The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Your husband?” Marguerite was echoing, in tones that would have chilled a more courageous spirit than Isabel Neville’s.

  Somerset saw at once, though, that the girl had misunderstood, for she cried, “Oh, Blessed Lady, he’s dead, too!”

  “No.” Marguerite leaned forward. “He isn’t dead. You needn’t waste your tears on Clarence. I daresay he thrives; men of his ilk generally do. A fool Clarence may be, but he’s been a singularly lucky fool so far. Better you should weep for yourself, Lady Isabel.”

  Somerset didn’t like the sound of that, but Isabel understood only that her husband still lived.

  “Where is he, Madame? Will he join us?…” Her voice trailed off; instinct was now alerting her to danger yet unknown.

  “He isn’t hurt?” she faltered.

  “No. Your husband emerged unscathed from the battle. Without even a scratch.”

  Such words should have reassured. They only served to frighten. Isabel waited, mute, for the blow to fall.

  “He did betray us.”

  Marguerite spat the words, saw Isabel react. Satisfied that the girl’s shock was unfeigned, she relaxed somewhat, said contemptuously, “He went over to York at the first chance. He abandoned your father…and you, too, it would seem.”

  “Betrayal is becoming a habit with Clarence,” Edward observed, and Marguerite took her eyes from Isabel’s stricken face, looked at her son.

  “And I’d wager he never gave a thought to the wife who might pay the price for his treachery.”

  Somerset did not take her words to mean that she intended to hold Isabel Neville to account for her husband’s sins. Marguerite was impulsive but she was no fool. He felt sure she’d never give York so potent a weapon as an accusation that Lancaster had abused Warwick’s daughter. Moreover, the girl would make a dubious hostage at best; Clarence didn’t seem the sort to be swayed except where his own skin was threatened. But as Isabel shrank back, he saw her face and realized that she did take Marguerite’s implied threat seriously.

  Anne Neville came to her feet, so swiftly that she stumbled on her skirts.

  “Madame, Isabel is my sister,” she said resolutely.

  Somerset knew how little that meant. He suspected Anne did, too. From where he stood, he could see the tremor in the tightly clenched small fists, could see how they pressed against the folds of her skirt with revealing urgency.

  Isabel Neville, too, seemed to feel she needed a more powerful protector than her sister, and now she looked to her brother-in-law.

  “Surely a Prince of Lancaster would not avenge himself upon a woman,” she entreated, and if her appeal lacked subtlety, it did not lack for sincerity.

  Edward looked amused. Whether he was flattered, as well, by Isabel’s plea, Somerset couldn’t tell, but he said, not unkindly, “Calm yourself, chérie. While I can think of no more harsh penance than to pack you off to Clarence, if that be your wish, you’re free to go.”

  “Merci, Édouard,” Isabel murmured weakly. After a discernable pause, Anne too, added her thanks, almost inaudibly, as Edward looked belatedly to his mother for confirmation. Marguerite was regarding her assertive offspring with a bemused expression, but she did not countermand him. For the first time, she seemed to have taken notice of Abbot Bemyster. He’d taken no part in the conversation, nor had he made any attempt to console Warwick’s daughters. But neutral or not, he was still a priest and not one of her own like Morton. There were certain amenities to be observed in his presence. She glanced back at her daughter-in-law, said dispassionately,

  “I daresay you and your sister would prefer to retire to your chambers, Anne. You have my leave to withdraw.” Adding as an indifferent afterthought, “My condolences upon your bereavement.”

  Marguerite was staring after Anne Neville, her face shadowed in thought. Her expression was enigmatic, unusually pensive, and as he approached her, Somerset wondered if his Queen were as impervious to pity as she would have them think. His speculations were abruptly ended with her next words, a low-voiced directive to her son.

  “You know I care not how you choose to amuse yourself, Édouard. But be sure you do not seek your pleasures again in that girl’s bed. God forbid if you should get her with child now!”

  Edward had been leaning on the back of her chair. At that, he leaned over still further, murmured something too softly for Somerset to hear, eliciting both a reproving look and a reluctant laugh from his mother.

  Somerset had stopped, unwilling to intrude upon so private an exchange, but Edward beckoned him forward.

  “Seat yourself, my lord.” Edward perched on the arm of his mother’s chair, favored Somerset with a smile. “Do you know how you may please me, Somerset? You may tell me of York and his brothers. Well, Gloucester, anyway,” he amended and grimaced. “I know more than I care to of Clarence!”

  “Well, Gloucester is close in years to you, Highness. If there is any man likely to have York’s trust, Gloucester would be the one; it’s said they are close. But they be very unlike. Those who do know him say Gloucester is much more his mother’s son than are his brothers.”

  That didn’t tell Edward much; he knew little of the Duchess of York. But Marguerite knew a great deal and she said venomously, “There are few more damning accusations you could make than that, to say Gloucester is like Cecily Neville! She pretends to the piety of an Abbess but her ambitions are very much of this world, I assure you!”

  Edward shifted impatiently. He had no interest in the women of York, and as soon as his mother paused for breath, he reclaimed the conversation. “You say York and Gloucester are unlike. Tell me, then, of York, my lord Somerset.”

  Somerset considered. “Lazy. Self-indulgent. He denies himself few pleasures, surely none of the flesh. He’s not given to grudges, but he forgets nothing; the man’s memory is truly remarkable. Charming when he so chooses. The morals of a tomcat and the luck of the angels. He is surprisingly careless of ceremony, mingles with the common people like no monarch within memory. I was told that when he departed Bruges, he did insist on walking the three miles to the quay at Dammne so the populace could view him at first hand!”

  At Edward’s expression of distaste, Somerset smiled slightly, nodded. “I agree, Highness. Such conduct scarcely becomes the dignity of a King. But he did win much favor among the people by so doing.”

  “He does not sound like a foe worth fearing,” Edward said disdainfully. “You describe a lecher, a rakehell caring only for his own ease.”

  Marguerite was frowning. “He is a dangerous man, Édouard! Lecher and rakehell he may be, but he is also a battle commander with few peers, and Somerset will admit as much.” Stabbing Somerset with a wintry stare. “Won’t you, my lord?”

  “Madame your mother speaks true, Your Grace,” Somerset said grudgingly. “York fights like a man who cannot conceive of defeat, and that is no small advantage. When you asked me for my opinion of the man, I did not mean to belittle his prowess on the field. That would indeed be a mistake.”

  Marguerite was not yet satisfied. “He is a calculating and arrogant man untroubled by moral scruples. Moreover, he does not seem to know the fears and self-doubts that do plague other men. Such a man is not to be underestimated, Édouard.”

  Edward was regarding her with a sulky expression, which she knew from experience to mean he was growing bored. “If it will ease your mind, Maman, I shall endeavor to view York as the Anti-christ,” he said flippantly. The dark eyes moved past her, to Somerset.

  “I have one question for you, my lord Somerset…only one. Can we defeat York on the field?”

  “Yes,” Somerset said without hesitation.

  Edward nodded slowly. “That is all I need to know,” he said, and smiled. Somerset smiled, too. Marguerite bit her lip, said nothing.

  Edmund Beaufort was a great-grandson of John of Gaunt and therefore related by blood, if rather remotely, to the captive Harry of Lancaster. He was also the son of the man the Yorkists claimed to have been Mar
guerite’s lover. The title he bore was one of England’s proudest, but the years of his youth had been far from privileged, had been for him a time of turmoil and sudden griefs.

  Edmund was thirty-three, had spent years in impoverished exile abroad before being given sanctuary by Charles of Burgundy. He had long ago pledged his honor to Lancaster, and was in total and heartfelt agreement with the concerns voiced the night before by Prince Edward. He, too, thought this would be the last chance for the House of Lancaster.

  The cloisters were quiet, dappled in mellow morning sun. At most times of the day, the walkways enclosing the green-carpeted garth would have been alive with activity, with servants and visiting laymen and the shadowy forms of the black-garbed monks. But soon after the conclusion of the Morrow Mass, Abbot Bemyster and the monks had gathered in the Chapter House situated along the east walkway of the cloisters. Somerset knew this daily meeting would continue for another hour or so. Taking advantage of the solitude, he loitered there in the flowering garth and then began to walk along the sheltered walkway that led toward the church.

  Entering the south aisle of the nave, where the lay people heard Mass, he paused, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, and then made his way through the rood screen that separated the nave from the choir, where the monks worshiped. He remained there for some moments, kneeling before the high altar, offering brief prayers for the repose of his father and brother. He had turned back toward the door that led from the south transept when he heard a sound behind him, seeming to come from the Lady Chapel to the east of the altar.

  Stepping into the chapel, he came to an abrupt halt, at once regretting the impulse that had prompted his entry. A young girl stood before the altar, turned a startled face toward him. With recognition came the reluctant realization that to withdraw now would be to make an awkward encounter even more so.

  “I ask your pardon, my lady. I did not mean to intrude upon your prayers.”

  She shook her head. “I was not praying, my lord.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I am Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said politely. Like a child attempting adult courtesies, she extended her hand and as he bent over it, said, “I am Anne Neville.”

  Now he was the one to say, “Yes, I know.” Noting, as he did, that she identified herself as Anne Neville, not as the Princess Anne. Princess of Wales…. He wondered how long she’d keep the title now that her father was dead.

  He opened his mouth to offer his formal condolences, but found he couldn’t say the words. He could still see her as she was last night, and remembering how she had learned of her father’s death, he was not willing to demean her grief with conventional expressions of unfelt sympathy. If he could do nothing else for her, he could accord her that much respect.

  She was watching him, said, “Will you tell me of Barnet, my lord Somerset?”

  The request did not surprise him; he thought she was entitled to know. He joined her before the altar, gave her a carefully edited recounting of the battle that had been fought two days ago at Barnet Heath. She listened attentively, with the detached calm of one hearing a story that was interesting, but however interesting, was a story of strangers, withal. He’d have been better able to cope with tears; this brittle composure made him uneasy, wondering if and when it would shatter.

  Only when he spoke of the confusion over the banners, related how in the mist her uncle Montagu’s men had mistaken Oxford’s Streaming Star for the Sunne of York, did a flicker of emotion cross her face. He said, with some bitterness, that he could understand how men did think York was favored by evil auspices, for that had indeed been a stroke of uncanny fortune for York, a diabolic blessing.

  A faint smile touched her mouth; she shook her head. “Ned has ever been lucky,” she said.

  That was too easy an explanation for him; he preferred the hint of sulfur. The name jarred, too, the unexpected intimacy of “Ned.” For the first time, he considered how closely allied this girl was to York. The Duchess of York was her great-aunt; she was cousin to Edward; had grown up with Gloucester; was sister-in-law to Clarence. And she was to have been Lancaster’s Queen! He permitted himself a tight smile at the madness of it all, marveling anew at the cunning of that arch-conniver, the King of France.

  But if he rejected her as a Queen, he pitied her as a pawn, and searched for words of consolation. At last finding comfort he could offer with honesty, he said, “Your father died well, my lady. You may take pride in that.”

  She made no response; her lashes hid her thoughts. With her kinship to York in mind, he thought it a kindness to confide, “York dispatched a herald to spare your father’s life. He was not in time.”

  She glanced up at that; their eyes met. “I do not think my father would have done as much for Ned,” she said softly.

  He had no answer for her. She, too, seemed to sense there was nothing more to be said. He fell in step beside her and they walked in silence from the chapel, through the choir, out into the sunlit cloisters. She apparently had been considering his story, for she now said, “One thing I do not understand, my lord…. How is it that you know so much of what did happen on the Yorkist side?”

  He smiled grimly. “A stroke of luck named Hugh Short.”

  At her puzzled look, he explained, “A Yorkist deserter who’d had his bellyful of fighting and was unlucky enough to run into some of Devon’s men after the battle. From him we were able to learn a great deal. He’d been felled early in the fighting and, by chance, was being treated in the surgeon’s tent after the battle at the same time as Gloucester…and ere long, York himself rode up to check on his brother. It was there that they had word of your father. From what Short told us, they did, in truth, wish to spare your father’s life. They’d not be dissembling among themselves, after all.”

  She’d stopped, was staring at him. “You say he was hurt?”

  He looked at her in astonishment, wondering if her nerves were giving way at last. “Your father was killed, my lady,” he said, measuring his words with some care.

  She shook her head impatiently. “No…Richard of Gloucester. Was he bad hurt?”

  His reaction was one of relief that her question was rational, after all.

  “No, I think not. The lad Short said he was on his feet all the while the surgeons worked on his arm, and the wound didn’t keep him from galloping off with his brother as soon as they had word that your father…had been found.”

  Not wanting her to dwell on that last image, on the body sprawled in Wrotham Wood, he said hastily, “Gloucester was lucky, I hear, to get off as light he did. By all accounts, he was in the thickest press of the fighting. Short said he did lose both his squires; he heard them talking of it.”

  He saw her face change, saw her shock, and reached for her as she stumbled back.

  “Oh, my God…Thomas!” She’d jammed one hand to her mouth; he could feel her trembling. He tightened his grip on her shoulders, shaking her none too gently.

  “Who? I don’t understand,” he said, sharply enough to assert control. It worked; she blinked, swallowed, and answered obediently.

  “Thomas Parr…. He…he was at Middleham, was squire to Richard ere as long as I can remember. He…oh, God…”

  “I do forget,” he said softly, “that they are men to you, Lady Anne, men of flesh and blood, not mere names….”

  “Poor Thomas,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes; they glistened but did not fall, not yet.

  “I could not weep for my father, yet I can cry for Thomas Parr. Do you not find that strange, my Lord Somerset? I do…I find it passing strange….”

  He’d feared this would happen, had been sure the moment would come when her control would fragment, had not wanted to be present when it did.

  She read his reluctance in his face and struggled to staunch the flow of tears with pride.

  “You needn’t fear, my lord. I’ll not embarrass you with tears or—” She sto
pped abruptly, before her voice could further betray her.

  He found a handkerchief for her, watched uncomfortably as she knotted it with fingers that shook.

  “Can I not summon someone for you, my lady?”

  “Whom would you call, my lord?” she asked unsteadily. “My sister departs this noon for London, there to join her husband. And my mother…my mother will not be meeting us at Weymouth as planned. We learned this morning that she has fled to sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey…. Did you know?”

  He nodded. He had his own opinion of the Countess of Warwick, who had chosen to see to her own safety rather than be with her daughters when they learned of their father’s death and Clarence’s betrayal. It was not a charitable one.

  “I think it best you return to your chambers, Lady Anne,” he suggested gently. “There is still time for you to lie down; we won’t be departing for Exeter till midafternoon.”

  “Exeter?” she said uncertainly, and he saw that none had even bothered to tell her of this change in plans.

  Footsteps now sounded on the flagstone path, and they turned to see Marguerite d’Anjou coming up the west walk toward them. Beside him, Somerset saw Anne Neville stiffen; the arm he held communicated sudden tension.

  Marguerite extended ringed fingers for Somerset to kiss, acknowledged her daughter-in-law’s dutiful curtsy.

  “Your sister is seeking you, Anne. She prepares to depart and wishes to bid you farewell.”

  “Thank you, Madame. I shall go to her, with your permission.”

  Marguerite nodded, and Anne glanced back at Somerset. “Thank you, my lord, for telling me of Barnet.”

  Somerset looked down at the crumpled handkerchief that Anne Neville had pressed into his hand. He refolded it, replaced it in his doublet, and raised his eyes to find Marguerite regarding him with sardonic amusement.

  “So, my lord Somerset pities the little Neville nestling?”

  “Yes, Madame, I do,” he admitted, and she linked her arm through his, said with a smile,