The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (88 page)

"Not Bella, George, Anne," she said and found to her chagrin that her voice was not as steady as her resolve.
"Anne," he said, as if the name meant nothing to him. But he reached down then, extended his hand toward her. She stared at it with distaste, feeling the same aversion to touch him as she would to touch a snake. But she didn't want him to know that she still feared to be alone with him, wouldn't give him that satisfaction, and so she reluctantly put her hand in his, let him assist her to her feet.
Some of her panic threatened to come back upon her then, though, for he tightened his hand on hers when she tried to pull it from his grasp. Even as drunk as he was, he was far stronger than she, and her breath quickened painfully.
"Don't go," he entreated. "Stay awhile ... till the monks do come." He peered down into Anne's face, said earnestly, "I don't want to leave her alone, you see. But it's so lonely here by myself ... so lonely. . . ."
Anne was thoroughly unprepared for the pity that now knifed through her. She didn't like it, reminded herself fiercely that he, of all men, was the least deserving of pity or compassion.
"I should think I'd be the last person you'd want with you."
"Why?" he asked vaguely, and she saw then that he hadn't truly realized who she was. She was a familiar voice, a hand to hold in the dark, and that was enough, was all he needed or cared to know.
He'd released her hand, leaned back against the herse. It was not meant to brace a man's weight, and the wood creaked ominously. As Anne watched in concern, he crooked an arm around the post, slowly slid to the floor by the coffin. His head lolled back and his hair came dangerously close to the nearest of the candle flames, wrenching from Anne an involuntary cry.
"My God, George, watch what you do!"
"She suffered so . . ."he mumbled, staring up at Anne with blind blue eyes. "She couldn't breathe, and when she coughed . . . when she coughed, she did bring up blood." He shuddered, repeated dully, "So much blood. ..."
Anne made a choked sound, shoved her fist against her mouth. The candles had begun to blur, were swimming before her in a haze of tears. She backed away, had gotten as far as the pulpitum screen when
George leaned forward, and, dropping his head into his hands, began to weep.
Anne came to an uncertain stop. She couldn't bring herself to go back, to try to offer him comfort. But she couldn't bear the sounds he was making, gasping strangled sobs that shook his entire body. She stood irresolute, drying her own tears with the back of her hand, and then she heard her name, whirled about to fling herself into Richard's arms.

It took her several moments to convince Richard that she was truly all right, that her tears were for
Isabel. Only then did his eyes move past her to the slumped figure huddled before Isabel's coffin. She saw on his face much of her own ambivalence, saw he was reluctant to recognize George's pain and yet not able to walk away from it. He swore under his breath and, handing her his lantern, crossed the choir toward his brother.
As Anne watched, he bent over George, spoke too softly for her to hear. George's sobs seemed to be subsiding; the face he raised now to Richard was flushed, tear-stained, and puffy.
"Dickon?" His voice was thick, uncertain, as if he no longer dared trust his own senses.
"You cannot stay here all night, George. Let me help you up and we'll go back to the Abbot's lodging together."
Anne was somewhat surprised when George docilely did as he was told, accepted Richard's supporting arm and lurched to his feet. But even as she breathed a sigh of relief, she saw George's face change, saw his eyes slit, focus on Richard with sudden sobering intensity.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Did Ned send you to spy on me? He did, didn't he? I
should've known!"
"For Christ's sake, George! You know better than that!"
"I suppose you'd like me to believe you care?" George had jerked free, reeled back against the herse.
"Well, I'm not so much a fool as that, Little Brother! You be no friend to me, Dickon, and well I know it.
Think you that I could ever be so drunk as to forget that?"
"Have it your own way," Richard said tersely, and turned away. He didn't look back, but Anne lingered a moment longer before following him from the choir. Unclasping her crucifix chain, she stepped forward, brushed past George, and laid the crucifix gently on the velvet draping her sister's coffin.
"YOU'D best sit down, Dickon, given what I do have to tell you. It seems our idiot sister thinks she has the perfect solution to the problem now posed by Burgundy. Her stepdaughter Marie does urgently need a husband and since Brother George is now conveniently without a wife . . . well, need I say more?"
"She wants George and Marie to wed? My God!" Richard was first incredulous and then appalled. "Has she lost her mind?"
Edward mouthed a particularly profane oath, said in disgust, "Where George is concerned, her common sense does desert her entirely. Can you imagine George as Duke of Burgundy? Holy Mary, preserve us!"

"Meg didn't mention this to George, did she?" But it was a forlorn hope and Richard knew it even as he voiced it.
"What do you think? And I needn't tell you his reaction. One would swear him already anointed and crowned!"
"Ned, you cannot allow such a marriage to take place. George . . . George is too unstable; God only knows what he might do should he ever have power like that."
"Oh, I suspect we both know what he might do, Dickon; you're just squeamish about saying it plain out, that he'd be all too likely to make another grab for the English crown, and this time with a Burgundian army to back him up. Well, you needn't worry, Little Brother. The day I'll see George as Duke of
Burgundy will be the day Holy Church does see me. as a worthy choice for sainthood!"
"Have you told him you forbid the match?"
"Not yet." A sardonic smile briefly tugged at the corner of Edward's mouth. "Should you like to be there when I do?"
"I think not!" Richard said hastily. "In fact, I'd as soon not even hear about it, afterward!" He accepted a cup from an unobtrusive servant, said, "Ned, be there any chance Marie might accept him? For, if she's willing, your refusal would count for nothing with George. It wouldn't be the first time, after all, that he did wed without your permission."
"Your point's well taken, Dickon; I'd probably have to clap him in the Tower to keep him in England! But my informants tell me Meg and not Marie is the one pushing for this marriage. Marie seems distinctly cool to the idea. But I do mean to dispatch a letter to her this very day, making it quite clear that such a marriage be out of the question. The girl's no fool, knows she does need me to keep Louis from swallowing her whole." He signaled again to his cupbearer before adding casually, "I thought I would also suggest a bridegroom in place of Brother George. Lisbet's brother Anthony."
Richard choked, inhaled the wine he'd been about to swallow. Gasping and coughing, he struggled for breath as servants hovered solicitously around his chair and Edward helpfully leaned over to thump him on the back. By the time he recovered his composure, he was too shaken to do other than blurt out exactly what he thought. "Anthony Woodville! Jesus, Ned, you cannot be serious!"
He'd just broken the unspoken pact that had prevailed between them for some twelve years, that his contempt for the Queen's kindred was understood and even tacitly accepted provided that it was not brought out into the open. Edward showed no resentment, however, looked lazily amused more than anything else.
"Don't be naive, Dickon. You don't think I want to see Marie take | Anthony, do you?"

"Whythen. . ."
"It be simple enough. Lisbet would like to see her brother as a reigning sovereign. By putting forth
Anthony's name, I do please her greatly and yet take no real risk in so doing. You can't imagine Marie would ever consider accepting him, do you? As Lucifer-proud as the House of Burgundy is?" He laughed, shook his head. "Lisbet was delighted when I did promise her I'd speak on Anthony's behalf, though, and it's not often I can content her so cheaply, Little Brother!"
Richard was relieved, but not by much. "But don't you see, Ned? It's going to drive George wild when you do forbid him to many Marie. You know he'll convince himself that she was willing, that you and you alone did sabotage his ambitions. To turn him down and then offer up Woodville in his stead . . . that's just pouring salt into his wounds, is sure to make him all the more embittered."
Edward shrugged. "So?" he said coolly.
C A Y F O D SOMERSET
April 1477
A, LNKARETTE Twynyho was dragging her embroidery frame toward the window so she could sit in the sun. Entering the solar at that moment, her son-in-law came forward swiftly to help her, saying, "Here, Mother, let me do that for you."
Ankarette gratefully surrendered the frame to him, settled herself comfortably with her sewing basket in her lap.
"There you are," Tom said, and smiled at her. He supposed he should be off to the stables; the new stallion he'd just purchased was proving itself to be a hellion and the grooms seemed unable to soothe its tempers. But the sun was beckoning and he chose to linger awhile, to chat with his mother-in-law.

"You talk little about those last months with the Duchess of Clarence. Poor lady. . . .Were you fond of her, Mother?"
"No," Ankarette said truthfully. "But I did feel much pity for her. She had more sorrows than joys in her life, and her death was not an easy one."
"Nor was her marriage, I'd wager," Tom said, and chuckled.
Ankarette felt an instinctive unease, glanced up quickly to reassure herself that no servants loitered within earshot. Tom noticed and gave her a quizzical look.
"Do you fear Clarence as much as that?" he asked, surprised, saw Ankarette's mouth tuck in at the corners, the way it always did when she was confronted with a subject she did not want to discuss.
"All in Clarence's service did fear him," she said quietly.
Tom pretended not to see her reluctance. "Why? Most great lords be demanding, quick to find fault with the lesser-born. That's the way of things. What is there about Clarence that does inspire such fear?"
Thus pressed, Ankarette lowered her voice still further, said shortly and unwillingly, "With Clarence, you never knew where you stood. His moods did shift from sun to darkness in the span of seconds, and none knew why. There were those who . . . who whispered that he was bewitched from birth."
Appalled by her own words, she hastily crossed herself and, as Tom opened his mouth to question her further, she signaled that no more disclosures would be forthcoming by ostentatiously directing all her attention to the contents of her sewing basket.
Tom sighed, wishing his wife's mother were not so loathe to gossip. He thought wistfully of the lurid tales told of Clarence, thought of the intimate scenes she must have witnessed as a member of his household.
Scenes he knew she'd never share.
"Well, I'm off to the stables," he began, as one of their young maidservants appeared in the solar doorway. She was too distraught for speech, but the terror on her face was more eloquent than any words of warning she could have uttered.
"Good God, girl, what is it? Is it your mistress? Speak, damn you, speak!"
"No, Tom, you're only scaring her all the more. Tell us, Margery. . . ."
Tom's fingers were digging bruisingly into the girl's upper arms, and the pain loosened her tongue.
"Men-at-arms! Down below, they-"
"Tom! Tom!" It was his wife's voice, but so shrill as to be almost unrecognizable. Tom took two strides toward the door, and then Edith was in the room, in his arms, sobbing incoherently.
Tom was given no chance to calm his hysterical wife. Men-at-arms

were coming up the stairway after her, shouldering their way into the solar, unceremoniously shoving the terrified maidservant away from the door. Tom felt a throb of outrage that they should be taking over his house like this, but he felt fear, too, and it was in his voice as he demanded, "What is this? What do you here?"
Ankarette was more bewildered now than frightened. Why should her son-in-law be arrested? It must be a mistake, a dreadful mistake. She came forward, meaning to lay a restraining hand upon Tom's arm, and then her eyes fastened upon the badge each man wore upon his sleeve.
"You come from the Duke of Clarence!" she gasped, and there was such shock in her voice that all eyes turned as one toward her. She'd gone so white that Tom reached out for her. A soldier intervened; there was a scuffle, and Tom stumbled backward, bleeding from the mouth. Ankarette heard her daughter scream, wanted to go to her, but she couldn't move, could only stare at the man moving into the solar.
Roger Strugge. .She mouthed the words, but the name stuck in her throat; her mouth was too dry for speech. Roger Strugge, who served Clarence without conscience or qualm, caring only for the gold that
George did dispense so lavishly to those who did his bidding.
He was standing in front of her now, saying, "Mistress Twynyho," his lips curling in a mocking smile, like one who held a secret all yearned to know. "You do remember me, I trust?"
Tom spat blood into the floor rushes, spat defiance at the men holding him. "Am I under arrest? If so, I
demand to know the charge!"
Strugge's eyes touched him in brief appraisal, dismissed him as negligible. "We're not here for you, Delalynde," he said coolly. "It be Mistress Twynyho we want."
He signaled and hands gripped Ankarette's elbows, propelled her toward the door. She was too stunned to struggle, unable to grasp what was happening to her or why. She heard Edith cry, "Mama!," heard
Tom curse, and then she was out in the hall, was being hurried down the stairs. It was only when they emerged out into the blaze of afternoon sun that she was able to rally her dazed wits about her. A horse was being led up for her; she balked, twisted desperately against the restraining hands.
"But why? What am I supposed to have done?"
Strugge snapped his fingers; the soldiers withdrew so that Ankarette stood alone. From the house she heard a steady pounding, realized that they had locked Tom and Edith in the solar. Strugge was regarding her with a strange smile; she knew suddenly that he was enjoying this, relishing what he was about to tell her.
"You are charged with the murder of Isabel Neville, late Duchess of Clarence. It is the Duke's pleasure that you be returned at once to Warwick Castle and there be tried for your crime. You are to be . . ."