The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The squire was young, and it was to be his first battle; he’d known with morbid certainty that he’d keep a wretched vigil through those solitary hours until sunrise. When he awoke, it was with a sense of wonder; he must have slept as soon as he’d dropped down upon his pallet. The tent was in darkness; all around him he heard the soft snores of his companions. It was still night, not yet time. He fumbled by the pallet for his boots, failed to find them, and padded barefoot out into the night.

  The grass was damp and cool; so was the air. Summer was in its final stages. He didn’t tarry, relieved himself as quickly as possible, and plunged, shivering, back into the tent. But as he rolled into his blankets, he saw the light coming from within the inner partition.

  An oil lamp still burned by Richard’s bed and candles were lit on the small altar. Richard knelt in a circle of shadowy light; he held a rosary and his lips were moving. The boy paused, reluctant to intrude upon prayers and yet equally reluctant to withdraw. It greatly disturbed him that Richard should be awake and alone with the battle but hours away.

  He waited patiently until Richard had completed the rosary before coming closer, but he froze almost at once, for Richard had begun to speak again, and as the soft-spoken words became clear to the boy’s ear, he felt the hairs rising on his arms and the back of his neck.

  “Blessed Virgin Mary, I pray thee now, that in the hour when my eyes shall be so heavy with the darkness of death that I cannot see the brightness of this world, nor move my tongue to pray or call to thee, may it then please thee to remember my prayers to thee, to receive my soul in thy blessed faith. When death shall be so near, Lady, be to my soul comfort and refuge and defense, so that the enemies of Hell, so fearful to behold, may not confront me with the sins I have committed, but that these sins shall be pardoned at thy prayer and blotted out by thy blessed Son. Amen.”

  He saw Richard make the sign of the cross, start to rise, but he stood rooted, mute. Why the prayer should have so shaken him, he didn’t know; it was a prayer that any man might recite on the eve of battle, that was likely being echoed all over camp. And yet he’d gone cold as he listened, and now he, too, made the sign of the cross, staring at Richard with wide, stricken eyes.

  Richard came to his feet and then recoiled at sight of his squire. “Jesú!” He hated to show how tautly strung his nerves were, laughed rather self-consciously. “With that catlike tread, Geoffrey, you’ve the makings of a good cutpurse!” Giving the boy closer scrutiny, he saw the youngster’s pallor, and his voice changed. “What is it? Why aren’t you asleep, lad?”

  Geoffrey pulled himself together, stammered, “Your light, I…I saw it, Your Grace, thought you might have need of me….”

  He had a thick thatch of straw-color hair, a peeling nose and sunburnt face smudged with freckles, was about Richard’s age at the battle of Barnet. Richard looked at him, slowly shook his head.

  “No, Geoffrey. Go on, sleep while you can.”

  Still Geoffrey lingered. “You, too?” he ventured at last.

  “Yes,” Richard said. “Me, too.” And as the boy ducked through the partition, Richard lay back down on the camp bed. It was narrow and not much softer than the sun-scorched arid earth at his feet, but last night he’d lain in his own traveling bed in a Leicester inn, and sleep had eluded him then, too.

  He was still holding the rosary. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, mother-of-pearl threaded through with gold filigree, had belonged to Anne. He laid it carefully on the table next to the lamp, brought his arm up to blot out the light.

  How many hours now…three? Four? It was not a warm night, but his shirt was sticking to his back; his skin felt damp and clammy. Was he feverish? Or just sick from lack of sleep? He couldn’t go on like this, had to be able to believe in his right. It was past midnight, was Monday now. The twenty-second of August, eighth day of the Feast of the Assumption. He’d been King for two years, one month, and twenty-seven days, and on the morrow he’d know, would have the answer only the Almighty could give him. “Dies Irae,” he whispered. “Day of Judgment.”

  It was still dark but campfires were being doused and sleepy men were being prodded out of their blankets, yawning and cursing. Entering Richard’s command tent, Francis was not surprised to find Richard up and already fully armed. Accepting a goblet of watered-down wine, he watched as Richard’s squires checked their handiwork, sought to make sure that their sovereign’s armor was securely fastened; more than one man had lost his life because a buckle broke or a strap gave way at a crucial moment. Francis knew that he was looking at a labor of love, for the squires had somehow managed to restore the armor to its original luster, and it gleamed in the lamplight like polished pier glass, as it had on Tewkesbury’s Bloody Meadow.

  Rob caught his eye. “Dickon has just dispatched a herald to Thomas Stanley, ordering him to bring his forces into the royal camp.”

  “Did he warn Stanley what would befall his son should he fail to obey?” It was not a question Francis felt he should have had to ask, but too often that summer he’d seen Richard neglect to do that which would have been obvious to anyone else, and he felt some relief now when Rob nodded.

  “Rest easy, he did, and in language not even a Stanley could mistake.”

  A young squire was hovering beside them, holding out a plate of bread smeared with honey. “My lord? Might you prevail upon the King’s Grace? He says he wants nothing, but he slept poorly last night….”

  Francis smiled into the boy’s anxious eyes. “Give it to me, Geoffrey. I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, and making his way toward Richard, announced with forced flippancy, “Your breakfast, my liege, If you won’t humor me, do it then for Geoffrey. The boy’s not likely to eat a mouthful unless he sees you—”

  He stopped in midsentence as Richard turned, unable to suppress a gasp of dismay. Richard looked ill; his face was haggard, grey under his tan, and the skin around his eyes looked discolored and bruised.

  “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

  “Yes, I did,” Richard said, very low, “for an hour or so, but it might have been better if I hadn’t. I dreamed…” He shook his head, said with a twisted smile, “It shows as much as that?”

  Francis nodded. “Dickon, it wasn’t because of…well, that unpleasantness yesterday on the bridge?”

  A look of surprise crossed Richard’s face. But even as he shook his head, Rob said sharply, “What unpleasantness? What are you talking about, Francis?”

  Francis had forgotten that Rob hadn’t been a witness to the incident, had taken it for granted that someone would’ve made mention of it to him by now. He hesitated, having no way to gauge the importance Richard had placed upon the prophecy, and Richard answered for him.

  “It happened as we were on our way out of Leicester, Rob, on Bow Bridge, the second bridge over the Soar. The crowds spooked White Surrey and he shied suddenly, damned near threw me. In getting him back under control, my spur struck the side of the bridge and an old woman in the crowd screamed, cried out that she saw my head hitting the same spot, saw the bridge wet with my blood.”

  It was an accurate account but not an entirely honest one; neither in Richard’s voice nor in the matter-of-fact recital did he convey any of the unease that had colored the moment, the superstitious awe that had swept the crowd. People had recoiled from the woman as if she were a leper, and many murmured of second-sight, clutched at crucifix and rosary, while the more morbid and intrepid pressed forward, stared in fascinated horror at the bridge as if expecting to see the stones dripping blood. It was, Francis knew, just the sort of lurid tale to spread like plague; he felt grimly certain that by now most of their army had heard at least a garbled version, and he said savagely, “God rot that old crone, she did stink of cheap wine, was too bleary-eyed to see the warts on her own face, much less a vision of any sort. I don’t know why I even mention it, Dickon, know you took it for the besotted babbling it was.”

  “If you’re asking whether I thought
her a witch, Francis, I didn’t. She was simple, no more than that.” Richard smiled then, mirthlessly. “It was not, however, the most auspicious way to take my leave of Leicester!”

  “Dickon….” Francis lowered his voice. “The bad dreams…. What were they then?”

  Richard had picked up one of the slices of honeyed bread. Now he set it back on the plate untouched. “I dreamt of my brother,” he said reluctantly. “Of my dead.”

  He looked from one to the other, his eyes searching their faces as if seeking to imprint their features upon his brain. “You’ve been loyal friends; no man ever had better. I know your concern; would that I could ease your minds. In all honesty, I cannot. I think you both know my feelings about this battle, my forebodings. But they go beyond the fear of defeat and death.”

  “Can you tell us, Dickon?”

  “I was taught from boyhood to believe that justice does not prosper without mercy, Francis. My brother thought not, warned me once that mercy was an indulgence no King could truly afford. And he was right. The Stanleys, Archbishop Rotherham, Reginald Bray, John Cheyney…All men now backing this Welsh rebel, all men whose treachery I did overlook. Had I chosen to punish rather than pardon, had I executed them as I did the Woodvilles, we’d not have come to this…to Redmore Plain.

  “It’s not only my own life I must wager this Monday, it be yours, too, the lives of so many men. Well, never again, that I swear to you. Should God grant me the victory, I’ll do what I must to make secure my kingship. I’m done with forgiving treasons, forgetting treachery. Leniency lends itself only to further betrayals. But that is not the way I ever wanted it to be, and that is not a future I can look to with any expectation.”

  Rob and Francis looked at each other, neither knowing what to say. But Richard was already turning away, moving to meet the scout just ducking under the tent flap.

  “We’ve taken up position on the hill, Your Grace.” The man was unshaven, his jerkin sweat-stained and faded, but the grin he gave Richard was vividly triumphant. “We thought sure we’d have to race Tudor’s scouts for it, but his camp is not even stirring yet. Think you that we ought to dispatch a herald out of Christian kindness, let them know we be waiting on them?”

  There was a sudden easing of tension; men laughed for the first time that morning. The strategic advantages to the army occupying Ambien Hill were considerable; Richard had gained the upper hand without yet taking the field.

  “My lord?” Francis turned, saw one of Richard’s chaplains. There were priests as much at home on the battlefield as at the altar, men of God who circumvented the scriptural ban upon “smiting with the edge of the sword” by using the mace. This man was not one of them. Gaunt and hollow-eyed, he reminded Francis of church paintings he’d seen of St Stephen; it took little imagination to envision him throwing his arms wide as the first stones struck, embracing martyrdom with all the passion of the true zealot. The impact of the man’s personality was such that Francis made no protest as the priest grasped his arm, drew him into the inner reaches of the tent.

  “Lord Lovell, you must talk to the King, must get him to change his mind. He says he’ll not hear Mass, will not ask God’s blessings upon York. He says that if his cause be just, God will be with him without need of prayer. And if it is not, then to ask the Almighty for victory would be to mock the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, to profane the Sacrament of the Eucharist.”

  Francis stared past the priest, at Richard’s rumpled bed. Lord Jesus, have mercy upon him. Dickon’s logic was as impeccable as it was unsparing. Where did he get the courage? It was more than his life he was offering up; for a man to knowingly choose death was a mortal sin, and yet if he could not have the victory, Dickon meant to die.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” he said thickly. “There’s nothing I can do. You can, though. You can pray for him, pray that the battle does go to York.”

  The priest’s eyes glowed like coals. “I’m not talking about the outcome of a battle, I’m talking about eternal damnation,” he said fiercely, as voices rose suddenly beyond the partition. With the priest at his heels, Francis hastened back into the main section of the tent.

  Geoffrey was holding Richard’s helmet, clutching it to his chest. But all other eyes were on Richard, on the coronet in his hand, a narrow circlet of beaten gold studded with gems. Taking the helmet from Geoffrey, Richard snapped the circlet into place above the visor.

  “Your Grace, I implore you.” Francis had never heard John Kendall so distraught. “The risk be too great!”

  “For the love of God, Dickon, listen to the man!” Rob reached out, grasped Richard’s hand. “You wear that crown and you’ll draw the whole field down on you! You’re making yourself a target for every man jack that fights in Tudor’s army, don’t you see that?”

  Richard shrugged, signaled for Geoffrey to assist in attaching the helmet. “If Tudor wants my crown, let him take it from me, then…if he can,” he said coolly, and most of the men in the tent laughed; bravado had an appeal in itself that bore no relationship to common sense. Even Rob grinned, rather grudgingly. Francis and the priest watched in silence, their eyes riveted on the gleaming gold circling Richard’s helmet.

  It was just after 5:00 A.M. The last of the stars had faded into the misted light of coming dawn, and the sky was opaque, the color of cloudy pearl. To the east the horizon still hid the sun, but it looked to be a clear day for battle. Richard said that now to John Howard, and the latter nodded, almost absently. His was to be the command of the vanguard and he had about him the rather harried look of a shepherd seeking to account for all of his flock, but as the slate-grey eyes came back to Richard’s face, they softened somewhat. Richard was, at thirty-two, easily young enough to have been his son, and there was a genuine caring in Howard’s voice as he said softly, “Dickon, be you all right?”

  “Well enough.” But John Howard was a friend, entitled to honesty, today of all days. “I slept rather poorly, Jack,” Richard admitted, and summoned up a taut smile. “I remember Scriptures telling of a man who bartered his birthright for a bowl of pottage. Right now I think I might willingly yield up half my realm for a few more hours’ sleep!”

  “Well, we’ll sleep sound tonight, one way or another.” A man too familiar with death to accord it undue respect, Howard often disconcerted others less phlegmatic, but Richard found his mordant humor curiously bracing, and he reached out, rested a gauntleted hand upon Howard’s arm.

  “I know you’ll look to the vanguard, Jack. Be sure, too, that you do look to yourself.”

  “And you be sure that you do likewise,” Howard said dryly. “The vanguard be ready to take up position on the hill, but Northumberland seems to be taking his own sweet time about getting the rear guard into formation. Have you had word from him?”

  Richard nodded. “He wants to keep his men here on the ridge, says that way he’ll be in a better position to come to our aid should either of the Stanleys move against us.”

  “That’s true enough, but it’s no less true that he’s not exactly panting to take the field against Tudor. I don’t mean to malign the man, Dickon, but he’s a mediocrity whose only known talent has been for equivocation. But what have you, the title he bears be one of England’s proudest. Can you trust him?”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “No,” Howard conceded, spat out a particularly virulent oath. “That accursed earldom of Northumberland has never been lucky for York. Had Ned not taken the title from Johnny Neville and given it back to Percy, Johnny would never have betrayed Ned at Doncaster and—”

  “Your Grace!” It was Will Catesby, hastening toward them. “A rider has just come in from the Duke of Norfolk’s camp, seeking the Duke.”

  Both Howard and Richard started forward, but the man found them first. Reining in abruptly, he tumbled from the saddle to kneel at Howard’s feet.

  “My lord of Norfolk,” he panted, “we did find this pinned to your tent just after you left camp.” Thrusting toward Howard a shee
t of smudged paper.

  “Well? What is it, Jack?”

  “Nothing worth bothering with,” Howard said brusquely, would have crumpled the paper beyond reading had Richard not held out his hand.

  “I think I’d best see it, too,” he said, quietly insistent. The paper was creased, the writing barely legible, as if scrawled in extreme haste:

  Jack of Norfolk, be not too bold,

  For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.

  Richard stared at it in silence, oblivious of Howard and Catesby. For a moment he felt nothing, nothing at all, and then, at long last, his rage broke through.

  “Dickon, pay it no heed,” Howard said composedly. “They merely seek to stir up suspicions, to touch our nerves on the raw.”

  “Yes, but it’s also true and we both know it. The Stanleys stand to gain far more under a Tudor kingship than ever they would under mine. You think Tudor hasn’t pledged the sun and moon for their support? But this I swear by all the saints, that the price of betrayal will be more than they bargained for, and payment shall be in the coin of my choosing.”

  Howard had seen Richard’s anger take many guises. In demanding the death penalty for Anthony Woodville and Dick Grey, he’d shown a rancor no less implacable for being glazed in ice. He’d sent Will Hastings to the block in a raging blaze of passion. But there was in his voice now a fury of surpassing bitterness, of an intensity to give Howard no small measure of satisfaction. His concern for Richard’s state of mind had been only a little less than his fear of battlefield betrayal. There’d been times when it seemed to him that Richard’s fatalistic acceptance verged dangerously close to indifference, and he thought now that their unknown tipster had done them a greater service than he’d ever know.

  “I’ve known the Stanleys for nigh on thirty years, Dickon, and while they’re long on promises, they’re invariably short on delivery. If Tudor be counting on them to throw him a lifeline, he’s like to find it a hangman’s noose, instead.”