The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (75 page)

very dear to me; I'd never cause her hurt. Where is she, Celia? You must-"
He stopped in midsentence. She was staring past him, and the look on her face was his answer. He spun around to see Anne standing at the top of the stairs.
ANNE had not known that strong emotions can be as intoxicating to the senses as strong drink. The pendulum had swung too wide, transporting her within the span of seconds from terror to euphoria, and her emotional equilibrium had yet to right itself. She was as oblivious of the numbing cold pervading the chamber as she'd been of the witnesses upon the stairwell. Her awareness went no further than Richard.
He was both her present salvation and her past security; of the remembrance-strewn wreckage her life had become, he alone was a memory lent substance, breath, reality.
Richard touched her face with his fingers, as if seeking to reassure himself that she was truly here, in his arms and unhurt. He needed such reassurance, needed the physical reality of her presence after weeks of nightmares and fading hope. Turning her toward the light, he saw now what he'd not seen on the stairwell, how white she was. How fragile, how vulnerable. Soft wisps of hair were curling about her temples; her skin was warm but so delicate, so finely drawn across her cheekbones he fancied the slightest pressure could leave an indelible imprint.
"Jesu, what we've done to you!"
"Hold me," she entreated. "Just hold me."
He was more than willing to do that. He kissed her again, very gently this time, but her mouth clung to his, sought a deeper kiss. If only he'd never let her go to the Herber! If only he hadn't had to go North for
Ned. He tightened his arms around her. Never had she kissed him like this; he was both surprised and delighted by the unexpected ardor of her response. This was the first time that he'd taken her in his arms and felt them both free of the shadow of Lancaster.
Her lashes lifted, giving him a glimpse of lucent liquid darkness. A man could drown in eyes like hers, he thought, and then laughed at his own foolishness. She laughed, too, for no other reason than that he did.
"Don't let me go," she said. "Not ever," and he laughed again, thinking, so easy it is as this, then, to exorcise a ghost!
Anne gave a surprised murmur of protest at suddenly finding herself free. Opening her eyes again, she saw that Richard had moved to the window, was struggling to fasten the weathered warped shutters that were giving unguarded entry to the icy October air.

"No wonder it was so cold in here! You must be chilled to the bone, sweetheart!"
She shook her head. It seemed strange to her that their first coherent conversation should be about something so commonplace as an open window. So disoriented was she that she actually gave a startled gasp as the room was plunged into semidarkness.
Richard was at her side again. Unfastening his cloak, he draped it about her shoulders; it seemed wondrously soft to her after weeks of kersey wool and homespun. She started to assure him that she wasn't cold, only to feel in her chest the tight prickling sensation that foretold a coughing spasm. In dismay, she tried to ward it off by sheer strength of will; she only succeeded in prolonging the inevitable.
When it was over, she felt weak and drained, gratefully accepted Richard's supporting arm; much of her stamina had been sapped by her week's siege of sickness.
She was suddenly conscious of her appearance, was glad that he'd shut out the light along with the cold, glad that the only illumination came from the homemade lamp she and Catherine had carried into the chamber so short a time ago. She needed no mirror to show her the strains of these past four weeks, and she found herself remembering that her hair needed to be washed, that her apron was smudged, her hands chapped and blistered, and the manicured nails, always a particular vanity of hers, had suffered so from the neglect of necessity that she hated even to look at them.
When she'd begun to cough, Richard had pressed a handkerchief into her hand. She looked at it now, deriving a childish yet very real comfort in its possession, no less in the feel of his cloak; she was still young enough to take pleasure in wearing something that was his, that still held within its folds warmth drawn from his body.
"I brought Gareth for you," he said unexpectedly.
She raised her head from his chest. "I know. I saw from the window. That was how I knew it was you. I
thought at first that . . . that it was George."
She moved in his arms, unable to suppress the tremor triggered by memory of that moment, felt his lips brush her forehead. But she wasn't yet ready to talk about George, was grateful that Richard seemed to sense that, for he made no comment.
"Richard, how did you find me?"
"Veronique. She's waiting for you down in the kitchen. So is Francis, and by now, half of Aldgate. When
I latched the shutters, I saw a crowd gathering in the street. I suspect you're about to take your place in local legend, ma belle!"
Tilting her face up, he touched his lips very lightly to hers. "Can you

ever forgive me, Anne? I should never have left you in George's keeping, should have taken you to
Berkhampsted to Ma Mere. ..."
"Richard, don't blame yourself. How could you know what George would do?"
"But I could have spared you this. It didn't have to be. That day I came to you at the Herber, before going North. ... Do you know what I wanted to do? I wanted nothing so much as to take you before a priest that very afternoon, to forget about posting the banns or seeking a papal dispensation, and make you my wife then and there. Jesu, if only I had!"
"Richard . . . Richard, are you asking me to marry you?"
"Actually," he admitted, and grinned, "I rather took it for granted, didn't think there was a need to ask.
Do you mind, sweetheart?"
"No," Anne said softly. "No, I don't mind." Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stopped her mouth just inches from his. "I love you so much, I always have. . . . But what of your brother, Richard? What of
Ned? Will he give his consent? He didn't think me a fit bride for you two years ago. . . . What if he forbids the match? If he would rather you not wed . . ."
She hesitated and he suggested helpfully, "The impoverished widow of a Lancastrian rebel?"
She nodded mutely, and only when she saw the corner of his mouth quirk with suppressed laughter did she realize he'd been speaking of Elizabeth Woodville.
"Oh, love, be serious! A King may do as he pleases. A King's brother must do as the King pleases."
"Sweetheart, you still don't see, do you? Ned is well aware that you hold my heart, fully expects us to wed. Do you not remember how he took pains to bring us together at Coventry? The truth of it, ma belle, is that Ned looks upon you as my reward for Barnet and Tewkesbury!"
That sounded so like Edward to her that Anne no longer doubted, began to laugh.
Footsteps echoed beyond the door and quickly retreated. They'd drawn apart a little at the sound;
Richard adjusted his cloak again about her shoulders, smoothed the thick braid coiled at the nape of her neck.
"I would as soon be away from here, beloved." He glanced about the chamber with a flicker of distaste.
"I want to take you where it will be warm and quiet, where I can settle you before the hearth and feed you honey for that cough." He dropped a kiss lightly upon the tip of her nose, and, in an abrupt change of tone, said soberly, "And then I want you to tell me what George did to make you flee the Herber. All of it, Anne."
She nodded slowly.
Pressing her hand to his mouth, he kissed her palm and each

fingertip in turn, frowning over the raw unhealed welt that blistered her skin from thumb to wrist. "How did you? . . ."
"Cooking grease. Richard, where are we to go? To Baynard's Castle?"
"No. As soon as Veronique told me you were here, I sent word to St Martin's that a sanctuary house should be made ready for your use. I also gave orders to bring from Baynard's Castle all you're most likely to need."
She smiled, reached up to caress his cheek, touched in no small measure that he'd thus thought to keep her safe from slander.
"It won't be for long, Anne. . . . Just until I may truly take you home. Home to Middleham."
"Home to Middleham," she echoed. "If you only knew how I did yearn to hear you say that, and how I
despaired that it could ever be!"
1 1
WESTMINSTER
November 1471
Rt
LlCHARD was observing his brother with amused admiration. Edward had privately confided to him several hours ago that he'd had wine enough the night before to burst a man's bladder and to benumb even the liveliest tongue. Now his head felt like to split and he doubted his stomach could take anything heavier than air, he confessed, and then grimaced at the thunderous racket that erupted at his feet, where one of his dogs was thumping its tail against the table leg.
Richard could sympathize; he'd suffered through the morning-after doldrums a time or two himself. What did impress him was the fact that none but he was aware of Edward's discomfort. He'd been watching
Edward grant audiences for two hours, composedly communicating only a civil interest in the petitions being brought before him.
At sight of the man being ushered in, Richard's brows drew together

in an involuntary contraction of dislike. He didn't trust John Morton, not in the least. The Lancastrian priest had been included in the general pardon Edward had proclaimed less than a month ago, and he now made a rather eloquent avowal of the loyalties he'd so newly engrafted onto the House of York. It was a polished performance, and Richard didn't like Morton any the better for it. He said as much as soon as they were alone, and his brother nodded agreement, before pointing out, "He be no favorite of mine, either, Dickon, but the man has ability. His was probably the best brain of those advising
Marguerite d'Anjou, and I see no reason not to avail myself of it. I was giving thought to naming him as
Master of the Rolls. ... I gather that would not meet with your approval, then?"
"No. Oh, he's clever enough, I daresay. But I'd as soon have men around me whom I could trust."
"The art of governing, Dickon, is that of making use of talent wherever you do find it. Trust is too rare an attribute to make it your prime prerequisite for holding office. If I relied only upon those I truly do trust, we'd have a council of empty chairs!"
Allowing the mask to slip then, Edward slumped down in his chair, rubbed his fingers gingerly against his temples. "I haven't felt like this since we were caught in that bitch of a gale crossing the Channel last
March. I can't complain about getting greensick in the midst of a raging squall, but after a night of pleasure? Another such morning-after as this and I might give some serious thought to the merits of self-denial!"
"I can see you now," Richard said, and grinned, "praying nightly to St Augustine, 'Give me chastity and continency, but do not give it yet!'
Edward grinned, too. "I must say your company has improved considerably now that you're no longer so lovelorn! Speaking of which, how be your lass?"
"Much better; her cough be all but gone. Little wonder she took sick. Anne's not strong and life was far from easy at that inn."
"Anne Neville at an Aldgate inn. . . . Damn me if else, but I can still scarcely credit it." Edward shook his head in bemusement. "How did the innkeeper and his family react, being told of a sudden that it was
Warwick's Anne who'd been mending their sheets and helping out at the mashing vat? Dumbfounded, I
daresay?"
Richard nodded. "First shock and then fear. From what Anne tells me, the Brownells be Lancastrian, and
I'd wager they spoke freely before her and Veronique, freely enough to send one or more of them to the
Tower on a charge of treason." Anne would have been distressed by this admission, fearing for the
Brownells, but Richard knew his brother better than she, knew Edward might be ruthless when the need arose, but vindictive he was not.
"Well, I'm sure you were able to set their minds at ease, Dickon.

And from what I hear, they seem to be doing right well these days. I understand they've been contracting with carpenters to put up a new roof come spring, and there be a cistern in the inn kitchen now, not to mention a fine pair of matched greys out in their stables."
"How do you know that?" Richard demanded, marveling, as always, at his brother's store of unexpected knowledge.
"I know, too, that a certain church in Aldgate is suddenly the richer by two stained-glass windows,"
Edward said, and smiled. "I think it be just as well I'm giving you those manors forfeited by Oxford, Little
Brother. If you be set upon acting as the patron saint for all of Aldgate, you'll be needing the extra income!"
Richard shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "Whatever I've done for the Brownells, Ned, is as nothing compared to what they did for me. When I think what might have befallen Anne. ..."
"I know. But she's come through it unscathed, thank Christ. What of her feelings for George? Be she very bitter?"
"How could you expect her to be otherwise? Of course she's bitter!"
"I was not suggesting she did not have cause, Dickon. You need not be so touchy. But it is as I told you;
it's a damnably awkward choice I'm faced with. I have no doubts whatsoever that Anne spoke the truth, that George did have some lunatic abduction scheme in mind. But we have no proof of that. He does deny it all, ad nauseam. And even if there were a chance Isabel would confirm what she told Anne, what then? Do you and Anne want all that brought out into the open? Made public knowledge? Knowing the humiliation that would give Ma Mere and Isabel?
"We might as well face it, Dickon. I cannot very well bring him to trial on a would-be abduction charge.
Still less can I merely confine him to the Tower; I'd not do that to Ma Mere. I cannot expect you to forget what did happen. But I would ask this of you, that you make an effort to look upon it as being done and beyond recall." Unable to resist a sardonic reminder that this was, for them, an ironic reversal of roles, Edward added, 'Not even God can change the past.' You once said that when you were urging me to forgive George his treason, remember? It still holds true, Dickon."
Richard was quiet for a time. "I've a confession of sorts to make, Ned. When I told you that I'd begun to wonder if George was mad, I'm not sure how serious I was. I think I was groping for answers more than anything else. But I'm more and more inclined to believe it's true. Rational men do not do the things he has done. And, if so, then he cannot be held to account for his actions."
"I rather agree with you, Dickon. Any other man would thank God fasting for Anne's safe return, for I did threaten to send him to the block if any harm came to her. But George. . . . Damned if he doesn't see him