“I’ve got to think, think what to do….”
“In France, there are churches that do offer sanctuary. Surely there be such churches, too, in England….”
Anne seized upon the lifeline thrown her in this, the first practical suggestion made that night. “Yes, of course! Churches like St Martin le Grand here in London do have sanctuary houses to rent within the church grounds, where you be safe from seizure!” That first spark of hope flickered, died.
“But…but it be no good, Véronique. I have no money, not even for food. And sanctuary would be the first place he’d think of. He’d have no qualms about violating sanctuary, Véronique, not if he thought he could get away with it, could have me taken without his name being brought into it.”
“Your mother, then? Could you not go to her?”
Anne shook her head. “I do forget you know so little of England. Beaulieu is far to the south, near Southampton. It might as well be in Wales!”
Urgency was now inciting Véronique to feverish mental activity. “What of your uncle, the Archbishop of York? He has a manor here in London, no?”
“My uncle? God, no!”
“Chère Anne, I know you do blame him for forsaking your father as he did. But surely your need is such—”
“No, you don’t understand. It isn’t that. My uncle has become far too friendly with George. I could never trust him, never. If I turned to him for help, he’d betray me to George as he did betray my father.”
It occurred to Véronique that Anne had been singularly unfortunate in the relatives God had seen fit to give her. “But Anne…Anne, I can think of no others!”
Anne had begun to pace. “I could have appealed to my aunt Cecily, if only she were still at Baynard’s Castle. I know she would help me, for all that George be her son. But she’s been at Berkhampsted since mid-July and Berkhampsted is—oh God, Véronique, Berkhampsted is in Hertfordshire!”
“Anne…Anne, could you not turn to the King?”
“How, Véronique, how? He’s been at Westminster hardly at all this summer, was at Shene and then Eltham and the last I did hear, he and the Queen had gone on pilgrimage to Canterbury. He’ll be back in London when parliament does meet, but by then, it’ll be too late, Véronique. Too late….”
“Anne, you must not despair. There must be someone. There must be!”
“Perhaps if I were to talk to the priests at St Martin’s,” Anne began dubiously. “Perhaps if they understood my plight, they might waive payment of rent on a sanctuary house….”
Véronique doubted that exceedingly; it was her experience that servants of God were no less mercenary-minded than the rest of mankind. Moreover, Anne was right. George would not scruple to violate sanctuary. To him, the only mortal sin would be that of discovery. Nom de Dieu, but there were so few willing to risk bringing upon themselves the enmity of a man as powerful as Clarence! One would have to be very secure or very saintly or none too fond of the royal House of York…. And suddenly it came to her, and she gasped, so excited that she lapsed into French, and it was a moment or so before she’d regained both her breath and her English.
“Anne! Anne, I have the answer! I know where you can hide, the one place where Clarence will never think to look for you!” She burst out laughing. “Do you remember the Brownells, they who came to my aid the day of the Yorkist victory procession?”
“Of course I do. But I don’t see—”
“Their inn, Anne…. They do have an inn! You can go there, can wait for Richard in safety while Clarence does scour the city for you!”
Anne was not impressed. “I have no money to stay at an inn, Véronique, and even if I did, that would surely occur to George, too.”
“He might think to look for you as a guest, Anne, yes! But as a maidservant at the inn?”
Anne was regarding her in utter astonishment. “A maidservant?”
Véronique laughed shakily. “If you do find it so unlikely, chérie, can you imagine it ever occurring to Clarence?”
After a moment, Anne smiled, somewhat uncertainly. “No, I confess I cannot! But this innkeeper…would he do that for me?”
Véronique hesitated only briefly. “No. For you, he would not. Not for the daughter of the Earl of Warwick. But they would for me. They do like me, Anne, do see me as…as one of their own. You see, the Brownells…they be Lancastrians. When I told them I was once in Marguerite d’Anjou’s household, they just took it for granted that I shared their loyalties. If I do ask their help, I do not think they will refuse me. Now…what shall we tell the Brownells?”
They traded suggestions for several moments, but it was Véronique who at last hit upon the most likely stratagem.
“I shall tell them that I can no longer stay at the Herber, that the Duke of Clarence is intent upon forcing his way into my bed.”
“That will scarcely do George’s name much good!” Anne said, and laughed.
“They will believe me, though. People do expect to hear such stories of royal Dukes, chérie, and even as they pretend to be shocked, are secretly pleased to have their worst suspicions confirmed!”
She reached out suddenly, caught up a strand of Anne’s hair and compared it to her own dark tresses. “The color is not the same, of course; yours is a chestnut and mine a true brown, but I think it close enough to raise no suspicions. And our eyes be similar, too, brown and hazel.”
Anne was quick to comprehend, but shook her head doubtfully. “I agree we could be taken as sisters; I do, in fact, more resemble you in coloring than my own sister! But surely that could never work, Véronique. Have you forgotten that I be English and you French?”
“As to that, since I cannot pass as English, there be but one way to overcome that difficulty. You, Anne, must be French for the Brownells. No, do not look so skeptical! It can work. Your French is quite passable, and to the ears of people who speak no tongue but their own, would ring true enough.
“It is all I can think to do, Anne. If I say you to be my younger sister, there will be no need to explain why you should have chosen to flee with me from the Herber. And if you speak no English, chérie, you’re far less likely to give yourself away! Lies do not come easily to you, Anne, show all too clearly on your face. And you are, as well, an Earl’s daughter. The world as you knew it at Warwick Castle, or even at Amboise, is a far different place from what you will find in an Aldgate inn. I think it be far safer if we can give a plausible reason for why you do keep your mouth shut!”
Anne considered and then laughed uneasily. “I do see what you mean!”
Véronique slid off the bed, carried a candle to set on the floor by a coffer. “Bien, it is settled then! You will be Marthe de Crécy. That be the name of my true-born sister, will help us to remember, I hope. Now we must find the plainest gown you do have. The more in need of sympathy we seem to be, the more likely we are to get it.”
Anne joined her before the coffer, began to pull out clothing for their inspection.
“Véronique…Véronique, what shall I tell my sister? I don’t want her to worry, and yet…”
Véronique had been shaking out the folds of a dark mourning gown. She dropped it now, turned toward Anne and said with sudden urgency, “She mustn’t know where you are, Anne. For her sake as much as yours. She has to be able to swear to George that she knows nothing of your whereabouts, to be convincing enough to be believed. You do see that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Anne said slowly. “Yes, I do….”
Véronique saw her fear and said resolutely, “You mustn’t fear, chérie. The Duke of Gloucester will soon be back in London and then all will be well.”
Anne nodded. “Pray God,” she whispered, “that it be so.”
7
London
October 1471
“Do you expect me to believe such a tale as that?”
“Frankly, Dickon, I don’t much care what you believe. I’m telling you that the girl is gone, has not been at the Herber since the Sunday past St Matt
hew’s Day.”
“I don’t know what strange twisted game you’re playing George, but this I do know…. That I’d need far more than your worthless word to believe Anne’s fled the Herber!”
“Well, my ‘worthless word’ is all you’re going to get! Now you’ve more than overstayed your welcome and—Dickon! Damn you, stop!”
George came hastily to his feet. He’d not had time to think his action through; it was more of a reaction than anything else, and even as he grabbed Richard’s arm, he wasn’t sure what he meant to do next. He hadn’t expected Richard’s sudden move for the stairs; still less was he expecting what Richard did now. As his hand closed on Richard’s arm, Richard whirled around and, in one swift unbroken motion, brought the stiffened edge of his free hand down hard on George’s wrist. George at once released his hold, with a startled sound that was part pain and part protest. It had been done so quickly that not all in the hall were sure what had happened, saw only that Richard was suddenly free. George took an uncertain step backward and stared at his brother.
“This is my house. You’ve no right to go above-stairs if I don’t wish it,” he said, low-voiced.
“I rather hope you do try to stop me,” Richard said, just as softly, and before George could make up his mind, he’d turned away, toward the stairs.
George opened his mouth, but no words emerged. He had men in the hall. They were visibly uncomfortable. None seemed willing to meet his eyes because none, he saw, were willing to lay hands upon his brother, upon the man who stood closest to the King. George felt something twist within him, something that was resentment and an inexplicable sense of loss.
“Dickon!”
Richard had reached the stairwell. He didn’t bother to turn, looked back over his shoulder. If he made any sign, George didn’t see it. But the men he’d brought with him into the great hall moved toward the stairs. Moved without haste, but it did not escape George how hands had dropped to sword hilts. He cut his eyes toward his own men, saw their earlier unease was now open alarm. He could read no such reluctance in his brother’s men. Their sun-browned faces told him they’d seen service with Richard on the Scots border; their wary, watchful eyes told him they were quite prepared to do Richard’s bidding, had the stomach for confrontation that his own men did not.
George experienced a moment of acute indecision, and then he startled all within the hall by laughing. Wrath of God, what a fool he was! Let Dickon up into Anne’s bedchamber, into the very garderobes if he chose! What could he find, after all, other than proof of what he’d just been told? He hadn’t lied; the wretched girl was gone, gone and none of his doing. What better way to show his innocence than to show his cooperation? Yes, let Dickon search the Herber to his heart’s content. He would even let Dickon question his steward and his chamberlain. They could truthfully and convincingly confirm the facts of Anne’s disappearance and, at the same time, be trusted to confine themselves to those facts alone, to say nothing of those matters best kept from Dickon. A snap of his fingers drew his steward toward him.
“Send word up to the Lady Isabel that my brother of Gloucester is here. I don’t doubt he will wish to see her.”
A large feather bed dominated the chamber. It was neatly made up; so was a smaller bed in a far corner. There were candles unlit upon a nearby trestle table, and a large laver for washing; it held dust, not water. A fine film dimmed the oaken surface of the table. Richard ran his fingers over it; they came away smudged.
“I gave orders to leave the room untouched, knowing what a suspicious mind you do have, Little Brother.”
Richard turned; George was lounging in the doorway, smiling at him. Richard took a step toward his brother, said in a voice so tightly controlled as to be expressionless, “Where is she, George?”
“I would to God I knew. Bella and I have done little else these ten days past but think on that, try to guess where she might have gone. I did check the hospitals, of course, and I rode myself to see her uncle in Charing Cross, but he’d had no word from her. More than that, I cannot tell you, Dickon. You do know her as well as anyone; mayhap you’ll have better luck than us in puzzling it out—”
“Enough, George! Let’s have done with this charade! We both do know Anne did not run away. A fifteen-year-old girl on her own in London…and that girl Anne, Warwick’s daughter? You must think me mad to credit such a witless tale as that!”
“However unlikely you think it to be, it does happen to be true,” George said curtly. “Look, Dickon, I am trying to show you my good faith, but you’re not making it easy! I let you up here into her chamber, didn’t I? My steward awaits you below in the hall; you’ve my leave to question him about the day Anne ran away. I’ve even sent to Bella’s chamber and she’s been ailing, has been abed off and on these ten days past. More than that, what would you have me do?”
“You can stop the game-playing, George. You’ll not make me believe Anne left the Herber of her own will. This is your doing. You’ve taken her from here, are holding her in a place of your choosing!”
“That’s not so! She did disappear from the Herber while I was at Mass that Sunday. I know nothing of her whereabouts…nothing! For God’s sake, Dickon, be reasonable. Why should I want to see any harm come to Anne? My own wife’s sister? But to show you just how far I’m willing to go to accommodate these insulting suspicions of yours, I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do…. You may send men to my manors in the West Country, satisfy yourself that Anne is not being held within any property of mine. For no one else would I make such an offer, Dickon! But if it will ease your mind, will heal this breach between us, I’ll give orders to admit your men onto my lands….”
“You’re damned right you will!”
George flushed, “Don’t push me, Dickon! My forbearance goes only so far! I don’t know where the girl has gone, and I don’t think I care to say more on this. That you would think I’d spirit away my own sister-in-law…I don’t deserve that from you.”
“What you deserve…” Richard began with passion, and then stopped, fighting a brief battle with himself for control. “What would you expect me to think? You know I do love Anne, that I mean to make her my wife, and you’d do damned near anything to prevent that marriage. This would be just like you, to abduct a defenseless girl and keep her close within some God-forsaken rural manor in hopes my desire for her would cool. Oh, yes, this is the very sort of scheme to appeal to a warped, twisted mind like yours! I’d not even put it past you to have secreted her away beyond the walls of a convent! But if you think you’re going to get away with it—”
George was now livid with rage, cut in furiously, “You do disappoint me, Dickon…. Such a limited imagination! Does it carry you no further than some secluded cloister or moorland manor?” He moved away from the door, said venomously, “As for me, if I wanted to bring about a convenient disappearance, I’d prefer a well-guarded cell, inaccessible to the sun and any prying eyes. Or Bedlam, perhaps…. Better yet, the Southwark stews!”
His laughter was harsh, none too steady. “There’s a thought for you, Little Brother! A Cock’s Lane doxy claiming to be daughter to Warwick the Kingmaker! Why, she could rave on from now till the Second Coming for all it’d avail her, might as well proclaim herself the Blessed Virgin Mary!”
He saw the blood drain from his brother’s face, and felt a sudden hot satisfaction, took note for the future that Dickon was vulnerable beyond all expectation where that little slut was concerned. But he felt, too, a slight touch of unease. Perhaps he’d gone a bit too far. There was no need, after all, to pour salt into an open wound, and it wouldn’t sound good, wouldn’t sound good at all, to have this story repeated for Ned’s ears.
“You needn’t look so greensick, Dickon,” he said impatiently. “Surely you don’t think I’m serious!”
“I think…I think you are mad,” Richard said, with the stunned unnatural calm of one just coming to grips with a shocking truth. “Madder even than Harry of Lancaster. At least his
madness was turned in upon himself, whereas yours…Yours inflicts wounds beyond the power of God to heal or men to forgive.”
As George gasped in outrage, Richard said tautly, “But this I do tell you, George, and I do swear it upon all I hold most sacred in this life…. That if any harm befalls Anne, I shall hold you accountable for it. Any harm at all, do you understand?”
It was then that Isabel said his name. They both started; neither had realized she’d come to stand behind them in the doorway. As she moved into the chamber, Richard saw that in this, George hadn’t lied. Isabel did not look well at all, looked very much like a woman risen from a sickbed.
“Dickon, George didn’t lie to you. He doesn’t know where Anne is. She did run away, as he said. Ten days ago.”
“Do you swear it, Bella?” Richard said uncertainly, and she nodded.
“I’d not lie to you, Dickon, not about Anne. We don’t know where she is; God’s truth, we don’t.” Her voice wavered. “Believe me, Dickon, I’d never lie about this…. Not when Anne’s safety is at stake. I lie awake at night thinking of her alone in a city like London, with no money, no friends…. and I think of all that could befall her…. Dickon, you must find her. You must.”
“Now be you satisfied?” George said savagely. “Mayhap you’ll believe Bella if you’ll not believe me!”
Richard gave his sister-in-law a long, searching look. “Bella, is there nothing you can tell me? Nothing at all?”
He saw her lips part, saw her eyes shift swiftly to George. She shook her head.
He nodded, moved past her to the door. There he turned, looked across the chamber at his brother.
“If Anne did feel the need to flee the Herber, it could only have been that she thought herself in danger…in danger from you, George. If that be true, she’ll get word to me now that I’m back in London. If she doesn’t, I’ll know you lied, that you do hold her against her will. So you’d best think on what I said, for never have I meant anything more. If you’ve hurt Anne…” He didn’t complete the threat, knew from George’s face that he didn’t need to.
The Sunne in Splendour Page 61