The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Rob’s disquiet was contagious, all the more so because Francis knew the other man was generally oblivious of atmosphere.

  “Come on, Rob, let’s find out.”

  Pushing through the crowd gathered before the porch, they made their way into the great hall. The first face Francis saw was that of Jack de la Pole. The younger man was standing in the shadow of one of the huge marble pillars that divided the hall. He looked to be in a state of shock, looked physically ill, and Francis took a hasty step toward him. But at that moment John Scrope appeared in the stairwell leading up to the great chamber above. At sight of Francis, he snapped, “Christ Jesus, man, where have you been?”

  “Why? What be…?”

  “You don’t know yet?” Scrope’s eyes moved from Francis to Rob. “Aye, I see you don’t.” He spat into the floor rushes at their feet. “We be facing a rebellion,” he said bluntly, saw their faces change, twitch with shock. “Set for Saturday next, in the counties to the south and west of London, and thank God Jesus we did find out beforehand, else it might have been too late. Dickon’s been traveling without an armed escort; they were counting on that, knew he’d have no soldiers to summon on sudden notice. Thanks be to this God-given warning. It does give us a week, but whether that’s time enough…”

  “Who?” Rob demanded. “The Woodvilles, Thomas Grey? Tudor?”

  “Believe it or not, both! After watching Warwick come to terms with the French whore and Hastings link up with the Woodvilles and Morton, I thought I was done being surprised at the queer couplings politics seem to spawn, but this…”

  “But that makes no sense! If the Woodvilles were going to incite a rising, surely it’d be on young Edward’s behalf! No matter how they do hate Dickon, why should they want to put Tudor on the throne? They’d denounce the plight-troth as a falsehood, seek to stir up sympathy for Edward—”

  Finding his voice, Francis cut in abruptly, “You’ve not told us all, John. Rob’s right; the Woodvilles have no reason to join forces with Tudor. So why did they?”

  Scrope nodded. “No, I haven’t told you all. But the other…it almost defies belief, and I say that who’s seen a lifetime of betrayals and treason.” He spat again into the rushes.

  “I’ve not told you yet the name of the man behind the plot, the man heading the rebellion. Dickon’s Lord Constable. His friend and ally. Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.”

  “That can’t be,” Rob gasped. “You’re mad!”

  Scrope, normally a rather touchy man, forbore to take offense. “Nay, Rob, it’s true enough. It seems playing the Kingmaker weren’t enough for him, not when he could aim higher still.”

  “Christ on the Cross! I can’t believe it! Buckingham of all men had most cause to be true! Dickon did name him Lord Constable, Chief Justice of North and South Wales, Great Chamberlain, gave him the Bohun estates, gave him whatever he did ask for!”

  “Aye, but it seems he coveted one thing more…the crown. God rot him for what he is, the lying worthless son of a poxed whore, but he is cousin to Dickon, can trace his lineage to Thomas of Woodstock. If he can bring down the House of York, he could claim the crown in his own right, could—”

  “Then you think he’s just making use of Tudor?”

  “Need you even ask? He needs Tudor’s Lancastrian connections right now, needs Morton and Lady Stanley and their ilk to help him destroy Dickon. But then? You tell me. Can you see him yielding his own claim in favor of Henry Tudor? A man whose lineage be flawed on both sides by the bar sinister, the grandson of an obscure Welsh squire who was lucky enough to bed a widowed Queen? When pigs walk on water and the God-cursed Scots rule in Cathay! He’d never—Jesú, man, be you ill? You’ve gone as green as spoilt milk!”

  “Francis? Francis, you look ghastly! Here, let me…” Rob put a solicitous hand on his friend’s arm.

  Scarcely aware of what he did, Francis pushed the other man away. It had all come together for him, come together with appalling, merciless clarity. Sickened, he sagged back against one of the marble pillars. He understood now, understood all. It was Buckingham who personally selected Edward’s attendants. Buckingham who suggested Morton be placed in his own custody. Buckingham who stayed behind in London, finding excuses not to accompany Dickon on the progress. Buckingham who bragged of the “first-rate intelligence” behind the boys’ abduction, who convinced Dickon to keep silent about their disappearance…and God forgive him, but so had he!

  “Francis, be you all right? You’d best sit down….”

  “Never mind me,” he said hoarsely. “Tell us the rest, John.”

  “Well, you know most of it. The target date be a week from today, as I said, and Buckingham be the one pulling the strings, with a lot of help from Morton and his Lancastrian contacts. The plan be for Buckingham, Morton, Thomas Grey, and their allies to stir up a rising in the South while Tudor lands in Dorset. It seems the Duke of Brittany has decided to gamble on Tudor’s chances, has agreed to supply ships and men.”

  Rob swore roundly at that, called the Duke of Brittany a gutless grasping Judas, called Tudor even worse. “But I still don’t see how the Woodvilles do fit into all this. It makes no sense!”

  “You’re wrong, Rob; in a self-serving way, it does. You see, Tudor has promised to wed Elizabeth’s daughter Bess, to make her his Queen should he prevail against Dickon.”

  “And are you telling me Elizabeth Woodville was naïve enough to buy that? Just assume for the moment the unthinkable, that Tudor could ever hope to defeat Dickon in the field, and assume, too, that Buckingham would then magnanimously step aside in Tudor’s favor. He couldn’t marry Bess unless he had parliament void the plight-troth, declare her legitimate, and the minute that was done, Edward would be the lawful King of England!”

  Scrope looked uncomfortable, said reluctantly, “Well, it seems they’ve been spreading rumors in the South….”

  “What rumors? I don’t follow you.”

  Francis bestirred himself, said with an effort, “Rumors…rumors that Edward and his brother be dead.”

  Scrope nodded, his face grim. “I see you’ve fit all the ugly pieces together. It be a damned clever slander, in truth—wins over the Woodvilles and their supporters, discredits Dickon by accusing him of the one crime people would never forgive, and—”

  “But surely none would ever believe it?” Rob was more incredulous than outraged. “Dickon would never harm his brother’s sons! Moreover, he’d have nothing to gain by their deaths, and a great deal to lose should they die in his custody!”

  “We know that, Rob, and so should any man of common sense. But there be too many ignorant superstitious people in the country, people willing—nay, eager—to believe the worst of their betters. I think Dickon had best squelch these rumors by parading the boys through the streets of London for all to see, and the sooner the better. In fact, that was the second bit of advice I did give him, the first being to get out summons to arms within the hour!”

  Francis felt queasy. “Where’s Dickon?”

  “Above-stairs in the great chamber.” Scrope gestured toward the stairwell behind them. “He be taking this hard, I fear. And who can blame him? He’s had more than his share of betrayals in his life, Warwick and Johnny Neville, his brother Clarence, Will Hastings. But this…”

  No longer listening, Francis turned away, stared up into the dark winding stairwell. He went up the stairs like an old man, one slow step at a time. The door to the great chamber was unguarded, unlatched. He stood there before it, forced himself to go in.

  Richard was standing by the south-wall windows, staring down at the leaded roof of the kitchen below. The gardens to the south were visible, the tops of trees splashed in sunlit shades of crimson, scarlet, and saffron, hedges and herbs still flaunting summer green. Some overzealous servant had lit a fire in the hearth; it should have made the chamber oppressive on this, a day of unseasonal warmth. Richard was grateful now for its heat, but although he was not three feet from the flames, it did lit
tle to ease his chill. As he brought his hand up to his face, his fingers felt frozen, brushed his skin with the touch of ice. In his other hand he held a forgotten wine cup; he lifted it to his mouth, swallowed and gagged as his throat constricted. Turning the cup upside down, he poured the contents into the hearth, watched the fire sputter and die.

  “Dickon?”

  He turned slowly, saw that Francis was standing in the doorway.

  “You know?” he asked, saw Francis nod.

  “I…oh, God, Dickon, can you ever forgive me? I talked you into keeping silent, into saying nothing….”

  Richard looked at him, seeing the suffering on his friend’s face, but unable to respond to it. He felt numb, and instinctively feared the moment when the numbness would give way to emotions he couldn’t deal with.

  “You understand what this means, Francis?” he said huskily. “They never left the Tower alive.”

  14

  Westminster Sanctuary

  October 1483

  The summer had passed for Bess in a blur of tears and baffled rage. The man whom Mama described, the man who “cared only for his own pleasures, and most of them were found between a woman’s legs,” the man who “lay with Nell Butler and then lost interest,” who married Mama knowing he wasn’t free. How reconcile that man with the father she remembered? The father who always had time for her, no matter how busy he was. Teasing her, taking her side against Mama, drying her tears when the French King disavowed her betrothal with his son, kissing her and assuring her that “no man with eyes to see would ever reject you, sweetheart!” He was all a father could be, funny and tender and caring, and she’d loved him so very much. How could she hate him now?

  She couldn’t, no matter what he’d done. Once she admitted that to herself, some of the hurt began to heal. Yes, he’d done a grievous wrong, but it was done long before they were born, and somehow that made a difference. And he’d loved them very much, had done what he could to protect them, to shield them from the consequences of his sin. If what Mama said was true, he’d even put his own brother to death for their sake. No, she could never hate Papa.

  Having found that she couldn’t blame her father, she found that she couldn’t blame her uncle, either. Yes, he’d failed her and her sisters—above all, failed Edward. But she couldn’t realistically expect him to put his brother’s children before his own son. Once he learned about the plight-troth, it was inevitable that he would take the crown; to have done otherwise would have been to deny not only his own right but that of his little boy.

  And in fairness, she shouldn’t blame Mama, either. Mama hadn’t known about the plight-troth until it was too late, and once she had, she’d done her best to protect their interests. Oh, but if only she’d not tried to deny Dickon the protectorship! If only she hadn’t treated Dickon like an enemy and, in so doing, made him one!

  In later years, when Bess tried to recall those summer months in sanctuary, she’d find her memory was flawed, filled with curious blanks. She passed the days like a sleepwalker, fearful of the future, haunted by the past while squandering the present like coins of little value. Where once she’d pined to leave the confines of sanctuary, now she was more than willing to stay where she was, sheltered from a world that no longer held a place for her. She shrank from facing people, dreading in equal measure their scorn and their pity. There were days when it was an effort to get out of bed, to dress; what was the point, after all?

  Only the presence of her three little sisters kept her from surrendering unconditionally to this cold, grey and all-enveloping despair. Anne was only eight, and Katherine and Bridget even younger; no less bored within the limits of sanctuary than Dickon had been, they demanded a great deal of Bess’s time and energies. Resentful at first, she gradually came to see her sisters’ demands for what they were, a godsend. In caring for the little girls, she began slowly to care again about herself, about the fragmented life she somehow had to start putting back together.

  She found ways to pass the time: reading, embroidering, playing chess games and Charades with Cecily, Hoodman Blind with the younger girls. She wrote cheery little notes to Dickon, and occasionally to Edward, gave them to John Nesfield with his assurances that he’d pass them on to the Constable of the Tower, Sir Robert Brackenbury, for delivery to the boys.

  John Nesfield was a new element in their lives. In August, guards had suddenly been posted around the Abbot’s lodging, guards commanded by John Nesfield. Bess and Cecily soon discovered he was quite approachable, and from him learned that the council had given orders to keep the sanctuary under surveillance. They sought to keep boredom at bay by speculating at length about the reasons for the council’s action. Was it feared that they meant to slip away as Tom had done? Or was it a preventive measure, one meant to keep Mama from indulging in further intrigue?

  If so, it was a spectacular failure. It was true that visitors were no longer allowed to come and go as freely as they had during those June days when Jane Shore had served as Will Hastings’s go-between. But their mother had been able to circumvent the new restrictions with a little ingenuity. Taking to her bed, she’d feigned illness, so convincingly that she soon won access for the doctor of her choice. That the doctor in question was a Dr Lewis, a young Welshman with close ties to Lady Stanley, did not escape either Bess or Cecily. So Mama hadn’t learned anything from the fiasco of the Morton-Hastings plot!

  Neither, it seemed, had Lady Stanley. She’d been luckier than she deserved the last time, had merely been remanded into her husband’s custody. In fact, she’d even been allowed to play a prominent role in their uncle’s coronation. It was Lady Stanley who’d been given the honor of carrying Anne’s train in the procession to the abbey. Bess had been amused in spite of herself upon hearing that, could not think of a more subtle and fitting punishment for Henry Tudor’s mother, to be forced to watch as the crown she so coveted for her son was placed upon another man’s head. That was, Bess and Cecily laughingly agreed, exactly what Papa would have done, too! But it seemed that Lady Stanley was venturing once more into deep water.

  As for her mother’s involvement in this latest plot, Bess almost welcomed it. At least Mama seemed to be taking an interest again in what went on around her, seemed to have shaken off that dreadful, uncaring apathy that had so frightened both Bess and Cecily. Let other women occupy themselves with their gardens and embroidery frames and household accounts, Bess thought with grim amusement; with Mama, nothing worked so well as intrigue! She wasn’t at all concerned about her mother’s scheme, for she couldn’t see how it could amount to anything. Whatever Mama and Lady Stanley had in mind, what threat could they pose to Dickon now? Two lone women against the power of the State, against an anointed King?

  In the second week of October, rumors began to sweep the city of a rising in Kent. But word was slow to trickle into the confines of the sanctuary, and it was not until the following Sunday that Bess and Cecily learned what all of London already knew, that there was trouble to the south, that six days ago Richard had issued a public proclamation accusing the Duke of Buckingham of treason.

  Elizabeth was conferring, privately and urgently, with Dr Lewis when her daughters burst without warning into the chamber. She spun about, startled, a reprimand hovering on her lips. But Bess, whose manners had temporarily gone by the wayside, gave her no chance.

  “Mama, you must tell us what is happening! We just talked to John Nesfield and he says the Duke of Buckingham has stirred up a rebellion against Dickon, that Buckingham’s allied himself with Henry Tudor, and Tom and your brothers are all in the plot, too! Mama, is it true?”

  “Not now, Bess!”

  “Madame, I really think she should be told….”

  “Doctor, I’ll thank you to stay out of this. I already told you I’d do it in my own way and in my own time.”

  “But if she’s to wed with my lord, she should—”

  “Wed? Wed with whom?” Bess stared at the doctor. “What are you talking about?�
��

  “I know Lady Stanley has oft spoken to you of her only son, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond. He has dedicated his life to the recovery of the crown wrongfully usurped from King Harry of blessed memory, to the recovery of his stolen birthright. But he is sensitive, too, to the injustice done you and your sisters, hopes to redress your wrongs at the same time that he does redress his own. With that in mind, he has made a formal offer for your hand in marriage, and your lady mother has accepted on your behalf. He means to—”

  “Me…marry Tudor? No! I won’t do it!”

  “Bess!”

  “My lady, I don’t think you understand. My lord has honored you by offering to make you his Queen, to—”

  “And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride! That be a favorite saying of my uncle, Doctor. You do remember my uncle…the man who does happen to be England’s present King? And since he and not Henry Tudor wears the crown, I fail to see how Tudor can offer me anything, least of all to make me Queen!”

  “It surprises me, in truth, to hear you speak so kindly of a man you have such reason to hate. I think you’d best listen—”

  “No, Doctor Lewis, you listen! You seem to have forgotten who I am, the daughter of that Yorkist King you just accused of usurping Lancaster’s throne! My father had every right to the crown, and I resent you saying otherwise. For you to think I’d ever consent to ally myself with the enemy of my father’s House, to wed a Lancastrian adventurer of dubious heritage…well, it be out of the question, and you can tell Tudor that for me, tell him—”

  “Bess, you little fool, listen to me—”

  “No, Mama, not this time. You tell him, Doctor Lewis, tell him what I said.”

  “You’re making a great mistake, my lady. He’s offering you a new life, a crown, a chance to avenge yourself upon the man who did your family such grievous hurt….”