin of his labor, at the puddle of ink soaking through his supply of paper. With an outraged shout, he grabbed for Veronique.
"Look what you've done to my stall, you clumsy jade! You'll pay me for the damage done or, by God, I'll call a constable!"
By now, Veronique had regained her feet. She evaded his outstretched arm by purest luck, looked around wildly for escape. Across the nave, several loitering youngsters who were watching the commotion with amusement shouted at Veronique, "The north door, sweetheart! . Take the Si Quis door!"
Their words meant nothing to her, but they were pointing and,, gesturing; she saw that there was a small door on the other side of the, nave and ran toward it. Behind her, she heard laughter, a thud, a curse, |
and more laughter. Looking back, she saw that one of the boys had | thrown a footstool into the path of the pursuing scribe. With a sob, shea fled the church, out into Paul's Alley.
Not knowing if she'd shaken off pursuit, she gathered up her skirts and pushed her way through the press of people milling about in the| north side of the churchyard. Not until she reached the street did st pause to draw breath into her air-starved lungs. She'd gashed her kne on the edge of the scribe's table, torn her stockings, snapped a garter, and

she saw now that her skirt had swept the ink spill, was spotted with dark blotches.
She leaned against the doorway of a cookshop, ignored the youth urging her to buy "a nice hot pie, mistress? We've a right tasty smoked pike pasty, or if you'd rather, ribs of beef." The greasy smells from within hit her knotted heaving stomach like a fist; she fought back a wave of nausea and backed away from the shop. The man was not in sight. She began to walk as swiftly as she could without attracting notice, found herself whispering "Jesus et Marie," over and over, until the words had no meaning whatsoever to her.
ANNE'S fever broke that night. By the next day she was able to take barley broth, and soon she was propped up on makeshift pillows of chaffing sacks while Alice spooned a mixture of honey and wine down her throat. She was back on her feet by the week's end, the same day that Veronique had an unpleasant encounter in the stairwell with a drunken inn patron. Stephen Brownell had handled it with his usual quiet competence, somehow avoided outright violence while making a most persuasive case for the man's immediate departure. Veronique's outrage had taken hours to cool, left a sour aftertaste in her mouth. She and Anne had to get out of here. Blessed Lady, but they had to!
The next day was a Saturday, was for them a bitter anniversary, marked the passage of four full weeks since they'd fled the Herber. Veronique spent several hours at the Leadenhall Market, making purchases for Alice Brownell and eavesdropping upon the conversations about her, hoping to hear someone say that Richard of Gloucester had arrived back in the city from the North. By the time she gave up and started back toward Aldgate, the morning was all but gone, and a wet wind was gusting from the river.
The sky was a leaden grey, matched her mood. She quickened her pace, but to no avail; rain was already splattering the cobblestones, needle-like drops that stung her skin, trickled down the neck of her gown. She jerked up the hood of her cloak, looked about for shelter.
The heavy oaken doors of St Andrew Undershaft were ajar. Inside, all was shadowed and still.
Veronique moved hesitantly into the nave, groping her way by instinct alone, and gave a muffled cry when a voice suddenly spoke out of the gloom.
"High Mass be done, child, but I shall be saying a Low Mass at None."
"Oh, Father, how you did frighten me! I thought I was alone. ..."
For all that he called her "child," his was a young man's voice, and as he emerged from the darkness, she saw not only youth in his face; she

saw curiosity, too, knew he was puzzling over the incongruity of her servant's dress, so at odds with the well modulated tones that bespoke education.
He had arresting eyes, deep-set and long-lashed, a brilliant piercing black; too probing, too knowing, she thought, eyes accustomed to strip away secret sins, to bare souls for God's judgment.
"Be you in trouble, lass?"
She opened her mouth to deny it, heard herself breathe an involuntary "Yes. . . ."
"May I help?"
"No, Father." She shook her head unhappily, surprised herself then by adding, "Not unless you can tell me what I most need to know, whether the Duke of Gloucester be back in London."
If he was startled, it didn't show on his face. "As it happens, I can. He's been back since Tuesday eve a fortnight ago."
Veronique stared at him, disbelieving. "Be you sure?"
"Quite sure. Monday be St Ursula's Day, you see."
"What?"
He laughed. "Perhaps I'd best explain. Each year on that day the Duchess of York does buy Masses in memory of her daughter Ursula; she died as a babe, I believe. The Duchess sends a servant to have
Masses said in certain city churches, and when the man came by to see me, he made mention that the young Duke be back from the North."
Veronique had begun to tremble, and he reached out, put a steadying hand on her arm. "Why does that matter so to you, mistress? What be the Duke of Gloucester to you?"
"Salvation," she said, and gave a shaky laugh, in that moment making up her mind to trust him. It was risky, yes, but what alternatives had she? She could never go back to Baynard's Castle on her own, not after the horror that had almost befallen her the last time. Nor did she want Anne to take such a risk. But a priest. ... A priest would have access to Baynard's Castle, and with a priest, she'd be safe.
"Father . . . listen to me, please. What I be about to ask you will sound most strange, I know. You asked if you could help me. . . . Well, you can. You can escort me to Baynard's Castle, take me to Richard of
Gloucester. Please, Father. He'll see me, I swear before God he will, and bless you for it, every day of his life!"
He was not as jaded as she first thought; he could be surprised, after all. The black eyes narrowed, focused on her face with unnerving inten, sity. Just when she concluded that her plea had fallen upon deaf ears, he nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said, sounding much like a man acting against hisj

better judgment. "I'll take you, though I'd be hard put to explain why. . . ." Adding a hasty proviso, "But not till the rain does let up."
Veronique began to laugh again; it seemed somehow hilarious to her that Richard's reunion with Anne should now hinge upon the vagaries of the weather.
"You won't be sorry, Father," she promised. "You won't ever be sorry!"
THE young priest was ill at ease, was darting sidelong glances at Veronique as if wondering what he'd gotten himself into, and when asked his name, he hesitated. Veronique's own nervouness had not survived the climb up the steps into the keep; she need not fear George now, and she stepped forward, said quite clearly, "Father Thomas was good enough to see me safe here. It is I, not he, who would speak with His Grace of Gloucester . . . about his cousin, the Lady Anne Neville. My name is Veronique de Crecy and ..." The rest of her words trailed off, were not needed. Already a man was on his way to the solar, taking the stairs two at a time: others were clustering around her, all talking at once. Veronique smiled at the astonished priest, said, "Did I not tell you true, Father?" And she moved forward to meet Richard, just then emerging from the solar at the top of the stairs.
1 0
LONDON
October 1471
A
LNNE first noticed the man in the outer courtyard. He was lounging against the wall of the stables, watching her as she lowered her bucket into the well. When she emerged a little later to air out bedding, he was still there. There was an unnerving intensity in his stare,

something more than the lustful looks she occasionally got from inn patrons, and when she saw him beckon to Cuthbert, the stable boy, her heart took up a quicker cadence. Cuthbert was now looking toward her, too; Anne saw him shake his head and shrug. There was little Cuthbert could tell him; he knew only that Anne and Veronique had come from some great household. But why was he questioning
Cuthbert at all? Anne gathered up the bedding, fled back indoors. When she looked out the window again, the man had gone.
She couldn't even ask Cuthbert what the man had wanted, had to keep up this damnable pretense of not speaking English. All she could do was to wait for Veronique to get back from the Leadenhall Market.
Veronique could talk to Cuthbert, could reassure her that the stranger was only another lecher, was not in George's pay. But where was Veronique? Why wasn't she back by now?
She tried to put him from her mind, busied herself in helping Catherine clean the empty upper chambers.
Following Catherine into a corner room, she set her lamp down upon a small table that, with the bed, was all the furniture the room contained. The lamp, a sputtering wick floating in a sea of vegetable oil, gave off some light but not much. Glancing about at this queer midday darkness, Anne found herself reluctantly remembering the burnished blaze of candelabras that shone in every chamber of the Herber, three dozen candles a night consumed from Martinmas to Candlemas, enough to last the Brownells for years.
She was helping Catherine strip the bed when they heard it, the clatter of hooves upon cobblestones.
Horses being ridden at hard gallop. Anne tensed, but Catherine merely looked up and then shrugged-until it became apparent that the riders were not passing by. From the sounds echoing up through the open window, it was clear that they'd ridden into the stableyard. Dogs had begun to bark, gates banged, and suddenly the afternoon air was alive with a rising volume of noise that signaled the occurrence of something quite out of the ordinary.
Catherine was closest to the window, reached it first. Almost at once, she drew back inside. Her eyes were very wide.
"Yorkist lords! Why would-Oh, dear God! Veronica tried to tell us she thought Clarence might be vengeful enough to seek her out! And I didn't believe her!"
She saw support for the conclusion she'd drawn in the fear that now showed in Anne's face.
"Martha . . . Martha, listen. You stay here. Don't let yourself be seen. You understand? Don't come out.
I'm going to get Stephen!" And with that, she whirled for the door.
Anne's first thoughts weren't thoughts at all, were sensations of pure physical panic. Her brain was numb, could admit no feeling beyond a

dazed horror that she could have endured so much these four weeks past only to fall into George's hands at the last. Oh, why hadn't she run away as soon as she saw that man lurking about?
She'd sagged against the wall, now made herself risk a quick glimpse down into the outer courtyard. She saw enough to confirm Catherine as an accurate witness. The men below were wearing the livery of
York. Never had she experienced the despair that she did at this moment, so overwhelming in its intensity that it was almost like drowning.
But it was then, as she clung to the window and stared down at the men dismounting in the courtyard, that she saw the dog. A huge black wolfhound, it was circling several stable dogs in a stiff-legged stalk as ominous as its rising hackles and glinting eyeteeth. She forgot all else, leaned out recklessly from the window to hear one of the riders yell, "You men there! Separate those damned curs and fast! His
Grace'll have your skins if harm comes to the big dog!"
His words only served to corroborate what she already knew, had known from the instant she'd laid eyes upon the wolfhound.
"Gareth," she breathed. And then, in the most sincere spontaneous prayer of her life, "Oh, thank Jesus!"
RICHARD guessed the girl to be fourteen, fifteen at most. She was looking at him with such blank dismay that he found himself entertaining a grim suspicion she might be simpleminded. She was trying to curtsy, and he grabbed hastily for her elbow, held her upright, for she was so big with child that he thought the slightest strain might bring on labor. Again, he tried to dispel her fear, said softly and soothingly, "You've no cause for fear. I want only to talk to the girl you call Marthe."
Seeing he was getting nowhere, he looked toward the three men drawn from their room by the uproar and jostling for space upon the landing, unabashedly curious.
"Have any of you seen the girl I seek? This tall, slim, with dark eyes and ..."
But they were already shaking their heads. Almost at once, however, they began to offer suggestions.
What of the stables, my lord? Might she not be out in the hen roost? As eager as they were to help, Richard saw they had no more knowledge than he of Anne's whereabouts. He turned back to the pregnant girl, somehow found a smile for her.
"What be your name, lass?"
The unexpected question untied her tongue, at least enough for her to whisper, "Celia, my lord."
"Celia, listen to me. I want you to tell me where she is. Your loyalty does you great credit, but your concern is for naught, believe me. She's