“Of course you will,” Isabel agreed immediately, unconvincingly.
“I’ll be all right,” Anne repeated. She leaned back against the table, kept her eyes on Isabel. “He’ll not take the trouble to cause me hurt. Had he his way, he’d not speak to me at all. And now…now I believe he will shun my bed as he does my company. I should not think he’d risk getting me with child now that my father is dead,” she said matter-of-factly, and then the bitterness broke through.
“So you see, Bella, our father did not die in vain, after all.”
Isabel opened her mouth to caution Anne; some indiscretions were too dangerous ever to utter aloud. Instead, she drew in her breath in horror, for Edward of Lancaster was standing in the open doorway.
Anne saw her alarm, spun around. At sight of her husband, she went white. She caught the edge of the table, but as he walked toward her, she began to back away, until she was stopped by the far chamber wall.
Isabel watched, transfixed, while her mind raced, trying to recall if she had said anything herself that Edward might have found objectionable. With relief, she decided her own conversation had been reasonably circumspect. Oh, why could Anne never learn to hold her tongue? Now look what she had brought upon herself! Isabel’s own marriage had more than its share of tensions and strains, but George had never looked at her as Edward was looking at Anne. All at once she was not so reluctant to join George in London. Whatever her feelings for George, she had never feared him and she saw that her sister did fear Edward.
Anne wore a slender gold chain about her neck, a long-ago gift from her father; a delicate gold-and-ebony crucifix rested in the hollow between her breasts, just visible above the low-cut bodice of her gown. Edward entwined his fingers in the chain, drew it taut so that she was compelled to move toward him until their bodies touched and she had to tilt her head back in order to look up into his face.
“You are right for once, chérie,” he said coldly. “I shall, indeed, shun your bed…and, I daresay, with more pleasure than ever I got from it. I am only thankful that among your many failings as a wife, you proved to be barren, too.”
“Édouard!” Isabel said suddenly, so sharply that she startled them all, even herself. But she had seen the look on Anne’s face and was afraid of what Anne might say. She knew her soft-spoken sister was not assertive, shrank from conflict; Anne was rarely given to anger and never to the rages and fits of temper such as she herself indulged in. But she knew, too, that Anne could be surprisingly stubborn, and when sufficiently provoked, was capable of the most reckless honesty.
Now Anne was beginning to look obdurate; there was hatred as well as fear on her face, and Isabel was apprehensive lest her sister give in to one of those incautious bursts of compulsive candor. For if she did…
Edward had once surprised her by saying that he did not approve of wife-beating. Both the secular and spiritual authorities recognized a husband’s right to chastise an erring wife, and Isabel would not have expected Edward to think otherwise; her assessment of her brother-in-law was that he was not one to voluntarily relinquish any prerogative. At the time of their conversation, though, he’d been quite emphatic. Isabel remembered that now, but she was not willing to trust to his philosophical inclinations; there were some convictions that were better left untested.
“Édouard…were you…were you seeking me?” she concluded lamely, the best she could do under the circumstances.
It sufficed, though. He released Anne’s crucifix chain, stepped back, and managed to respond with at least a semblance of courtesy.
“I came to bid you farewell…and to wish you bonne chance.”
“Good luck?” she echoed and smiled uneasily. “Do you think, then, that I might encounter difficulty in reaching London?”
“No. It was my thinking that the need for luck would be greatest once you did reach London!”
Isabel felt resentment stir, but not much; there was too much truth in what he said for that. She smiled politely at him but he had turned. His eyes flicked back to the silent Anne.
“Shall I wish you bonne chance, too?” he asked, softly sardonic.
Anne swallowed, seemed on the verge of speech, and then flinched as he reached out, as if to touch her cheek. She stood very still, but turned her head aside, and he laughed, without the slightest trace of amusement.
He moved toward Isabel, then, raised her hand to his lips.
“Have you sufficient men-at-arms for a safe escort?”
Isabel nodded in surprise.
“You are sure, chérie? If not, I will see to it that you have the men you need.”
She’d not expected that; it was a generosity he needn’t have offered, one that she felt sure would have outraged his mother. She smiled.
“Merci, mon beau-frère! It is not necessary, Édouard, but I do thank you.”
He smiled, too, shrugged. “De rien, Belle-soeur.” For a brief moment, he looked again at Anne.
“What a pity you aren’t going with her, chérie,” he said tonelessly.
As the door closed, Isabel took a tentative step toward Anne, but then halted uncertainly. There was something in her sister’s face that told her Anne would not welcome her embrace just now.
She could see a faint red mark on Anne’s neck, where the chain had twisted, could see how rapidly the younger girl’s breasts rose and fell. She waited what she felt to be a discreet interval in order to give Anne time to compose herself.
“Anne, I truly must go. It grows late, nigh on toward noon.”
Anne raised her lashes. Isabel had never seen her eyes so dark, a midnight brown, almost black, but they were free of tears, and that somehow moved Isabel almost as much as Anne’s use of the childhood “Bella,” for she remembered how readily Anne would once weep for a strayed pet, an unjustified rebuke, a ballad of unrequited love.
She moved forward, hugged Anne tightly.
“God keep you, Isabel.”
“Take care, Sister. For Our Lady’s sweet sake, take care.”
Anne nodded. “I shall. Now I must tell Véronique she is to go with you. She doesn’t know yet….” She stopped speaking, drew a deep deliberate breath. “Then I shall return to the Lady Chapel.” And with no more expression than Edward had shown but moments before, she added, “I want to light a candle for York.”
30
Windsor Castle
April 1471
Tuesday, April 23: the Feast of St George, England’s patron saint. Edward had chosen to mark the day at Windsor Castle, where he’d been quartered since the preceding Friday, urgently sending out commissions of array to fifteen counties in his quest to muster fresh troops. The Yorkist lords were meeting now, in the twilight dusk that had darkened the sunset sky with all the suddenness of a winter nightfall, and the chamber was already ablaze with rushlights and foreshortened by advancing shadows.
For days they’d argued among themselves, trying feverishly to second-guess the Lancastrian command. First reports had the Lancastrian army making for Salisbury, which lay on the road to London. But conflicting reports were soon coming in, and Edward studied them, sorted them out, and concluded that the Salisbury maneuver was a feint, a military ruse to conceal their true destination: Wales and the waiting men of Jasper Tudor, Harry of Lancaster’s Welsh half-brother.
The decision had now been made; on the morrow, the Yorkists would march west. To reach Wales, the Severn River had to be forded, and there were only three viable crossings, at Gloucester, Tewkesbury, and Worcester. Edward meant to cut the Lancastrians off before any of the three crossings could be reached.
Edward signaled for wine, and turned to John Howard, querying in an undertone, “Have you had further word of your son, Jack?”
The stern mouth softened somewhat, almost smiled. “Aye, Your Grace, I have. He’s better, God be praised.”
Edward was pleased. “You Howards are a sturdy breed. I thought sure your Thomas would live to make old bones!”
Edward had long ago learn
ed a very simple trick, that one of the surest ways to endear oneself to others was to offer undivided attention, and he appeared to listen attentively to Howard’s reply. But all the while his eyes were focused unwaveringly upon Howard’s face, his thoughts were wandering far afield, and he seized his first opportunity to give voice to a nagging concern.
“How does the arm, Dickon? It’ll not hinder you on the morrow?”
Richard was not seated with the others at the trestle table. He’d chosen, instead, to settle himself in the window seat, where he was frowning in the fading light over the map spread out on the seat beside him; it was creased from much handling and liberally marked with ink. He glanced up as Edward spoke, said hastily, “Not in the least! It’s a bloody nuisance, no more than that.”
“You’d say that whether you had a bone broken six different ways from Sunday or the French pox!” George’s voice drifted lazily from the shadows behind Edward.
The jibe was good-natured, was even meant to be a compliment of sorts, but Richard was not comfortable discussing his injury; he hated ever having to acknowledge physical ailments of any kind, a carry-over from those early childhood days when raging fevers had all too often confined him to bed, subjected him to a variety of unpleasant ministrations at the hands of his nurse, and more rarely, his mother. Now he was quick to deflect the conversation into more agreeable channels.
“Who do you think will have the command for Lancaster, Ned? Somerset?”
“Most likely. Though if Marguerite had her way, I daresay she’d take the field herself. She has never forgotten that the Maid of Orléans was French-born, too!”
The men laughed, and Edward added, with a derisive smile, “My only fear is that she’ll insist upon keeping her nestling at her skirts and give over all into Somerset’s hands.”
“You needn’t worry, Ned,” George offered assuringly. “I do know her whelp, remember? I found him to be an unspeakably impudent brat, but craven he wasn’t. He’ll take the field against us. I’d wager he’s panting to do so!”
“Indeed, I hope you are right, George.” Edward drummed on the table with his pen, absently applying so much pressure that the quill point split. He tossed it aside, said, “Will, I do want you to take the rear again, as at Barnet.”
Will strove for nonchalance, did not quite carry it off. He’d had some uneasy days this week past, wondering if Edward would entrust him again with a command after the disaster that had overtaken his left wing at Barnet.
Edward was now addressing the room at large. “I trust we’re all in agreement this time as to who is to have the van?”
Will gave a wry smile, raised his wine cup toward Richard in a mock salute. No one else commented; John Howard looked approving, Anthony Woodville sourly resigned, George conspicuously noncommittal. Only Richard spoke.
“Let’s not be so hasty. I was enough of an innocent ere Barnet to think you were conferring an honor of sorts on me. Now I know better!”
Edward laughed. “I do believe you’re growing up, Little Brother!”
He pulled a fruit bowl toward him. “It’s settled, then. I take the center. Will is to have the rear again. And the vanguard goes to Gloucester…. Unless you truly want me, Dickon, to give the command into other hands?”
“Over my dead body!”
Edward grinned, bit into a fig. “Hardly the most felicitous choice of words, Dickon! And while we be on the subject, there is a distinction to be drawn between courage and recklessness. From what I did hear, you confused the two at Barnet. Next time, a little less daring, a little more discretion, if you please.”
Will missed Richard’s reply, heard only the laughter that followed. He glanced down at the table lest his eyes encounter Edward’s. Although it had been many years since he’d betrayed an unwanted emotion, he knew Edward’s eyes could at times be too discerning, and Will had no intention of ever letting Edward know he was jealous of Edward’s brother.
Edward was proud of Richard’s performance at Barnet. And with reason, Will would concede that. But he’d been listening to Edward praise Richard without pause for nine days now and he was growing rather tired of hearing it.
Will liked to think he was always honest with himself, even if not always with others. So he was willing to admit that his impatience sprang in part from his own lackluster command at Barnet. Not that Edward had reproached him because he hadn’t been able to hold his men. He merely talked incessantly of Richard, who had.
Will looked expressionlessly across the room at Richard. He’d never properly sorted out his feelings for Richard, had never even tried to do so till now. He admired the boy’s courage, was amused by his wry understated humor, could respect Richard’s passionate loyalty to those he loved. But they had little in common beyond their shared devotion to Edward, and Richard was too intense, too lacking in subtlety for Will to have chosen him as a friend had they not been thrown together by circumstance and need.
Will prided himself upon his detachment, his ability to step back several mental paces and view any happening, no matter how personal, with objectivity. It was a trait Edward valued in him, shared to a certain degree. For all that he was a man widely reputed to be governed by his passions, Edward was, Will knew, far more deliberate and controlled than most people realized. Will had known Edward as an intimate for more than ten years, and in all that time he could recall seeing Edward angry, genuinely angry and not indulging in temper for effect, so rarely he could count the outbursts upon one hand. Will was well aware that Edward, for reasons of his own, preferred that others think him impulsive, spontaneous, easily stirred by surface currents of passion, pity, pride. Will knew better.
Richard, though, was moved by emotion as Edward was not; there was nothing objective or analytical in the dark eyes he turned upon the world, nor would he have seen any virtues in such qualities had Will raised the issue with him. But Will found Edward’s youngest brother to be likable, their differences notwithstanding, and during the past year had even developed a casual affection for the boy, affection that still survived, but sapped of any vitality, after running head-on into the jealousy born of Barnet.
“What’s her name, Will?” Edward’s voice cut so abruptly through his reverie that he jumped, pulled his wits together with difficulty.
“Who?” he asked blankly, and Edward laughed.
“That was what I did ask you, Will! If it isn’t a woman who claims your thoughts so thoroughly, what, then?”
Will grinned, shook his head. “And do you think me feeble-witted enough to tell you her name? I may not be able to guard my forest from royal poachers, but I’m damned if I must myself lead the way to the deer!”
George had been standing just behind Edward’s chair. Now he came forward on the wave of their laughter, for he’d been awaiting just such a moment, when he thought his brother would be most receptive to the appeal he meant to make.
“Ned, have you given any thought to the disposition of the Neville lands?”
“Well, his northern estates in Cumbria and Yorkshire will be forfeit to the crown…. Assuming we do win, of course, George.”
Will, watching closely, caught the glimmer of irony in Edward’s eyes, wondered if George did, too. Apparently not, he decided, with George’s next question.
“What of Warwick Castle?”
Will saw Edward’s mouth twitch with what he accurately took to be suppressed amusement, but it was Richard who spoke first.
“Warwick Castle is part of the Countess of Warwick’s inheritance and, as such, reverts back to her control upon her husband’s death. The treason was Warwick’s, not hers. Since a wife owes obedience, above all, to her husband, she cannot, in all justice, be then held accountable for his crimes. Surely you do know that, George?”
Will glanced over at Richard with interest and some surprise. There had been a distinct coolness in Richard’s voice and Will saw now that he was not regarding George with any particular favor. George saw, too, said testily, “My mother-in-law d
oes not need you to speak for her, Dickon.”
“I would hope not.”
Edward had followed this exchange with increasingly evident laughter. Now he said blandly, “Dickon is right, George. Warwick Castle does, by rights, belong to the Countess of Warwick, and is not subject to forfeiture.”
For a moment he slanted a mischievous look in Richard’s direction, which only Will caught. “Moreover, George, even if the Countess’s Beauchamp lands were open to seizure, are you not forgetting that your sister-in-law, Anne Neville, is the rightful heiress to half of them?”
George looked startled, and then laughed shortly. “And are you forgetting, Ned, that Anne Neville is wife to Lancaster? Do you expect him to make a claim on her behalf, perhaps?”
Edward smiled, shrugged. “That does remind me, I want orders given to see to the safety of Anne Neville once we’ve taken the measure of Lancaster. I do want special care taken; I’ll not have her ill treated, under pain of my gravest displeasure.”
George was surprised, then pleased. “That’s decent of you, Ned, and will ease Bella’s mind considerably.”
“Not at all, Brother George.” Edward shifted in his seat, turning to face Richard. “Should I forget in the days to come, d’you think you could remember to recall the little Neville lass to my mind, Dickon?” he asked solicitously and then roared with laughter at the glare his brother gave him.
Will was watching in bemusement. The meaning of this byplay so far eluded him, but that there was meaning in it, he had no doubt. His eyes took in the three Yorkist brothers, but without enlightenment. Edward was clearly enjoying himself, and Richard just as clearly was not; he looked at once aloof and annoyed. George was frowning, seemed perplexed. Will gave Edward one more searching look, and then resigned himself to an unsatisfied curiosity. Apparently, this was yet another private understanding Edward shared only with Richard. Jealousy surged upward, rose in Will’s mouth like bile. Resolutely, he ignored the taste, and turned to Richard, with determined, deliberate goodwill.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 45