The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (99 page)

were confiscated, his wealth forfeit to the crown. Edward disregarded the Bill of Attainder and titled
George's small son as Earl of Warwick; the earldom of Salisbury he bestowed upon Richard's little boy.
Certain of George's lands were given to Anthony Woodville, other incomes went to Thomas Grey, but the bulk of his brother's estates Edward did keep in his own hands. The wardship of his orphaned nephew, Edward gave to Thomas Grey.
A few weeks after George's execution, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, was charged with uttering words "prejudicial to the State," and committed to the Tower. He was kept there for three months, and released in June upon reavowing his loyalty to the House of York, to the Yorkist King he'd so long ago pledged to serve.
I 7
MIDDLEHAM
August 1478
A
LNNE found her husband and son in the outer bailey gardens, staring down at a newly dug grave. It was, she thought, a wretched homecoming for Richard. He had been gone for fully a fortnight; his council had been asked to arbitrate a dispute between two villages in the West Riding and he'd returned only that past evening. Anne had hoped not to have to tell him right away, but he'd missed Gareth at once, immediately wanted to know where the big dog was. It had come as no great surprise; Gareth was fourteen. But it was never easy to lose a loved pet.
Moving closer, Anne saw that Ned was pointing to the small headstone, with both pride and perplexity.
"Master Nicholas made it for me, Papa. I wanted a wooden cross, but Kathryn says it not be fitting, Gareth being but a dog. ..." Soft brown eyes waited anxiously for Richard's verdict.

"I think your sister may be right, Ned. But I'll tell you what. . . . Why don't you ask your mother if you can plant something here by the grave?" Richard smiled at his son. "How about . . . dogwood? What could be more fitting than that?"
Catching sight of his mother, Ned ran to her, crying, "Mama, may we plant dogwood on Gareth's grave?
Please, Mama?"
"I don't see why not." Anne beckoned and a servant came forward, set a large woven basket on the ground in front of Ned.
"I know how much you miss Gareth, darling. He was your dog as much as your father's. But I have something for you both, which might make his loss easier." Bending down, she lifted the lid of the basket, revealed two squirming wolfhound puppies.
Ned gave a delighted squeal, started to reach for the black one, and then reluctantly remembered the manners Mistress Burgh was constantly lecturing him about.
"Papa? Can I have this one?"
Richard knelt beside him, extending his fingers for the other puppy to lick. "Whichever one you want, Ned."
Seeing his brother emerging from the stables, Ned now gave a yell, beckoning eagerly. "Look, Johnny!
Look at my puppy!"
Johnny needed no urging. "Puppies!" he breathed, with such yearning that Anne was stricken with remorse. God forgive her, why hadn't she thought of Johnny?
Richard, too, had seen the wistful look on his son's face. Picking up the brindle puppy, he held it out.
"Don't you want yours, Johnny?"
"Mine?" Johnny had gathered the puppy into his arms before doubt assailed him. "Truly?"
"Of course. Why do you think there be two of them?"
That was so logical Johnny never thought to question it. But Anne saw an unmistakable look of surprise on Ned's face. He opened his mouth and she made ready to intercede. For a moment, he regarded the puppies with puzzled eyes, and then he put his down on the ground.
"Let's show them the stable cats," he proposed, and at once boys and puppies were racing pell-mell across the bailey.
Anne knew Richard was not comfortable with public displays of affection, but now she flung her arms around his neck, kissed him soundly. "That was most adroitly done, love! How I could ever have been so thoughtless. . . . But did you see how Ned held his tongue? I was so proud of him; he didn't understand but sensed enough to-" She broke ff abruptly as Ned came running back toward them.
"Look, Papa! Riders!"
The visitor was one always assured a warm welcome at Middleham,

Thomas Wrangwysh. After exchanging greetings and giving orders for Wrangwysh to be fed in the great hall, Richard directed his attention to Wrangwysh's dispatches.
"What do they want of you, Richard?"
"It be from York's council. Holy Trinity Priory is in dire financial straits and they ask my help in alleviating its poverty." There was a second message, as well, one that bore the Lord Mayor's seal.
Anne had been watching the boys and puppies chase each other about the bailey. Glancing back now at
Richard, she took a quick step toward him.
"What is it? You do look so strange! Richard?"
He looked up from the letter. "It seems," he said slowly, "that my brother is coming to York."
SURROUNDED by clergy and city officials, Edward stood on the steps of the west door of St Peter's, awaiting his brother's entry into the precincts of the Minster. He was able to gauge Richard's progress up
Stonegate by the volume of cheering; it grew louder and he knew Richard had turned now onto
Petergate, was approaching the High-Minster Gate.
"I'd not realized my brother of Gloucester was so popular in York," he said thoughtfully. The Lord
Mayor strained to hear, nodded enthusiastically.
"Oh, indeed, Your Grace! Here in York we do consider His Grace of Gloucester our special good lord and steadfast friend, always ready to speak on behalf of our city."
Edward turned slightly, bringing Elizabeth into his line of vision. Her| eyes were narrowed, creased as if against the glare of the September sun. He knew better, knew it to be those shouts of "Gloucester!
Gloucester!''! A rhythmic roar of approval, such as he'd often heard for himself in the streets of London.
But never in York. Never north of the River Trent.
Edward laughed suddenly, drew some curious looks. God's wrath|I but it was funny. It truly was. He'd sent Dickon into Yorkshire six yea ago to win the hearts of its people. And Dickon had. By God, that he hac So why wasn't he better pleased by it?
Elizabeth's mouth was drawn down at the corners, as expressive any denunciation she might have made.
Edward found himself reme bering the accusation she'd flung at him during a bitter quarrel earliersummer, a quarrel about Dickon and what she saw as the dangerot power he'd been given north of the Trent.
"This much I do know, Ne . . . that it's not the White Rose of York they love in Yorkshire, it's Whyte
Boar of Gloucester! And if you tell me that doesn't give you pat all I can say is that you're willfully and dangerously blind! Or have

forgotten your cousin Warwick, Warwick who was loved, too, in the North?"
Edward sucked in his breath. What be the matter with him? Had George's death shredded his nerves as thin as this? Damn Lisbet and her venom! He'd breathed her poison in like air, absorbed it without even being aware of it.
He watched now as Richard rode into the Minster close, and as his brother dismounted to kneel before him on the steps of St Peter's, he moved forward to raise Richard to his feet.
RICHARD'S son Ned was delighted to be meeting at last the royal cousins who lived far to the south, and when he discovered that one of these cousins was the same age as himself, his excitement knew no bounds.
Johnny stood silently in the background, watching Ned chattering away with his newfound friend and feeling very left out. He very much wanted to join Ned and the cousin who was called Dickon, like his father, but he was suddenly shy, not sure where he did fit in this family grouping.
"Are you my cousin, too?" The girl had appeared without warning at Johnny's side, causing him to jump.
She looked to be about two years older than he, nine or so, regarding him now with her head tilted to the side, with curiosity that was not unkind.
"I'm not sure," he admitted, and shocked himself then by blurting out what he'd never before spoken aloud. "I'm Ned's brother, but I be a bastard."
If he was shocked, she was quite unfazed. "I'm Cecily," she said, "and that's silly. Being a bastard doesn't make you any less my cousin. I have two sisters who be bastards, and a brother, too, and they still be my kin. You see yon girl with the red-gold hair? . . . That be Grace; she's lived with us since her mother died and-" At that moment, she glanced up to see that Johnny wasn't her only audience; her father was standing just behind her.
"I was just telling my cousin about Grace, Papa," she explained, and Edward gave her a smile of amused affection. His Cecily was ever one to find birds with broken wings. . . . Lord help her if she didn't harden her heart as she grew older. Thank Christ, though, for the children. They'd managed to make tolerable a meeting as awkward as any he could have envisioned. At least Lisbet had the good sense to plead her pregnancy, to make a discreet departure back to the Dominican friary. But it was not going to be easy.
Not at all.
He looked across the chamber, watched as Richard flattered Mary and Bess by according them the attention generally reserved for adults

and but rarely given to half-grown girls of eleven and twelve. A grim smile touched Edward's mouth. He did doubt exceedingly if Dickon was all that fascinated by the conversation of his young nieces. No, Dickon, too, was uneasy about what was to come. But they could not make use of the children indefinitely, and catching the eye of one of the nurses, he gave her the signal she'd been awaiting. It took several moments to usher all the children from the chamber. He moved then toward his sister-in-law.
"I trust you'll not take it amiss, Anne, but I would like to speak with Dickon alone."
"Of course." Anne had already been rising in anticipation of just such a request, but now Richard surprised them all, including himself, by saying, "I want her to stay, Ned."
Edward frowned. "Do you think that wise, Dickon?" he said, very evenly.
Richard shrugged, said challengingly, "Why not?" There was a sudden tense silence. Anne stood rooted where she was, her eyes shifting from one man to the other and back again. Edward drummed impatiently on the table with his fingers. So this was how it was to be. ... Sudden anger stirred, resentment that Dickon was going to make it so hard, and he raised his hand in a gesture of dismissal, one that admitted of no argument but authority.
Color rose in Anne's face; she sank down at once in a deep curtsy. Richard was on his feet now, too.
But before he could speak, Edward had crossed the chamber in three strides, stopping Anne in the doorway and drawing her back into the room.
"That was uncalled for, Anne, was not something I did mean to do. Of course you may stay." Ignoring the stiffness of her body, he led her toward the nearest chair.
"We're not getting off to the best of starts, are we?" With a quick rueful smile. "I expect my nerves are more on the raw than I did realize," he admitted candidly, saw surprise flicker across Richard's face.
"What does startle you, Dickon? That I should be nervous about this meeting? Or that I should own up to it?"
"Both," Richard said laconically, raising his eyes for the first time to Edward's.
"Let's not play games. Surely you do know why I'm here?" "I understand there be plague in London."
"That's reason enough for leaving London, but not for choosing!;
York over any other city of the realm. I haven't been north in nine years,;
and you know it. I'm here because of you . . . and only you." |
Richard looked away. He'd begun to twist a ring, unconsciously applying such pressure that it chafed painfully against his skin.

Edward was finding it too confining to sit still. Rising, he moved restlessly to the window. They were in an upper chamber of the Archbishop of York's Palace; the court below was still crowded with people, with citizens of this city he did like so little. He turned abruptly away from the window, faced Richard.
"You can be proud of what you've accomplished here, Dickon. It's a remarkable feat, in truth. They've never been overly fond of the House of York in these northern parts. Yet you've managed to win more than their trust. If what I saw today be any indication, you've won their hearts, as well." He hesitated and then said quietly, "Watching them cheer you to the heavens, I suddenly found myself wondering if I'd rather your success hadn't been quite so spectacular."
Anne's in drawn breath was audible to both men it was a smothered sound of dismay. Richard was startled, but an intent searching scrutiny of Edward's face gave him the answer. With something almost like satisfaction, he said, "I see. So the scars do go as deep as that?"
That he was right and George's grave was proving to be an unquiet one, Edward now acknowledged, if only indirectly. "Clever lad," he said softly. "As ever, we do understand each other well, don't we?"
There was a seat directly across from Richard. Taking it now, Edward said, "What do you want me to say, Dickon? That I regret George's death? Yes, I do. That I regret the grief I've given to those I do care deeply for? More than you could ever know. That I'd do it differently if I had the chance? No. No, I
would not.
"Wait, Dickon, hear me out. The last time we talked, we both said things better forgotten. But what I do want to say to you now is what I should have said seven months ago. I know that to you, the threat
George posed did not warrant death. But to me, it was so dangerous as to warrant nothing else. In his craving to be King, no betrayal was beyond him, no sin too great. For the peace of the realm, I had to put an end to it."
Richard was shaking his head wearily. "There be much truth in what you say, Ned. I've never denied that.
But I just did not see the need for a death sentence. I still don't."
"I'm not asking you to share my reasoning, Dickon. Only to believe this. ... To believe me when I swear to you that I felt I had no choice but to do what I did."
This last was said with such stark sincerity that even Anne was impressed.
"Christ, Dickon, you've known me all your life, have been my right arm since you were sixteen. Can you honestly tell me that you've ever known me to kill without cause?"
"No," Richard conceded. "No, I cannot."

"Do you truly think, then, that I could put my own brother to death unless I was convinced there was no other way?"
It was not a question Richard could answer. Edward's eyes were holding his own; he found he couldn't look away.
"Do you remember, Dickon, that night in Bruges ... the night at the Gulden Vlies? We said a great many things that night, some profound, some not. But one thing in particular sticks in my mind. I told you that
I'd come to trust you above all other men. . . . You remember?"
Richard's mouth softened. "I remember."
"That does still hold true for me. What I need to know is whether it be true for you, too."
"What do you mean, Ned?"
"How much.do you trust me?"
Richard was taken aback. "Need you even ask? I'd trust you with my very life." Slightly embarrassed by his own intensity, he added testily, "But surely you do know that. So why-"
"Ah, Dickon, you still don't see. We are in agreement about George's crimes; we do differ only in the conclusions we reach about them. What is at stake, then, is my judgment. I can tell you from now till the
Second Coming that I was convinced George's death had to be, but what of it? It all comes down to what you do believe about my motives, my reasons . . . comes down to trust."
Anne gathered her skirts about her, came unobtrusively to her feet. She stood for a moment, let her eyes linger upon her brother-in-law. It had been as artful a defense of the indefensible as she'd ever heard.
How well he knows Richard, she thought, knows exactly which heartstrings to pull. But there was not as much resentment in this realization as there might have been. In the past seven months, she'd come to understand how important it was that this breach between them be healed. For Richard's sake. At least she knew now that the need was a mutual one, was Ned's as well as Richard's. Bending over, she kissed
Richard on the cheek, and then surprised both herself and Edward by doing the same to him.
"I'll give orders that you not be disturbed," she said. "I'm sure you've much to say to each other." And closing the door quietly behind her, she left them alone together.