The Sunne in Splendour

  She felt at first fury that he should dare to enter unannounced, rage that none had thought to stop him, that it should be taken for granted that he had the right. But then the fear came back, the sudden certainty that this would be the time when Ned would heed his plea, would agree to pardon Clarence.

  Edward released the baby, straightened up slowly.

  “I do want to talk with you, Ned.” Richard had yet to acknowledge Elizabeth’s presence, a rudeness she hadn’t expected from him; until now, their relationship had always been icily correct.

  “Alone,” he added, and only then did he look at his brother’s Queen, a long measuring look that was as insulting as anything he could have said.

  Elizabeth caught her breath and then found herself fighting a hysterical urge to laugh. So this was to be the way of it! In ridding herself of Clarence, she was only exchanging the enmity of one brother for that of the other. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. Clarence…Clarence had great wealth, but Gloucester had something more dangerous, a power base of his own. Lord of the North he was…just like Warwick. Warwick, who’d come so close to bringing them all to ruin.

  Beside her, she felt her son tug at her skirt. No, she’d not think of this now. Not of Warwick who was dead or Gloucester who might prove to be a more dangerous enemy than Clarence. Gloucester, who was not the fool his brother was, who had Ned’s trust. But no…not now! Clarence knew and Gloucester did not, and that made Clarence the greater threat. The one to be dealt with now. Nothing else mattered. Let Ned see that—oh, God, don’t let him listen….

  Edward suddenly caught the fragrance of rosemary, knew without looking that Elizabeth had come to stand at his side.

  “No, Dickon,” he said quietly. “I think not. We’ve said it all.”

  So great was Elizabeth’s gratitude that she was momentarily speechless, could only give Edward a smile that was radiant with relief. And for Richard, that smile illuminated a lifetime of stored-up grievances. He stared at her, not seeing the beauty that had won his brother’s heart, not seeing in her any qualities of queenship. Had Ned not been bewitched by this woman, he thought bitterly, Johnny Neville need not have died. Nor Warwick. Anne would never have been bartered to Lancaster. And George would not now be in the Tower.

  “My congratulations, Madame. It’s not every husband who’d sacrifice his own blood to gratify a wife’s whims. You must be very pleased with yourself.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes glittered; color crimsoned across her cheekbones. But Edward was quicker than she.

  “Have a care, Dickon. I’ll let no man speak ill of my wife, not even you. Lisbet bears no share of George’s guilt. His treason was very much his own.”

  “Let’s talk about that…about George’s treason. You’re seven years late, Ned. That debt’s no longer good. You had cause then, but not now. George is a fool, a trouble-maker, and possibly a drunkard, but he’s no traitor. By rights, he should be in Bedlam under care, not in the Tower under guard. And you do know that fully as well as I. So don’t lie to me, Ned. No more talk of treason. If George is to die, I have the right to know why. You do owe me that much.”

  “I owe you nothing. George has been tried and found guilty of treason. The penalty for treason is death. And that be all I’ll say on it, now or ever.”

  Elizabeth was no fool; she knew she should keep her mouth shut. But the temptation to retaliate was too strong.

  “There’s something I would say though, Ned. I would hear your brother explain why he thinks treason to be so negligible an offense! I cannot help thinking that his curious lack of concern for Clarence’s betrayals does call his own loyalties into question!”

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to that,” Richard snapped. Swinging back toward Edward. “Tell me, Ned, what else does she seek? Will you mount George’s head on Drawbridge Gate to please her? I understand the sight of our brother Edmund’s head on Micklegate Bar did greatly please Marguerite d’Anjou!”

  Edward had gone very white. “Enough, Richard!” For the first time in his life, calling his brother by his given name. “You’d best hold your tongue…for your own sake.”

  But Richard was beyond caring. “And if I don’t?”

  “You’ll regret it, I do promise you. More than you could ever imagine.”

  “What do you have in mind? A stay in the Tower, perhaps?”

  “Yes, if need be!”

  Suddenly there was only silence in the chamber. An absolute unnatural quiet that rubbed raw against the nerves of the three adults, and at last affected even the baby. He began to whimper, buried his face in Elizabeth’s skirt. She reached down, absentmindedly patted his head, all the while keeping her eyes upon Edward. He was ashen, now sat down abruptly in the nearest chair.

  “Blood of Christ,” he said incredulously, “what are we saying to each other?”

  Richard shook his head, said nothing. He, too, had been deeply shaken, and it showed.

  “Dickon, listen to me. Can’t you see the futility of this? How dangerous it is? We’re goading each other to say what we don’t mean, what we may not be able to forget. George isn’t worth it, Dickon. He just isn’t worth it.”

  Richard’s emotions were in turmoil. He was twenty-five and since the age of eight, all he’d known of security had been what his brother had given him, his sense of self becoming inextricably entwined within the ties that bound him to Edward, ties he’d thought forever beyond breaking. Suddenly the ground had shifted under him, leaving half-truths and unease where certainties had been rooted deep. He needed time to come to terms with what had happened in this chamber tonight, and he said now, in a voice that was very low and very strained, “I think it would be best if I leave.”

  Edward looked up quickly. After a pause that was almost imperceptible, he nodded. But as Richard reached the door, he could keep silent no longer, said with sudden passion, “You’re a fool, Dickon. God help you, lad, but you are. George doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

  Richard turned at that. For a long moment he regarded Edward, eyes smoky and opaque. “Do you?” he asked softly.

  16

  Tower of London

  February 1478

  On the wall above his bed were ten large crosses, smeared in charcoal with an unsteady hand. George counted them carefully, one for each of the days he’d lived under sentence of death. He’d made something of a ritual of it, lining them up in equal rows, not ever adding a cross until after sundown. So what he did now was startlingly at variance with past habit. For more than an hour, he’d lain motionless on the bed, gazing up at the grimy finger-smudged wall. Suddenly he sat up, swung off the bed. The stick he used as a marker lay on the floor by the brazier of hot coals. Snatching it up, he thrust it into the ashes and knelt on the bed to draw a defiantly lopsided cross twice the size of the others.

  For a moment, his face reflected satisfaction, but as he stared at it, superstition began to reassert itself. It was only noon. Should he so tempt Providence? He raised his fist to obliterate the cross, stopped in midair. Wasn’t it worse to cancel it out now? What better way to invite ill luck than that? Back and forth his thoughts warred uneasily, and at last he resolved his qualms as he did everything these days, by reaching down for the wine flagon.

  In some ways, these ten days had been easier than the preceding four months, for with his death sentence had come an easing of his confinement. Once more he had access to the wine cellar of the Herber. Whatever he wanted, he was given, as often as he wished, and if he could never manage to drink himself into complete blankness, he was never completely sober, either.

  Setting the flagon down in the floor rushes, he closed his eyes. Night and day had little meaning for him now and he snatched at sleep whenever it would come. That the chamber was ablaze with torches didn’t bother him at all; darkness bothered him far more. He craved candles even more than wine, filled the chamber with rush and cresset lights, with candelabras and wick lamps, yet still the corners provided sanctuary for sh
adows, gave refuge to the fears that not even malmsey could always keep at bay.

  He was awakened a short time later by a hand gently yet insistently shaking his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he blinked up in astonishment at the resplendent figure leaning over the bed, an apparition garbed in purple cassock, flowing silk cope. As wine-bedazed as his brain was, he was at first hesitant to accept the evidence of his own senses; too often upon awakening, he found his chamber peopled by ghosts. But as he stared up at the tense, pinched face under the jeweled miter, recognition flickered. He wasn’t dreaming. There really was a Bishop bending over him. One, moreover, whom he knew.

  “Stillington?” Uncertainly at first and then with dawning excitement. “I’ll be damned, it is you! Sweet Jesus, but it be good to see you…to see anyone!” He struggled upright with some difficulty, but his smile was dazzling. “How did you get by Ned’s lackeys? You cannot imagine how I’ve yearned for someone to talk with—”

  “Your Grace.” Stillington interrupted hastily, unable to bear being greeted as a friend. “You…you don’t understand.” He swallowed, looked about for someplace to sit, and at last lowered himself onto the edge of the bed next to George.

  “I’m here at the King’s behest,” he said quietly. “He did send me to you, my lord…so that you might hear Mass and make confession, so you’d not go unshriven to God.” As he spoke, he was studiously staring down into his lap, so he’d not have to watch when the meaning of his words registered with George. Once, as a young priest, he’d given absolution to a condemned man, and the memory had haunted him for years. But this was infinitely worse.

  When he could avoid looking up no longer, he chanced a sideways glance at the other man. Months of enforced sobriety had stripped away the excess flesh of George’s drink-sodden summer. The hair slanting across his forehead was the shade of spun gold; the eyes meeting Stillington’s own were a brilliant blue-green and had in them the stunned uncomprehending look of a child. Stillington, who nurtured no illusions whatsoever about George, was, nonetheless, moved almost to tears, and he, who was neither handsome nor young, could only wonder why it was that tragedy seemed somehow worse when it struck at those favored with both youth and beauty. So sharp was his pity that it unsettled him, struck a vein of superstitious unease. So, he reminded himself, must Lucifer have looked before the Fall.

  George had yet to move, still sprawled on the bed looking up at him. From his belt Stillington unfastened a rosary of ebony and coral, held it out toward the younger man.

  “With the King’s permission, I did go this morn to your lady mother. It was her most fervent wish that you do have this. It was once your father’s, does come from the Blessed Shrine of St James at Compostella.”

  George made no move to take it. Stillington hesitated, and then realized he had it in his power to right a wrong.

  “She did plead for you, my lord. So did your brother Gloucester and your sisters of Suffolk and Burgundy. You must not think they were uncaring of your plight. It was the King’s command that did keep them away….” His words trailed off; he wasn’t sure George was even listening.

  Stillington sought feverishly to call to mind the traditional words of comfort, words a priest could utter to soothe troubled souls, to ease earthly anguish and turn thoughts toward the Hereafter. But the training of a lifetime availed him little; he was hopelessly hobbled by his own guilt.

  George moved so suddenly that Stillington flinched. Lurching unsteadily to his feet, he dropped to his knees by the bed, and Stillington felt a lump rising in his throat that he should so shamefully fail one in need of all the spiritual solace mortal man could provide. But then he saw that George did not mean to pray; he was kneeling to retrieve a wine flagon.

  As Stillington watched in shocked disapproval, George tilted the flagon back, swallowed until he choked. He sputtered, spilled wine on the bed, on himself, and then drank deeply again. At first scandalized that a man should go besotted to his Maker, Stillington found himself taking a more charitable view as he watched. Did he truly want to deny George the numbing mercies of malmsey? No, he decided, he didn’t.

  It was then that he remembered he did have a means of giving comfort.

  “I can ease your mind as to your children, my lord,” he said, brightening. “Even though you’ve been attainted, the King does not mean to deprive your heirs of their inheritance. He did promise me that they’ll be well cared for, that he shall still bestow the earldom of Warwick upon your son.”

  George lowered the flagon to stare at him, and then he stunned Stillington by bursting into wild peals of uncontrolled convulsive laughter. “You poor pious fool,” he gasped. “That’s supposed to give me comfort? You think that does make it all right?”

  Stillington’s pity curdled, went suddenly sour. “I have just assured you that your son and daughter shall not suffer for your sins,” he said stiffly. “For most men, my lord, that would count for much.”

  George drained the flagon, flung it from him with sudden raging violence. It smashed into the far wall with such force that it shattered upon impact, rained broken glass into all corners of the room. Stillington gasped as a jagged fragment whizzed by his cheek, squeezed Cecily Neville’s rosary until his fingers cramped.

  “Why should I believe you? How do I know Ned isn’t seeking merely to scare me? He has my titles, my lands…. Why should he take my life, too?”

  “My lord…. My lord, do not delude yourself with false hope. There is none, not since that evil accursed moment when you so rashly let the name of Nell Butler pass your lips—” Stillington stopped abruptly; his mouth dropped.

  “Mother of God, you didn’t know!”

  George looked dazed. He sank down on the bed, shook his head. “What that priest wrote…it was true, then? And that be why Ned does mean to—Oh, Jesus!” He tasted salt on his lips, realized he’d begun to sweat. And then his eyes slitted, and Stillington shrank back before his fury.

  “You told Ned, told him about my questions! It was you who did betray me!”

  “No, my lord, I did not! I ought to have gone to the King as soon as you did approach me, but I didn’t. My fear kept me silent. Would that it had done the same for you!”

  “How…how then?”

  “You did betray yourself, my lord,” Stillington said, more gently. “When the King did first imprison you last summer, you drank to excess, and when you drank, you talked…most unwisely. Eventually your drunken babblings did reach the ear of the Queen.”

  George slumped back on the bed. “All these months,” he whispered, “I didn’t realize…. And because I didn’t, I never believed Ned would do it….”

  Stillington averted his eyes. He had one more unpleasant task to perform before he could hear George’s confession, the duty he’d been most dreading.

  “My lord…. The King has authorized me to…to offer you a choice….”

  George said nothing, stared at him with eyes that were glazed and unseeing.

  “You do…understand?” Stillington stammered, hating Edward for forcing this upon him, hating Nell Butler who was dead—above all, hating himself for his weakness, for a secret he’d never wanted to know.

  “I’ve always heard that drowning be an easy death,” he said softly.

  Silence filled the chamber. After some interminable seconds, Stillington reached out, took George’s hand. It was hot and sticky with wine. His fingers lay limp, unresisting as Stillington put the rosary into his palm and gently closed the slack fingers around it.

  Elizabeth stood motionless in the doorway, listening as Edward gave instructions for his brother’s funeral.

  “…and his body is to be taken to Tewkesbury, to be there buried with all due honors. Inform Abbot John. And have word sent to my mother, to my brother Gloucester, and to my sister, the Duchess of Suffolk, so that they might attend the funeral if they so wish.”

  Elizabeth didn’t move for some moments after the others left the chamber, stayed where she was until Edward glanced
up and saw her there.

  “And what may I do for you, my darling? Let me guess…You’ve come to dance on George’s grave?”

  Elizabeth was too appalled to be angry, hearing in his words the death knell of their marriage. She stumbled toward him, fell to her knees beside his chair.

  “Don’t say that, Ned, not to me! You cannot blame me for Clarence’s death. You couldn’t be that unfair; you know you couldn’t!”

  He looked as tired as she’d ever seen him, his eyes heavy-lidded and hooded, the muscles of his mouth rigid, forbidding. But as he listened, she saw it soften slightly.

  “No…. No, I couldn’t. You’re right and I’m sorry, Lisbet. I don’t blame you, in truth I don’t.” The corner of his mouth twisted upward, counterfeited a smile. “I would to God I could! But I do know better; it be one of life’s little ironies that I do lie convincingly to everyone but myself.”

  Elizabeth rose, perched on the arm of his chair, and sought to work the tension from his neck and shoulders with her fingers. He leaned back, closing his eyes.

  “George gave Stillington a message for me. He said to tell me that he’d see me in Hell!” He laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. “I daresay he’s right!”

  “That’s nothing to jest about,” Elizabeth said reprovingly.

  Edward shifted in the chair, said bemusedly, “It be passing strange. My reluctance, my regrets were for Ma Mère, Meg, Dickon. Not for George. Yet I did dream about him last night. Can you credit that, Lisbet? And damn me if else, but in the dream he was no more than ten…if even that….”

  Elizabeth’s urgency was such that she could spare no time now to indulge him. There was more at stake than his ease of conscience.

  “What of Stillington, Ned?”

  “No!” He was on his feet so abruptly that he came close to dumping her onto the floor.

  “Ned, he knows!”

  “I said no! I’ll not murder that old man!”