The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “This is the second month that my flux hasn’t come,” she said, and when Véronique would have spoken, she shook her head slowly. “No…I’m not with child.”

  “Anne…are you sure? Women often feel ill in the first months of pregnancy….”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Anne said softly. “That be the irony of it all, that I am so sure. You see…I’d been trying all summer to get with child. When we went back to Westminster in August, I made daily offerings before the Shrine of St Erkenwald in St Paul’s, and every night I did entreat the Virgin Mother to heed my prayers. And then last month when my flux didn’t come…I should have thought first of pregnancy, I suppose.” There was a curious lack of emotion in her voice, only a dull wonderment. “But I didn’t, Véronique. I…I don’t know why, but I didn’t. It was as if…as if I somehow sensed…”

  Anne raised her lashes; her eyes shone with an unnatural, intense brilliancy, the pupils so dilated that they seemed more black than brown, and what they mirrored unmistakably was fear. Véronique’s mouth had gone dry; she said as calmly as she could, “You’re saying then, that you’re ill…that you’ve been ill as far back as last month?”

  Anne nodded. “Even longer, I think. I just didn’t realize, thought it was no more than exhaustion and…and grieving over Ned.”

  She coughed, fumbled for her handkerchief. “At first I was just so tired, Véronique…. I’d wake up in the morning feeling as if I’d never been to bed, and the slightest exertion left me winded, drained. And then…Well, I’ve had no appetite for longer than I can remember, but these past weeks I’ve been making an effort to eat more—I’d promised Richard—and yet my weight has kept dropping. The cough…that you do know about. I told myself it was nothing to fret over, began to drink horehound mixed in honey at bedtime. But it’s been getting worse, Véronique, especially at night…. You can’t imagine what it’s like now, lying awake hour after hour trying to stifle it as best I can, trying not to disturb Richard. When it gets too bad, I go into the garderobe where he’ll not hear me and cough into a towel.”

  “Oh, Anne….” Véronique closed her eyes, not knowing what to say.

  “And last night…last night I found myself shivering, suddenly chilled to the bone. It didn’t last long, only a few minutes, but then I began to get so hot, Véronique, as if my skin were on fire. Finally I broke out in a sweat, and after that, I could sleep….”

  “Anne…. Anne, why in God’s Name have you kept this from us? Why didn’t you let Dr Hobbys know? Why—”

  “I didn’t go to Hobbys because I knew he’d tell Richard. And Richard mustn’t know.”

  “Anne, you’re making no sense. If you be ill, Richard must be told. He has the ri—”

  “No! He of all people must not know! And you must promise me that, Véronique, promise me you’ll say nothing to him, to anyone.”

  “Anne, I…I cannot!”

  “Véronique, you must!” Anne coughed sharply, reached over to lay an entreating hand upon her arm. “You don’t understand…. I cannot do that to him, I cannot…. If…if I’m as ill as I think, he’ll know all too soon. Each day I can give him, each day he doesn’t know…Oh, don’t you see? You must promise me, you must!”

  Véronique shook her head mutely, her throat closing, cutting off speech.

  Anne was on her feet, staring down at her. “Please, I beg you…for Richard’s sake….”

  “Ah, Anne, don’t! Don’t ask that of me!”

  “Promise me….” Anne was struggling for breath, her face suffused with bright blood, and Véronique cried out in sudden panic,

  “Yes…yes, I will! I swear it, Anne!”

  But her surrender came too late. Anne had so agitated herself that the coughing now was convulsive, out of control. She stumbled backward, doubled over with the force of the spasms shaking her body.

  “Anne…Anne, I don’t know what to do for you! Forgive me, but you must have a doctor, you must!”

  Anne shook her head, but she had no breath to protest. Her knees gave way and she sank back in the window seat. Véronique was holding a cup to her mouth, and she tried obediently to swallow, choked, and spilled wine down the front of her gown. Somewhere she heard a door open, heard footsteps, other voices. Joyce? Bess? Suddenly the chamber seemed full of people, hovering over her, all talking at once; someone was holding a wet cloth to her forehead. She drew a strangled breath, then another, less labored. Once more she could get air into her lungs, once more her body was her own again, and she sobbed with the utter intensity of her relief.

  “Anne?”

  Opening her eyes, Anne saw Joyce’s frightened face through a haze of tears. She wanted to reassure Joyce, to say that she was all right, but it was too much of an effort, the words just wouldn’t come.

  “We’ve sent for the doctor, dearest. For Richard, too. He’ll be here any—”

  “No,” Anne whispered. “No….”

  Why was this happening? Why to her and Richard? So unfair, Blessed Mary, so unforgivably unfair. It was wearing off now, the merciful numbness, the disbelief that her body could so betray her, and she was swept by a sudden rebellious rage, a blasphemous anger against a God Who could let this happen, let children die, the innocent suffer so. Unless…unless Richard was right. And if he was, his guilt then was hers, too, for she’d urged him to take the crown. But was there any sin so great it could not be forgiven? Did contrition count for nothing?

  “Leave me,” she said dully. “All of you.” And there was in her voice that which none of them had ever heard from her before. No one protested, not even Véronique; Anne found herself obeyed with an alacrity that even Elizabeth might have envied.

  Coming unsteadily to her feet, she moved toward her cosmetics table, picked up a mirror. A woman with hollowed, feverish eyes stared back at her, a woman unnaturally flushed, a sheen of perspiration at her temples, glistening across her cheekbones, her upper lip.

  “Anne?”

  She stiffened, put the mirror down with a thud, and very slowly turned around. Richard was standing in the doorway, and the look on his face was what she’d most feared to see.

  Rob and Francis were sitting by the hearth, ostensibly playing at Tables. But Richard knew they were watching him all the while; he could feel their eyes, feel their unspoken concern. What was it Ned had once said, that he was lucky in his friendships? As ever, Ned had been right. Did they know how dear they were to him, these men with whom he’d shared so much? Too often friendships were taken for granted, and loved ones…loved ones even more so, as if there’d always be unlimited tomorrows, a future guaranteed by God.

  Richard moved toward the bedchamber door once again, stopped with his hand just inches from the latch, and then turned away, sank down in the nearest chair. Almost at once, he felt a warm wetness swipe his neck, put up his arm just in time to fend off Loki’s caressing tongue.

  “Lord deliver me from lapdogs the size of small ponies,” he said to the room at large and then pulled the big dog close, rubbed his cheek against Loki’s soft silver-grey ruff.

  It was then that the door opened and Dr Hobbys came out of the bedchamber, followed by Thomas Bemesley, the physician who’d been in attendance at Middleham, had been at Ned’s deathbed. Richard came to his feet so suddenly that the alaunt was caught unaware, had to scramble awkwardly to keep its balance.

  There was a strained silence, broken at last by Richard. “Well?” he said huskily.

  “She’s resting now, my liege. But given the unusual severity of the coughing fit, we’ve advised Her Grace to remain abed for the next day or two.”

  Richard nodded, waited, but neither doctor volunteered more. They were, he saw, as reluctant to give him answers as he was to put questions to them. He leaned forward, gripping the back of the chair, stared down at his jeweled rings, his whitening knuckles.

  “I’ve been trying to convince myself that her cough was just that, a cough and no more. But it isn’t, is it?” His eyes moved from Bemesley to Hobbys. �
��I want you to tell me. And I want the truth.”

  “We cannot be sure as yet, Your Grace, but…” Bemesley began, and Richard looked to Hobbys.

  The older man hesitated and then said, very quietly, “We think it be consumption.”

  “Oh, God….” Richard had thought he was braced for the worst they might tell him, but he’d not expected this. Tertian fever, even influenza, but not consumption. Consumption, the White Plague that had claimed Bella, had taken Johnny Neville’s son. The wasting fever that was a virtual death sentence for the young, the frail.

  “Does she…does she know?”

  Dr Hobbys nodded. “She asked us plain-out, Your Grace, if it be consumption. I couldn’t lie to her.”

  “Dickon….” Rob was standing beside him now, Rob who’d lost a young wife in childbirth. Stricken blue eyes looked into Richard’s own, eyes that understood all too well. Rob reached out awkwardly; his hand brushed Richard’s sleeve, dropped to his side, and then he blurted out, “Dickon, listen, it doesn’t mean there be no hope. Joyce has a cousin who was taken with consumption when she was fifteen, thought like to die, but today she be fine, has a husband and children….”

  “Sir Robert be right, Your Grace,” Dr Bemesley said swiftly, soothingly. “Your lady will have the best of care, that we can promise you, and God willing, I see no reason why she should not recover from this affliction.”

  Richard looked at him. “If you only knew,” he said softly, “how much I do want to believe you.”

  “What is this, Richard?”

  “Goat’s milk, egg yolks, rosewater, and nutmeg. Honey, too, I think. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?” Richard slipped an arm around Anne, helped her to sit up and watched intently while she drank.

  “And tonight Dr Hobbys wants you to take red wine mixed with laurel berries just before we go to bed. He thinks it should ease your cough considerably, but he wants you to keep on taking the horehound and honey during the day.”

  Anne’s eyes met his over the rim of her goblet. The liquid was sweetish, thick; she forced it down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “We’ll take our time on our way back to London, sweetheart. You can rest in the horse litter and I’ll ride next to you and keep you company. Do you think you’ll feel up to leaving the first of the week? If not, we can wait….”

  “That will be fine, Richard,” Anne said, and smiled at him. He smiled back but tensed as she coughed, dark blue eyes never leaving her face, relaxing only when she settled back in his arms.

  “What can I get for you, beloved? There must be something you want, surely.”

  “No…nothing. Just hold me,” Anne said, and he drew her even closer, stroked her hair with gentle fingers, touched his lips to her forehead, and for the first time in weeks Anne felt something almost like peace. But soon after, Dr Hobbys entered the chamber, stiffened at sight of them together on the bed, and Anne flushed guiltily, would have moved away had Richard not been holding her so tightly.

  After satisfying himself that her goblet was empty, and feeling her forehead to assure himself that she wasn’t feverish, Hobbys said gravely, “I’ll see that another milk drink be sent to you before bedtime, Madame.”

  Anne nodded. “You needn’t worry, Dr Hobbys. I…I know what must be done.”

  She waited until Hobbys withdrew, but no longer, knowing that if she didn’t say it at once she never would.

  “Richard…I promised that I’d be honest with you from now on, that I’d not keep anything from you again, and I meant it. But you must be honest with me, too, love…and with yourself.”

  “You don’t think I am?”

  “No.” She drew a deep, uneven breath. “A few minutes ago you spoke of us going to bed, and my darling, you know that cannot be. Dr Hobbys told you we can no longer share a bedchamber…didn’t he?”

  “Anne, listen—”

  “No, my love, no. Consumption be the most contagious of ailments. Do you think I would ever willingly subject you to such a risk? Dr Hobbys was adamant on this, and Richard, he’s right.” She twisted around in his arms, looked up imploringly into his face.

  “You must do this for me, love, if not for yourself. Dr Hobbys says that if I’m to get well, I must avoid stress, avoid emotional upsets, and what peace of mind would I have if I were living in fear that you might be stricken with my sickness?”

  Richard started to speak, stopped, and after a long moment, nodded.

  Anne’s relief was intense, overwhelming; she’d known Richard would not heed Hobbys, that she alone could persuade him. But then she thought what it would mean, that never again would she lie at night in his arms, feel his warmth, his caresses, hear the reassuring soft sound of his breathing beside her. Never again. And suddenly that seemed too much to bear, too much to ask of her. She shut her eyes tightly, turned her cheek into Richard’s shoulder, but hot tears seeped through her lashes, streaking her face in a desolate trail of grief she could no longer deny.

  She struggled to keep her breathing even, regular, so Richard would not know she wept, but then she felt his mouth against her eyelids, her lashes, the wetness on her face. She knew she should stop him, should not let him do this, knew Dr Hobbys would never forgive her, but she couldn’t turn away from him, couldn’t refuse this wordless attempt at comfort, the only kind he now knew how to give. Surely God would not punish her for this, for letting him hold her one last time, and she lay very still, feeling his breath warm on her skin, his heartbeat thudding against her ear. She did remember in time, though, to avert her face just enough so that he could not kiss her mouth. After a long time, her tears ceased. He continued to hold her close, but he didn’t speak; neither did she.

  22

  London

  January 1485

  Upon her departure from sanctuary, Elizabeth had leased a manor house in the Essex village of Waltham Holy Cross, twelve miles north of London. Cecily was no longer in residence, having joined Bess at their uncle’s court, and Elizabeth’s household consisted only of her three younger daughters, her sister Katherine and Katherine’s children, and a modest staff to serve their needs. There was comfort in Elizabeth’s new life, but no contentment, and it was that which impelled her to embark upon a mission of such risk.

  The two servants selected to escort her into London exchanged startled glances as she emerged from the house, swathed in a widow’s dark veil and barbe. It made sense to them, though, that she should not wish to be recognized; her daughters were much pitied by Londoners for their fall from grace, but few found pity to spare for Elizabeth, who was now reaping what she’d sown during twenty years of careless arrogance, self-indulgent tempers.

  Elizabeth waited as her mare was brought up and then pulled a deep mourning hood up over her head so that her face was almost completely hidden. Satisfied, she let her groom help her mount, and they moved out.

  They rode into the churchyard of St Paul’s in midafternoon. Dispatching one man to watch over their horses, Elizabeth instructed the other to await her in the cloisters, and then entered the church. Crossing the nave, she slipped out the Si Quis door, hastened into Paul’s Alley. Even if her servant should disobey her and seek her within, his failure to find her should not arouse suspicion. Today was the Feast of the Epiphany and St Paul’s was crowded to capacity; Elizabeth had chosen her time with care.

  Within a few minutes she found herself walking briskly up Ivy Lane, passing the gateway leading into Lovell’s Manor, the London town house of Richard’s Lord Chamberlain. None of the passersby gave her so much as a second glance, but her heart was beating uncomfortably fast; never before had she been on her own in London, unaccompanied even by servants. Pray God she’d not regret it!

  For the first time she began to wonder if the risk be worth the gain. Her life was not unpleasant now, after all. Her needs were being met, and her daughters were being honorably treated at Richard’s court; in that, he’d more than kept his word. So why, then, hazard what she already had for wh
at might never be, trade substance for shadowy promise? If Richard was to learn of her continued involvement with Tudor, if he was to learn of this meeting today…It was true that she could better afford to indulge in treason than most. Not only was she safe from the axe, it was highly unlikely she’d ever see the inside of a prison cell; Richard would spare her that for the sake of her daughters. But he could choose a more subtle confinement, could shut her up within the walls of a convent, and Elizabeth had no desire to take the veil, to see her world shrink to such dreary dimensions. Convents were for the overly devout and the utterly defeated, and she was neither.

  She gasped suddenly as the stench of gutted entrails and offal assailed her nostrils, hastily clasped a handkerchief to her nose and mouth until she was safely past Pentecost Lane with its slaughterhouses and butchers’ stalls. Jesú, how did the people living nearby endure the stink?

  The street was filthy, the air foul, and Elizabeth’s footsteps slowed; she seriously considered turning back. What chance had Tudor to defeat Richard on the field? For all his pretensions, what was the Welshman but an adventurer in exile?

  Ahead lay her destination, a seedy inn just across from the precincts of St Martin le Grand. She paused, staring up at the tilted sign reading THE BULL’S HEAD. The paint was peeling, the wood weathered, the general appearance one of desolation and decay.

  Lady Mary, but it looked little better than a brothel! How could she set foot in such a hovel? This was for Tom to do. So where was he when she did need him most? His fault, damn him, all his fault. When she’d written to him, telling him that Richard had agreed to pardon him and urging him to return home to England, why hadn’t he the common sense to just slip away under cover of night? But no, he’d had to babble goodbyes to his latest bedmate, and of course the girl hadn’t been long in deciding the information might be worth something to Tudor. Tudor’s men had overtaken Tom at Compiègne, “persuaded” him to return to the French court, and since then he’d been watched like a hawk, treated with all due courtesy, but as a hostage, withal. Elizabeth wasn’t unduly concerned about Tom’s physical safety; Tudor could scarcely hope to win Woodville support by harming her son. But it had been a needless blunder on Tom’s part, and she had yet to forgive him for it.