The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Do you think I could bring myself to it if it wasn’t, Jack?” Edward said bitingly, saw a faint red tinge work its way up the older man’s face and neck.

  And that was it. None would oppose him in this, would even voice a protest at this murder that both soothed their insecurities and scratched their consciences. It was as he’d known it would be, for that afternoon he’d seen to the one risk he could foresee. Had he sprung it upon Dickon in council, he knew the boy would have burst out with the very objections he’d made so heatedly in private this afternoon. And he might well have carried the others along with him…Essex and Anthony for certes, possibly even Will and Suffolk. What great risk would there have been, after all, in backing up the brother whom all knew to be as his other self? And then he’d have had the nasty task of overriding his own council, of having to argue for murder while they did argue for mercy. And over all, festering like an airborne pestilence, would hover the seeds of dissension, wanting only to take root. He’d had no intention of letting it come to that, had taken Dickon aside this afternoon to see that it would not, but he allowed himself a brief acknowledgment of relief that it hadn’t, that all had gone as he wanted.

  “Well then, I trust we are in agreement as to what must be done?” It was a purely rhetorical question, of course. He waited a moment or so, and then said, “I want word conveyed to Lord Dudley. As Constable of the Tower, it shall fall upon him to see that my orders be carried out.” He shifted his gaze about the table, moved from face to face.

  “Will, you and Anthony shall be the ones to tell Dudley what I want done.” He flicked his eyes suddenly toward his brother, said, “You, too, Dickon.”

  John Howard looked relieved that he’d not been named, George slightly miffed for the same reason. There was resignation on Will’s face, on Anthony’s, too. Richard was staring at him, staring in disbelief.

  “Me?”

  “You are Lord Constable of England, are you not?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But what, Dickon? Whom do you think Dudley would expect to get such an order from if not my lord Constable?”

  Richard was trapped and knew it. There was appeal in the look he now gave Edward, and when he saw it to be unavailing, anger.

  “Do you want me, too, to view the body for you, my liege?” he said, very low, and for a moment, Edward wondered if he’d gone too far, asked too much.

  It was true that he did not want his council to wonder why he had not turned, as he would normally and naturally have done, to the one who held both the lord constableship and his trust. But it occurred to him now that it might have been better to let them wonder. An ugly and unexpected thought came to him. Was he, in fact, paying Dickon back for what the boy had said this afternoon…for daring to remind him of what he’d most like to forget? “I do know, Cousin, that in your hands my life will not be in danger.” And the worst of it was that Lancaster had meant it, meant every appallingly innocent word of it.

  He became aware now of the strained silence, saw they all were staring at him. He wondered how much had showed in his face—more, he suspected, than he would have liked. Well, it was done now…or almost so. As for Dickon, he could make it up to him, and would. He was suddenly impatient to have it over with, part of the past and beyond recall.

  Will saw, rose reluctantly to his feet. As he did, Edward said abruptly, “There is this I would say to you all, and then I do not expect to speak of this again. I am no Henry Fitz-Empress to say of Lancaster as Henry did of the martyr Thomas à Becket, ‘Will none rid me of this turbulent priest?’ The decision made here tonight be mine, the responsibility mine, and the guilt, if any, mine. Now, Will, Dickon. See Dudley for me. Tell him that it is to be done quick…and clean. Tell him, too, that there’s to be no conspicuous wound. There will, after all, have to be a state funeral.”

  If possible, it became even quieter after that. It was then that George chose to make his first contribution to the conversation.

  “The Tower where Lancaster be kept is called the Wakefield Tower, is it not?”

  Never had Edward been less in the mood for George’s non sequiturs. “What of it, George?”

  “Well, it just did occur to me that the bloody ground upon which our father and brother did die be known as Wakefield Green. Rather fitting, is it not?”

  Edward stared at him. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I would expect you to think so.”

  Elizabeth had lavished considerable care upon her appearance that night. Her ladies made skillful use of kohl and belladonna to bring out the green of her eyes, sprinkled gold dust over hair lightened with lemon and polished with silk. She’d bathed in rosewater, selected a perfume newly come from Alexandria, and then made herself comfortable in bed to await her husband.

  He didn’t come. The hours passed. She was at first impatient and then angry and at last, uneasy. It had been fully thirty-three days since Ned had lain with her. Surely he’d not have shunned her bed for the arms of a harlot, tonight of all nights!

  She fumed, to no avail. Finally exhaustion won out over anger and she slept. Sometime during the night, however, she rolled over, found herself against warm skin. So he’d come after all! She was too sleepy for reproaches, stretched and snuggled against him in drowsy welcome. She was no longer in the mood for bedsport, but she was not unduly concerned by that; knew he’d kindle her ardor easily enough. She much preferred that he should awaken her in the middle of the night for his pleasures than that he should not have come to her bed at all, on this the first night of his return.

  But the expected feel of his hands upon her body did not come. Fully awake now, she opened her eyes, saw he was lying upon his back, staring into space somewhere above her head.

  “Ned?”

  She’d left torches lit for him; they still burned, but the light was not kind. His mouth was deeply grooved, and around his eyes she saw what looked to be laugh lines, but weren’t. She no longer suspected him of amusing himself with one of his court sluts. He looked haggard, and there was nothing in his face of a man who’d sated his needs elsewhere.

  He turned his head at sound of her voice, slipped his arm around her shoulders, but no more than that.

  “I was waiting for you, my love,” she said, and found his mouth with hers. It was a highly unsatisfactory kiss; judging from his response, she’d barely held his attention, much less his interest. “Ned? What is it? What be wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He propped a pillow behind his head, settled himself more comfortably in the bed. After a time, he said, “I did have Harry of Lancaster put to death within the Tower tonight.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure what response was expected of her. She opted for honesty, said, “I’m glad, Ned. It was the only rational choice to be made, surely.”

  “So you approve, then?”

  “I feel sure we shall bury our troubles within Lancaster’s tomb. But Ned, what of the girl? Warwick’s daughter? Might not she be carrying the Prince’s seed?”

  “I do forget, at times, what a quick brain does lie beneath those silky tresses,” he said, letting his fingers stray into the soft hair spread out over the pillow. “But in that, we were lucky. I do not believe Anne to be with child.”

  “What would you have done if she were?” she asked curiously, and he pushed the hair off his forehead, said somewhat impatiently and slightly defensively,

  “What could I have done, Lisbet? Seen to it that the babe be placed with the Benedictines, pledged as a monk, and taught to want a life given over to God.”

  “Speaking of which,” Elizabeth suggested thoughtfully, “I think a convent the most fitting place for the Neville girl. Have her take the veil, Ned. Why remind people needlessly of the Lancastrian Prince, now thankfully dead? Let her be forgotten and so much the sooner will he, too, fade from men’s memories.”

  He gave her a crooked smile at that; her dislike of all who bore the name Neville was well known to him. “That, sweetheart, would please my brother George far too much, an
d you know I do not accommodate George if ever I can help it! Moreover, Dickon does want the girl.”

  “And you mean to give her to him?” she exclaimed, startled.

  “I mean to give him whatever he does want.”

  She opened her mouth, clamped it shut again. This was new, this sudden favor shown Gloucester, had been brought back with him from Burgundy like some malevolent foreign pox. She’d never much liked Gloucester, although she did infinitely prefer him to that unspeakable wretch Clarence, but she thought now that she could learn heartily to detest Gloucester with no difficulty whatsoever if Ned were to go on like this for any length of time. He was still talking of Gloucester, was saying,

  “He took this business about Lancaster rather badly. But I expected as much. My cousin Warwick, who did manage to hit upon the truth from time to time, once held Dickon to be doubly unfortunate, as being both a moralist and an idealist!”

  He laughed softly to himself, with more affection than amusement, and Elizabeth’s lips tightened. The mere mention of Warwick’s name never failed to act as an irritant to instant outrage.

  “I may have been wrong in making him go to Dudley. Will came back…after. Dickon didn’t, though,” he said, and sighed. “He’s a good man, Will is. He didn’t much like it, either. Not that any of them did.”

  It was not like Edward to ramble on like this. Elizabeth raised herself up on her elbow, looked at him with suddenly inquisitive eyes.

  “Will had Dudley take him up into the Wakefield Tower, once it had been done. Will’s loyal. He said Dickon wouldn’t go. Nor would Anthony, of course.”

  His voice had changed at mention of her brother’s name, taken on an intonation that was far from flattering. Elizabeth felt resentment stir. How could he speak so tolerantly of Gloucester’s refusal and then fault Anthony for the very same thing?

  “Did I ever tell you, Lisbet, about the time I nearly brought about the death of Nicholas Downell?”

  “Who in Heaven’s Name is Nicholas Downell?” she snapped, still rankled by what she saw to be an unjust slur upon her brother, but he didn’t seem to take note of her tone, said as if he thought she truly wanted to know,

  “He did act as servant to Edmund and me for a time at Ludlow. And for a youth only a little older in years, it was no easy task he was charged with, that of trying to keep Edmund and me from drowning in the Teme or climbing from the castle battlements on ropes or whatever other foolishness did occur to us!

  “One summer…I think I was eleven or thereabouts—the three of us found what we thought to be the nest of a passage hawk up among the crags of Whitcliffe. I determined to climb up and find out for sure, while it was still unguarded. I’d never minded heights before, but I’d never before found myself clinging to a cliff like a leech, scrambling for handholds in what suddenly seemed to be sheer rock! I came tumbling down right fast, landed at their feet in a heap with the breath knocked out of me and a mouth full of my own blood.

  “Well, that effectively ended their interest in hawks and nests and such! I was still set, though, upon having one of those fledglings to make into my own hunting bird. But I couldn’t nerve myself to try that climb again. Edmund wanted no part of it; he always did have enough sense for the both of us! So I…I told Nicholas that he’d have to climb up and bring the nest down.”

  He turned his head, looked at her. “He didn’t want to do it. But I ordered him to it, and I think, too, he feared losing face by admitting he was afraid. So he gave it a try and, midway up, he lost his balance and fell. I thought sure he was dead. He wasn’t, but he broke some ribs, cracked his head open and…Well, he was lucky, given what might have been.

  “My father was in a tearing rage when he heard, as you can well imagine. I don’t recall what befell me, most likely a whipping. But what I never did forget was what Ma Mère said to me when I’d had to tell her what I’d done. She just looked at me, and then said, ‘Never, Edward, never order a man to do what you were not willing to do yourself.’ ”

  “Why, Ned!”

  Elizabeth was so surprised that she sat upright, rose to her knees to stare down at him. “It truly does bother you, doesn’t it, that you had Harry put to death?”

  He turned upon her with sudden sharpness. “What did you expect, that I would take pleasure in it? Do you imagine I did like the thought of murdering such a man? A saintly simple fool who did little but pray and feed the sparrows he’d lure to his window? Christ, woman, of course it does bother me!”

  Men, Elizabeth thought, were the world’s greatest fools. Next he’d be talking of honor and chivalry and God only knows what other nonsense…. As if there were ever honor in death! But if he wanted to indulge his conscience now that he could safely do so, far be it from her to deny him such dubious consolation. It wouldn’t last much past dawn, anyway, she felt sure…. His was not a nature to take to a hair shirt.

  He was regarding her with little favor—would, she knew, be quick to find fault…to ease his qualms at her expense. But she knew better than to lavish upon him the sugared sympathies that might have soothed another man’s temper. He read her too well for that, would know that her commiserations rang false, know that she lied. She considered her options and then smiled, leaned over to kiss him warmly on the mouth. Between them, that was never a lie.

  But she got no more encouraging a response than before. He accepted her kiss, but no more than that, and she soon had incontrovertible proof of his body’s indifference. She drew away from him a little, frowning, and he reached up to touch her cheek, said soothingly, “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’m too tired tonight to feel any body hunger other than for sleep, but I’ll content you well tomorrow, that I promise.”

  Elizabeth tossed her head, shook back the halo of light that spilled over her breasts and shoulders, over onto him. It wasn’t often he showed himself any less eager than she for their couplings, and it stung; tonight of all nights, it stung. She very much needed for him to want her, to want her with a hot hunger that she alone could satisfy; that was the talisman she used to offset his infidelities, the hatred of his subjects. Moreover, she now thought sourly of those thirty-three nights. She knew damned well he hadn’t denied himself these weeks past! Well, he could just do what he must to content her now. She was his Queen, after all, not one of the harlots who served only his pleasure.

  Her desire for him was not in the least chilled by the resentful flickers of this, an old and far too familiar grievance; some of their most exciting bedsport had been born of quarrels. She bent over him again, let her mouth play upon his.

  “Tomorrow is too long to wait, Ned.”

  He laughed; there was no surer way to restore his good humor than to confess that she wanted him. He was somewhat more cooperative when she kissed him this time, but he was acting more to indulge her need than to answer it with any hunger of his own. She wanted more than that, wanted him to make love to her, not merely to service her.

  “You know, Ned…I’d be willing to wager that you’re nowhere near as tired as you do think,” she murmured. “In fact, I’d wager that your blood runs as hot as mine, and I doubt not that I could prove it with no trouble whatsoever!”

  That did interest him, she saw. He nuzzled her throat, said, “Be that a threat or a promise?”

  “You must judge that for yourself,” she said, and ducked, laughing, under the covers. She, too, was in much better humor now; this was familiar ground to her, as familiar as the body she set about arousing. Her confidence was not misplaced; it did not prove all that difficult. One of the more pleasing aspects of her husband’s nature, she acknowledged, was that, as likely as not, he could have been coaxed into a coupling on his very deathbed! She slid lower in the bed, heard him say, “Jesú, but your hair tickles, sweetheart!” and laugh.

  He was far from indifferent by the time she raised her head again. Never did she feel so secure, so sure of herself and of him as when she could fire him to sudden urgent need.

  “I do claim a forfeit, m
y lord,” she said breathlessly. “Will you own up that I’ve won the wager?”

  By now, the sheets and coverlets were on the floor, and they were engulfed in the tossing tide of her hair; he felt as if he were smothering in silk.

  “Witch,” he said, and gasped at what she did next, reached for her eagerly, pulled her down on top of him.

  He had no thought now for the ugly image that had haunted him in the hours since midnight, that of a frail stooped form sprawled within the shadow of the oratory set up for his private prayers. He was no longer remembering the controlled revulsion upon Will’s face as he related what he’d seen upon entering Wakefield Tower, to find the murder had been done before the very altar of the Lord Jesus Christ, Only-begotten Son. Nor was he still seeing Dickon’s accusing eyes, eyes that bespoke betrayal. He had thoughts only for Lisbet, for Lisbet who was moaning, clutching him with scoring nails. And then he had no thoughts even for Lisbet, for anything but the sheer physical sensations that were claiming his body.

  Londoners were startled to learn on the following day that Harry of Lancaster had died suddenly that Tuesday night in Wakefield Tower. As was customary, a public showing was made of the body at St Paul’s and again at Blackfriars, and then it was quietly interred at Chertsey Abbey. Some people suggested that grief over the loss of his son had snapped Harry’s tenuous hold on life, others that it was God’s mercy. Most, however, did exchange knowing looks, grim guarded smiles. Some shrugged, others swore and said secret prayers for the soul of the luckless misfit suddenly seen as martyr. But all did hasten to proclaim loudly their loyalties to Edward of York, to the monarch who now held England as his own, anointed anew in the blood of Barnet and Tewkesbury.

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