The Sunne in Splendour

  For a startled instant, Richard would have sworn it had been deliberate, but he had no time to mull over that peculiar impression, grabbed for her as she flung her arms around his neck in a futile attempt to keep her balance. With his help, she managed to right herself, and then stepped back, sank down in a hasty curtsy upon the stairs.

  “Oh, my lord, pray do forgive me! A thousand pardons!”

  “That be all right, demoiselle,” he said slowly, watched as she fled up the stairs, into the great hall. His stallion was being brought forward now; he swung up into the saddle, but his mind was elsewhere, was still echoing with the words she’d so hurriedly breathed into his ear. “The Lady Anne not be sick, my lord! Come back within the quarter hour!”

  George had retreated to his bedchamber, where his tailor awaited him, ready to resume the fitting interrupted by Richard’s arrival. He found it hard to recapture his earlier interest, however; looked without seeing at the garment held out for his inspection, a doublet of purple satin lined with Holland cloth. He paid no greater heed to the next item offered, a long velvet gown trimmed in sable.

  Devil take Dickon for his stubbornness! He’d waste no time in complaining to Ned, and he’d be back. And what he’d do then, George didn’t know. He crumpled the soft material he held within his hand, heard the tailor’s instinctive unhappy protest, and saw an usher come through the doorway, so uneasy that George knew at once he would not like what he was about to hear.

  “Begging my lord’s pardon, but Master Watkins did send me to fetch you, to tell you, my lord, that the Duke of Gloucester be below in the great hall.”

  George went down the spiral stairway leading from the upper chambers so fast that he came perilously close to tripping over his fashionably pointed, elongated shoes, was spared a nasty fall only by a servant’s vigilance. It was not urgency that was propelling him, however, so much as thwarted fury; he already knew he’d be too late. So it was no surprise to him as he came into the great hall to find his brother handfast with the girl he was coming to consider the source of all his troubles.

  They turned to face him, Richard triumphant, Anne nervously defiant. George came to an abrupt halt. His first impulse was to order that Anne be taken back upstairs. But he was never to know if he would have acted upon it, for at that moment he heard his wife’s voice, rising in an inflection of agreeable surprise.

  “Dickon!” Coming forward, Isabel held out her hands, turned her cheek for Richard’s kiss. “I didn’t realize you were back from Kent! My congratulations upon dealing so capably with Fauconberg; Ned told me he couldn’t be more pleased.”

  Ned! George drew a disquieted breath, exhaled it slowly. He’d almost made a very stupid mistake. Should he provoke a brawl over Anne, Ned would blame him, would take Dickon’s word over his. He always did. An open confrontation with Dickon would only give Ned an excuse to meddle, to favor Dickon at his expense.

  Isabel was ushering Richard and Anne toward the stairwell. For all the world, George thought, like a mother hen with two cherished chicks, and his anger suddenly spilled over onto his wife. His mouth thinned; damned fool woman, why did she not just escort them into Anne’s chamber and tuck them into bed together?

  Isabel was at his side now, smiling up at him. “George, why did you not tell me Dickon was here? Shall he be staying to dine with…” Her smile faded. “George, why do you look at me like that?”

  “I’d have a word with you, Bella,” he said tightly, and grasping her arm, he jerked her toward the stairs. She stumbled, unable to keep pace, and he saw her bewilderment changing to apprehension. That placated him a little, but his rage still smoldered. Dragging Isabel along behind him, he reached the stairwell just in time to see Richard and Anne disappear into the solar, close the door firmly behind them.

  “I did come before, Anne, but he claimed you were ailing. For years Ned did try to tell me the truth wasn’t in him, but I wouldn’t let myself see it…God, what a fool I was!” Richard moved closer on the solar window seat, said, “I do want you to tell me, Anne, if he has abused you in any way, done anything to discomfort you or…”

  Anne was shaking her head. “No, Richard, truly he hasn’t. I’ve scarcely seen him at all since his return; which is the way I much prefer it, suspect he does, too!”

  Richard was relieved but not reassured. “As glad as I am to hear that, ma belle, I don’t trust him, nonetheless. When I come back to London, the first thing I mean to do is to see that he cannot—”

  “Come back? Richard, you are leaving again? But you’ve just gotten back from Kent!”

  “I know. But there be trouble on the Scots border again, and Ned does want me to go north to deal with it.”

  Anne was no longer listening. She stared down into her lap, trying very hard to master her emotions. He was going north. For God knows how long. To put down a rebellion for Ned. For Ned, who stayed in London and took his ease, while Richard did risk his life in Ned’s service. She somehow managed to pull herself together, to keep from saying what she knew he’d not have forgiven.

  “…and so Fauconberg will be going with me. To tell you true, Anne, I’ve my doubts as to how trustworthy he is. But when he surrendered to me at Sandwich, he did pledge his loyalty to Ned, and we decided to risk taking him at his word. If he’s sincere, he can be of considerable use to me in the North, and if not, I’ll find out soon enough.”

  He was so matter-of-fact about going off to fight with a proven traitor! “Oh, Richard…” But he seemed not to notice her dismay, was taking a folded paper from his doublet.

  “I’ve a letter for you, Anne…. From your mother.”

  When she made no move to take it, just stared at him in surprise, he reached over, put it in her hand.

  “She did write to me about…Well, she does want me to speak to Ned on her behalf. She did ask that I pass this on to you.”

  Anne hesitated, and then broke the seal. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but surely more than this, a stilted half-page that could as easily have come from an aunt she saw only at Epiphany as from the woman who’d given her life.

  She looked up at him, said with a too-bright brittle smile, “She hopes I am well, and hopes, too, that I will urge you to aid her in recovering her estates.”

  He’d taken her hand in his, held it flat between his own as he said, “Anne, I think you should know that Ned does not seem inclined to heed her appeal. I’ll do what I can, but…”

  She nodded. She understood what he was reluctant to say. Ned meant to hold her mother to sanctuary. Because of George. George, who was determined to have the Beauchamp lands, at any cost. She supposed she should feel sorry for her mother, but the truth was that she didn’t, not really. She was not as bitter as Isabel, who said repeatedly that her mother could rot at Beaulieu as far as she did care. But she found it hard to muster up much sympathy, either.

  What she did feel, above all else, was relief that she was not to share her mother’s confinement. She saw that her earlier fears had been firmly rooted in reality. If Ned would agree to strip her mother of her estates to placate George, he’d have agreed, too, to seeing her immured behind convent walls, would have let George do as he wished with her. It was Richard who stood between her and such a fate, Richard and only Richard.

  “I would be grateful if you might speak for her, Richard,” she said, thus discharging the daughterly duty her mother had imposed upon her. “It is kind of you to bother, in truth, for I know you’ve never been all that fond of her….”

  “I don’t do it for Cousin Nan. I do it for you, Anne.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, looking down at their hands entwined upon the seat between them, fingers laced as if in a bond beyond breaking. Sweet Mary ever Virgin, don’t do this to me, she thought hazily. Don’t let me believe he does care if it not be true. I couldn’t bear it.

  “I’ve thought of you often these weeks past.”

  “Have you, Richard?” She found herself having to remember to breathe, knew he m
ust be able to feel how her pulse was racing. His fingers had slid up her wrist. He was caressing her palm with his thumb, stirring distracting sensations that were as unnerving as they were unfamiliar. She wanted to pull her hand away, and at the same time, to feel his arms around her, to be held to his heart and hear him call her “love” as though he meant it.

  Clearly, that was what he had in mind. His arm was around her waist. He gave her now the smile he’d always reserved for those times when he’d wanted to coax her into acting against her better judgment.

  “Come sit beside me, Anne.”

  The smile still worked the same magic. She laughed nervously, edged across the inches that separated them, said, “Goodness, Richard, if I sit any closer, I shall be in your lap!”

  She felt his mouth against her temple, felt the warming breath of his laughter as he said softly, “I’d not mind that in the least, my love!”

  “Nor would I,” she whispered, not sure whether she hoped or feared that he would hear her, knew he had when he tightened his arm around her even more. How queer, she thought, that his body could be so known and yet so unfamiliar to her. His clothing was scented faintly with orris root and saffron. A fresh, rather deep nick on his jaw showed her he’d taken the trouble to shave before coming to her. She had a sudden urge to put her lips to the spot; she compromised by touching with a gentle finger the proof of his barber’s haste. His hair lay glossy against the collar of his doublet, and she found now it had the flyaway softness her own hair did when newly washed.

  “I want to kiss you, Anne.”

  This hardly came as a surprise, except in that he’d chosen to ask. It occurred to her suddenly that he might be finding her fears as difficult to deal with as she was. She nodded shyly, raised her face for his kiss. He no longer tasted of thyme as he had in the priory garden, but his mouth was warm, just as she’d remembered it to be. She wished her heart would stop pounding so; surely he could hear!

  “You’re not fearful, Anne? Not of me, beloved?”

  “No, Richard,” she whispered. “Never of you….”

  Their eyes met, held. “I do have something for you,” he said, and fumbled in the pouch that hung from his belt, drawing out a small package wrapped in green velvet.

  “At first I’d hoped to have it for your birthday, and then for your name-day, but now it seems I must miss that, too.”

  For some moments, Anne looked down in silence at what she held in her hand, a delicately crafted locket, shaped into a perfect golden oval. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but what took her breath were the entwining initials, so closely inscribed that she could not tell where the jeweled A ended and the R began. How he’d ever found the time to have it made midst his activities of the past few weeks, she could not begin to imagine, thought dazedly that he must have set a goldsmith working night and day to have it done in so short a span, to be able to give her this, which could be meant only as a love pledge.

  She fumbled with the catch until the locket sprang open, held it out toward him.

  “Put a lock of your hair in it for me…please.”

  He didn’t say anything, merely unsheathed his dagger, handed it to her. She raised up, very carefully wrapped a few strands of dark hair around the blade. As she slipped the knife back into his sheath, he took the locket from her and fastened it around her throat.

  “To remember me by,” he said and only then did he smile. She wanted to say that her every thought would be for him. She said, instead,

  “Kiss me good-bye.”

  As close as they were, he had only to lower his mouth to hers. The kiss was gentle and had in it more of tenderness than passion. When it was over, they looked at each other, and he saw in her eyes his own reluctance to speak, to run the risk of words. She moved back into his arms and he held her close. For the moment, that was enough.

  He was in the path of the sun and he closed his eyes against the glare; he could feel her hands sliding up his back. She seemed frighteningly fragile to him, and he thought she could be so easily hurt, with so little intent, could be bruised by a breath. He began to kiss the face upturned to his, took his time in finding her mouth. He could feel her tension, her uncertainty; there was a stiffness in the slender body he held. But she was of her own accord parting her lips under his, inviting him to take her mouth in kisses as impassioned as he chose to make them. It was an invitation he could not resist, that he now saw no reason to resist.

  After a time, he heard her say his name, say in soft protest, “Richard…Richard, I cannot catch my breath…. Oh, love, wait….”

  She seemed content to stay within his arms, however, and he took reassurance from that, murmured against her hair, “It be all right, beloved. I do promise you. I’d never cause you hurt, never….”

  Her eyes were darker than he ever remembered, gave shadowed refuge to those memories she could not, even now, forget. God damn Lancaster and Warwick both for what they’d done to her. God damn them all, he thought, with a sudden bitter tenderness, and kissed her again, in that moment making a vow that she would forget, that he’d somehow make her forget, no matter how long it took, whatever the price he’d pay it, for she was worth it, worth it all and more.

  5

  Middleham

  September 1471

  A strained silence gripped the small crowd assembled before the market cross to watch a man die. Francis’s stallion shied, lashed out with both forefeet, and he realized he’d unknowingly tightened his grip upon the reins. Hastily getting his mount under control, he glanced sideways at Richard, flicked his eyes over his friend’s frozen profile and back to the man kneeling before the block.

  The priest from the village church had invoked the names of St Alkelda, Middleham’s own saint, and St Matthew, whose day it was; was making the sign of the cross over the condemned man. Thank the Lord Jesus that Fauconberg was choosing to die well! When Edward had executed Fauconberg’s ally, the renegade Mayor of Canterbury, at the end of May, it had degenerated into a spectacle that haunted Francis even now. Of course that unlucky soul had been condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and so gruesome a death as that was enough to break the spirit of all but the most stoic of men. Francis had found it enough of a horror merely to watch; at least Fauconberg faced only the axe.

  An expectant hush now descended upon the square, a collective catch of breath. Francis braced himself. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rob, felt a keen throb of envy, for Rob looked impressive to the point of indifference. The same could not be said of Dickon, Francis thought. Richard was taut, his mouth tightly drawn, his eyes grey and guarded. But then, Fauconberg was dying this September noon at Richard’s command, and that was not a command a man could give with indifference.

  It was also a command Francis knew he was not capable of giving himself. He agreed thoroughly with Richard that Fauconberg had to die. This new treason of his with the Scots was as treacherous as it was stupid. But however much he felt Fauconberg deserved to die, Francis knew this execution was something he could not have done. He’d have opted for the easier way, would have sent Fauconberg under guard to London, let Edward be the one to collect the debt Fauconberg now owed.

  The axe flashed upward, sent shivers of sunlight into the sky before Francis’s eyes. A sigh swept the crowd as it started on its downward swing, and suddenly Francis was somersaulted seven years back in time, was once more in a shadowed slaughterhouse, watching as a man’s life came to an abrupt and bloody end before the horrified eyes of a ten-year-old boy. He blinked, and was back in the present, was able to look down with controlled distaste at the body of a traitor twice over.

  He watched as Richard gave the necessary commands, as the villagers began to drift toward the local alehouse to discuss what they’d just witnessed. It was, he now saw, a beautiful autumn afternoon. He spurred his stallion after Richard, caught up with him at the drawbridge of the castle. Now that it was over, it showed more in Richard’s face, what Francis had already guessed, that to rea
d a death sentence over Somerset and men already doomed was not the same as condemning a man whose treason was not forgivable and yet could have been forgiven.

  It had not been a particularly good summer for Dickon, he thought, not a good summer at all. He knew Dickon had not wanted to go north, was far more interested in making his own peace with Anne Neville than in striking a truce with the Scots. God’s truth but it had been a blessing of sorts that Tewkesbury had come so hard on the heels of Barnet, giving Dickon little time to grieve for his dead, for Thomas Parr and Tom Huddleston, for the cousin he’d once loved and the one he loved even now. Now he did have the time, and his grieving was all the more painful for being so long repressed. His way of dealing with it had been to concentrate all his energies upon ending the border raids, with a grim resolve that soon brought the results he sought. In early August, James of Scotland signaled his readiness for a negotiated settlement.

  Dismounting in the inner bailey, Francis found himself remembering what Richard had done as soon as he was free to follow his own inclinations, remembering that awkward uneasy pilgrimage they’d made to Isabella Neville, John Neville’s widow.

  Francis hadn’t wanted to go, was sorry that he’d let himself be talked into it. She’d been polite, almost too much so. But there was too little to be said and too much to be remembered. And there’d been the children, John Neville’s five daughters. Their newly wary faces, pinched with bewildered pain, had bothered Francis immeasurably, and if he felt that way, how must Dickon have felt?

  It was the child who wasn’t there who’d bothered Francis the most, however, John’s son. The little boy had been sent to Calais for safekeeping, had only that July been returned to England. He was in London now and Isabella Neville was desperate to have him with her. Richard had been able to ease her anxiety somewhat, assuring her he thought it very likely that Edward would permit her to retain custody of her son. It would be an unusual generosity if so, since women were rarely given such wardships. Francis hoped Richard was right, hoped the youngster need not be uprooted, need not find himself the ward of strangers. He was just ten, the same age Francis had been when he’d lost his own father.