The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Richard, I love you. I’d not want to live without you. But what of Ned? What do you think would happen to him? Need I say it? I’ve seen what five years as Thomas Grey’s ward has done to my sister’s son. When I think of Ned in their hands, I—Oh, God, Richard, we cannot let that happen!”

  Richard sat down abruptly, sagged into the nearest chair as if his body had suddenly been sapped of all strength. Anne yearned to go to him, but the fear of rejection kept her where she was. Would he ever be able to forgive her for this? She moved to stand behind his chair, let her hand rest on his shoulder in a tentative caress. He reached up, covered it with his own, and only then did silent tears begin to streak her face.

  “It’s so unfair,” Richard said softly. “So bloody unfair….”

  “I know, love,” Anne said, just as softly. “I know.”

  It was nearly dawn when she asked the one question as yet unanswered. Neither one of them had slept. For several hours, she’d lain awake beside Richard, watching him stare into some inner vista she couldn’t share. Finally she leaned over, touched his face with soft fingers.

  “Richard, might I ask you something? We’ve talked tonight of what you must do, of what you can do, of what you ought to do. But we’ve said nothing of what you want to do. Richard, do you want to be King?”

  At first, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. But as she studied his face, she saw he was turning her question over in his mind, seeking to answer it as honestly as he could.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes…I do.”

  6

  London

  June 1483

  It was a Tuesday evening, three days later. Richard was still resisting Buckingham’s demands that they summon Stillington before the council, still refusing to let the plight-troth be made public. He needed more time, he insisted, time to think it through, and with that, Buckingham had to be content.

  A goldsmith had just been ushered out of the solar. He’d crafted for Richard a delicate pendant, a heart-shaped emerald set in gold filigree. The pendant was Richard’s present to his wife; the next day was her twenty-seventh birthday. Richard held it up to the light, and then lowered it again into its velvet wrapping. As he did, a discreet knock sounded at the solar door.

  “Your Grace? Lord Howard be without in the great hall, does seek a private audience.”

  John Howard was not a man to waste words. Taking a seat, he leaned forward, said bluntly, “I might as well tell you straight out. I do know about the plight-troth, about your brother and Shrewsbury’s daughter.”

  Richard caught his breath. “How…?”

  “Stillington,” Howard said succinctly. “He did come to me this morning. He’s badly frightened, Dickon, seems scared out of his wits that he’s put his neck on the block. I expect he figured that by telling me and Will, he’d reduce the chances of his secret being buried, and him along with it.”

  “Will? You mean he did go to Hastings, too?”

  Howard nodded. “He said he went to Will after the council meeting yesterday. He had it in mind to go to Dr Russell, too, but I think I persuaded him to hold off on that.”

  “More fool I,” Richard said slowly, “for not anticipating this. I should have foreseen what he’d do.” He raised his eyes, met Howard’s steady grey ones. “Tell me the truth, Jack,” he said tautly. “What think you of all this?”

  “The truth? I think it be a godsend. For you, for York, and for the country.”

  Richard’s tension was dissipated in a rush of relief. He’d not realized until that moment just how much he’d come to rely on John Howard’s judgment. Buckingham and Francis were far from disinterested, after all: the one motivated by ambition and the other by friendship. But Howard was both tough-minded and fair. His approval would go far toward resolving many of the tangled doubts and uncertainties of these past three days.

  “You think, then, that I should take it?”

  “I think you’d be making the biggest mistake of your life if you didn’t.”

  “What of Will? What did he say?”

  “I saw him briefly this afternoon, but we didn’t have much time to talk. Stillington’s tale hit him as it did me, like a bolt from nowhere. He does remember your brother’s involvement with Nell Butler, says there was much talk at the time, what with her being a lady of rank, an Earl’s daughter.”

  “He said nothing else?”

  “He did say it might be best to have an ecclesiastical court pass judgment upon the plight-troth. I’d advise against that myself, would submit the issue to the council and parliament. I can think of nothing more dangerous than delay.”

  He rose, then, said, “Well, I’ve said what I came to say. I think I do understand why you’ve held back so far. But don’t wait too long, Dickon.”

  “Jack…There’s something else you should know.”

  Howard sat down again. “Trouble?”

  Richard nodded. “We both know there are some members of the council who have not reconciled themselves to the protectorship. They tried once before to take it from me, and this morning we were given proof that they do mean to try again.”

  Howard showed no surprise. “I’ve been half expecting something like this. Morton be the ringleader, I don’t doubt. That one could no more resist intrigue than a fox could keep out of the henroost. And Rotherham; his nose has been out of joint since the chancellorship was taken from him. Not to mention our Woodville Queen and that worthless son of hers. Who else?”

  “Stanley. His wife has become a frequent visitor to sanctuary of late; now we do know why.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “The usual way a conspiracy be unraveled. It occurred to one of Rotherham’s cohorts that the information he possessed might be worth a great deal. He went to Buckingham with it.”

  “The Woodvilles, Morton, Rotherham, and Stanley.” Howard grimaced, made a sound of disgust. “Christ help the country should that crowd ever get the government in their hands. What mean you to do?”

  “I did write to York, telling the Lord Mayor and council that I’d uncovered a Woodville plot against my life, asking them for as many men-at-arms as they can muster. Dick Ratcliffe be taking my message north tomorrow. He’s also to stop at Leconfield, to seek aid from Northumberland.”

  “That one’s not likely to bestir himself until he be sure of the winning side,” Howard said caustically, “but the men of Yorkshire will rally to your standard readily enough. They’re not likely to reach London for a fortnight, though. Until then, what?”

  “I’ve put Morton, Stanley, and Rotherham under surveillance. There be not much more I can do for the present, Jack. Except be very careful,” Richard added dryly.

  “Do you want me to tell Will?”

  Richard hesitated; Will Hastings and John Howard had been friends for more years than Richard himself had been alive. “No, I don’t, Jack. I’ve given it much thought, think it best if Will’s not brought into this. There’s no reason for him to know, after all. The conspiracy’s not directed against him; he’ll be in no danger.”

  Howard was frowning. “Surely you’ve no doubts about Will?”

  Richard shook his head. “Not Will, the woman he’s sharing his bed with. We just cannot take the risk that Will might inadvertently let something slip. For, while she spends her nights with Will, her days she does pass with Thomas Grey in sanctuary.”

  “I see your point. As besotted as Will seems to be about that Shore woman, we couldn’t be sure what he might tell her. He’s acting like a damned fool over her, more like a lovesick village lad than a man of two score years and ten. But just try telling him that!”

  Howard came to his feet. “Keep me advised, Dickon. And bear in mind that a conspiracy can be as volatile as gunpowder, wants only a spark to set it off. In the days to come, you look well to yourself.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Richard said, and his voice was suddenly grim. “I intend to.”

  After supper on Thursday, Richard reti
red to the solar with his secretary, John Kendall. But he found it hard to keep his mind on routine matters of correspondence. He’d had a disturbing talk with Buckingham a few hours before, a talk he’d rather forget. Buckingham had pointed out a political reality Richard was not yet ready to face. Before Stillington’s disclosure could be made to the council, Edward’s brother would somehow have to be secured from sanctuary. The danger was too great that he might be smuggled out, be used by unscrupulous men to foment rebellion.

  Richard knew, of course, that Buckingham was right. The Scots might well choose to back a rival claimant to the English throne; James still bore a grudge for the English support given his brother, the Duke of Albany. As for the French King, Richard knew he’d like nothing better than a chance to muddy English political waters, and it would matter little to him that the boy’s claim was tainted. Louis, after all, was the man who’d backed Warwick and Lancaster, the man who was even now giving financial aid to Harry of Lancaster’s Welsh half brother Jasper Tudor and his nephew, and only the most die-hard of Lancastrians seriously contended that the Tudor claim to the throne was much more than wishful thinking.

  But knowing Buckingham spoke pragmatic common sense did not make it any the more palatable for Richard. For five days, he’d been trying to convince himself that he’d reached no decision as yet, that there was, indeed, a decision to be made. Buckingham had now made him see that time was running out. Edward’s coronation was just eleven days away. As soon as this new Woodville conspiracy was exposed, so, too, would Stillington’s story have to be made public. And Richard had been forced to admit Buckingham was right, forced to admit he’d been deluding himself.

  The choice was already made, had been from the moment Stillington found the courage to speak out. He would take the crown. He had to. It was the only way he could safeguard the future for those he loved. And it was his by right. In the eyes of the Church, he was justified in so doing. So why, then, did it give him so little ease of mind?

  John Kendall had gone to answer a servant’s summons. Re-entering the solar, he said, “Your Grace, might you spare some moments for Sir William Catesby? He says it be urgent.”

  Will Catesby was in his mid-thirties, Northamptonshire gentry, a lawyer of some skill. Prior to his assuming the protectorship, Richard’s contacts with Catesby had been confined to a few social occasions at Bolton Castle, for Catesby was Alison Scrope’s son-in-law; he’d married her daughter by her first marriage. Richard did not know him all that well, but he’d recently appointed Catesby to the council, at the request of Will Hastings. Richard had been glad of the chance to oblige Will at so little cost, had found Catesby to have a shrewd, discerning intelligence. It wasn’t hard to understand how he’d come to stand so high in Hastings’s confidence, and Richard wondered if he were here on Hastings’s behalf.

  “Thank you for seeing me alone, Your Grace,” Catesby murmured as Kendall discreetly retired from the room. “I know that be an unusual request, but what I have to say must be kept confidential.” Catesby was visibly nervous; Richard could see sweat shining on his forehead, beading his upper lip.

  “I know of no easy way to say this, Your Grace. There be a plot taking shape against you, one that will cost you not only the protectorship but your life…. Unless you do take measures to see to your safety.”

  Richard was startled, hoped it didn’t show on his face. How had Catesby stumbled onto it?

  “Go on,” he said warily.

  “They do call the French King the Universal Spider, but that name might better be given to Bishop Morton. He and the Queen have spun between them a right sticky web, my lord. They’ve entangled in it His Eminence, Archbishop Rotherham, and no less a lord than Thomas Stanley. And now…now they’ve even managed to win over the Lord Chamberlain, to win over my lord Hastings.”

  Richard stared at him. “God, no….”

  “This be very difficult for me. I be betraying a man I do respect, a man who has done much for me. But I want no part of this, Your Grace. This be treason and I’ll not—”

  Richard stood up so abruptly that his chair rocked, tipped precariously. “Be sure of what you say. Be very sure. We’ve had the others under surveillance for three days, and not a one of them has met with Hastings outside of council. So how then? Suppose you do tell me how?”

  “So you did know!” Catesby was now on his feet, too. “The go-between was Jane Shore, my lord. For the past two days she has been taking messages from my lord Hastings to the Queen and Thomas Grey in sanctuary. No, Your Grace, there be no mistake. Lord Hastings did tell me himself what they mean to do, and what they intend be treason, plain and simple. The plan be to order your arrest, to crown Edward as soon as possible thereafter, and set up a regency council.” He hesitated, then confessed, “There be much about this I don’t understand, Your Grace. I know Lord Hastings and you have not been on good terms this month past. I know, too, how deeply he does resent the Duke of Buckingham. But even so, I cannot see that alone goading him into seeking an accommodation with the Queen. My lord, have you any idea what might have driven him to this?”

  “Yes.” Richard’s voice was very low; he sounded stunned. “Yes,” he repeated, more audibly. “I do have a very good idea….”

  “I trusted him, Harry. God damn him to Hell, but I truly trusted him!”

  “Cousin, I know you did, but that’s neither here nor there. What we have to do now is decide what is to be done. And the sooner the better. With Hastings in the plot, that does tip the scales in their favor. We dare not wait for your northern supporters to reach London. If we do, they’re likely to be just in time for the funeral.”

  “I expected no better from Stanley or Rotherham. But Will…. Jesus wept!”

  The solar door was suddenly flung open. Francis looked shaken, flushed with some strong emotion.

  “Dickon, have you heard what’s happened? Thomas Grey has escaped from sanctuary!”

  7

  London

  June 1483

  Will had at last fallen into a fitful sleep. In repose, his face showed every one of his fifty-two years, showed the strain of the past three days.

  They had been bad days for Jane, too. She had not the temperament for conspiracy, found herself dwelling upon all that could go wrong, unable to shake off an uneasy foreboding. She hadn’t wanted it to be like this, knew Will hadn’t, either. Men like Morton thrived on intrigue; Tom, too, seemed in his element. But not Will. He was aging before her eyes, sleeping little and eating less. Trying, she knew, to reconcile a troubled conscience to an alliance of expediency, to the bloodshed to come.

  She leaned over, touched her lips to brown hair generously streaked with silver. Passing strange, but she’d never noticed before how grey Will was getting. Pray God she’d not wronged him. She liked Will so much, couldn’t bear to be the instrument of his hurt. How haggard he looked, even in sleep. Almost as careworn and strained as he had on Monday night, when he’d shared with her Bishop Stillington’s revelation, told her that Gloucester meant to claim the crown.

  Never had she seen Will so upset as he’d been that night. He’d cursed Ned in language that would do justice to a bankside boatman, said he’d brought them all to ruin with his lusts and his overweening arrogance. Jane would normally have much resented such talk, but she had the wits to see that Will was not accountable for all he said, no more than was a man in his cups or one afire with fever. She’d done what she could to soothe him, listened sympathetically as he confessed his fears for the future.

  Once Gloucester was King, he’d be maneuvered aside. There’d be no place for him in Gloucester’s government. Buckingham would see to that, would want to be Gloucester’s chief minister, would brook no rivals. And Gloucester would heed Buckingham. Gloucester thought he’d played Ned false, aided and abetted him in his carousing and thus brought him to an early grave. What had he in common with Gloucester, after all? A man twenty-two years his junior, a man of northern affinities, of rigidly defined moralit
ies. Ned had been the only bond between them, and now they were linked by nothing more substantial than memories.

  Jane had gone the next morning to sanctuary, had gone to Tom. It was then that she became convinced that Bishop Stillington had spoken the truth. The look of horror on Elizabeth Woodville’s face was to Jane the most eloquent testimony that could be put forward in favor of the plight-troth. So, too, were Elizabeth’s hysterical denials. With each frenzied frantic word Elizabeth uttered, Jane’s conviction grew that the plight-troth was, indeed, true, and Ned’s son the victim of his father’s sin.

  Jane had never had much liking for Elizabeth, but she could find it in her now to feel pity for the other woman, a Queen for nigh on twenty years and now no more than a concubine in the eyes of the Church. Her heart went out to young Edward, to Ned’s other children, and when Tom asked her to help, she didn’t hesitate.

  At first, she’d had few qualms. She’d been able to win Will over with surprising ease. It was true, she conceded, that he and the Woodvilles were estranged by years of enmity. But if he could save the throne for Ned’s son, that would count for all and the past for nothing. What better stepping-stones to greatness than a young King’s gratitude? He’d be Edward’s mainstay, the first voice in council, his future as assured under the son as it had been under the father. And he’d be doing a great kindness, preventing a miscarriage of justice. Edward was an innocent, after all. Why should he suffer for wrongs that were not his?

  It was only today that her certainty began to be clouded by doubts. The revelation of an ongoing conspiracy with Bishop Morton had come as a shock to Jane. How could Tom have kept that from her? And he’d made several slighting remarks about Will that did not sit well with her. Will’s support was crucial to the success of their scheme; it was not right to belittle him behind his back, did not augur well for the future.