The Sunne in Splendour

  Bess decided it best not to pressure her mother about their departure from sanctuary. Better to wait till Mama was more herself again. She made a hasty retreat before her mother could change her mind, sent Cecily to help Dickon pack while she returned to the refectory to tell the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Howard that her little brother would be going with them.

  She stood watching now at the east window of the refectory as Dickon exited into the Abbot’s courtyard. He was frisking about like a mettlesome colt, had managed to entangle the Archbishop of Canterbury in the long lead attached to his dog’s collar. Bess grinned, but it faded as she glanced across the chamber. Her four-year-old sister Katherine was coming through the doorway from the kitchen; she clutched a handful of candied orange peels, was struggling to hold on to a very disgruntled grey kitten. Bess sighed; they all should be going with Dickon. Somehow, she must make Mama see that, must—She heard her name, turned to see John Howard standing in the doorway.

  “Is there someplace where we may talk alone?”

  Bess nodded. “We can go into the Jerusalem Chamber if you like.”

  She was pleased that John Howard had remained behind to talk to her; she liked him enormously, this man who’d been her father’s friend, liked his gruff blunt-spoken manner, much like an elderly uncle. Bess thought of him as just that, in fact, as more of an uncle than her own blood uncles. Bess was not close to any of her mother’s brothers; secretly, she was a little ashamed of her unpopular Woodville kin, preferred to think of herself as Plantagenet. Of her father’s brothers, she’d never liked her Uncle George, and while Dickon had always been her favorite relative, she’d never really thought of him as an uncle; he was too young for that, only thirteen years older than she. Jack Howard, however, filled the need perfectly, and for all that he affected a no-nonsense, brusque manner, she sensed he was secretly delighted that she’d chosen to call him Uncle Jack.

  He didn’t look very comfortable now, however, looked troubled. “Your uncle asked me to speak with you,” he said abruptly. “There’s something you’ve got to be told, lass. Stillington’s going before the council this afternoon, so it’ll be all over Westminster by nightfall, and Dickon didn’t want you to hear it that way, to hear some garbled account likely to give you even greater grief.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Bess said uneasily.

  “You’ll like it even less by the time I be through,” he said grimly, “but there’s no help for it, Bess. You have to know. It be about your father. We’re all born to sin, all have our weaknesses. Your father’s was women. Forgive me for being so blunt, but I know no other way. He sinned when he did marry your mother, did her a wrong and you and your brothers and sisters a greater one. He wasn’t free, lass. More than two years before he went through that ceremony with your mother at Grafton Manor, he entered into a plight-troth with another woman. The Lady Eleanor Butler, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter. They said their vows before Stillington, and to keep him quiet, your father made him Chancellor. For more than twenty years, he held his tongue, knowing that the marriage was invalid, that—”

  Bess at last found her voice. “God in Heaven, what are you saying? That my father plight-trothed with this…this Eleanor Butler and then married my mother, knowing full well that any children of such a union would be bastards? And you expect me to believe that? Believe my father would do that to me, to us?”

  He winced as her voice rose, reached toward her, but she backed away from him, shaking her head.

  “No…. I don’t believe it! Papa would never have done that, never!”

  “Bess….”

  “No!” She was continuing to back away, stumbled as the room blurred in a haze of tears. “It’s not true! It’s not!”

  Cecily was knotting a handkerchief, jerking it through trembling fingers and pulling it taut, as if it were a lifeline.

  “Bess…Bess, could we have been wrong about Uncle Dickon? Could Papa have been wrong to trust him so? Would he do that, make use of a lie to take Edward’s throne?”

  “No!” Bess said fiercely, almost desperately. “I cannot believe that of him, Cecily, I cannot! Stillington must have somehow convinced him that it was true. To believe otherwise, to believe he’d concoct such a slander, falsely swear that we be bastards so that he might be King…” Her voice trailed off.

  Cecily was not as sure as Bess; she was an avid reader, and history was replete with stories of honorable men seduced by the golden glimmer of a crown. She wanted to believe, however, needed to believe as much as Bess did. If Papa could have so misjudged Uncle Dickon…It was a frightening thought.

  “Mama has to be told,” she said huskily, and Bess nodded.

  Elizabeth had risen to bid her son farewell, had then taken to her bed again, clad only in a bed robe, blonde hair hanging uncombed and tangled down her back, showing unmistakable streaks of grey. To her daughters, who’d grown up with a beauty that was flawless, as cold and polished and perfect as finely grained ivory, this haggard middle-aged woman was a stranger, a stranger who heard them out in apathetic silence, seemed scarcely to be listening at all.

  “Mama? Mama, you do understand what I be saying? Mama, they mean to deny Edward the crown!”

  “Yes, Bess, I heard you the first time.” Elizabeth sat up slowly, put her fingers to her forehead, winced. “Cecily, fetch me that glass vial, the one with the oil of roses. My head feels like to split.”

  Expecting hysterics, tantrums, tears, Bess and Cecily were nonplussed by this almost nonchalant acceptance, this eerie indifference. Cecily obediently brought the vial, sat beside her mother and began to rub the scented oil into Elizabeth’s temples. Bess sat on the other side of the bed, said, “Mama, I seem to remember Bishop Stillington being arrested about the time that my Uncle George was executed. Isn’t it likely that he harbored a grudge against Papa for that? And it would explain why he made up such a story, why…”

  Elizabeth lay back against the pillows. “Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. I tried to tell Ned, did all but go down on my knees to him. But would he heed me? No…. He’d not have Stillington’s blood on his hands, he said. Said, too, that we had nothing to fear from Stillington.” She laughed unsteadily. “Nothing to fear! Tell me that again, Ned, tell me how you were going to make the crown safe for your son! You’ll have to burn in Hell for a thousand years ere you can atone for what you’ve done to me and mine, and not even a thousand years would be time enough to win my forgiveness….”

  “Mama…Mama, what are you saying? You make it sound as if Bishop Stillington spoke the truth!”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Of course he spoke the truth,” she said tiredly. “Why do you think I’ve been so frantic since Ned died, why I fought so to deny Gloucester the protectorship? I knew…knew it was only a matter of time till Stillington came forward, until he—”

  “No!”

  Cecily was stricken dumb, but Bess was shaking her head vehemently, was trembling all over.

  “No,” she gasped. “I don’t believe you! Papa would never have done that! I know he wouldn’t!”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open, focused on her eldest daughter with a rage all the more embittered for being so long repressed. “You know nothing! You’ve never seen Ned as he truly was, never! Well, I think it time we spoke the truth about him, about your cherished beloved father who could do no wrong!

  “The truth is that he was a man who cared only for his own pleasures, and most of them were found between a woman’s legs! Nineteen years we were wed, and from the very first, he had his sluts on the side. Not because he didn’t get what he wanted in my bed; he did. But one woman was never enough for him. He filled his court with harlots, thought nothing of seducing the wives of friends, and when he was through with them, passed them on to Hastings or my Tom. Nell Butler was merely one of many, notable only in that she was chaste enough to deny him her bed till he agreed to a plight-troth and then stupid enough to let him sweet-talk her into holding he
r tongue. He lay with her and lost interest and then married me, so cocksure he could get away with it, that he could get away with anything.

  “And when Clarence found out, he had him put to death to keep the secret safe, but he balked at silencing Stillington and this”—with a wide sweep of her arm that took in the confines of the Abbot’s bedchamber—“this is the result. I lay with him and bore him ten children; I put up with his wenching; I even raised his bastard brats by other women when he asked it of me and this…this is my reward for it, this is the legacy he did leave me. The man you see as God Almighty, as the perfect father!

  “Well, I’m done protecting him, done lying for him. Your brother will never wear a crown because his father went through life like a bloody rutting stag! And you, my daughter who once thought to be Queen of France, you’ll have to set your sights a mite lower, get used to hearing people call you bastard when once they did call you princess, and none of it be my fault! When you give thanks for this, you give them to the man who most deserves them…to your father, God curse him!”

  “Oh, Mama, stop!” Cecily had begun to sob. “Name of God, don’t say any more! Please!”

  Elizabeth was panting, utterly exhausted by the violence of her outburst. Suddenly all her anger had gone; she felt weak, very tired, and slightly sick.

  “Well,” she said dully, “so now you do know the truth….”

  Bess had yet to move. Her body had gone rigid with shock; the eyes that met Elizabeth’s own were glazed, unseeing. Elizabeth felt a twinge of remorse, found herself wishing she’d used softer words, left some of it unsaid. Bess had always been Ned’s particular pet, after all, and she looked ill, in truth she did. Elizabeth reached out her hand, but at her touch Bess came to life, recoiled abruptly.

  “You want me to hate Papa, don’t you?” she whispered. “To hate him for ruining our lives. Well, maybe I do…. I don’t know how I feel about him now. I don’t—” Her voice broke, steadied. “But this I do know. Whatever my feelings for him, I do hate you for telling me!”

  It had not taken long for the council to determine the fate of the conspirators. John Morton and Thomas Rotherham were more fortunate than they deserved in that they were both Bishops of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and most of the council, particularly their fellow clerics, were loathe to shed the blood of a priest. As Richard shared this same reluctance, he made no objections when it was proposed that Morton and Rotherham be spared the axe.

  It was soon agreed, then, that Rotherham was to have a stay in the Tower. Morton was a more difficult case, for he was a far more dangerous man than the ineffectual Rotherham. It was Buckingham who came up with the solution. Why not have Morton sent under guard to his own castle at Brecknock in Wales? Brecknock was in an isolated area, far from London; it would make an ideal prison for the too-clever Lancastrian priest. With unusual unanimity, the council accepted Buckingham’s offer, consigned Morton to his custody.

  The real problem was what to do about Lord Stanley. Now that all involved in the plot had been arrested and interrogated, it seemed that the evidence against Stanley was more circumstantial than otherwise. Stanley had been in suspiciously close contact with Morton during the past fortnight, but apparently he hadn’t committed himself all that fully to the plot. Or if he had, no evidence of it had so far been unearthed. That his wife was involved, there was no doubt, but Stanley himself remained an enigma. Had he been clever enough to shelter himself behind his wife, using her as an intermediary so that he could then disavow his own involvement should the need arise? Or had she been acting on her own? She was, all agreed, quite capable of it and then some!

  Margaret Beaufort was Stanley’s second wife. It was a marriage that had raised both eyebrows and suspicions, for Stanley’s controversial new wife was a woman whose loyalties were irrevocably pledged in blood to the fallen House of Lancaster. She was a Beaufort, first cousin to the Duke of Somerset executed after the battle of Tewkesbury, and when she was only twelve, Harry of Lancaster had married her to his Welsh half brother Edmund Tudor. The following year, she’d given birth to a son, named Henry in honor of his royal uncle. He was now a man in his mid-twenties, had lived for several years under the protection of the Duke of Brittany. With the death of Prince Édouard on Tewkesbury’s Bloody Meadow, this son of Margaret Beaufort and Edmund Tudor suddenly became a figure of some significance, for in his veins now ran all that remained of the blood of Lancaster. It was not surprising, therefore, that the French King evidenced an intense interest in luring him to France. Edward, too, had showed himself eager to get his hands upon this last scion of the House of Lancaster, but the Duke of Brittany was no less quick to see the advantages in having so valuable a political pawn. So Tudor lived in exile at the court of Brittany, while his mother took as her second husband Sir Henry Stafford, an uncle of the Duke of Buckingham. And now she was wed to Stanley, and the men gathered in the Tower Council Chamber on this sixteenth day of June were asking themselves if Stanley was her willing collaborator or her unwitting dupe.

  “Your Grace….” Bishop Russell leaned across the table toward Richard. “I truly don’t know how deep was Lord Stanley’s involvement, whether he was in collusion with Morton or whether he be guilty of no more than a lapse of judgment, an inability to control his wife. And because I don’t know, I feel we should give him the benefit of the doubt. The evidence be too ambiguous to allow of any other interpretation.”

  Buckingham was frowning, seemed on the verge of protesting. But most of the other faces around the table reflected Russell’s uncertainty. If excuses could be found for Stanley, they’d be much relieved. The shock of Hastings’s abrupt execution had not yet worn off. That Richard could understand. Could understand all too well.

  He nodded briefly. He didn’t want to fight the council on this, didn’t want to argue for more bloodshed. Stanley wasn’t worth it. Why not show him the mercy a better man than he had been denied? Richard found himself staring out the window. Below, Tower Green was still, dappled in sun and shade, and for several moments he watched the way the light patterned the grass, foreshadowing dusk. Sand had been strewn about with a lavish hand, had blotted up the blood that three days past had soaked the ground in a river of red. Richard swallowed, looked away.

  “Well, that does account for Rotherham, Stanley, and Morton,” Richard’s brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk said briskly. “All that must be done, then, is to bring a Bill of Attainder against Hastings when parliament does meet—”

  “No,” Richard said, so sharply that all heads turned in his direction. “I’m not going to attaint Hastings.”

  Suffolk was taken aback. “That be most magnanimous to his family, but we’re talking about a considerable sum of money. Hastings was a very wealthy man, and the confiscation of his estates would help fill the coffers emptied when the Woodvilles raided the treasury….”

  “I do not intend to attaint Hastings,” Richard repeated tersely. “I’ll not have his widow and children pay the price for his treason.” And the tone of his voice precluded further argument. There was a sudden silence, broken by Buckingham.

  “There remains one matter still to be decided, my lords. Once before we voted on whether to charge Anthony Woodville and Grey with treason. At Bishop Morton’s urging, the charge was voted down. Well, we know now that he had an ulterior motive in so doing, was hand in glove with the Woodville Queen. I would suggest therefore, that we do vote again.”

  Buckingham paused, waited to see if any meant to argue with him. None did. Richard glanced around the table, saw that all eyes were upon him, that this decision was to be his to make. He could see that Anthony Woodville and Dick Grey paid with their lives for Elizabeth Woodville’s treachery. Or he could accord them mercy he did not believe they deserved.

  “My lord Buckingham speaks for me in this,” he said grimly. “I would have them charged with treason.”

  The vote that followed was an affirmation of Richard’s will. Anthony Woodville, Dick Grey, and Thomas
Vaughn were condemned in less time than it took to make a circuit of the table, to have each man voice his aye or nay.

  Buckingham pushed his chair back; his eyes sought Richard’s. Richard nodded, and Buckingham smiled.

  “And now, my lords,” he said, “Dr Stillington does want to address the council. He has a confession to make, one you’ll be most interested in hearing. That I can promise you.”

  10

  London

  June 1483

  On June 22, Friar Ralph Shaa, the brother of London’s current Lord Mayor, mounted the pulpit steps of Paul’s Cross, and before a hushed, expectant crowd, began to speak. He’d chosen as his sermon the biblical text, “Bastard slips shall not take root,” and in the glare of summer sunlight, he revealed to the people of London the details of the secret plight-troth that Bishop Stillington had six days ago brought before the council.

  There was little surprise; the city had been afire with rumors for days. Some rejoiced. Others, the cynical and those who’d hoped to enrich themselves in the chaos of a minority reign, scoffed at the plight-troth as a contrivance, a fable concocted to legitimize Richard’s usurpation of his nephew’s crown. But for the most part, Londoners accorded Richard a cautious approval. He was a man grown, a man of proven abilities, with a reputation for honesty and fair-dealing, while Edward was an untried youngster, Anthony Woodville’s pupil and protégé. There was sympathy for Edward, but the paramount reaction was one of relief; memories had not yet dimmed of the troubled times England had endured under the last boy King.

  Three days later, a joint session of the Lords and Commons met at Westminster and unanimously approved a petition setting forth Richard’s claim to the crown. The following afternoon, a delegation of nobles, clergy, and citizens gathered at Baynard’s Castle. There, twenty-two years before, a similar delegation had offered the crown to Richard’s brother; it was now offered to Richard. He accepted and dated the beginning of his reign from that Thursday, June 26.