The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “My uncle? I don’t blame him for taking the crown, Doctor. I’m surprised my mother neglected to mention that; she knows it well enough.”

  “And do you forgive him, too, for what he did to your brothers?”

  “My brothers? What do you mean?”

  “Doctor Lewis, no! I said I’d tell her in my own way!”

  “Tell me what, Mama? What is he talking about?”

  “I’m sorry, Madame, but she has a right to know. I think it would alter considerably her feelings about my master’s marriage proposal. Lady Bess, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your brothers be dead, put to death within the Tower at Gloucester’s orders.”

  Bess gasped and then spat, “Liar! How dare you? That I’d ever believe…that my uncle would…Of all the vile, despicable lies…. I’d never believe that, never!”

  Lewis was speechless, stunned by her fury. Elizabeth, no less angry than her daughter, strode to the door, jerked it open. “You’ve said enough, Doctor Lewis, more than enough! Didn’t I tell you I wanted to handle this? But no, you couldn’t wait!”

  He didn’t argue, retreated before her rage.

  “Mama, you cannot believe such a lie! Dickon would never harm Edward or Dickon. They’re his brother’s children, Mama. Dickon’s his namesake, the same age as his own little boy. You mustn’t believe their lies, Mama. You mustn’t!”

  “I don’t.”

  “Please, Mama, listen to…What? What did you say?”

  “I said I agreed with you,” Elizabeth said calmly. She opened the door suddenly, reassured herself that no one was eavesdropping without. “I’m sorry you had to hear that fool Lewis blurt it out like that, but you needn’t try to convince me that it’s a clumsy lie. I know it is.” She laughed, shook her head. “But how very like you, Bess, that whenever you happen to be in the right, you’re right for all the wrong reasons!”

  Thoroughly bewildered, Bess could only stammer, “Mama, I…I don’t understand. Not any of this. If you don’t believe Dickon capable of murder, then why…?”

  “I never said that, Bess!” Elizabeth’s amusement vanished as if it’d never been. “Don’t delude yourself about that. Richard’s quite capable of murder if it serves his interests. What were Dick and Anthony’s deaths, if not murder?”

  “But you said…said you didn’t believe he’d harm Dickon or Edward!”

  “And I don’t…because it isn’t in his interest to do so. Whatever else the man is, he’s no fool. Now if we were dealing with that lunatic George of Clarence…but Richard, no. He’s shrewd enough to anticipate the reaction of the people to the murder of two innocent boys, to realize it would brand him as Herod. And the crown is already his; why jeopardize it all by spilling the blood of his brother’s children?”

  “Mama, I’m so glad you see that!”

  “If Richard is no fool, Bess, neither am I. Of course I see it. A secret hole-in-the corner murder such as Lady Stanley and Lewis would have me believe?” Elizabeth shook her head again, said with scorn, “How would it be to his advantage if they were dead and no one knew about it? If you’re seeking to eliminate a political rival, you want as many people as possible to be aware of it! If he thought they were so great a threat as that, it would have to be handled the way Ned handled Harry of Lancaster’s murder, by making a regretful announcement of their demise from fever or plague, and then having an elaborate state funeral. And even then, he’d be taking a great risk.

  “In fact, even if they actually took ill and died from perfectly natural causes, it’d put him in a damnably awkward position, stir up all sorts of suspicions among the gullible and the cynical, and virtually the whole of the population falls into one or the other of those two categories! No, in truth, I suspect he tenses up each time he hears that one of them so much as sneezes. And to expect me to believe that he had them secretly put to death, with no explanation whatsoever offered for their sudden disappearance, a disappearance that sooner or later would become known to all…well, it’s almost laughable! Far from flattering, too, that they think me so simple! But I—” Elizabeth stopped abruptly, for the first time becoming aware of the utter silence, of the way her daughters were staring at her.

  Bess had been listening in fascination, marveling that her mother could so dispassionately analyze the reasons pro and con for putting Dickon and Edward to death. Mama was an extraordinary woman, in truth she was, but a little frightening, too! So caught up was she in her mother’s spell that she didn’t at first realize the full significance of what had just been said.

  Cecily had, though. “Mama, are you saying that Papa had Harry of Lancaster put to death? Mama, I grew up believing that he died of natural causes, grieving over the loss of his son!”

  How in God’s Name, Elizabeth asked herself, had she and Ned between them ever produced such simpleminded children?

  “Half the time Lancaster didn’t even remember he had a son,” she said caustically. “He died because your father ordered it, because it was necessary. Had Ned only used as much common sense with Stillington, your brother would today be King.”

  Bess’s head was whirling; there was just too much to take in. Papa had done that, ordered Lancaster’s death? And Mama…. She didn’t believe that vicious slander about Dickon, but she’d still allied herself with Tudor and Buckingham. Bess was utterly lacking in her parents’ political instincts, would be the first to acknowledge that, but surely there was a flaw in Mama’s reasoning, a deadly flaw? She opened her mouth, just as her sister said, “Mama, is it true what Doctor Lewis said, that Tudor has offered to marry Bess?”

  “Perfectly true, the bait they dangled to win Woodville backing!”

  “But Mama…. Mama, don’t you see? Tudor couldn’t marry Bess unless the plight-troth be declared fraudulent. And as soon as that be done, Edward and Dickon would be legitimate, too! Edward would then have a valid claim to the crown again, Mama! He’d be far more dangerous to Tudor than ever he was to Uncle Dickon!”

  “Cecily’s right, Mama! You’re giving your support to a man who’d have no choice but to put your sons to death should he succeed in defeating Dickon!”

  “No, Bess, Cecily is not right! That’s not going to happen; you’re alarming yourselves for naught.”

  “But…”

  “Be quiet, and listen to me. I know what I’m doing. No, don’t argue, just listen! When your father confessed to me about Nell Butler, I told him that I still considered myself his lawful Queen, considered Edward his rightful heir. Edward should have been King, and God willing, he will be yet.”

  “How, Mama?”

  “It be so obvious I should think there’d be nothing to explain, but if I must spell it out…. Listen then, let me tell you about the nature of the wolf. Do you know why wolves have always inspired such fear? Because they run in packs, banding together to hunt down their prey. But once the kill is made…then it becomes a snarling snapping free-for-all, each wolf fighting the others for the biggest share of the spoils. Don’t you see, Bess? Cecily? That’s precisely what’s going to happen with Tudor and Buckingham! They’ll join forces just long enough to bring down Richard, and then they’ll turn on each other.”

  “But how can you be so sure of that?”

  “For the love of Jesus, girl, use the brains God gave you! Do you truly think Buckingham has gone to so much trouble, taken such risks, merely to serve as another King’s minister? What could Tudor possibly give him that Richard already hadn’t? His own claim to the crown is at least as good as Tudor’s, isn’t stained by the illegitimacy that blots both sides of Tudor’s bloodline. No, he fancies himself another Kingmaker, but I can assure you that Tudor’s not the King he means to make!

  “As for Tudor, he’d have to be Christendom’s biggest fool to put any trust in Buckingham, and from what I do know of Tudor, he be a man to see conspiracies under every bed! Right now they do have a mutual interest in overthrowing Richard, but once they do, the bloodletting will start in earnest. And then it will be our
turn, Edward’s turn. There’s already much sympathy for him, many who suspect the plight-troth as too convenient for credibility. He’s Ned’s son; you think Londoners have forgotten that? You think they wouldn’t rally to him once Richard’s dead and the choice be between an unknown Welshman and a double-dealing opportunist like Buckingham? We’d have the support of all loyal to the House of York; where else could they go?”

  “My God, Mama, you be talking about a full-scale civil war!”

  “I’m talking about a chance to restore your brother to the throne! I’m doing this for Edward, for us all; can’t you see that? What future do you think we have as it is? Having to take what crumbs Richard chooses to scatter before us? Is that what you want, Bess? What of your sisters? What marriages could they hope to make? You expect me to go begging to Richard on your behalf, to a man whose hands be stained with my family’s blood? To be Lady Grey again when for nigh on twenty years I was the Queen?

  “And what of Edward? Have you never thought what will happen to him? He’s too young now to threaten Richard, but that won’t always be so. Would you have me do nothing, wait and in five years, have to watch as Richard brings some trumped-up charge of treason against him, has him sent to the block? And don’t tell me that isn’t likely! It’s one thing to murder a thirteen-year-old boy and quite another to put a twenty-year-old would-be rebel to death! Oh, he’d do it, all right. There’s nothing men won’t do if it serves their own interests, nothing—and the sooner you both do learn that, the better!”

  “It’s certainly true of you, Mama!” Bess said bitingly, whirled for the door.

  “Bess!” But the command died on Elizabeth’s lips; she knew Bess wouldn’t have obeyed. She turned to Cecily, but the girl was already following her sister from the room.

  Elizabeth stood alone in the silent chamber. Why had God given her such fools for daughters? “I have no choice,” she heard herself say, in a voice that sounded surprisingly loud in the hushed quiet. “No choice. Why can’t they see that?”

  15

  Weobley

  October 1483

  It was almost dawn, but the sky was still dark, foreboding. Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, stood at the bedchamber window, searching in vain for a break in the cloud cover, for a glimpse of sun. He hadn’t slept, not for days, and exhaustion had cut deep grooves around his mouth, veined the whites of his eyes with blood.

  The past week had been a nightmare. From the day he’d unfurled his banners and marched out of Brecknock, nothing had gone right, nothing had gone as planned, and he was at a loss to explain it, could not understand how his luck could have so forsaken him.

  It had begun with the storm, as violent as any within memory of men then living. It had lasted for days, forced them to move out in a drenching, blinding rain. “The Great Water,” people were calling it, and with cause; more than two hundred luckless souls had been drowned in Bristol alone. The rivers had rapidly spilled over their banks, turning fields into lakes, houses into kindling. The roads washed out, and Buckingham’s soaked and miserable men found themselves slogging through a quagmire. The more superstitious among them began to mutter that God had turned His face against them, that it be true what men said about the Devil fighting for York.

  Buckingham, less credulous, knew better. But even if the rains were not sent by Satan to Gloucester’s good, he was getting some damnably effective help from mortal men. Buckingham swore and spat. The Vaughns, God rot them, had always resented Stafford authority in Wales. They had at once put out a summons to arms in the name of King Richard, and no sooner had Buckingham mustered his men out of Brecknock than the skies over Breconshire were darkening with the smoke of burning Stafford lands. The Vaughns had cut off all communication into the heartland of Wales, thus preventing would-be rebels from joining up with Buckingham, and as he led his men through the Black Mountains, they shadowed his rear, made use of the night and their superior knowledge of the mountain passes to harass his men, to pick off stragglers with the lethal longbows that had been the gift of the Welsh to the world of weaponry.

  Buckingham had been bitterly disappointed by the turnout of men to his standard; he had with him a small number of Welshmen more eager to fight for their countryman Tudor than for him, but the bulk of his army consisted of his retainers and tenants from his own lands. As they left Wales behind and entered into Herefordshire, he’d breathed a sigh of relief. Without the Vaughns to plague them, surely they’d be able to make better time, would find many willing to throw in their lot with him, to make his quarrel with Gloucester their own.

  It hadn’t worked out that way at all. In Herefordshire, he found no enthusiasm for his cause, no crowds turning out to cheer him on, just silent, suspicious villagers who wanted no more bloodshed, wanted only to be left in peace. And in Herefordshire, he found an enemy no less dangerous than the Vaughns. The opposition of Humphrey and Thomas Stafford was as embittering as it was unexpected; they were Buckingham’s own cousins. But now they burned bridges before him, blocked roads with logs and storm debris, staged daring nighttime raids, and the more dispirited of Buckingham’s men began to desert.

  Jesus wept, Buckingham thought numbly, how could so much have gone wrong so fast? All had been falling into place so perfectly, like a puzzle to which he alone had all the pieces. His plan had been flawless, so well thought out. And it had worked! It had been so simple, had taken only a few trusted men and a powerful sleeping draught. A dose poured into the ale, another one mixed into the boys’ favorite food—as easy as that; the bodies put into a large coffer, hidden away and later removed from the Tower grounds, two small millstones to hang about Gloucester’s neck. He had only to express shock when Brackenbury came to him with word of their disappearance, to assist in the search, and then to be sure that he was the one to break the news to Gloucester. And again all had gone as he’d foreseen it would. He’d pulled the strings and, like a trusting fool, Gloucester had obligingly helped to hammer the nails into his own coffin, never once suspecting the truth. After all, why should he? No, it had been a perfect plan, virtually foolproof. All it had taken was the willingness to risk all, to gamble where other men would’ve held back. To have the vision to see what could be his for the taking if he only dared. People were so astonishingly gullible, so stupid, in truth, could be manipulated by the right man like so many puppets. Gloucester and Tudor, Morton, the Woodvilles. So easy, so astoundingly easy.

  So why was it all falling apart like this? Why had it so suddenly soured? He’d been so sure that people would flock to his banners, so sure…. This God-cursed rain; it’d turned all of Herefordshire into an impassable swamp, beat down his men’s morale. Worst of all, it had swollen the Severn River into a raging torrent of mud and debris and bloated bodies. With all bridges torched by the Staffords, and sure death awaiting any man foolhardy enough to spur his mount into those swirling out-of-control currents, Buckingham had found himself trapped there on the banks of the Severn, cut off from the West Country where the Courtenays and Woodvilles awaited him.

  He’d been forced to retreat, was once more at the village of Weobley, where only days before he’d taken possession of the manor house of an absent Yorkist lord. And now he was back, his men encamped in the fields beyond the village—those who hadn’t slipped away under cover of night, fled back into Wales. Already disillusioned, uneasy, they’d panicked as word spread that Gloucester had gathered an army at Leicester, was moving south to intercept them. Most hadn’t bargained on that, on having to take the field against Gloucester himself, and each dawn revealed new gaps in their ranks. Men Buckingham could ill afford to lose. And raging in vain as his army disintegrated before his very eyes, he began at last to know the chill of fear.

  In truth, he’d not bargained upon facing Gloucester, either. With Morton and Lady Stanley’s go-between Bray assuring him that Tudor would be landing in the South any day now, and with Thomas Grey and his cohorts stirring up rebellion in Devonshire and Kent, he’d felt sure Gloucester
would have to fight his way south, every bloody mile of the way. The entire country would be up in arms by then, risings taking flame like so many brushfires, fueled by carefully fanned rumors about the fate of Gloucester’s nephews in the Tower.

  But the risings had never materialized; the country remained quiescent. Jack Howard had contained the rebellion in Kent with no more effort than one corking a bottle, and he’d had no word at all from Tudor, Tudor who was supposed to draw off Gloucester with the ships and mercenaries bought with Breton gold. As for the Woodvilles, they’d not go up against Gloucester; like him, they’d been relying on Tudor for that, relying on a widespread revulsion against Gloucester, the man responsible for the murder of his brother’s sons. But it hadn’t happened. The rumors alone couldn’t do it; not enough people knew the boys were missing. There was not going to be any full-scale rebellion. Unless Tudor did his part, came ashore on English soil, Buckingham knew he was going to be facing Gloucester alone. Facing a man who must hate him with a hatred such as he could not even imagine.

  “Your Grace!” It was Thomas Nandik, an astrologer who’d attached himself to Buckingham’s cause back in August, when the crown seemed like a fruit ripe for the plucking.

  “Morton’s gone, my lord! His room is empty, his bed not slept in. He must’ve slipped away in the night.”

  Buckingham’s mouth was suddenly dry. So it was true, he thought wildly, that folklore about rats deserting a sinking ship!

  “My lord, I don’t understand. Bishop Morton was our ally, our liaison to Tudor. Why would he forsake us now, my lord? Why?”

  Buckingham didn’t answer him. He was staring past Nandik, staring blindly, green-gold eyes glazed over, darkening with dawning fear.

  16

  Salisbury

  November 1483

  Fleeing north into Shropshire, Buckingham took refuge with a former retainer at Lacon Hall, near the village of Wem. His choice of sanctuary was as ill advised as his reckless quest for the crown; within hours, he was under arrest, had been taken into custody by John Mitton, the sheriff of Shropshire. On Saturday, November 1, he was brought to Salisbury, where Richard was encamped. Taken before Sir Ralph Assheton, England’s Vice-Constable, he was summarily charged with treason, found guilty, and sentenced to death. The execution was set for the following day.