The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (96 page)

didn't much like his young cousin of Buckingham and, when pressed why, could only respond even more vaguely that Buckingham did remind him overly much of George.
Will hadn't seen the resemblance until Edward thus called it to his attention, but then he wondered how he could have missed it. When on his best behavior, George had been capable of a certain brittle charm;
Buckingham, too, was volatile, given to extremes of expression and mood, to taking up enthusiasms with wholehearted intensity and tiring of them with record speed. Will tended to attribute this in part to
Buckingham's youth; he was just twenty-three. But Buckingham was unlike George in that if he had a dark side, none saw it. If he resented Edward's neglect, he alone knew it. He was appealingly goodnatured, openhanded with his wealth, and if his humor did at times cut too close to the bone, such lapses were put down more to insensitivity than to malice. He was unlike George, too, in that he'd always seemed to be far more interested in the pursuit of pleasure than in political intrigue. It was for this reason that he'd surprised Will by his tart-tongued assessment of Thomas Grey.
But then, Will reminded himself, Grey and Buckingham had been at odds for several years now. In fact, Buckingham was no favorite of the Queen. Rumor had it that he'd proven himself to be a far from satisfactory husband to his Woodville wife, had been imprudent enough to let her know he felt it demeaning that he, a Stafford, should be wed to a mere knight's daughter.
Nothing was better guaranteed to gain him Elizabeth's enmity than that, and Will suspected her hostility, as much as any superficial resemblance to George, was why Buckingham had been relegated to the outer fringes of power. While Edward was not one to let himself be influenced in matters of importance, Will knew he did have a habit of yielding to Elizabeth's whims when he felt it would cost him little to do so.
"What do you make of it, Harry?" he murmured. There was no need to clarify his question; there was but one topic of conversation at court this February.
"That it be a quicksand bog in truth and any man willing to venture into it had best be cat-sure of his footing! We both do know the Queen would never forgive anyone foolhardy enough to espouse
Clarence's cause openly. But I can show you an even bigger fool, and that is the man who urges the King to put Clarence to death . . . like our friend Thomas there."
Will was amused, but faintly impressed, too; Buckingham was making sense. "Why is that?"
"Because I think the day may come when my cousin the King, whatever his reasons now, might regret very much that his brother did die at

his command. And should that day come, he'll look around for others with whom to share his guilt." A
quick smile. "Kings always do, you know. And on such a day, I would not want to be one who'd pressed for Clarence's death and then wore yellow when he died."
"Cynical, aren't you?"
"Realistic. And then, too . . ."
"Yes?"
"I was merely thinking that if to plead for Clarence is to gain the Queen's ill will, to contrive at his death is to win an enemy no less dangerous."
"Gloucester?"
"Yes . . . Gloucester." And Buckingham nodded toward the doorway, where Richard had entered, unnoticed, stood listening in frozen silence as Thomas Grey argued for the execution of his brother.
At that moment, Thomas, irked by Edward's lack of response, said loudly, "Has Your Grace forgotten how Clarence sought out soothsayers to learn the length of your reign? How he noised it about that upon your death the name of England's next King would begin with a G? G for George!"
"G for George? Why not G for Gloucester?"
Richard was no longer unnoticed. Conversation ceased. People began to circle closer, expectant, scenting blood, while others, more squeamish, |1 edged away.
Thomas suddenly found himself alone. Taken aback that Richard should have chosen deliberately to call attention to so awkward a coincidence, he hesitated, watched Richard warily.
"G for Gloucester?" Richard repeated, unrelenting. "Or even G . . . for Grey?"
Thomas whitened, whirling to make sure his stepfather was not I heeding this heresy.
Edward's mouth was twitching. Now he began to laugh, thus freeing! all others to do so, too. People began to murmur among themselves, most;! relishing Thomas Grey's discomfort.
As Richard moved toward him, Edward waved the others away. "A| nice thrust," he grinned. "But that was scarcely an even match!"
Richard shrugged. "Ned, I do want you to give me leave to George. You cannot keep refusing. Not now, not when there be a dea sentence hanging over his head."
Edward's grin faded. "Why in God's Grace would you want to st ject yourself to that?" he asked slowly.
"Surely you don't expect a wa welcome? George loves you not, Dickon; have you forgotten?" He she his head. "No, such a meeting would serve for naught. I think it bestyou do not."

"You cannot mean that!" Richard was incredulous, no longer cared that conversation around them had stilled. "You'd deny George even that much? Jesus wept, you'd do that to him? Have him die believing that none of his own did even care enough to bid him farewell?" He drew a steadying breath, said with less intensity, "You might well be right; I daresay it would be a most painful meeting. But if I be willing to chance it, you haven't the right to forbid it."
"You be wrong, Dickon," Edward snapped. "I do have that right and I choose to exercise it. Such a meeting would be neither in your interest nor in George's. Your request is denied." And with that, he turned away, left Richard staring after him in stunned silence.
1 4
WESTMINSTER
February 1478
D, ' Hobbys was already abed when the summons came from the King. Somewhat surprised by the request, for he could count on the fingers of one hand the times when Edward had wanted a sleeping draught, he hastily mixed up a potion of wine, poppy, and dried bryony root and took it to the King's bedchamber.
There the atmosphere was a subdued one; servants were tending to the hearth, turning back the coverlets, moving about as inconspicuously as possible. Dr Hobbys shared their unease; he, too, had heard of the King's quarrel earlier that evening with his brother Gloucester.
Edward's squires had already removed his doublet and were unbuttoning his shirt when an usher appeared in the doorway. For a moment or so, he shifted uncertainly from foot to foot and then approached Dr Hobbys, murmured a few words in the doctor's ear. Dr Hobbys gave the man a startled look and then hesitantly cleared his throat.
"My liege ..." He coughed, began again. "My liege, an audience be most urgently desired by your-"
Edward's head jerked around. "I'll see no one at this hour."

"But Your Grace, it be-"
"Did you not hear me? I don't care who it is! No one ... no one at all!"
Dr Hobbys fidgeted, fervently wished himself elsewhere. Yet the information he'd been given could not be withheld. "But my liege, it be your lady mother!"
There was a sudden silence, broken by a cry of pain, quickly cut off; one of the grooms of the chamber had been lighting candles, held his hand a moment too long to the flame. His comrades exchanged surreptitious glances, prudently kept very still. Even the squire kneeling at Edward's feet froze; the hand that had been reaching up to untie the points of Edward's hose went limp, fell to his side.
"Get out. All of you." It was spoken in a low voice, without emphasis or inflection, but no man in the chamber waited to be told twice. Abandoning their labors, they fled.
"I have no choice, Ma Mere. How often must I tell you that? What would you have me do? Overlook his treason, the innocent blood on his hands? Would you truly have me mock justice because he's my brother?"
"George's sins shall not go unpunished; he will have much to answer for come Judgment Day. I do think of you, Edward, as much as:! George when I entreat you to consider what you mean to do. Have you forgotten what Our Lord Jesus Christ did reply when Peter asked of him, 'Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? As 1 many as seven times?' His answer was, 'I do not say to you seven times! but seventy times seven.'
Edward's mouth tightened; with difficulty he bit back an oath. "Thisl does serve for naught, Madame," he said coldly, "and we both dpi know it."
He suddenly found himself looking into eyes of grey ice, eyes capabl) of stripping away the trappings of adulthood and reestablishing the prio ties and vulnerabilities of forgotten youthful yesterdays.
"Have I been dismissed, Your Grace?" she queried, with a coldne to equal his own, and he capitulated.
"No, of course not, Ma Mere. Surely you know that would never 1 a command you'd hear from my lips."
He wasn't prepared for what she did next. She was dressed in unadorned starkly simple gown of ink-blue, so dark as to be almost bli one he thought to be uncomfortably close to mourning garb; her sti slender waist was girdled by a narrow silk-braided belt, from which hv a rosary, a ring of keys, and a small leather pouch. It was to this pot

that she was now directing her attention, drawing forth a folded square of yellowed paper.
"In those weeks after your father and brother died at Sandal Castle, I had only faith to sustain me, my faith in the Almighty and my faith in you, Edward. You gave me such reason for pride. . . . The way you kept your head, rallied your men like the most seasoned battle commander, acted to ransom Rob Apsall, that young knight who was Edmund's friend. Above all, because you thought to write letters of comfort to your little brothers and sister . . . and to me. This be that letter, the one you did write to me." She held it out toward him; he recoiled, drew back a step.
"For seventeen years, I've kept it, cherished it, Edward. Now I do want you to read it. To read what you did tell me, that there be family ties not even death can destroy. You did speak of the love you bore me, the love you bore your brothers and sisters. And you swore a solemn vow that you'd let no harm befall us, that you'd always be there for us. Go on, take it. ..."
Edward found himself staring, not at the outstretched letter, but at the hand holding it. He could see delicately webbed blue veins, see the swelling at the knuckles, the slight tremor that defied a once invincible will; it wasn't his mother's hand, was the thin fragile hand of an aging stranger. He refused to reach for the letter, refused to take it, and at last she laid it on the table.
"You must not do this, Edward. You must not spill your brother's blood. For your own soul's sake, you must not."
He clamped his jaw till it ached, kept silent, and she then made the plea he most dreaded.
"For me," she said. "If not for George, do it for me."
She crossed swiftly to him, and for an appalled instant, he feared she meant to kneel to him. She was, however, a woman to kneel willingly only to God, and she merely reached out, laid her hand upon his wrist.
"Have I ever asked anything of you? Have I, Edward?"
"No," he said shortly, unwillingly.
"I do ask you now, ask you for the life of my son."
She was close enough for him to see that her eyes, eyes that could burn through bone to the very soul, were now awash in tears. The shock of that realization was almost physical; he could not remember ever having seen his mother cry.
"If it is not enough for you that George be your brother, spare his life for me, Edward. . . .Forme."
'Ma Mere ..." He found that his voice was husky, uneven. "Ma re, I. . . I cannot. . . ."

She closed her eyes; for a moment, her fingers tightened on his arm, clung. And then she released him, stepped back.
He could clearly hear her breathing; she sounded as if she'd been running. His own breathing was equally labored. As he watched, the tears on her lashes suddenly broke free, began to streak her face, splashed silently upon the collar of her gown; she blinked, but made no attempt to wipe them away. Her fingers were fumbling at her belt, instinctively seeking the solace of rosary beads, and at that, he took a step toward her. As he did, her head came up.
"I would see him, Edward."
It was no request; he knew it to be an ultimatum. He shook his head violently, not trusting his voice.
Time passed. She was staring at him, saying nothing, and on her face was a look of stunned disbelief, of anguished accusation he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.
But when she spoke, her voice held no hint of tears. It was not a voice to offer either understanding or absolution, spoke of no quarter given, of a lifetime of love denied.
"God may forgive you for this," she said, very slowly and distinctly, "but I never shall."
rob Apsall was dreaming of a stream that flowed with madeira and hip- pocras, of a pretty girl who flung herself down laughing beside the bank to drink from its depths. But in the far reaches of the dream thunder had begun to echo ominously. As it grew louder, he began to twitch, until his eyes at last flew open and his groggy senses identified the thunder as a I muffled, steady banging. Rob swore sleepily; this had been his thirty-! ninth birthday, one celebrated with enjoyable excesses of food and drink, I and his head was dull, still fuzzy with wine. Beside him, his wife stirred, | lay still again. Above the pounding he heard the chiming of bells; the] black friars of the neighboring Dominican friary were being summoned tof
Matins. The banging was louder now, sounding as if someone were ham-I mering incessantly for admittance. But who would be coming to his dc at two o'clock of a Sunday morn? He sat upright, strained to hear.
"Rob?" Amy was yawning. "What be that clatter?"
By now Rob was out of bed, unlatching the shutters. He peer down into pelting rain and blackness, and then gasped.
"Holy Jesus! There be men-at-arms below!"
He was still pulling on his boots when he heard the footsteps pound ing up the stairs. A moment later the steward of his household burst int the bedchamber. He was as disheveled as Rob, and no less agitated.

"Sir Robert, there be men below from the King!"
Rob hadn't known what he was expecting, but surely not this. He sat down abruptly, the second boot forgotten. "The King? Why should the King send soldiers to my house in the middle of the night?"
"They say you are to come with them, Sir Robert. That the King has sent them to take you back to
Westminster." The steward was still panting; he'd taken the steps two at a time and he was not a young man. "I did ask them if you ... if you were under arrest. They said they did not know, had only been told to fetch you to the King."
"Rob! God in Heaven, Rob, what ..." Amy had scrambled out of bed, haphazardly clutching a sheet to conceal her nakedness. "Why should the King summon you at such an hour? Rob, what have you done that you haven't told me?"
"Nothing! Nothing, Amy, I do swear it." Rob shook his head desperately to clear it, cursing himself for all the wine flagons he'd drained that night, for the refusal of his dazed wits to take this all in.
"I don't know what the King does want of me." His heart had begun to hammer painfully against his ribs.
"God's truth, I don't."
ROB'S eyes were adjusting to the dark of the room enough for him to make out the shadowy figure of the man sitting at a round three-legged table. Rob was not normally timorous, but so far there'd been nothing remotely normal about the events of this night. Cautiously he groped his way toward Edward. But as he started to kneel, Edward shoved a chair toward him, said with impatience, "Do you think I give a damn about court protocol at this hour? Sit down."
Rob did as he was told. Edward's back was to the fire, his face in shadows. Rob waited and then said diffidently, "My liege, I don't understand. Why am I here? Am I... am I under arrest?"
There was a wine flagon at Edward's elbow. He reached for it, said, "No, you're not under arrest. Here, have a drink." The flagon shot across the table; Rob grabbed it just in time to keep it from going into his lap.
His fear should logically have been much lessened; it wasn't. There was a tension in this chamber, a dark strain he didn't understand, but dimly he sensed it was dangerous.
"I did want to talk to you," Edward was saying now, and this time Rob caught the slight slurring of speech. "Go on, drink."
"I'm at Your Grace's service," Rob began, but Edward cut him off with a gutter oath.
"Shit," he said, reaching over to reclaim the flagon. "Did I not tell you to forget ceremony? Loosen up, man. I'm no tyrant; I don't drink the