The Sunne in Splendour

  “If you haven’t taken sick yet,” he said flatly, “it be only a matter of time till you do. I’m not blind, Anne. I watch you at meals, pushing your food about on the plate, all too often leaving it untouched altogether. You dismiss your ladies at the slightest pretext, shut yourself up alone for hours on end, dwelling upon memories that can only break your heart. How often have I awakened in the night to find you gone from my bed, sitting by yourself in the dark? Or walking in the gardens, hours before dawn…. You don’t eat, you won’t sleep, seem to care for nothing at all, least of all your own well-being. Even when we make love now, you—”

  “That’s not fair, Richard! I’ve never refused you, have I?”

  “No,” he said tiredly, “but you’re not truly there. You go through the motions, Anne, no more than that. Your whole life be like that now, beloved…just going through the motions, and I…I don’t know how to help you.”

  With that, Anne’s defiance vanished and she began to cry-strangled, gasping sobs that racked her body. Richard flinched at the sound; her tears splashed salt into an unhealed wound. He reached out to her but she drew back, came unsteadily to her feet.

  “I cannot help myself, Richard, I cannot…. He was not even eleven years old and he…he died crying for us, in such pain, and I…I wasn’t with him…. God forgive me, but I wasn’t there when he needed me the most! How can I forget? Even if I could, if I could somehow learn to live with that, how can I forget what his death has done to you? The dreadful danger I’ve placed you in….” She was weeping bitterly, almost incoherent. “You need a son, Richard, a son I…I cannot give you. A King must have an heir, he must…. And now, with so many enemies…Oh, my love, how I have failed you!”

  “Ah, Anne, don’t! That’s not true, I swear it’s not!”

  “Please, Richard, no more lies. I know about Tudor, you see, how he’s taken refuge in France.” She saw his surprise, said in a choked voice, “Did you truly think because you didn’t tell me that no one else would? I know that Morton somehow learned of your secret negotiations with Pierre Landois, that he got word to Tudor just in time, that Tudor abandoned his followers and fled into France. Can you deny it? Can you say it’s not so?”

  “No, but…”

  “I know you meant well by trying to keep it from me, but I had a right to know, Richard. The French do fear you even more than they feared Ned, have never forgotten how you opposed the Treaty of Picquigny. They’ll use Tudor against you the way Louis used Marguerite and her son against Ned, will back him up with French gold and troops, whatever they think it’ll take to bring you down.”

  “Anne, listen to me. I don’t fear Tudor, and neither should you. The man’s never so much as bloodied his sword, whereas I was first given the command of men at seventeen, have spent the past fourteen years…”

  Anne was shaking her head. “There was no better commander born than your brother, but that availed him little at Doncaster. I know you can defend yourself in the field, Richard, but against treachery? You’re surrounded by men who’ve proven themselves untrustworthy time and time again, men like the Stanleys and Northumberland. And now—” She sobbed suddenly. “Now that you can no longer offer the country a stable succession, how long before they’re tempted to switch sides? Before they—”

  “Beloved, you’re tormenting yourself for naught. I can deal with the Stanleys and Northumberland. They’re not men to risk their own necks, but they will be loyal if it’s worth their while, and I’ve made sure that it is. As for”—Richard drew a deep breath—“the other…You didn’t fail me, Anne. You gave me a son, you gave me Ned.”

  “But I can give you no others….”

  “It doesn’t matter, Anne. The House of York has other heirs. I swear to you that it doesn’t matter!”

  “It matters,” Anne whispered. She turned away, blinded by tears. “You need a son, Richard, a son to make the succession safe. Another woman could give you an heir, but I…I cannot, and at times I think…think that if I truly loved you, I’d let you go….”

  She gasped then, for Richard had grabbed her arm, swung her around to face him.

  “Don’t say that,” he said roughly. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that!”

  She stared at him, open-mouthed, and after a moment his grip eased on her arm, he released her and stepped back.

  The windows were open; Richard inhaled the tang of sea air, could see gulls wheeling above the keep. Anne had followed him to the window, her perfume mingling with the strong bracing smell of the sea. He reached out, drew her to him, and felt an absurd rush of relief when she didn’t pull away. He stood for a time holding her close against him, breathing in her fragrance, tasting salt tears on her skin. Never had she seemed so fragile to him; he could feel her shoulder blades, her rib cage, could see the delicate vein pulsing at her temple, the slender curving line of her throat, and he was swept by tenderness made all the more intense by his fear.

  “Don’t you know what you do mean to me? Don’t you know that if I were to lose you, nothing would matter? And when I see what you be doing to yourself, when I see you not caring if you become ill or not; I…I can’t help fearing that you’re to be taken from me, too….”

  His voice was muffled against her hair, but this admission she could barely hear sent shock radiating through her body, jolted her into sudden stunned understanding. “Forgive me,” he’d pleaded, after telling her that their son was dead. “Forgive me.” But in the anguish of her loss, his words had no meaning for her. Until now. Oh, Madonna, how could she have been so blind? What a selfish emotion grief was, denying all pain but one’s own. Shouldn’t their grieving have been a bridge between them, not a barrier? She should have seen, should not have needed to be told, for who knew Richard better than she?

  “Children die,” she said unsteadily. “Every day they do sicken and die, my love. They go to their graves too soon, leave voids that cannot ever be filled, but it’s God’s will, must be accepted as that…as no more than that, Richard. You’re not responsible for Ned’s death.” She felt him stiffen, but gave him no chance to refute her, putting her fingers to his lips.

  “No…listen to me, please. I don’t know why God took him so young or so suddenly, but I do know it wasn’t your fault. Nor are you to blame for your nephews’ deaths. It was Buckingham’s crime, not yours.”

  “Anne, you don’t understand.”

  “No, I confess I do not. I cannot believe that God would inflict so merciless a punishment upon you. You’ve done nothing to deserve it, my love, in truth you have not. And whatever sins you may have committed, Ned was innocent.”

  Richard looked at her. “Edward was innocent, too.”

  Beyond the window a gull cried shrilly, a harsh yet strangely plaintive sound; another answered, farther off.

  “But that wasn’t your fault! Buckingham—”

  “Buckingham didn’t take the crown, Anne. I did. I let Edward pay for his father’s sins, I broke the holy oath I’d sworn to protect and serve him, and I had myself crowned in his stead.”

  “Richard…you had the right.”

  “Yes, that’s what I told myself. That I had the right, that I had no choice, that I did it for you and Ned. I found no lack of reasons for what I did. There were even a few moments in which I admitted to myself just how much I truly wanted it.”

  Anne bit her lip. “Is that what you cannot forgive yourself for, Richard…that you wanted to be King? My love, why is that so great a sin? Yes, you wanted it, but the plight-troth was not of your making. It wasn’t fair to Edward, I grant you that. But why must you take all the blame upon yourself? You were urged to it, Richard, by me more than any others. The council saw the plight-troth as reason enough to set aside Edward’s claim; so, too, did the Commons and House of Lords. Does their judgment count for nothing?”

  Richard startled her then by jerking at the lacings of his doublet, pulling it open to show the white cambric shirt underneath. Fumbling with the buttons, he bared his chest.
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  “Here I was anointed with the sacred chrism.” He held out his hands to her. “Here, too, consecrated with the holy oil that does thereafter set a King apart from other men. What greater sacrilege could there be, Anne, than to be anointed with the chrism and not have the right? It wasn’t enough that I believed in my right, that others did, too. Kneeling there before the High Altar, I needed more than that, I had to be sure. Can you understand that?”

  Anne nodded slowly, chilled in spite of herself. “So you…you asked the Almighty to confirm your right?”

  “Yes,” he admitted softly. “I asked Him to give me a sign, a divine sign that I was right to take the crown. And within a fortnight, my nephews were dead.”

  “Oh, my love, don’t….”

  “Even then, Anne, even then I couldn’t face it. By blaming Buckingham I could keep from blaming myself, you see. I had to lose my own son before I could admit what I’d done to my brother’s sons.”

  Anne was crying again, tears welling in her eyes and spilling silently down her face. “Richard, I beg you, don’t do this. It isn’t true, it isn’t. They died because Buckingham craved the crown, because he gave the order. Not you, Richard, not you.”

  “Anne, you still don’t see, do you? Had I not taken the crown, the boys would still be alive.”

  And there was nothing she could say to that, for it was true, a truth that existed independently of right and wrong, of blame or innocence, a fact inescapable and absolute that was to Anne tragic and, to Richard, a judgment without appeal.

  The bed-curtains had not been fully drawn, and moonlight was infiltrating through the openings. It slanted across the pillow, fired the rubies and sapphires of Richard’s coronation ring and, moving higher, caught a glimmer of silver at his throat, the pilgrim pledge that had once been his mother’s.

  “Anne?”

  She raised her head from his shoulder. “You’ve been so quiet, I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

  “Anne, I’ve been giving it some thought and…I’ve decided to name my sister’s son as my heir.”

  Anne said nothing, not trusting her voice. This was his answer, then, to the despairing confession she’d made yesterday noon, all he could think to do to allay her guilt. She swallowed, lay back in the crook of his arm. She might be that most unfortunate of women, a barren Queen, but she was loved; she did have that.

  “Anne? What think you? I suppose I could have picked George and Bella’s little Edward rather than Jack, but I just didn’t think that would be wise.”

  Anne agreed wholeheartedly with that. While George’s attainder could be reversed by parliament, allowing Edward to inherit, to make Edward heir to the throne would serve the country ill, and as for Edward himself…Jesú spare him that. He was the sweetest child she’d ever known, but she could think of no greater tragedy than to make him King. Had he been born…slow? Or had the damage been done in those early isolated years of childhood? Could the lack of love, the lack of care stunt a mind the way the lack of food could stunt a body? She had no answers, knew only that the greatest blessing in Edward’s life had been the attainder barring him from the throne. What a pity that Harry of Lancaster could not have been as fortunate!

  Hastening now to reassure Richard, she said, “I think Jack be the best possible choice, love.” And felt an irrational unexpected urge to weep, as if she’d somehow denied Ned something that was his alone.

  She mustn’t think that, she mustn’t. Ned was beyond all earthly cares, at peace. He didn’t need her now, but Richard did, Richard who was tormenting himself for a choice she’d urged him to make. Was he right? By taking the crown and allowing his nephews to die, had he doomed their son? No…. No, she couldn’t believe that.

  But her belief wasn’t what mattered. She knew there was nothing she could say to convince Richard he was wrong. One thing only could do that, and the Almighty alone could do it. If she could bear a child, bear Richard a son, Richard would know then that God had forgiven him and he could then forgive himself. That was all she could do for Richard, pray for a son. But surely her prayers would not be denied. Even if Richard was right and he’d sinned in taking the crown, he’d acted in good faith, had never meant harm to come to his brother’s sons, and He Who could see into each man’s heart and soul must know that, must know that Richard’s contrition was genuine. No, God would not burden Richard with so unbearable a guilt. He would heed her prayers, would let her womb quicken again, let her bear a son for Richard, for England.

  “Anne? What are you thinking?”

  “Of you,” she said truthfully, and settled back against him. God the All-merciful would not forsake them, she thought, her resolve drawing upon her faith to make belief a certainty, to give her a flicker of comfort. Her sleep that night was free of troubled dreams, for the first time since her son’s death, and that, too, she took as an omen of hope.

  21

  Nottingham

  October 1484

  Richard and Anne passed the summer in the North, with a brief excursion back to Westminster in early August. While there, Richard gave orders for Harry of Lancaster to be reinterred at Windsor Castle; he also named his nephew Jack de la Pole as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the post that the House of York traditionally reserved for the heir to the throne.

  He returned to Nottingham in early September to meet with envoys from Scotland; a decisive naval victory for the English that past June had convinced James that peace was in the best interests of all concerned. By the middle of the month Richard was able to proclaim that a treaty of amity had been signed, with a marriage pending between the heir to the Scots throne and Richard’s niece, Anne de la Pole, his sister’s eldest daughter. It was his most significant diplomatic achievement to date, offset to some extent the unrelenting enmity of the French. Richard then felt free to turn his mind to personal concerns, and shortly before Michaelmas, he gave his daughter Kathryn in marriage to William Herbert, Earl of Huntingdon.

  Véronique was on her way to Anne’s bedchamber when she encountered Joyce Percy and Madge de la Pole, a lively sunny-natured girl still in her teens and, now that her husband had been named as Richard’s heir, suddenly a person of enormous importance.

  “The Queen’s lying down,” Madge said by way of greeting.

  “In midafternoon? Doesn’t she feel well?”

  “Fine, she says. But she promised the King that she’d rest some in the afternoons from now on; he thinks she’s tiring too easily these days.” Madge giggled. “It must be nice to have a husband that attentive; I’d have to look like walking death ere Jack would even notice! One time I dyed my hair a full three shades lighter and when I asked him how I looked, he was genuinely perplexed, finally asked if I was wearing a new gown!”

  “My Rob be no better.” Joyce crinkled her nose playfully. “But Anne has been looking peaked lately.”

  “You think so? I was just thinking this morn that her color’s never been better!”

  Véronique smiled, moved on. It was strange, she thought, that both Joyce and Madge were right. Anne was becomingly flushed these days, her eyes bright and luminous, her skin translucent. But she was too thin, too finely drawn, had about her a nervous vivacity that somehow rang false, that she seemed to be using to keep others at arm’s length. Was it her way of coping with an unhealed grief? Véronique didn’t know, but she sensed the strain and it bothered her; without knowing precisely why, it bothered her a great deal.

  The bed was rumpled, but Anne was standing by the window. It was an unusually mild day for late October, and the window was open, letting in sunlight and the sound of laughter.

  “What be causing all the merriment?” Véronique asked, joining Anne at the window.

  “Over there by the great hall.” Anne pointed across the bailey. “See that longbow they be passing around? It be Morgan Kidwelly’s, and from the way the men have been exclaiming over it, it must be the finest weapon ever to come out of Wales! A few moments ago, Bess joined them, coaxed Morgan and Richard i
nto showing her how to use it. Of course she couldn’t get the stele back, nearly dislocated her shoulder trying, and as you’d expect, all the men just about fell down laughing.”

  Véronique grinned. “That girl be a born flirt, her father’s daughter for true! I admit I had a few qualms about her coming back to court; I thought it might be awkward, all things considered. But it’s worked out rather well, hasn’t it?”

  Anne nodded and coughed. “She’s been very good for Richard,” she said quietly. For a moment her eyes met Véronique’s. There was no need to say more; Véronique understood and agreed. That Bess did not blame him for her brothers’ deaths had to mean much to Richard; it was, Véronique thought bleakly, as close as he could come to absolution.

  Anne coughed again, and Véronique frowned. She didn’t like the sound of it, not at all. “Anne, what did Dr Hobbys tell you about that cough? It seems to be getting worse; can he not give you something to ease it?”

  Anne shook her head.

  “I cannot believe that. I think I’ll talk to him this afternoon, see what—”

  “No!”

  Véronique was taken aback by Anne’s vehemence. “But why not? Richard told me Hobbys was treating you for the cough, said he’d insisted…Anne? Anne, you did see Hobbys, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I…” Anne’s voice trailed off. “No,” she admitted, very low. “No…I didn’t.”

  “But Richard said you did, said…”

  “I lied to him, said I had,” Anne said simply, and Véronique stared at her in astonishment.

  “I don’t understand. Why don’t you want to see Hobbys?”

  “Because I’m afraid…afraid of what he might find.”

  Véronique drew a breath so sharp it was almost a gasp.

  “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but…but I so need to talk to someone, Véronique. I just cannot keep it to myself any longer…” Anne sat down suddenly in the window seat, and Véronique saw that she was trembling.