“And you thought that might upset me?” Anne was staring at him in unfeigned astonishment. “Oh, Richard, how could you think so? I did know Middleham would be forfeit; there was never any question of that. And there is no one I would rather see have it than you. No one! I know how you love it; Middleham was home to you.”
“And to you,” Richard said quietly. He very much wanted to kiss her; he didn’t, took her hand, instead.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll lead you back.”
A strange expression crossed her face, both wistful and bitter. “If only you could,” she whispered.
Richard had become accustomed to being summoned to his brother without warning and at odd hours of the day or night. Generally, he was flattered by such tangible proof of how much Ned had come to rely upon his judgment, but not tonight. Tonight the last place he wanted to be was in Ned’s bedchamber while his brother related a rather lengthy account of his meeting that afternoon with Lord Mayor Bette.
One of Edward’s servants was leaning over Richard with a silver flagon, and he nodded, reached for his cup as soon as it had been refilled. So far the wine hadn’t helped much, but it might if he had enough of it. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt so out-of-sorts. As much as he hated the thought of it, he’d have to see Ned’s physician tonight, for if he didn’t get something to dull the pain, he’d be awake till dawn. Though if he were to be honest with himself, the major source of his discomfort was not his arm. It had been several years since he’d suffered the uncomfortable aftermath of thwarted desire; he’d forgotten how bloody awful it felt. He wondered briefly if it was too late to do something about it. It was nigh on ten; the inns would be closed by now. A town the size of Coventry would surely have its share of bawdy houses. But he didn’t want a whore. He wanted Anne.
Edward was saying something about taking from the city their civic sword and Richard made an appropriate sound that could pass for agreement. How was it that he’d not even remembered he’d had an arm when he was with Anne and now it did feel as if it were being held over a roasting spit?
He found some relief in silently cursing his absent brother, but not much. George wasn’t the only fool in the family. How could he have been so blind? She was so fearful…. Why hadn’t he foreseen that? He should have known, should have been better prepared for this. But how could any man have maltreated Anne? Anne, who was so fragile, so utterly without defenses. To hurt Anne would be like turning a gerfalcon upon a butterfly. He drank again, beckoned to the hovering attendant.
But what if he couldn’t overcome her fears? She’d said she wanted only to forget. What if she couldn’t? The truth was that he had never tried to coax an unwilling woman to his bed. He was accustomed to ardent bedmates like Kate and Nan, or to knowing harlots. How would he go about gentling the fears of a girl who knew only the worst of what a man could teach a maid? Patience…. As much patience as his own needs would allow. But was that enough? A pity there wasn’t some way he could seek Ned’s advice without asking outright. From what he’d seen of Ned’s appetites in the past year, Ned didn’t seem much inclined to bed a woman who wasn’t as hot for it as he, but he must have had some experience in overcoming the qualms of timid virgins. When it came to hungers of the flesh, Richard suspected there was very little Ned didn’t know about, and what there was most probably wasn’t worth knowing. But he could not possibly ask Ned without betraying himself.
“…and so there you have it, Dickon. If they cannot pay the ten thousand marks by noon Monday next, a gallows shall be set up in Cross Cheaping and—”
“Ten thousand! Gallows…Ned, what…” Richard caught on, but too late. He waited patiently until Edward had stopped laughing at him, and then said ruefully, “Mea culpa; I confess I wasn’t listening! What did you truly choose to assess against Coventry?”
“I did declare the city liberties forfeit, and graciously agreed that they could be redeemed by the payment of five hundred marks. I shall later let myself be persuaded to accept only three hundred marks and they’ll consider themselves quite fortunate; far more so than if I forbore to claim any penalty at all!”
Richard laughed, but stopped abruptly when Edward said, “Now, shall I give you some advice?”
“No!” he said hastily, and Edward grinned, not at all put out.
“Ah, but I shall, anyway! It’s plain enough that you’ve had a falling-out with your little cousin, else you’d not be brooding about like a man expecting a visitation from the Angel of Death. So, for what it’s worth, my advice is this…. Give the lass time. Her whole world has been torn asunder in little more than a twelve-month. Give her the chance to come to terms with it all.”
Richard had been braced for the worst, all too aware that his brother’s sense of humor was unpredictable at best, and knowing, too, that Edward tended to view women with the appreciation of a skilled huntsman for a particularly elusive quarry. What Edward had just said was so sensible, so far removed from the ribald jest he’d been expecting to hear, that he found himself asking, “What, then, would you suggest?”
“I’d send her on to London, to Isabel.” Seeing Richard’s protest taking shape, Edward forestalled it by saying, “I was watching your Anne at dinner. When she does look at you, her heart shows in her eyes, as if you’ll disappear into smoke should you be out of her sight for even a moment. But what does show, too, is that she’s been ill used. She needs time to comprehend fully that she’s truly free of Lancaster. Time, too, I would wager, to convince herself that you do still care for her. Give her over into her sister’s keeping for now, Little Brother. It is scarcely the separation of a lifetime, after all. We will ourselves be in London within the fortnight.”
After a long silence, Richard nodded reluctantly. “There is sense in what you say,” he admitted, for it occurred to him that he, too, could use some time to think upon his feelings for Anne.
Since boyhood, he’d taken it for granted that he and Anne would one day wed; the seed planted by Warwick had taken root so gradually that he could not recall a time when he hadn’t expected to marry Anne. It made sense, after all. Anne was pretty, sweet-tempered, an heiress. She’d make a most suitable wife for him, and such a match would please two men he cared greatly about pleasing, his Neville cousins. But it was not until Anne was plight-trothed to Lancaster that he’d realized just how much he cared.
Richard slouched down in his seat, tried in vain to find a position that would ease his aching arm. Raking up the past was irrelevant. What did matter were his feelings now. If Anne did love him, he must be very sure in his own mind as to what she meant to him. What if she gave her heart over into his keeping and he then found that what he felt for her was no more than memory and desire colored by pity? He didn’t think that was true, but could he be sure? He’d been shaken by the fear she’d shown tonight, more than he liked to admit. One thing he did know, that he couldn’t tolerate the thought of her being hurt again.
“You did have Dr de Serego look at that arm, I trust? I know you shy away from doctors like a skittish horse from snakes, but infection could set in if you don’t take care. You did see him, Dickon?”
Richard wasn’t all that surprised by this abrupt interrogation; he’d more or less been expecting it.
He nodded, said with resignation, “Who did tell you?”
“Who didn’t?” Dryly.
“Good Samaritans, all,” Richard said, with some bitterness, and Edward shrugged.
“You could hardly have expected otherwise, Dickon. What does surprise me is that you didn’t see this coming. The signs were there, as far back as Windsor.”
“For God’s sake, Ned, don’t gloat!”
Edward looked mildly offended. “I assure you that was not my intent.” But after a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Yes, I guess it was! But can you honestly fault me for it? There’s no sweeter temptation, save one, than to say ‘I told you so,’ after all!”
“I can see little h
umor, Ned, in what did occur this afternoon,” Richard said coolly, started to rise.
Edward waved him back into his chair. Adept at reading voices, he’d caught the undertones of hurt beneath the surface gloss of anger; his grin faded.
“You’re right, of course, Dickon. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all. Look, I do admit I find a certain satisfaction in having your eyes opened to George as I know him to be. But I take no pleasure in your pain, lad. And I do understand. You’ve always been the one to speak up for George. Only Meg turned a blinder eye to his faults. If there is any man who’d have the right to expect his goodwill, that man should be you.”
That was precisely how Richard did feel—betrayed. His mouth twisted. “If I have his goodwill, then Christ keep me from his enmity!”
They were now alone in the room; Richard reached for the wine flagon, poured for them both.
“I cannot figure him, Ned,” he confessed. “Does he truly believe it is the Warwick lands I want, not Anne? Does he know me as little as that?”
“As to your first question, he doesn’t need to believe it; for George, the mere suspicion is enough. As to your second question, I don’t think he can accept what is to him incomprehensible, that money motivates you so little. You must remember, Dickon, that with George, more is never enough!”
“Yes, but—” Richard stopped so abruptly that Edward looked up in surprise, saw that Richard was staring over his shoulder toward the open doorway. He turned around in his seat just as George walked into the chamber.
By the time he’d retreated from the great hall, George’s anger was no longer pure, was diluted by a clouded, murky splash of shame. Nothing had turned out as he’d intended. He’d not meant to feed gossip with a scene sure to give such pleasure to those who did hate him. Nor had he meant to cause fresh hurt to Dickon’s arm. He remembered now that Ned had, indeed, said something to him about the arm, said that Dickon had inflamed it again with his exertions upon the field Saturday last. But it had gone completely from his head. All he’d been able to think of was the way Dickon was meddling where he had no right to meddle, making a fool of him before a score or more of witnesses. Surely Dickon must know it hadn’t been deliberate! But a nagging uncertainty remained, fueled by the memory of that incredulous accusing look on his brother’s face.
He found himself wishing that the entire unpleasant encounter had never happened, and for the first time within adult memory, he was pulled by vague ill-formed promptings toward an apology of sorts. He felt somewhat better after making that decision, and before long, another idea, too, had come to him, startling at first in its novelty but intriguing, nonetheless. Why not talk to Dickon, openly and honestly, about the lands? Dickon was fair more often than not, in all matters not touching upon his besotted unreasoning loyalty to Ned. Perhaps he could be made to see the unfairness of it. He had no need for the Warwick and Beauchamp lands. Ned was sure to load his coffers with silver, to give him first pick of the estates forfeited by the Lancastrian rebels. Lands Ned was not bloody well likely to share with him! All he had were the Neville estates. It wasn’t fair that Dickon should cast covetous eyes upon them, too. It wasn’t fair.
But George’s conciliatory impulses were given a severe jolt at sight of Edward and Richard sitting together, like two conspirators bent upon excluding him from their confidence, their company. He held to his resolve, however, even summoned a passable smile.
“I hope you didn’t take our set-to this afternoon too much to heart, Dickon.”
“I took it for what it was worth,” Richard said, with an icy unfriendliness that could not have quenched George’s forgiving spirits more thoroughly than if he had upended his wine cup in George’s lap.
“I see,” George said. Oh, yes, indeed he saw! His eyes cut to Edward, quick enough to catch an amused gleam.
“I should have known you’d have wasted no time in going whining to Ned!”
“I’m beginning to think that what you know could be inscribed upon the head of a pin, and with space to spare!” Richard snapped, and Edward said hastily,
“Enough, both of you!” He no longer saw anything funny in this, not at all. It was one thing for Dickon at last to see George as he truly was. It was another thing altogether to have them seriously at odds. He’d seen all too well with his cousin Warwick the dangers that discontent did breed.
“Dickon did not come to me carrying tales, George. You should know him better than that. I assume you have something on your mind? Well then, I would suggest you sit down and we do hear you out.”
George did, and after some moments of awkward silence, blurted out, “Look, Dickon, about your arm…. That was pure bad luck, no more than that.”
Richard said nothing, and George fidgeted in his seat, finally forced himself to offer, “If you do want me to say I’m sorry…”
“I’ll tell you what I do want from you, George. I want you to keep away from Anne, to stay out of her life. Be that clear?”
George’s outrage was now all the greater because he could assure himself that he’d done what he could to put things right between them.
“You seem to forget that Anne is my sister-in-law, and Bella would little like the way you’ve been fondling her sister within sight of all! Still less would she like what was being whispered about the great hall this noon, that if Anne’s not to be Lancaster’s Queen, she’s now quite willing to be Gloucester’s harlot!”
Richard’s hand tightened convulsively upon his wine cup. But even as he formed the intent to fling it in his brother’s face, he felt Edward’s hand clamp down upon his wrist.
“Careful, Dickon, you almost did spill your drink. As it happens, George, your touching concern for your sister-in-law’s honor is somewhat misplaced. Dickon and I were only a short while ago agreeing it would be best for the lass if she were sent tomorrow to Isabel.”
“You did!” George gaped at them in utter astonishment, and then turned upon Richard a blindingly radiant smile.
“I cannot tell you how that does relieve my mind, Dickon! I have a duty to the girl, after all; surely you see that?”
Richard was not pleased with Edward for intervening as he did, and he said swiftly, intent upon wiping that triumphant smile from George’s face, “I think Anne does have need of Bella, and that is why I agreed…for that reason and that alone. But this I do tell you, George, and you’d best heed what I say. She stays at the Herber only until the day she does complain to me of the first discourtesy you do show her…however slight.”
“I am not one to maltreat a woman, Dickon, and I do resent you implying it were so!”
“Just be sure you do treat her kindly, George. If not because she is your sister-by-marriage and kin to us both, then you’d damned well better do so because I mean to make her my wife.”
This was not strictly true; Richard was not yet sure of the exact nature of his feelings for Anne. He did know how he felt about George, though—angrier than he’d ever been in his life, angry enough to want to wound, to hit where it would hurt the most. He saw at once that he’d succeeded beyond all his expectations.
George was momentarily rendered speechless by this sudden shocking confirmation of his greatest fear.
“Blood of Christ!” he managed to get out, in a voice nearly strangled with emotion. “You cannot mean that! That you truly crave Middleham as much as that, enough to take Lancaster’s leavings in order to claim it!”
For a big man, Edward could move with surprising speed when the need arose. As quick as Richard was, he was quicker; as Richard lunged forward, he found himself flung back into his chair and held there, far from gently.
“Easy, lad,” Edward said soothingly, but at the same time not scrupling to use ample force to keep Richard penned against his chair.
Richard was no match for his brother’s strength. Moreover, he’d done his injured arm no good. The sudden pain went far toward clearing his head; he stopped struggling.
As soon as he did, Edward let h
im go, turned pale fathomless eyes upon George.
“Passing over the blatant bad taste of that remark, George, it’s far from accurate. Dickon doesn’t need Anne Neville to lay claim to Middleham.”
George, who’d been taken aback by Richard’s violent reaction, swung around to stare at Edward. “What mean you by that, Ned?”
“I think my meaning should be clear enough. Middleham was Warwick’s, was not part of his wife’s Beauchamp estates. That means it now belongs to the crown…to me, George, to do with as I please. And it pleases me to give it to Dickon.”
“Ned, you can’t! It’s not fair!”
“No? Well, take a deep breath, Brother George,” Edward said derisively, “because Middleham is only a portion of the grant I do intend to make. Of the lands Warwick held in the North, Penrith and Sheriff Hutton, too, are to go to Dickon.”
“God damn you, you can’t!” George’s voice was shaking. “I’ll not let you! Those lands by rights are mine!”
Edward’s temper wanted only a spark to ignite it, now kindled. “I’d advise you to guard your tongue,” he said warningly “Or perhaps you do need a reminder that what you do hold today, you hold only at my sufferance.”
George gasped, and then suddenly struck out at the wine cups and flagon, sent them spinning with a wild sweep of his arm. Richard and Edward came hastily to their feet, Edward staring in disbelief at the wine splashes on his hose.
“If I did think you meant to do that…” He came around the table so rapidly that George took a backward step. But he retreated no farther; instead, repeated hoarsely,
“Ned, you can’t do this. You can’t.”
Edward had himself in hand again. He unclenched a fist, reached out to catch George’s wrist in a grip that would later leave bruises.
“If I must take the time and trouble to teach you what I can and cannot do, George, I can promise you it will not be a lesson to your liking.”
George jerked free, opened his mouth, embittered accusations blistering his tongue. But the words caught in his throat, as his body reacted in instinctive understanding to what he saw within his brother’s eyes, a small raw flame that measured, appraised, made a promise that was, in every sense, a threat.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 54