The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (95 page)

"You might not like to hear it, Ned, but Ma Mere be heartsick about this. I think it would ease her mind considerably if I could write her that you mean only to scare some sense into George. May I reassure her of that? Give her leave to assure George that he's not facing the axe?"
He'd asked more as a matter of form than anything else; it had never seriously occurred to him that
Edward would demand the death penalty. But now he saw Edward's face harden, saw him look away without answering.
"Jesus God," he said softly, suddenly seeing the truth. "He is facing the axe, isn't he? You do mean to put him to death!"
Edward raised his head at that. "That does depend," he said coolly, "on whether he be found guilty or not."
1 3
O N D O N
January 1478
"A
./IRE these letters all, my lord?"
Richard glanced up in time to see his secretary camouflaging a yawn. It was later than he'd realized;
Compline had sounded hours ago.
"Just one more, John. I want you to pull out the letter from York's Mayor and aldermen, the one in which they asked me to intercede with my brother the King concerning those illegal fishgarths in the River Aire.
Tell them that I've spoken with the King on this matter, and upon my return to Middleham, I'll oversee a survey of the Rivers Ouse, Aire, and Wharfe and see to it that any unsanctioned fishgarths be pulled down." But John was yawning again and Richard took pity on him.
"Tomorrow will be soon enough. Just note what I want to say and you can draft up a suitable reply on the morrow."
John Kendall had been in Richard's service for several years, long enough to chide now with the ease born of mutual regard, "You, too, should make ready for bed; you've gotten markedly little rest these past weeks." Catching the glint of amusement that crossed Richard's face, he

grinned, conceded cheerfully, "Aye, I know. I do sound like a doting nursemaid! But with your lady gone, there must be someone to see that you look after yourself! She'll be returning soon, I hope."
"So do I!"
It had been five weeks since Anne had returned to Middleham. Richard had not wanted her to go, had been seriously tempted to forbid it. But he understood her need to be with their son; Ned was not yet five, too young to pass Christmas without either of his parents. No, he could not fault Anne in this, however much he missed her. Nor could he truly blame her if she fretted more than she should over
Ned's fevers and bruises. Anne had been cheated; the love she should have lavished upon a nursery-full lay unclaimed, had no other outlet but Ned. Not, he amended, that she didn't try to do right by Johnny, and their relationship was a good one. But Ned alone was hers. Ned, who was at once her firstborn and her lastborn.
Like a cat with but one kitten, Richard thought, and God's sacred truth, how unlike that bitch, his sweet sister-in-law! Just seven her eldest son was, and since age three, with his own household at Ludlow.
Had it bothered Elizabeth, yielding up her son at so tender an age? Richard who no longer gave his brother's Queen the benefit of the doubt in anything, thought not. It was done in the name of policy, of course, it being hoped that the physical presence of the little Prince of Wales would serve to strengthen loyalties along the Welsh Marches. And it might well be effective, Richard conceded, but he still thought the strategy to be an exceedingly poor one, for it meant that the boy was being raised almost exclusively by his uncle, Anthony Woodville, saw his parents only rarely. Richard was not the only one to be uncomfortable with this arrangement; there were few, indeed, pleased to see their future King being indoctrinated with Woodville loyalties, absorbing Woodville values.
Dogs were barking in the stable area, and Richard raised his head, fi automatically seeking to distinguish
Gareth's deep rumble. Almost at ,| once, he caught himself, marveling at the tenacity of habit, for it had been several years since he'd been able to take the big dog away from; Middleham. Now thirteen, Gareth did little these days but doze in the| sun and trail stiffly after Richard's small sons. As the dogs continued to bark, Richard moved to the oriel window.5 He was surprised to see that several horses had been ridden into the inne court rather than being taken to the stables behind the chapel. The window glass was cloudy, opaque; he rubbed it with his fist, clearing I just in time to see his servants gathering about a woman enveloped in sil very fox fur. As she dismounted, her hood fell back, and in the flare torchlight, he recognized his wife.

ANNE was no longer cold; the bedchamber hearth was well stoked and the bed piled high with coverlets. But she was very tired. It had taken her seven days to journey south from Middleham, seven days of buffeting winds and frigid temperatures; she'd been up this day since dawn, had covered a bone-bruising thirty-eight miles. She'd managed to forget her fatigue while making love with Richard;
now, however, it was coming back on her.
But as she touched Richard's neck and shoulders, she found the muscles taut and corded under her hand.
"How tense you are, my love! Roll over and I'll rub your back; mayhap it will help you sleep."
He did as she bade and, ignoring her own exhaustion, she set about easing his strain as best she could. "I
heard George had been brought to trial, Richard," she said quietly. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
Richard winced, for her fingers had found a particularly sore spot midway down his back. "You heard wrong, Anne. It was no trial. It was an indictment, in which the only witnesses were accusers, no evidence was produced, and the verdict was a foregone conclusion."
"Tell me," she repeated, softly insistent, but he needed no coaxing.
"On the day after the marriage of Ned's second son and the little heiress of the Duke of Norfolk, he convened parliament. A Bill of Attainder was presented against George, accusing him of treason." He paused before adding reluctantly, "Ned himself did introduce it."
Anne was startled; it was almost unheard of for a King to argue personally for a Bill of Attainder.
"What were the charges?"
"A motley collection of offenses, none of which on its own would justify the death penalty against a man of George's rank. Ned accused George of spreading stories that Thomas Burdett had been unjustly done to death. Of putting about that old slander that Ned be a bastard and hence no rightful King. Of secretly keeping a document from the reign of Harry of Lancaster, proclaiming George as the heir to the throne in the event that your marriage to Harry's son did produce no children."
"Oh, but Richard, that last was so very long ago! Harry and Edouard have been dead for nigh on seven years and what blood of Lancaster be left does flow thinly in the veins of Harry's Welsh half brother
Jasper Tudor. What could it matter now?"
"It mattered," he said grimly, "because Ned chose to make it matter."
"I don't understand, truly I don't. It's not that I mean to defend what George has done. But his past treasons were so much greater and yet Ned chose to forgive them. Why now, Richard?"

"I would that I knew. I cannot believe that Ned would put his own brother to death merely because he'd lost patience with him! Yet he did make much at George's trial of betrayals and broken promises and bad faith, said that again and again he'd forgiven George his crimes, only to have George make mockery of his clemency. Even now, he said, he would have been willing to pardon George had he only shown true remorse or contrition of spirit." She felt him tense, and then he said flatly, "And in that, he lied. He had no intention of pardoning George. Not this time."
"It must have been most painful to watch." Leaning over, she pressed her lips to the nape of his neck.
"Perhaps I erred in urging you to talk of this. . . ."
"No," he said. "I want to tell you."
"What of George? What did he say?"
"He denied all, with much passion. But at the last, so desperate had he become that he went so far as to demand a trial by combat. Ned just. . . looked at him."
"Oh!" It was an involuntary response, much what she might have felt for any trapped animal at last brought to bay; while she enjoyed the excitement of a hunt, Anne had ever preferred to avoid the kill if possible. Richard's thoughts had apparently taken the same turn as her own, for he said now, very softly, "Did I ever tell you about the fox cub I caught when I was six? It was at Ludlow, the summer before the town was sacked by Lancaster. One of the village lads helped me trap it. Half starved it was, and sickly, but at sight of us, it went wild with fear. It kept trying to burrow into the earth, seeking escape where there was none, all the while snapping helplessly at our hands, our rope, even the air itself. ..."
"Oh, Richard, don't! I'd never have thought I'd ever find myself pitying George, but . . . what of Ned?
Does he still refuse to talk with you about it?"
"None of us have had any luck whatsoever. Ma Mere has been in London since December and Meg . . .
scarcely a day passes that one of her letters does not come from Burgundy. Even my sister Eliza, who has been estranged from George for years. . . . Even Eliza has pleaded with Ned not to do this." He rolled over onto his back then and Anne saw how truly troubled he was.
"It be easier for Eliza and me; neither one of us has much use for George. But Meg still sees him as the young brother she did part from at the time of her wedding, and Ma Mere . . ."He shook his head, and then the frustrated fury of these past weeks broke through.
"Christ, Anne, I just cannot understand it, any of it! Ned doesn't truly want to do this; I'd stake my life on that. To show George's shame

up to the world like this, to give Ma Mere and Meg such grief . . . and knowing all the while that George cannot be other than as he is! It makes no sense. But nothing we say does seem to matter to him. These days, there appears to be but one voice he heeds-hers!"
Anne discreetly kept silent. She didn't doubt that Elizabeth was urging Ned to have George put to death, as were all the Woodvilles. But she found it almost impossible to imagine her brother-in-law being led into doing anything he did not want to do. This was not something she meant to say to her husband, however. If Richard needed a crutch, she would not be the one to kick it out from under him, she resolved, and said instead, "Let's not talk any more of George, love. Not tonight."
EDWARD was in the Painted Chamber. As usual, he was surrounded by people, the focus of all eyes.
But he seemed not to notice those clustering about him, seemed to be alone with his thoughts. Thoughts, Will would wager, that were anything but pleasant.
Edward happened to glance then in his direction, looked past Will with unseeing bloodshot eyes. He looks as weary as ever I've seen him, Will thought uneasily. At the least, it can be said that he's carrying his thirty-five years very heavily these days. What in the name of the saints does he mean to do? It's been fully a week now since sentence of death was passed on Clarence. Yet he does nothing, he stays his hand and drinks. Why? If he be as reluctant as that to take Clarence's life, why charge him with high treason?
There was much about this that Will did not understand. There was a darkness about it; even the Bill of
Attainder itself shed little light. It had not even made mention of Ankarette Twynyho. Why, then, was
Clarence to die? Will didn't know; Ned's reasoning was beyond him. And this was Ned's doing, despite common belief that George had blundered heedlessly into a Woodville web. Will knew better, for he knew Ned. But he didn't like it, not at all.
He had no objection to silencing Clarence, thought that should have been done seven years ago. But he would far rather Ned had simply thrown him into the Tower and forgotten about him. As unstable as
Clarence was, it wouldn't have taken long; he'd have been babbling and ranting like any Bedlam inmate in no time at all. Will would even have preferred it had Ned chosen to have Clarence quietly and discreetly dispatched to God. As with Harry of Lancaster, it could then have been given out that Clarence had died of a fever, or perhaps a fall.
But this way Ned did have the worst of both worlds. By bringing Qarence to trial for reasons only hinted at, Ned did invite the wildest sort f public speculation. No rumor was too preposterous to be rejected out

of hand; in tavern and alehouse, gossips found themselves ready audiences. There was even a small groundswell of sympathy for George, confined mainly among those who'd had no personal contact with him. Will didn't doubt that the villagers of Warwick would thank God fasting for George's death, but there were others who saw only his youth, were moved to pity because he'd been lavish in his almsgiving and fair to look upon.
Above all, Will disapproved of Clarence's impending execution because it would be sure to further entrench the Woodvilles. To have men think that Elizabeth and her kin had the power to bring down the
King's own brother was almost as dangerous as having that power in truth. Men would remember what had befallen Clarence, remember with fear.
How hot they were for Clarence's blood! Will's face remained impassive, the mask of a practiced courtier, as he watched Thomas Grey harangue all within earshot. "Under sentence of death . . . legally tried and found guilty . . . what more be needed?"
Will drank to conceal the scornful twist to his mouth. Elizabeth should have lingered; she was astute enough to have curbed her son's flapping tongue. Thomas was a fool; didn't he know by now that Ned wasn't one to be pushed?
"Thomas Grey hasn't the sense God gave a sheep."
The voice was well modulated, falling pleasantly on the ear, and, to Will, surprisingly familiar. Surprising, because that wasn't the sort of comment he'd have expected from Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.
Buckingham was very much an enigma to Will. He'd been wed at I age twelve to Elizabeth Woodville's sister Katherine, but his lineage was I impeccably Lancastrian; both his father and grandfather had died fighting York at the battles of Northampton and St Albans, and his mother was I Beaufort, sister to the
Duke of Somerset executed after Tewkesbury. Yet| he had ties to York, too, for his grandmother was
Cecily Neville's elde sister. By blood, he stood closer than most to the English throne, forhis Yorkist cousins, he did trace his ancestry from one of the sons Edward III. As a cousin and brother-in-law of the
King, titled and wealth)! and amiable, he should long ago have taken his rightful place in Edward':!
government. That he hadn't was a riddle Will had yet to solve.
Buckingham was not a member of Edward's council, had neverchosen by Edward to serve on a diplomatic mission overseas, held no ] commensurate with his birth and rank. Even more inexplicable to
Will, was not even appointed to Commissions of the Peace outside of his ov Staffordshire. It had occurred to Will that it was not politic to so sht aside a scion of the old nobility, and he'd once taken
Edward mildly task for it. Edward, generally so pragmatic in making use of the talents political opponents, had surprised Will somewhat by confessing that