George did not like his brother, had not liked Edward for years now, not since the early days of Edward’s kingship, and perhaps, even before that. He’d always resented the way Edward had favored Richard, a favoritism that seemed to him to grow more pronounced with the passing years. He resented, too, what he saw as Edward’s refusal to take him seriously, resented the way that all seemed to come so easily to Edward, with so little effort, and that Edward would deny him the right to wed Isabel Neville. Above all, he resented the fact that the gold circlet of kingship was Edward’s and would never be his, except in the unlikely event that Elizabeth Woodville kept giving Edward only daughters, and George knew better than to count on that.
But as little as he liked Edward and as much as he liked his cousin of Warwick, George was unnerved by Warwick’s wrath. He’d expected his cousin to be angry, of course. But not as angry as this.
When Warwick stormed from the solar, John had not at first realized his intent. Warwick had thus gained an invaluable advantage in time and distance, was probably already at Westminster. John forced himself to sit back in his barge, to stare at the passing blackness that hid the houses clustered along the riverbank. And he tried not to think what he might find once he at last reached Westminster.
Westminster Palace was dark. As John scrambled onto the King’s dock, he could hear the clock in the outer bailey marking the midnight hour. Guards stepped from the shadows to bar his way and at once moved aside in respectful recognition. Trailed by a handful of retainers, he made his way to the King’s chambers, and there found his worst fears realized.
The antechamber was ablaze with torches. The door to Edward’s bedchamber was blocked by men wearing the Yorkist badge of the Sunne in Splendour. They were very polite to His Grace, the Earl of Warwick, and very adamant. The King’s Grace had retired for the night, could not be disturbed, not even by my lord of Warwick. Warwick never traveled without a sizable escort, and now his men crowded around their lord, staring defiantly at the King’s servants.
“I did say I would see my cousin, the King,” Warwick said, in the tones of one accustomed to unquestioning obedience.
Edward’s men, however, did not budge, and this time the refusal given was not quite so polite. Warwick’s men began to murmur among themselves; the growing ill will between Warwick and Edward had begun to filter down to their followers. Someone must have spread the word, for men were now moving past John into the chamber, men who wore the livery of York.
One of these new arrivals bumped into a Warwick retainer. With what was either incredibly bad luck or the most deliberate provocation, as he stumbled, his hand clutched at the other’s sleeve, tore away the Neville badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff. Warwick’s man gave an outraged gasp and then lunged at the Yorkist.
John had never moved so fast in his life, would never know how he’d managed to cross the chamber in time to grab the offender. But the tension in the room wanted only a spark to flare into violence, to turn an ugly incident into the unthinkable, a brawl between the men of the King and the Earl of Warwick in the King’s own chambers.
“Stay there,” John snarled to the man he’d shoved against the wall, and started toward his brother, who’d turned at sound of the commotion behind him.
Voices were now raised, men had begun to trade insults with one another, but a path cleared for John without difficulty. He had no idea what he’d say to his brother. In any event, he was not given the chance. Just as he reached Warwick, the bedchamber door was flung open.
The inner chamber was still illuminated by candles. Those closest to the door had a glimpse of a woman retreating toward the curtained bed. She moved too fast for any to see more than an enticing expanse of creamy skin and a swirl of hip-length dark honey hair. But at that particular moment, even the most vicariously curious of the spectators had no time to spare for a royal mistress, however desirable she seemed to be. It was Edward who was the focus of all eyes, Edward alone.
He was partially dressed in hose and an unfastened cambric shirt. The torchlight caught the golden hairs upon his chest, showed the incongruous smear of a woman’s lip rouge across his throat. As he surveyed the scene before him, his astonishment gave way swiftly to an anger such as few had ever seen him show.
The room was suddenly still. Men began to back away, to seek more inconspicuous positions in the shadows. Warwick and John stood alone in the center of the room, but it was Warwick and only Warwick who held Edward’s attention.
“As interested as I’d have been to know of your return to England, my lord of Warwick, I hardly think it necessary for you to have broken into my bedchamber in the middle of the night to announce your arrival.”
Edward’s voice was hard, and had in it an edge Warwick had never heard from him before. Warwick had expected his cousin to be conciliatory, or perhaps defensive, but he’d not expected derision, so closely akin to contempt. He was thrown off-balance for a moment and then said tightly, “It was necessary that I have words with you tonight. It could not wait.”
“Necessary for you, perhaps. I see no such need myself.”
Warwick could not believe Edward was daring to refuse him. “It cannot wait,” he repeated stonily.
“Then you, my lord of Warwick, do have a problem. For I have no intention of speaking with you, or any other, at such an hour.”
Edward had not raised his voice, but each word struck Warwick with the force of a shout. He stared at his cousin in disbelief.
“If you wish an audience, you may return to Westminster at ten tomorrow morn. I’ll see you then,” Edward said and then dropped his voice still lower, said for Warwick alone, “Now get your men the bloody Hell out of here, and right fast.”
He didn’t wait to see if he’d be obeyed, was turning toward the door as Warwick grabbed his arm.
“Ned!” he began in a strangled voice, so choked with incredulous anger that he had to pause before he could translate his fury into coherent speech.
Edward made no attempt to free himself.
“You’re dangerously close to expending the last of your credit, Cousin,” he said softly.
And then John stepped between them.
Warwick made a supreme effort, forced himself back from the furthest reaches of a rage that was blind to consequences, to common sense. He loosened his hand from Edward’s arm, brought it up to his own face; to his surprise, he found his forehead was damp.
“I shall be back upon the morrow,” he said, very slowly and distinctly. He did not wait for the requisite royal leave before departing the chamber.
John stared bleakly at Edward, but no words came to mind. He was turning to follow his brother from the rapidly clearing chamber when Edward spoke.
“Stay a moment, my lord of Northumberland. There is something I would say to you.”
“My liege?” John hoped he didn’t sound sullen, or worse, hostile. At that moment, all he felt was a vast weariness.
“In private,” Edward said and beckoned John into the bedchamber.
The girl now swung her legs over the side of the bed, started to rise, saying, “Is all well now, my love?”
But at sight of John, she hastily dived back under the covers. John liked her for that; not all of Edward’s light o’ loves were so modest.
“I want a few words with my cousin, sweetheart.”
Edward was still tense with rage, but he managed to find a passable smile for the girl, and strode over to draw the curtains around the bed. Coming back to the table where a wine flagon was always kept to quench night thirsts, he looked questioningly at John, who shook his head, and then poured himself a drink.
“You’d best talk to him, Johnny,” he said abruptly. “My patience is well nigh exhausted.”
John shook his head. “I fear he won’t listen to me, Ned,” he admitted reluctantly.
Edward looked at him. “For his sake, for all our sakes, I do hope you’re wrong, Johnny.”
John said nothing. He knew he was not. After a mo
ment, Edward set the wine cup on the table. John moved toward the door, Edward toward the bed. As he reached for the latch, the room went dark. Edward had just extinguished the last of the candles.
John took pains to be sure to be at Westminster by ten the next morning. But his hopes of serving as a buffer between his brother and cousin came to naught. As he passed through the crowded antechamber, he recognized many faces, mostly Woodville, and stopped briefly to exchange courtesies with Sir John Howard, a steadfast Yorkist and old friend. He then continued on into the adjoining chamber, where he was not surprised to find Lord Hastings and not pleased to find his young cousin, George of Clarence.
He greeted George with but perfunctory courtesy; he still bore George a grudge for last night’s untimely revelation. He should have expected George to be here, though. George is always in the front row at a bear-baiting, he thought grimly, and turned to acknowledge the salutation by Hastings.
In the six years since Edward had claimed the crown, William Hastings had scaled the pinnacles of success with what seemed to be extraordinary ease. Knighted on the field at Towton by Edward, he’d been created Baron Hastings within a month of Edward’s June coronation. In that same month, he’d been given the prestigious position of Lord Chamberlain. No greater proof of his sudden prominence could be evidenced than the fact that in 1462, John Neville and the Earl of Warwick had deemed Hastings to be a worthy husband for their sister Katherine.
John greeted his brother-in-law with polite goodwill, if little real affection. He and Hastings were too unlike for friendship, but he had no objections to the man. Strangely enough, few at court did…save only the Queen, and it occurred to John that Elizabeth must mind Ned’s infidelities more than she let on, else why would she dislike Hastings so? For Hastings was more than Edward’s Lord Chamberlain. Despite the eleven years in age between the two men, Will Hastings was the closest friend and favorite carousing companion of the twenty-five-year-old King.
There was no one else in the chamber. John frowned, puzzled, and then saw the closed door and understood.
“Are they within?” he asked, and Hastings nodded.
“Ned is right in this, you know,” he said quietly.
“I know, Will. Once a treaty is signed, Charles will restore free trade and lift that damnable embargo they placed on the import of English wool.”
To John’s surprise, Will shook his head.
“What do you mean? Surely, Will, you’re not denying that Burgundy has always been our best market for the cloth trade.”
“Of course not. The trade considerations weighed heavily with Ned. As much, I do think, as his conviction that to seek the friendship of Louis of France is to open the barn wide and entice the wolf in to shelter with the sheep. No, that wasn’t what I meant. I meant that even if I thought Ned was mistaken to favor Burgundy over France, I’d still say he was in the right and my brother-in-law of Warwick in the wrong. It is Ned, after all,” he said mildly, “who is King.”
John happened to agree with all that Will said. But reason and passion may exist quite independently of each other. No matter how enraged he might become with his brother, he could brook no criticism of Warwick from outsiders, and now he said quite coolly, “Do you mean to suggest that I need such a reminder, my lord Hastings?”
Will looked at him, somewhat sadly. “No, Johnny. You, of all men, need no such reminder.”
They heard it then, raised voices from within the adjoining chamber. The door opened suddenly, with such violence that the ancient hinges shrieked and the heavy metal bolt slipped, slid down the door at a queer drunken angle. Warwick’s voice came to them with startling clarity.
“I don’t have to listen to this!”
He strode through the doorway, but spun around again as Edward jerked the door back with equal force.
“Oh, but you do! Because you’re not dismissed yet, my lord!”
“You dare to speak thus to me? You seem to have forgotten, my liege”—that last said with savage scorn—“that had it not been for me, your kingship would never have come into being!”
“Indeed? So speaks the victor of St Albans?”
Warwick had been darkly flushed. Yet now his color deepened still further as Edward said scathingly, “I’ve never denied the aid you gave me, and you’ve been richly rewarded for it. But a Kingmaker, Cousin, you never were. Yes, you spoke out on my behalf, argued that the crown should be offered to me. But you also came damned near to losing all with that blunder at St Albans. Had I not won Mortimer’s Cross, London would’ve yielded to Lancaster without so much as a whimper of protest. You’d best think on that, Cousin, before you make claims that have no more foundation than empty air!”
John felt sick. He could see this was a resentment that had been gnawing at Edward for years, and justice compelled him to concede there was truth in what his cousin said. But he knew, too, that his brother would never forgive Edward for saying it.
“And a fine King you’ve made, in truth! What have you done with your kingship, my liege? Precious little beyond filling your bed with harlots and your court with Woodvilles! And lest we forget, giving a full pardon to a man who should have been given no more than five minutes with his confessor! A man who played you for a fool before the year was out!”
“I need account to no man for what I do. Least of all, to you, my lord of Warwick. But this I will tell you. For three years and more now, you’ve been throwing Somerset in my teeth, and I’m heartily sick of hearing about it. I think you’d best not speak of it again, Cousin.”
“Do you threaten me?”
“Take it any way you like as long as you do bear it in mind.”
John suddenly realized that the door into the antechamber was open, that the quarrel between his cousin and brother was now audible to the score or more of people clustered without. Almost as appalled by that as he was by what was being said, he turned toward the door, saw that Will had the same idea.
Will grabbed for the door latch, started to slam it in the fascinated faces of their unwanted audience, and then pulled the door open wide, saying in a voice rich with relief, “Madame!”
For a horrified instant, John feared Will was addressing Edward’s Queen; her entry now would be utter disaster. Will stepped back, and as the woman came into the chamber, John let his breath escape in a sudden release of tension. For it was the Duchess of York.
She didn’t wait for Will, closed the door firmly behind her. Cool grey eyes moved from face to face.
“Well?” she said at last. “Do you not mean to greet me, Edward?”
Edward rallied, even summoned a taut smile. “Forgive my manners, Ma Mère.”
Turning away from her eldest son, she looked not at George but at Warwick, held out a slender hand.
He raised it to his lips, but he was far less successful than Edward at masking his rage. If Cecily saw, however, she gave no indication.
“Welcome home. I should be most interested to hear of your time in France. You will dine with me this week, will you not, Dick, and tell me of it?”
The familiar family name did as much, perhaps, to defuse some of the tension as did her unruffled demeanor. Warwick nodded. He was rarely rude to a woman; least of all, to this one.
“It will be my pleasure,” he said, the emotion he was expressing at startling variance with what all could read in his eyes.
“Good,” Cecily said calmly.
No one else spoke at all.
George waited a few discreet moments after Warwick’s departure before attempting to follow his cousin. He’d never seen Edward as angry as this, was awed in spite of himself, and decided it could not hurt to be somewhat circumspect. However, his mother’s voice halted him at the door.
“Your cousin does not need you to escort him safe home, George,” she said tartly, and George flushed. No matter how often he told himself that he was, at seventeen, a man grown, his mother managed to demolish his poise with no trouble whatsoever.
“Actually,
Ma Mère, I was planning to…look for Dickon. He did ask me to meet him at Westminster this morning.”
He saw she looked skeptical and was about to elaborate upon his alibi, knowing he could count upon Richard to back him up, when Edward intervened.
“Dickon will have to make do without your company,” he said, so impassively that George couldn’t tell if Edward believed him or was indulging in sarcasm.
“Why?” he asked uncertainly. He hated the way Ned could make him feel like a raw youth without assurance or social graces. Sometimes, he thought Ned did it deliberately.
“Our cousin of Warwick brought back to England more than the good wishes of the French King. He brought, as well, a French delegation. He told them they were to be welcomed at court this afternoon. I want you to be there to greet them, George, on my behalf.” A pause. “Do you think you might act on my behalf…for a change?”
George swallowed, “I’m your brother. Why wouldn’t I act in your interests?” he challenged, and was relieved when Edward chose to let it pass.
As George exited the chamber, Edward turned to John for the first time, said softly, “I’m sorry, Johnny. You weren’t meant to hear what you did.” He jerked his head toward the small chamber. “It was not meant to go beyond there.”
At that moment, Will Hastings reappeared with a richly dressed man who was thin of face and unimpressive of appearance, his fine garments notwithstanding. Edward smiled at sight of him, though, smiled with genuine pleasure, and turned to his mother.
“Madame, I do want you to meet the Seigneur de la Gruuthuse, one of our good friends of Burgundy. For certes, one of mine!”
He moved toward the Burgundian envoy with the warmth that was, at one and the same time, the secret of his popularity with his subjects and a source of irritation to his lords who felt his free and easy ways unseemly for a man who was the anointed of God. When Edward turned back, however, intending to introduce Gruuthuse to John, he found his cousin had gone.
The Sunne in Splendour Page 17