The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (93 page)

came forward to investigate, sniffed at the spreading liquid and took an experimental lap, then another.
Elizabeth looked up at Edward, down again at the broken pieces of glass. She wished she'd thought to fling it in his face. Because she hadn't, she kicked sharply at the dog. It gave a startled yelp, retreated in astonished haste, and Elizabeth was filled with a wild irrational rage when she saw it go to Edward for comfort.
"Why?" she said bitterly. "Name of God, why? You can at least tell me that. You do owe me that much!"
"Why do you think?" He turned away, gave a defensive shrug. "I wanted her and she was virtuous. I
could have her no other way." Reaching for the flagon, he poured himself a second drink, said, "Damnation, Lisbet, I was twenty years old and used to getting my own way. I just didn't think. ..."
"And you think that does excuse you?" Elizabeth was incredulous. "Because you wanted her, that did give you the right? To do this to me? To your own children? How could you?"
"It's rather late for reproaches," he said coldly. "It's done, and nothing we do say now can change it."
Elizabeth came to her feet. Had he been close enough, she would have hit him. Because he wasn't, she could only use her tongue. Slowly and deliberately, she began to call him every vile name she'd ever heard, using invective she'd never even realized she knew. He didn't interrupt, let her finish.
When she at last ran out of curses, he said, "Don't play the aggrieved wife, Lisbet. It's not a role that does become you. We both know I've given you what you did want most, that Queen's coronet you take such pleasure in wearing. Even had I told you about Nell, you'd still have married me. To be Queen of
England, I don't doubt you'd have willingly bedded with a leper."
A blinding pain was throbbing over Elizabeth's left eye. She didn't dare stay in this chamber with him any longer, could not be accountable for what she might do. Reaching the door, she leaned against it for a moment, and then said, "I will never forgive you. Never. As God is my witness, I won't."
"Yes, you will, Lisbet," he said softly.
Elizabeth started to jerk the door open, but her hand froze on the latch, clenched into an impotent fist.
Christ help her but he was right. What choice did she have? She sagged against the door, feeling heat risIng in her face, and then her stomach was heaving in earnest and she stumbled for the garderobe, fell to her knees across the threshold, and began to retch.
For several moments she was aware only of her body's misery. Then

she felt his hands under her elbows, lifting her up. She tried to twist away, but hadn't the strength, let him carry her to the bed. She closed her eyes, trying to blot out his face, blot out this revelation she couldn't accept, that their life together had been a lie, had been a lie from the very beginning. She could hear him moving about the chamber; once he approached the bed and wiped her face with a wet cloth. She started to turn her head away but somehow it didn't seem worth the effort. She found she couldn't even summon up anger anymore. She felt numb, uncaring, and very, very tired.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw that he had pulled a chair up to the bed. Seeing her lashes flicker, he leaned forward, said, "Do you suppose we can talk now? Talk without trading accusations or insults?','
"Give me something to drink," she said, saw that he had anticipated her need, was holding out a cup. She took it and drank in gulps. After a time, she asked, "Where is she? Why has she kept silent?"
"She's dead. Not long after I revealed our marriage to my council at Reading, she did enter a convent in
Norwich. She died four years later, was buried in the church of the Carmelites."
"And yet she held her tongue? She must have loved you very much," Elizabeth said nastily, saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"Yes," he said unwillingly. "She did." They stared at each other, and Elizabeth gained a small victory in that he was the first to look away.
"Who else knows? Gloucester? Hastings? Who, Ned?" It was the first time she'd made use of his name since he'd told her about Nell Butler. She wished that she hadn't, didn't want to sound as if they were back on normal terms, as if he could be forgiven.
"Only Stillington. No one else knows. Oh, Will and my mother and a few others knew about my involvement with Nell, but they never knew the truth of it. And Dickon was only ten or so at the time.
No, you needn't-"
"Oh, my God!" Elizabeth sat upright, eyes suddenly going wide with horror as the realization hit her.
"Stillington! And you said a convent in Norwich! That's what George said! Norwich! He knows! Ned, George knows!"
"I'm not sure," he said grimly. "But I fear so."
Elizabeth's control gave way then; frightened tears began to spill down her face, splashed on his restraining hands. "Don't you see what I that means, Ned? When you die, the crown will pass to George!
To | George . . . not our son. And he knows that now, George knows!"
"No!" He was gripping her shoulders, shaking her. "No, Lisbet, no. I I won't let that happen. I swear to you I won't."
The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and Elizabeth's panic be-. I gan to subside. He meant what he said. That was something she could

hold on to, a lifeline, however frayed. She was able to ask, more calmly, "How did he find out? Did
Stillington tell him?"
"No." Edward moved back to the chair, ran his hand through his hair, pressed his fingers to his temples.
"I said Nell did keep my secret. Well, that's not quite true. She did while she lived, but when she was dying, she made a deathbed confession. The priest was bound by the confessional, of course, could not reveal what she told him. But apparently it weighed heavily upon his mind. Last winter he was stricken with a mortal illness and decided he must not take the secret with him to the grave. So ... he did write to
George, to the man he saw as my rightful heir."
"Jesus, no . . ." Elizabeth breathed, and he shook his head, said quickly, "No, he didn't reveal Nell's story in its entirety. For that much, we may be thankful. But he did say enough to kindle George's curiosity, told him to ask Bishop Stillington about Nell Butler and me. And, of course, George wasted no time in doing just that. He went to Stillington with his suspicions, with some very awkward questions."
"But you said Stillington didn't tell him!"
"I don't think he did. He says not, and I tend to believe him. But he admits he was taken off-guard, could think only to deny that he'd even heard of Nell Butler. A clumsy lie, one George would have been able to disprove easily enough; Stillington's association with Nell's family goes back nigh on thirty years." He grimaced at that, and then said, "For all his failings, George is no fool. He's quite capable of making the natural deduction, that if Stillington lied about knowing Nell Butler, there must be a reason why. He's capable, too, of hitting upon the truth, or enough of it to be dangerous."
"You mean he might conclude there was a secret marriage between you and Nell Butler?" Elizabeth demanded.
He shrugged, said wearily, "What else would he think?"
For a moment, Elizabeth forgot how much she did need him. "Yes," she said acidly. "I can see how he would. Your past record does naturally lend itself to such speculation, doesn't it?"
He looked up sharply at that, eyes as blue and unrevealing as the summer sky, and she expected stinging sarcasm, expected the mockery he knew how to wield so well. Instead, he grinned.
"Yes," he conceded. "I suppose it does."
Elizabeth was caught off-balance, flinched away from him as if she'd been struck. "Damn you," she said helplessly, and turned her head aside on the pillow. "Damn you, Ned, damn you!"
He wasn't affronted, and dimly she understood why. He'd won. She'd said she'd never forgive him, but in truth nothing would change

between them. They'd go on as before. She'd share his bed, bear his children, and the worst of it was that it wasn't just because she had no other choice. The worst of it, she thought, was that she'd want it that way.
It was this realization which made her lash out at him now, made her say with sudden venom, "Nell Butler had to be the greatest fool in Christendom! Had it been me, I'd never have kept silent, never!"
She'd hoped to hurt him, saw that she hadn't. "I don't doubt that for a moment, sweetheart," he said coolly.
Elizabeth struggled upright again, started to rise. As she did, her gaze fell upon her wedding band, bright burnished gold and emeralds to match her eyes. She stared at it, fingering it as if it were a talisman. And then she raised her head, said in a voice that was tightly controlled, dangerously so, "As far as I am concerned, I am your lawful wife and Queen, and the crown is my son's natural birthright. Your son, too, Ned, and it be up to you to protect that right. I want you to tell me how you do mean to do that."
He shoved the chair back, came abruptly to his feet. "I don't see how George can have more than suspicions, ",he said, seemed to be choosing his words with care.
"I'm not a fool, Ned, so don't treat me like one! I know your brother; I know how he thinks. He needs no proof. With George, the mere suspicion would be enough."
He'd moved away from the bed, toward the hearth. Elizabeth followed him, caught his arm so that he had to face her.
"You can't let him live, Ned. You know you can't. There's no other way of keeping him silent. Sooner or later, he'd start to talk, would find those willing to listen. There are men still loyal to Lancaster, men who look to the Tudors as the last of the Lancastrian blood. You think they wouldn't make use of George?
Think, Ned, think! What of Bess? What chance would she have to become Queen of France should it ever be alleged that she was born out of wedlock? And our sons. . . . What of them?"
She paused, her eyes searching his face intently. And then her hand slipped from his arm; she stepped back. "But you already know that," she said slowly. "Of course you do."
Still he said nothing. A muscle twitched suddenly in his cheek, what she knew to be a symptom of extreme strain.
"You haven't answered me, Ned. What of our sons? Earlier tonight, you did swear that you'd not let
George do them harm, that you'd not let him lay claim to the crown. You must tell me, Ned, tell me if you truly meant it."
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I meant it."

WESTMINSTER
October 1477
JUDWARD'S chambers were hazy with eye- stinging smoke, strident with laughter. In the uncertain light of flaring wall cressets, servants passed back and forth with food and drink. For most of the day a chill autumn rain had been falling, but the heat in the room was oppressive, stifling. Richard's barge had tied up at the King's Wharf but moments before, and that first sweltering blast of stale air sent him reeling back, breathless. The noise level was considerable, and his senses were at once assailed by a multitude of competing aromas: burning yew logs, spilt ale, dogs and body heat and the musky fragrance of powdered perfumes.
For some moments, Richard stood motionless and unnoticed in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. He didn't see his brother at first glance, but most of the faces were familiar to him. The men, that is;
the women were strangers, but all having in common extreme youth and a certain provocative prettiness.
They all seemed to be amusing themselves just as they pleased. Voices pitched too high rose and fell in the clamor to be heard. One couple was dancing, apparently oblivious of the fact that Edward's minstrels had long since ceased playing. Others were watching as several men fed spoonfuls of ale to a small bear cub; someone set a shallow bowl of mead before the little animal and, when it began to stagger and wobble about, all laughed. But the focus of attention was a dice game being staged in the middle of the floor. Midst jibes and cheers, one of the women players now raised her skirt and kirtle, slowly slid a silk-
fringed garter from her knee. Her shoes and belt and rings had already been discarded in the center of the circle; as Richard watched, she added the forfeit garter to the pile, winning for herself a round of tipsy applause.
An empty wine flagon lay in a sodden pool at Richard's feet; he had

to kick it aside in order to close the door. It was then that his eye was caught by a swirl of bright blond hair, and turning, he saw Thomas Grey.
Thomas was paying no heed to the dice game, was giving all his attention to a young woman in bright clinging silk. Richard's mouth twisted down, as if he'd just tasted something foul. How in Christ's Name could Elizabeth's own sons be so willing, eager even, to take part in Ned's carousings? Did they not care at all that Ned was so openly unfaithful to their mother? It was beyond his comprehension, and he found himself thinking that Warwick had been right in this if in nothing else, that the Woodvilles had poisoned his brother's court no less surely than salt poured down a well.
Thomas had backed his companion against the wall, barring her way with an outstretched arm, and now he reached over to share her wine cup in a gesture that was ostentatiously intimate. Not wanting to have to acknowledge him, Richard was turning away, when he heard Thomas say in a loud carrying voice, "That's not a jest I do find to my liking! I want an apology from you and I do want it now!"
Richard glanced back, saw that Thomas and the girl had been joined by Harry Stafford, Duke of
Buckingham. It was Buckingham who'd apparently provoked this outburst from Thomas, although he seemed innocent of any such intent, saying something too softly for Richard to hear, his shoulders lifting in a good-natured shrug. Thomas did not appear placated. He stepped toward Buckingham, and the latter shook his head, still smiling. As he did, Thomas suddenly swung at him. He'd meant to drive his fist deep into Buckingham's midsection but the other man pivoted at the moment of impact and the blow encountered only air. Off-balance, Thomas stumbled and nearly fell, but he quickly righted himself and swung again.
The blow never connected. Buckingham had prudently backed out of range, and at the same time, Richard moved, grabbed Thomas by the arm and swung him around. He had no trouble at all in shoving
Thomas back against the wall; the younger man was too startled to offer resistance.
"Where the Hell do you think you are? This be the King's chambers, not some Southwark alehouse!"
Thomas had been gaping at him, unable to believe that anyone would dare to lay hands on him like this.
Now shock was giving way to outrage. His first impulse a violent one, he fumbled for his dagger hilt.
The advantages all lay with Richard; he was completely sober and in control of his temper. Using more force than was actually necessary, he pinned Thomas's hand with his own, leaned into him so that the weight of his body held Thomas immobile.
"I could almost wish you'd draw that dagger," he said contemptu-|