The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Isabel Neville had risen at dawn to hear Mass in the Queen’s Chapel and now she and her ladies were returning to her chambers to dress for the wedding ceremony to be held at noon. Isabel was only three months beyond her nineteenth birthday, yet she leaned heavily upon the arm of a solicitous attendant, and she had to pause repeatedly as they mounted the stone stairway.

  More than seven months had passed since she’d gone into labor aboard ship in the harbor at Calais, but she had yet to recover her health. Always slender, she was thin now, dangerously so, and her pallor was so pronounced that even her brother-in-law-to-be had noticed and suggested she consult a physician. She had no appetite, no energy, and when she rose in the mornings, the hazel eyes were dulled, shadow-smudged.

  Lord Wenlock, the Deputy Governor of Calais, was a friend of long standing, and Warwick had anticipated cooperation, or at the least, neutrality. But Calais was so honeycombed with Edward’s agents that Wenlock dared not give entry to a declared enemy of the crown, and as their ship wallowed sickeningly in heavy swells, Isabel had been brought to birth of her child.

  She’d been in labor for fully a day and night, with only her mother and Anne to attend her; with no hot water, no camomile oil or rue plant, not even egg whites. At the last, Wenlock had heeded Warwick’s desperate pleas and dispatched two casks of wine for Isabel, but the wine could neither numb her pain nor save her child.

  The baby, a son, was stillborn, and when Isabel began to hemorrhage, it seemed certain that she, too, would die. When the bleeding ceased, they could only attribute it to the divine mercy of the Blessed Mother Mary; and as Isabel lay delirious, her mother and sister washed the infant, wrapped him in a white blanket, and prayed as the small body was lowered into the sea.

  There’d been a time when Isabel had seen herself as Queen of England. Under her father’s tutelage, she was encouraged to entertain visions of a truly dazzling future. Ned had shown himself unworthy to be King. He would be deposed and George would be crowned. She would rule as his consort, would be loved by the people as Elizabeth Woodville never was. Life would once more be sweet, as in the days before her father’s quarrel with her cousin shadowed the happiness she’d once so innocently accepted as her birthright.

  As beautiful as this dream had been, it had proven to be no more substantial than the soap bubbles Isabel had so delighted in playing with as a small child. Reality was a frantic midnight flight aboard ship at Exeter. Reality was the tiny bundle buried at sea, the baby she’d never even seen. Reality was a sickbed at Honfleur in Normandy, when the French midwife summoned to nurse her bluntly expressed doubts that she would ever carry a child to full term. Reality was the plight-troth of her sister Anne to the heir of Lancaster, an alliance that had transformed her married life into a hell of recrimination and accusation. Her embittered husband had turned upon her the resentment he dare not voice to her father, and by the time his fury was tempered by the realization that her disappointment was as keen as his own, the damage had been done.

  She was in extremely low spirits this morning, plagued by fatigue, back pain, and a particularly severe headache. She’d slept little that night, thinking of the dismal future she faced at a Lancastrian court, thinking of the marriage that would make Anne Princess of Wales and, one day, Queen of England…if their father prevailed. And on this icy December day, with Edward of York a penniless fugitive and her father in unchallenged command of England, there was no reason for Isabel to doubt that he would indeed prevail.

  “Madame la Duchesse! Votre soeur, la Princesse Anne…”

  It was some moments before Isabel was able to understand. Her command of French was fair and improving daily, but the girl was excited, rattling on breathlessly at an incomprehensible rate of speed.

  “Sweet Blood of Christ!” she swore when she did understand, and those of her attendants who knew enough of her language to appreciate English oaths exchanged surreptitious smiles of amused speculation. It would be a scandal of delightful proportions if the English girl was truly refusing to wed Prince Édouard.

  Isabel briefly considered alerting her mother, and then decided against it. Anne was no closer to their mother than she herself was. The confines of the Countess of Warwick’s world were circumscribed by the breath and blood of her lord husband. As far back as Isabel could remember, it had been so, and she did not think her lady mother was likely to be of assistance now.

  Anne’s chamber was cold; neither the Flemish wall arras nor a heated brazier could withstand the chill. Yet Anne was clad only in a kirtle of cream-colored silk, sitting before the pier glass, surrounded by an impressive array of perfumes, rose water, and cosmetics…kohl and belladonna for the eyes, ceruse to whiten the skin, red ocher lip rouge, marigold balm.

  Her sister was not alone; another girl was leaning over her. She looked up quickly as Isabel entered, and Isabel recognized Véronique de Crécy, one of the young Frenchwomen who’d been chosen to attend Anne. This particular girl was only a few years older than Anne, and they seemed to have developed a degree of intimacy during these four months at Amboise.

  “Anne? Why aren’t you dressing? You’ve less than three hours.”

  Anne continued to stare into the pier glass.

  “Go away, Isabel,” she said dully.

  Isabel waved the French girl aside, stepped closer to her sister. “I was told you dismissed your ladies…. Is that true? Anne, look at me! What nonsense is this?” Seeing she had Anne’s unwilling attention, she continued coldly, “Surely you are not going to give us yet another tearful display of self-pity?”

  “I cannot do this, Isabel,” Anne whispered. “I cannot.”

  “You will, though, and we both do know it. We’ve been over this till there cannot possibly be anything left unsaid. Our father’s future depends upon this marriage. He has given his word to the French King. He must have French support…and this marriage is the price he must pay for that support. You know that, Anne.”

  “The price he must pay?” Anne sounded incredulous. “As I see it, I am the one who must pay! I am the one who must wed with Lancaster, wed a man I do despise.”

  “Watch your tongue,” Isabel cautioned. “Such things are not safe to say.”

  “But true, nonetheless.” Anne turned away from the mirror to look imploringly at Isabel. “Isabel, all my life I’ve been taught to hate Lancaster. They did kill our grandfather, our uncle Tom, our cousin Edmund. How can I forget that?”

  “You have no choice,” Isabel said, so implacably that Anne slammed a small fist down on the cluttered side table, sending phials and jars careening into each other.

  “Jesú, Isabel, can you not understand how I feel? Will you not even try?”

  “What good would it do if I did? Would it change anything?”

  Anne shivered, and Véronique came forward, draping a dressing robe across her shoulders. Isabel hesitated and then picked up an ivory comb.

  “Come, now, and I will help you with your hair.”

  Anne jerked her head away, however, and Isabel snapped, “Must I say it again? You have no choice!”

  “So you keep telling me,” Anne said bitterly. “It seems I gave up all choice when I followed our father into French exile. Well, today, I would to God I had not! I would to God I’d never left England!”

  “You talk like such a child, Anne. You know you could not have remained in England. You’d have found few friends willing to aid the daughter of a declared traitor.”

  “No?” Anne said stubbornly, and Isabel lost all patience.

  “You mean to imply, I suppose, that you could always have appealed to our cousin of Gloucester?” She shook her head in disgust. “You seem to forget, Sister, that Dickon did not want you.”

  Anne’s dark eyes were burning like charcoal against the chalk-whiteness of her face. “Why do you hate me?”

  “You know I do not.”

  “Yes, you do,” Anne insisted. “Ever since Father compelled this betrothal, you’ve been different toward me�
��as if it were my fault, somehow. It’s not fair to blame me because he bypassed George. This is none of my choosing. Dear God, you know that! I never wanted to be wife to Lancaster…never. I would rather be dead,” she concluded, so passionately that Isabel was moved in spite of herself.

  “It is not as bad as that, Anne,” she said with a sigh. “You must try to remember…. As his wife, you’ll be Queen of England one day.”

  “I don’t want to be Queen of England!”

  Isabel stared at her. “You are truly a fool then,” she said at last.

  “No,” Anne said, in a tight flat voice that sounded like the voice of a stranger, not Anne’s voice at all. “No, I am a commodity. I was sold to Lancaster for a price, as one would barter a cloak or a gold pendant.”

  This was indeed what was being said, even at the jaded French court, and Isabel well knew it.

  “You must not say things like that,” she chided, without conviction. She was tired, very tired. She supposed she should feel sorry for her sister, but it was hard, so very hard, to summon up pity, to feel any emotion at all. She’d achieved her objective, quenched Anne’s last feeble attempt at rebellion, but she could take no pleasure in it. Tears had begun silently to streak Anne’s face. Isabel had known it would end like this, end in Anne’s tears. It always did.

  “I will summon your other ladies so you may dress,” she said.

  Anne didn’t seem to have heard. The tears were coming faster now. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocked back and forth. In appearance she was still more child than woman; only in the past year had her slender girl’s body begun to round and soften, to take on the curves and contours of a woman, and she still had a way to go. Isabel bit her lip. She did not want to think of that, did not want to see her sister’s tears. There was nothing she could do. Nothing.

  She bent down, brushed her lips against Anne’s wet cheek. “I’ll send your ladies to you,” she said softly. She didn’t wait for Anne’s response. Knew none would be forthcoming. But Anne would allow herself to be dressed in the bridal silk laid out on the bed. She would wed Lancaster. Isabel raised her hand to her aching temples; the light blurred and danced before her eyes. Their father, she thought, would be pleased.

  As she stepped out into the corridor, however, the door opened behind her, almost at once.

  “Why are you not attending to the Lady Anne, Véronique?”

  “She is fearful, Madame; can you not see that? Can you not understand?”

  “You presume,” Isabel said icily, not at all pleased by the realization that the French girl understood far more English than she’d surmised.

  “I care, Madame,” the girl persisted audaciously. “The Lady Anne is my friend. Could you not be kind to her, this day of all days? She has need of you now. Could you not remember that she is but fourteen years of age, a virgin maid, to be wed to a man she neither likes nor trusts—”

  Isabel cut her off with a gesture. “I cannot help that,” she said drearily, wondering why she was standing there explaining herself to this impertinent French girl.

  “Anne is my sister. I take no pleasure in her unhappiness, I assure you. But in this world we must do what is expected of us. Anne is a Neville; she must act as a Neville.”

  Véronique had a challenging direct gaze which found no favor with Isabel, which provoked her into snapping cynically, “Moreover, I see not why Anne is to be pitied. There are worse fates than to be Queen of England.”

  Isabel was turning away as Véronique said, very low and very fast, “But I’d have thought that you, of all women, would have compassion for her plight. You, after all, were fortunate enough to wed the man of your choice, Madame.”

  Isabel opened her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke and heard herself say, “Yes, it was my choice, wasn’t it? It truly was….”

  Astonished by her own words, she was even more astonished when she began to laugh. Sobering with an effort, she met the other girl’s eyes. They were hazel like her own, and to her fury, had in them a hint of pity.

  “I believe I did bid you to attend to my sister, Véronique. Why do you tarry then? Make her fair for Lancaster; he will expect as much.”

  20

  Bruges Burgundy

  December 1470

  For the first time in his life, Rob Percy dreaded the coming of Christmas. As a youngster, he’d begun anticipating the Yuletide revelries as early as Martinmas. His family celebrated the holiday in the Yorkshire fashion, and the days from St Nicholas Day until Epiphany were bright with banqueting, gift-giving, mummeries, and the allegorical morality plays performed in the churches of York in which Virtue triumphed over Vice, but only at the last possible moment.

  But there would be scant joy in this Christmas, not for the English exiles in Bruges. Their credit was well nigh exhausted; their debts were large enough to stir both antagonism and alarm among the merchants of the city. It was true that the Duke of Burgundy was reluctantly providing his brother-in-law of York with a monthly stipend, and may the Almighty bless Her Grace the Duchess Margaret for that, Rob thought fervently.

  But five hundred crowns a month would only go so far, and Rob wondered how long Edward could impose upon the hospitality of the Seigneur de la Gruuthuse. Gruuthuse had proven to be that rarest of men, the friend who sticketh closer than a brother. But Gruuthuse was also a subject of the Duke of Burgundy, and when Charles first heard that Edward had landed at Texel, he snapped, “I would rather have been told that he was dead!”

  Leaving the inn where he and a score of his companions were lodged, Rob sighed with relief at having made it out to the street without encountering their disgruntled landlord. The man’s demands for payment were becoming increasingly truculent; Rob knew all that stood between them and eviction was the innkeeper’s reluctance to resort to violence during Advent. Rob had been aware for some weeks that time served Warwick, not York.

  He took his usual shortcut through the churchyard of Sint Salvator’s Kathedraal, which led him out onto Groote Herjlig Geest Straete; even after two months in Burgundy, that was still too much of a mouthful for Rob. He envied Richard, for his friend’s French was fluent enough to bridge that guttural gap between English and Flemish. But Rob had no ear at all for languages. At Middleham, none had learned how to wield a broadsword more lethally than he, but he’d never mastered French, was utterly baffled by Latin, and when confronted now with Flemish, felt as if his tongue were tied in knots.

  Rob quickened his pace. December was no month to be about in Bruges; the wind was unrelenting and the canals clogged with ice. He clutched his cloak more firmly about his throat; it was much mended, and he shivered as a sudden blast of icy air almost pulled it from his grasp. His fractured French troubled him nowhere near as much as the empty purse that hung from his belt.

  Ahead, he saw the soaring spire of Onze Lieve Vrouwkert or, as the French-speaking citizens called it, Église Notre-Dame. Rob always thought of it as the Church of Our Lady. It was the tallest church he’d ever seen, loftier even than St Paul’s Cathedral, and towered far above all the buildings in its shadow, even the magnificent mansion known as Herenhuis Gruuthuse.

  Each time he saw the Gruuthuse palace, the irony struck Rob anew, that his Yorkist lords should be so hard-pressed for money while dwelling in a manor house as splendid as a ducal residence. Trust King Edward to find himself a friend as rich as Croesus, he thought now, and lucky it was, for had they to live on the largesse of his tight-fisted brother-in-law, they’d be in a tangled coil for certes. And might be yet.

  Rob entered the courtyard of Herenhuis Gruuthuse. He was recognized on sight now by the Gruuthuse household and was permitted to pass unchallenged. The entrance hall never failed to impress him, with its high wooden-beamed ceiling, dazzling white marble stairway, and brightly patterned tile floor. In spite of himself, Rob thought of the dank airless room he shared with four of his fellow fugitives, a bed stuffed with straw and vermin, with chinks in the wall through which he could pass his hand wer
e he so minded.

  He was at once shamed by the thought; it had never before been in his nature to envy others. It was this damnable Christmas season, he decided; it rubbed the nerves raw. Taking the marble stairs two at a time, he was admitted to the chamber of the Duke of Gloucester by Thomas Parr. Richard wasn’t there, but he was in no hurry, was quite willing to pass the time with the young Yorkshireman who’d served as his friend’s squire for as long as he could remember.

  He knew Richard had been meeting that afternoon with several English merchants newly come from Calais, in hopes of securing a loan on his brother’s behalf, and he now asked Thomas quietly, “How went things with His Grace today?”

  Thomas shook his head, but at that moment, Richard came through the doorway, and it was he who answered the question Rob had discreetly directed at Thomas.

  “None too well, Rob…. Fair words and those in plenty, but no more than that.”

  After an awkward pause, Rob ventured consolingly, “Well, if they speak so kindly of His Grace, they may yet decide to advance him the gold we need….”

  “Aye, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Richard said tersely. “Be you ready, Rob? Tom, you needn’t wait on me. I expect to be quite late.”

  After hearing Vespers in the Gruuthuse pew at Notre-Dame Cathedral, the boys exited onto Den Dijver. December dusk was settling over the city, the air crisp and very cold. Knowing the Gruuthuse stables were at Richard’s disposal, but knowing, too, how reluctant his friend was to accept favors he might never be able to repay, Rob suggested, none-too-hopefully, “Shall we go back for horses, Dickon?”