The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The next day was a Saturday, was for them a bitter anniversary, marked the passage of four full weeks since they’d fled the Herber. Véronique spent several hours at the Leadenhall Market, making purchases for Alice Brownell and eavesdropping upon the conversations about her, hoping to hear someone say that Richard of Gloucester had arrived back in the city from the North. By the time she gave up and started back toward Aldgate, the morning was all but gone, and a wet wind was gusting from the river.

  The sky was a leaden grey, matched her mood. She quickened her pace, but to no avail; rain was already splattering the cobblestones, needle-like drops that stung her skin, trickled down the neck of her gown. She jerked up the hood of her cloak, looked about for shelter.

  The heavy oaken doors of St Andrew Undershaft were ajar. Inside, all was shadowed and still. Véronique moved hesitantly into the nave, groping her way by instinct alone, and gave a muffled cry when a voice suddenly spoke out of the gloom.

  “High Mass be done, child, but I shall be saying a Low Mass at None.”

  “Oh, Father, how you did frighten me! I thought I was alone….”

  For all that he called her “child,” his was a young man’s voice, and as he emerged from the darkness, she saw not only youth in his face; she saw curiosity, too, knew he was puzzling over the incongruity of her servant’s dress, so at odds with the well modulated tones that bespoke education.

  He had arresting eyes, deep-set and long-lashed, a brilliant piercing black; too probing, too knowing, she thought, eyes accustomed to strip away secret sins, to bare souls for God’s judgment.

  “Be you in trouble, lass?”

  She opened her mouth to deny it, heard herself breathe an involuntary “Yes….”

  “May I help?”

  “No, Father.” She shook her head unhappily, surprised herself then by adding, “Not unless you can tell me what I most need to know, whether the Duke of Gloucester be back in London.”

  If he was startled, it didn’t show on his face. “As it happens, I can. He’s been back since Tuesday eve a fortnight ago.”

  Véronique stared at him, disbelieving. “Be you sure?”

  “Quite sure. Monday be St Ursula’s Day, you see.”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “Perhaps I’d best explain. Each year on that day the Duchess of York does buy Masses in memory of her daughter Ursula; she died as a babe, I believe. The Duchess sends a servant to have Masses said in certain city churches, and when the man came by to see me, he made mention that the young Duke be back from the North.”

  Véronique had begun to tremble, and he reached out, put a steadying hand on her arm. “Why does that matter so to you, mistress? What be the Duke of Gloucester to you?”

  “Salvation,” she said, and gave a shaky laugh, in that moment making up her mind to trust him. It was risky, yes, but what alternatives had she? She could never go back to Baynard’s Castle on her own, not after the horror that had almost befallen her the last time. Nor did she want Anne to take such a risk. But a priest…. A priest would have access to Baynard’s Castle, and with a priest, she’d be safe.

  “Father…listen to me, please. What I be about to ask you will sound most strange, I know. You asked if you could help me…. Well, you can. You can escort me to Baynard’s Castle, take me to Richard of Gloucester. Please, Father. He’ll see me, I swear before God he will, and bless you for it, every day of his life!”

  He was not as jaded as she first thought; he could be surprised, after all. The black eyes narrowed, focused on her face with unnerving intensity. Just when she concluded that her plea had fallen upon deaf ears, he nodded slowly.

  “Very well,” he said, sounding much like a man acting against his better judgment. “I’ll take you, though I’d be hard put to explain why….” Adding a hasty proviso, “But not till the rain does let up.”

  Véronique began to laugh again; it seemed somehow hilarious to her that Richard’s reunion with Anne should now hinge upon the vagaries of the weather.

  “You won’t be sorry, Father,” she promised. “You won’t ever be sorry!”

  The young priest was ill at ease, was darting sidelong glances at Véronique as if wondering what he’d gotten himself into, and when asked his name, he hesitated. Véronique’s own nervouness had not survived the climb up the steps into the keep; she need not fear George now, and she stepped forward, said quite clearly,

  “Father Thomas was good enough to see me safe here. It is I, not he, who would speak with His Grace of Gloucester…about his cousin, the Lady Anne Neville. My name is Véronique de Crécy and…” The rest of her words trailed off, were not needed. Already a man was on his way to the solar; taking the stairs two at a time: others were clustering around her, all talking at once. Véronique smiled at the astonished priest, said,

  “Did I not tell you true, Father?” And she moved forward to meet Richard, just then emerging from the solar at the top of the stairs.

  10

  London

  October 1471

  Anne first noticed the man in the outer courtyard. He was lounging against the wall of the stables, watching her as she lowered her bucket into the well. When she emerged a little later to air out bedding, he was still there. There was an unnerving intensity in his stare, something more than the lustful looks she occasionally got from inn patrons, and when she saw him beckon to Cuthbert, the stable boy, her heart took up a quicker cadence. Cuthbert was now looking toward her, too; Anne saw him shake his head and shrug. There was little Cuthbert could tell him; he knew only that Anne and Véronique had come from some great household. But why was he questioning Cuthbert at all? Anne gathered up the bedding, fled back indoors. When she looked out the window again, the man had gone.

  She couldn’t even ask Cuthbert what the man had wanted, had to keep up this damnable pretense of not speaking English. All she could do was to wait for Véronique to get back from the Leadenhall Market. Véronique could talk to Cuthbert, could reassure her that the stranger was only another lecher, was not in George’s pay. But where was Véronique? Why wasn’t she back by now?

  She tried to put him from her mind, busied herself in helping Catherine clean the empty upper chambers. Following Catherine into a corner room, she set her lamp down upon a small table that, with the bed, was all the furniture the room contained. The lamp, a sputtering wick floating in a sea of vegetable oil, gave off some light but not much. Glancing about at this queer midday darkness, Anne found herself reluctantly remembering the burnished blaze of candelabras that shone in every chamber of the Herber, three dozen candles a night consumed from Martinmas to Candlemas, enough to last the Brownells for years.

  She was helping Catherine strip the bed when they heard it, the clatter of hooves upon cobblestones. Horses being ridden at hard gallop. Anne tensed, but Catherine merely looked up and then shrugged—until it became apparent that the riders were not passing by. From the sounds echoing up through the open window, it was clear that they’d ridden into the stableyard. Dogs had begun to bark, gates banged, and suddenly the afternoon air was alive with a rising volume of noise that signaled the occurrence of something quite out of the ordinary.

  Catherine was closest to the window, reached it first. Almost at once, she drew back inside. Her eyes were very wide.

  “Yorkist lords! Why would—Oh, dear God! Veronica tried to tell us she thought Clarence might be vengeful enough to seek her out! And I didn’t believe her!”

  She saw support for the conclusion she’d drawn in the fear that now showed in Anne’s face.

  “Martha…Martha, listen. You stay here. Don’t let yourself be seen. You understand? Don’t come out. I’m going to get Stephen!” And with that, she whirled for the door.

  Anne’s first thoughts weren’t thoughts at all, were sensations of pure physical panic. Her brain was numb, could admit no feeling beyond a dazed horror that she could have endured so much these four weeks past only to fall into George’s hands at the last. Oh, why hadn’
t she run away as soon as she saw that man lurking about?

  She’d sagged against the wall, now made herself risk a quick glimpse down into the outer courtyard. She saw enough to confirm Catherine as an accurate witness. The men below were wearing the livery of York. Never had she experienced the despair that she did at this moment, so overwhelming in its intensity that it was almost like drowning.

  But it was then, as she clung to the window and stared down at the men dismounting in the courtyard, that she saw the dog. A huge black wolfhound, it was circling several stable dogs in a stiff-legged stalk as ominous as its rising hackles and glinting eyeteeth. She forgot all else, leaned out recklessly from the window to hear one of the riders yell, “You men there! Separate those damned curs and fast! His Grace’ll have your skins if harm comes to the big dog!”

  His words only served to corroborate what she already knew, had known from the instant she’d laid eyes upon the wolfhound.

  “Gareth,” she breathed. And then, in the most sincere spontaneous prayer of her life, “Oh, thank Jesus!”

  Richard guessed the girl to be fourteen, fifteen at most. She was looking at him with such blank dismay that he found himself entertaining a grim suspicion she might be simpleminded. She was trying to curtsy, and he grabbed hastily for her elbow, held her upright, for she was so big with child that he thought the slightest strain might bring on labor. Again, he tried to dispel her fear, said softly and soothingly, “You’ve no cause for fear. I want only to talk to the girl you call Marthe.”

  Seeing he was getting nowhere, he looked toward the three men drawn from their room by the uproar and jostling for space upon the landing, unabashedly curious.

  “Have any of you seen the girl I seek? This tall, slim, with dark eyes and…”

  But they were already shaking their heads. Almost at once, however, they began to offer suggestions. What of the stables, my lord? Might she not be out in the hen roost? As eager as they were to help, Richard saw they had no more knowledge than he of Anne’s whereabouts. He turned back to the pregnant girl, somehow found a smile for her.

  “What be your name, lass?”

  The unexpected question untied her tongue, at least enough for her to whisper, “Celia, my lord.”

  “Celia, listen to me. I want you to tell me where she is. Your loyalty does you great credit, but your concern is for naught, believe me. She’s very dear to me; I’d never cause her hurt. Where is she, Celia? You must—”

  He stopped in midsentence. She was staring past him, and the look on her face was his answer. He spun around to see Anne standing at the top of the stairs.

  Anne had not known that strong emotions can be as intoxicating to the senses as strong drink. The pendulum had swung too wide, transporting her within the span of seconds from terror to euphoria, and her emotional equilibrium had yet to right itself. She was as oblivious of the numbing cold pervading the chamber as she’d been of the witnesses upon the stairwell. Her awareness went no further than Richard. He was both her present salvation and her past security; of the remembrance-strewn wreckage her life had become, he alone was a memory lent substance, breath, reality.

  Richard touched her face with his fingers, as if seeking to reassure himself that she was truly here, in his arms and unhurt. He needed such reassurance, needed the physical reality of her presence after weeks of nightmares and fading hope. Turning her toward the light, he saw now what he’d not seen on the stairwell, how white she was. How fragile, how vulnerable. Soft wisps of hair were curling about her temples; her skin was warm but so delicate, so finely drawn across her cheekbones he fancied the slightest pressure could leave an indelible imprint.

  “Jesú, what we’ve done to you!”

  “Hold me,” she entreated. “Just hold me.”

  He was more than willing to do that. He kissed her again, very gently this time, but her mouth clung to his, sought a deeper kiss. If only he’d never let her go to the Herber! If only he hadn’t had to go North for Ned. He tightened his arms around her. Never had she kissed him like this; he was both surprised and delighted by the unexpected ardor of her response. This was the first time that he’d taken her in his arms and felt them both free of the shadow of Lancaster.

  Her lashes lifted, giving him a glimpse of lucent liquid darkness. A man could drown in eyes like hers, he thought, and then laughed at his own foolishness. She laughed, too, for no other reason than that he did.

  “Don’t let me go,” she said. “Not ever,” and he laughed again, thinking, so easy it is as this, then, to exorcise a ghost!

  Anne gave a surprised murmur of protest at suddenly finding herself free. Opening her eyes again, she saw that Richard had moved to the window, was struggling to fasten the weathered warped shutters that were giving unguarded entry to the icy October air.

  “No wonder it was so cold in here! You must be chilled to the bone, sweetheart!”

  She shook her head. It seemed strange to her that their first coherent conversation should be about something so commonplace as an open window. So disoriented was she that she actually gave a startled gasp as the room was plunged into semidarkness.

  Richard was at her side again. Unfastening his cloak, he draped it about her shoulders; it seemed wondrously soft to her after weeks of kersey wool and homespun. She started to assure him that she wasn’t cold, only to feel in her chest the tight prickling sensation that foretold a coughing spasm. In dismay, she tried to ward it off by sheer strength of will; she only succeeded in prolonging the inevitable. When it was over, she felt weak and drained, gratefully accepted Richard’s supporting arm; much of her stamina had been sapped by her week’s siege of sickness.

  She was suddenly conscious of her appearance, was glad that he’d shut out the light along with the cold, glad that the only illumination came from the homemade lamp she and Catherine had carried into the chamber so short a time ago. She needed no mirror to show her the strains of these past four weeks, and she found herself remembering that her hair needed to be washed, that her apron was smudged, her hands chapped and blistered, and the manicured nails, always a particular vanity of hers, had suffered so from the neglect of necessity that she hated even to look at them.

  When she’d begun to cough, Richard had pressed a handkerchief into her hand. She looked at it now, deriving a childish yet very real comfort in its possession, no less in the feel of his cloak; she was still young enough to take pleasure in wearing something that was his, that still held within its folds warmth drawn from his body.

  “I brought Gareth for you,” he said unexpectedly.

  She raised her head from his chest. “I know. I saw from the window. That was how I knew it was you. I thought at first that…that it was George.”

  She moved in his arms, unable to suppress the tremor triggered by memory of that moment, felt his lips brush her forehead. But she wasn’t yet ready to talk about George, was grateful that Richard seemed to sense that, for he made no comment.

  “Richard, how did you find me?”

  “Véronique. She’s waiting for you down in the kitchen. So is Francis, and by now, half of Aldgate. When I latched the shutters, I saw a crowd gathering in the street. I suspect you’re about to take your place in local legend, ma belle!”

  Tilting her face up, he touched his lips very lightly to hers. “Can you ever forgive me, Anne? I should never have left you in George’s keeping, should have taken you to Berkhampsted to Ma Mère….”

  “Richard, don’t blame yourself. How could you know what George would do?”

  “But I could have spared you this. It didn’t have to be. That day I came to you at the Herber, before going North…. Do you know what I wanted to do? I wanted nothing so much as to take you before a priest that very afternoon, to forget about posting the banns or seeking a papal dispensation, and make you my wife then and there. Jesú, if only I had!”

  “Richard…Richard, are you asking me to marry you?”

  “Actually,” he admitted, and grinned, “I ra
ther took it for granted, didn’t think there was a need to ask. Do you mind, sweetheart?”

  “No,” Anne said softly. “No, I don’t mind.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stopped her mouth just inches from his. “I love you so much, I always have…. But what of your brother, Richard? What of Ned? Will he give his consent? He didn’t think me a fit bride for you two years ago…. What if he forbids the match? If he would rather you not wed…”

  She hesitated and he suggested helpfully, “The impoverished widow of a Lancastrian rebel?”

  She nodded mutely, and only when she saw the corner of his mouth quirk with suppressed laughter did she realize he’d been speaking of Elizabeth Woodville.

  “Oh, love, be serious! A King may do as he pleases. A King’s brother must do as the King pleases.”

  “Sweetheart, you still don’t see, do you? Ned is well aware that you hold my heart, fully expects us to wed. Do you not remember how he took pains to bring us together at Coventry? The truth of it, ma belle, is that Ned looks upon you as my reward for Barnet and Tewkesbury!”

  That sounded so like Edward to her that Anne no longer doubted, began to laugh.

  Footsteps echoed beyond the door and quickly retreated. They’d drawn apart a little at the sound; Richard adjusted his cloak again about her shoulders, smoothed the thick braid coiled at the nape of her neck.

  “I would as soon be away from here, beloved.” He glanced about the chamber with a flicker of distaste. “I want to take you where it will be warm and quiet, where I can settle you before the hearth and feed you honey for that cough.” He dropped a kiss lightly upon the tip of her nose, and, in an abrupt change of tone, said soberly, “And then I want you to tell me what George did to make you flee the Herber. All of it, Anne.”