The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Westminster

  December 1485

  Bess was holding her five-year-old sister upon her lap. “Listen now, Bridget,” she murmured, “and I’ll teach you a Christmas carol…like this:

  Noel, all, all, all

  Now is well that ever was woe.

  At Bethlehem, that blessed place

  The child of bliss born He was,

  Him to serve, O give us grace,

  O lux beata trinitas.

  Bridget listened intently and, as Bess repeated the verse, the little girl chimed in. It was Cecily’s favorite carol, reminded her of too many Christmas seasons past. She looked away.

  “How long now till Christmas, Bess?”

  “Just three days, Bridget. This is Thursday, and Christmas comes on Sunday.”

  Thursday, the twenty-second. Four months since Redmore Plain. Cecily had gone to St Paul’s that morning, had secretly arranged to buy Masses for the repose of her uncle’s soul. She wondered if Bess had done likewise, but knew she wouldn’t ask. There were any number of subjects she and Bess no longer discussed, even in utter privacy. They never talked of Redmore Plain, of their brothers who were dead or their little cousin Edward in custody at the Tower. And they never talked of Richard.

  December 22. In less than a month, Bess would be Tudor’s Queen. He’d had the Act of Titulus Regius repealed, had all copies burned, and on the eighteenth of January, he and Bess were to wed. That, too, they never talked about.

  “I saw Jack this morning at St Paul’s, Bess.” Cecily hesitated, dropped her voice still lower even though they were alone. “Think you that he’ll be safe once you’re Queen?”

  Bess kissed Bridget, set her down on the floor. “I don’t know.” Nothing of her thoughts showed in either her face or her voice, and Cecily, whose every memory of her sister was one of warmth and expressive emotion, could no longer keep silent.

  “Ah, Bess, don’t,” she entreated. “Don’t shut your heart to me, too.”

  She was never to know how Bess would have responded, for at that moment the door opened and Elizabeth entered.

  “You have a visitor, Bess,” she said lightly, “your lord husband-to-be.”

  Cecily stiffened, sank down before Henry Tudor in a deep curtsy, as she’d never done in the private presence of her father or uncle.

  He was a young man, not yet twenty-nine, but it was not a young face; the insecurities of exile had taught him to guard his secrets well. Too well, Cecily thought. She was ill at ease with this man and uncomfortably aware that he knew it. The eyes meeting hers now were a light clear grey; as fathomless as the depths of a well, they were not the windows to his soul, reflected only what he chose to share.

  The strain in the room was palpable. Elizabeth alone refused to acknowledge the tension, made inconsequential social conversation with the ease of long practice. Cecily knew her mother’s true feelings for Tudor, and she marveled how adroitly Elizabeth camouflaged her disdain. But she saw something flicker in his eyes as Elizabeth called him “Henry” it was more than a distaste for the assumed intimacy, and she thought in alarm, He doesn’t like Mama, not at all.

  She was right. Henry Tudor’s aversion to Elizabeth was so pronounced that he was hard-pressed to be polite to her; she was for him the epitome of all that he most detested in women—conniving, deceitful, and haughty. Much of his reluctance to wed Bess could be traced, in fact, to his assumption that as is the mother, so is her daughter, and he’d begun to thaw toward Bess only when he realized that Elizabeth and Bess were as unlike in temperament as wine and milk.

  Once he and Bess had been left alone, an awkward silence fell. There was more ease between them now, but not enough to make their meetings comfortable. He wanted it to be otherwise, did not want to take a stranger to his bed, but the ambivalence in his emotions was such that he found it almost impossible to lower his defenses. He knew she was no more eager for their marriage than he and resented her for it; resented her, too, for the Plantagenet blood that flowed in her veins, for the Yorkist loyalties she could command among his disaffected subjects. And yet he had to admit that Bess had conducted herself with dignity under circumstances far from easy. She’d shown, too, a lack of artifice that he found very appealing, that meant almost as much to him as her undeniable beauty.

  He looked at her, at the soft red mouth, the full breasts, her graceful bearing, and acknowledged to himself that this marriage-of-state had attractions separate and apart from political considerations; he wanted this girl in his bed.

  He followed Bess to the cushioned window seat, sat down beside her in the winter sunlight. Her perfume put him in mind of the exotic scent of sandalwood, and acting on rare impulse, he leaned over, kissed her on the mouth. She accepted the caress passively, and after a moment, he drew back. The continuing silence was threatening to become embarrassing, and he was grateful now when Bess began to talk of commonplace matters, asked him politely how his day had gone.

  “Quite well. I met with Bishop Morton for most of the morning. He will, of course, be my choice for the chancellorship.” He went on to talk of his council meeting that morning, speaking in generalities, for he did not believe women should be privy to the secrets of government. Bess listened attentively, making the proper responses. Only once did her mask slip; when he made mention of William Stanley, he saw her hands clench in her lap, saw her knuckles go bone-white in sudden tension.

  The corner of Tudor’s mouth twitched in a secret smile. He was quite willing to indulge her in this, her hatred of Will Stanley, for his own opinion of the man was far from favorable. It was true, as Stanley boasted, that he’d made a King on Redmore Plain, but he’d also taken his own good time in coming to Tudor’s rescue, had waited almost until it was too late, and Tudor had not forgotten. They’d been the worst moments of his life, troubled his sleep even now, four months later. Unable to retreat, for to show cowardice before his men would be as fatal to his cause as the battle-axe Gloucester was wielding with such lethal skill. Yet knowing he couldn’t hope to best the other man in combat. Watching helplessly as his executioner bore down upon him, a madman on a bloodied white stallion, on his helmet the gleaming gold Tudor had yearned for, schemed for, and would now die for.

  Tudor blinked, mentally cursed his own memory for the clarity of his recall, for the merciless reality of his remembrances. Why must he be haunted by what was done and past? He hadn’t been the one to die; instead, it had been Gloucester, trapped and alone in the midst of Stanley’s murderous Cheshiremen. Stanley had come in time to save his life, after all, but had delayed long enough to endanger it, delayed too long to deserve gratitude.

  A book lay on the window seat beside Bess, and he reached for it, welcoming a neutral topic of conversation. It was an elegantly bound edition of The Pearl, a touching lament for the death of a beloved child. Opening it at random, he began to flip through the pages, and he was pleasantly surprised when Bess leaned over to point out her favorite passages, pleasure that lasted only until he turned to the flyleaf, saw the name written in a dead man’s hand: Richard Gloucestre. He stared for a moment at the slanting signature, said tersely, “He gave you this?”

  “Yes.”

  He slammed the book shut, tossed it on the table. A letter fluttered from its pages, fell to his feet. Picking it up, he started to hand it to Bess, but stopped as the words “my castle at Nottingham” caught his eye. Unfolding the letter fully, he rapidly began to scan the page:

  Dearest Bess,

  I’ve had time this summer to consider all that happened, and I think I do understand now how you and I found ourselves in such a coil. Grieving takes many guises, lass. We’d never accepted Ned’s death, either of us, sought to find him in each other. I truly believe—

  Tudor got no further; Bess snatched it from his hand.

  “That be private, meant for no eyes but mine.”

  His pride and common sense spoke as one, advised him to let it lie. But the need to know what was in that letter was too st
rong and he held out his hand, said curtly, “I’m to be your husband. That does give me the right to know of your past.”

  She stared at him and then walked without haste to the hearth, very slowly and deliberately fed Richard’s letter into the flames.

  He was not a man to let his emotions show. “I think, Bess, that it be time we talked about what there was between you and your uncle.” Only in the heavy stress laid upon the word uncle did he reveal the extent of his anger.

  “I have consented to be your wife, Henry. I want no more war, no more killing, will do what I can to reconcile Yorkist and Lancastrian loyalties. I will do all that is expected of a wife, of a Queen, and God willing, I will give you sons. But there is one thing I will not do. I will not discuss Richard of Gloucester with you…not now, not ever.”

  “The choice is not yours to make, Bess. If you are to be my wife, I have the right to know the nature of the bond between you. You’d not deny that I have reason enough for doubts. The rumors linking your name with Gloucester’s were such that he felt the need to make an unprecedented public denial. I heard it said at the French court that he would have married you if he dared, that he—”

  “You heard wrong,” she snapped. “Dickon loved but one woman in his life. I was not that woman. Now if you still have doubts, I suggest you learn to live with them, for I’ve said all I mean to say.”

  Her defiance rankled, but what bothered him most was the easy intimacy of “Dickon.” He regretted ever having started this, aware that they were on the verge of saying that which could not be forgiven, of destroying whatever fragile hope they might have of reaching some sort of accord. But he didn’t know how to back down, felt committed to press for answers he was no longer sure he wanted.

  “Assuming that you’re speaking the truth, you have only told me what Anne Neville was to Gloucester, not what Gloucester was to you. Bess, I’m entitled to know; you owe me the truth. Was he your lover?”

  “No!” The mouth he found so desirable was contorted, rimmed in white. “Not that I expect you to believe me, but no, no, he was not!”

  She was trembling, angry tears welling in her eyes, spilling unheeded down her face, and he realized that whatever his right, it was a question he should not have asked.

  “I do believe you,” he said at last, put his hand on her arm. She jerked away from his touch, and he wheeled about, strode to the door. But his anger carried him no farther than the antechamber. There was too much at stake to walk away, to let this grievance fester between them; whether they liked it or not, he and Bess were stuck with each other, and he did not want a wife who hated him, who submitted to him in silent loathing. He wanted more than her body, wanted her goodwill, her respect. Turning, he reentered the chamber.

  Bess was on her knees by the hearth, thrusting the fire tongs into the flames. He was close enough now to see her aim, to see what looked to be a charred fragment of paper in the ashes. She was sobbing, tear-blinded, seemed oblivious of his presence even when he leaned over her and sought to take the fire tongs.

  “Bess, you’ll burn yourself and for nothing. The letter’s burned; it’s gone. Come now, and give me the tongs.”

  She shook her head, clung with surprising strength. “No…there’s part of it intact, I see it….” She made a final lunge with the tongs, reached for the letter; it crumbled at the touch, fell apart in brittle flakes. Bess dropped the tongs, buried her face in her hands and wept.

  “Bess…. Bess, for God’s sake….”

  He was at a loss, at last put an arm around her, lifted her forcibly to her feet. She swayed against him, still sobbing, as a child would cry, without restraint or inhibition, soaking his doublet with her tears. He fumbled for a handkerchief, patted her back awkwardly. After what seemed to him to be an exceedingly long time, her sobs grew less convulsive; her breath no longer came in strangled gasps.

  “Be you all right?” he asked, felt her stiffen against him as if realizing for the first time who was holding her.

  “Yes, I…I think so,” she said, very low, moved to put space between them.

  “If you’re sure….” He raised her hand to his lips, very formally, turned to go.

  “Henry.”

  He stopped, his hand on the door latch, and she said hurriedly, “I…thank you.”

  The door closed; she sank down weakly into the nearest chair. She’d been braced for a barrage of pointed questions, had been so sure he was going to begin harassing her about Dickon again. He’d just shown himself to be more sensitive than she’d have expected. But did he still believe her? If she had to choose three words to describe Henry, they would be clever, secretive, and suspicious. If she had to choose but one, it would be suspicious.

  She drew a deep, uneven breath. She was borrowing trouble, and for naught. Even if she had stirred up his suspicions again, it would be easy enough to allay them once they bedded together, once he was reassured that she was a virgin. But she didn’t want to think of that now, God no. Coming abruptly to her feet, she began to circle aimlessly, tracking the confines of the room as she’d seen trapped lions in the Tower pacing their cages.

  Suddenly realizing she still held Tudor’s handkerchief, she paused before the fire, thrust it into the flames. They shot upward, blurred in a blaze of brightness; tears were filling her eyes again.

  “I’m Elizabeth of York,” she said aloud, “and I shall be Queen. God forgive me, Papa, Tudor’s Queen.” The tears were falling faster now, streaking her face like rain. Henry had been right; Dickon’s letter was gone, burned beyond recall. But she remembered, remembered every word. Memories endured; they could not be burned.

  “ ‘Grieving takes many guises,’ ” she whispered. “You were wrong, Dickon, you were wrong. I did love you….”

  31

  Mechlinia, Burgundy

  July 1486

  Henry Tudor passed his first Easter as King in the walled city of Lincoln. While there, he was warned that Francis Lovell and Humphrey Stafford had fled sanctuary, were seeking to raise an insurrection against him, Francis in the North and Humphrey in Worcester. Deeming Francis to pose the greater threat, for the North still smoldered with discontent, Tudor dispatched three thousand men north, under command of his uncle, Jasper Tudor.

  Francis and Humphrey were laboring under an all but insurmountable handicap in that while their aim was to dethrone Tudor, they had no candidate to put forward in his place; Jack de la Pole seemed to have come to terms with Tudor’s kingship, and George’s eleven-year-old son was under close confinement in the Tower of London. When Jasper Tudor shrewdly proclaimed free pardons to all rebels, many of Francis’s men had second thoughts about the risks of their enterprise, slipped away under cover of darkness. Francis made a desperate eleventh-hour attempt to ambush Tudor and, when that failed, he went into hiding in Lancashire. From there, he was able to make his way to the coast, to take ship for Burgundy. Margaret had made of her court a garden for the White Rose of York; she welcomed him as if he were blood kin.

  Humphrey Stafford was not so lucky. He chose to seek sanctuary a second time, taking refuge at the abbey at Culham. On Whitsun Eve, John Savage and sixty armed men burst into the abbey, took Humphrey out by force. Despite his argument that his arrest was illegal since sanctuary had been violated, he was found guilty of treason. Taken to the gallows at Tyburn, he was there hanged, cut down while still living and disemboweled. He was then beheaded and his body divided into four parts, to be dispatched to various cities of the realm as a lesson to other would-be rebels.

  At the same time, a London conspiracy to free young Edward from the Tower miscarried. The first challenge to Tudor’s sovereignty had come to naught.

  Mechlinia was a fortified river city in the province of Antwerp, for a number of years the favorite residence of Margaret of York, dowager Duchess of Burgundy.

  Véronique wandered to the window, stared down into a summer garden of an almost tropical brightness. Swans were sunning themselves on the bank of the pond belo
w, but as soon as Véronique appeared at the window casement, they plunged into the water, launched themselves toward her like a feathered flotilla. She leaned out, began to throw bread down upon the water, trying all the while to shut out the conversation going on behind her.

  Francis and Margaret were talking again of Redmore Plain. She didn’t want to hear them, felt as if every detail of that day were mercilessly etched into her brain. She knew how Richard had died, would to God she didn’t. She knew, too, of the unspeakable indignities that Stanley’s men had inflicted upon his body once he was dead, knew that as Tudor entered Leicester in triumph, the horse carrying Richard’s body had shied and his head had smashed into the side of Bow Bridge in grisly fulfillment of an old woman’s prophecy, knew that his naked body had been exposed to the stares of the curious for two days and then rolled with scant ceremony into an unmarked grave. She knew that which she’d rather have forgotten, did not understand how Francis and Margaret could dwell upon memories so painful.

  Why could they not see that vengeance was no antidote for grief? Even if they succeeded in overthrowing Tudor, would it bring back the dead? And what of Bess? Margaret’s niece, Tudor’s Queen, already pregnant with his child. Véronique had tried once, only once, to talk of this with Margaret. The other woman had heard her out in frozen silence and then said in a voice glazed with ice, “I had four brothers, and now I have none. I loved my brothers, Lady Véronique.”

  Margaret had risen, was departing the chamber, and Véronique crossed to Francis, bent down and kissed him full on the mouth.

  “Ah, love,” she whispered, “can we not go away from here? Can we not try to forget? Let the dead bury their dead, Francis, I beg you.”

  “And vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” he said impatiently. “Well, it’s not vengeance I seek, Véronique, it’s justice.”

  “No, my love, you seek that which is beyond recovery. Oh, Francis, don’t you see? You cannot redeem the past, not even in Henry Tudor’s blood.”