He turned blindly to go, only to be frozen into immobility by the sound of Edward’s voice, the sound of sovereignty, devoid of all but authority.
“I did not hear you ask for my leave to withdraw, my lord of Clarence.”
Moving as jerkily as a puppet with tangled strings, George managed to come forward; his lips grazed his brother’s coronation ring, set in a blaze of blood-red rubies.
Edward turned to Richard, said with a snarl, “I swear to Christ I think maggots do rot his brain! What queer, twisted logic guides him, I’ll never know, but never have I seen a man so eager to doom himself.”
He raged on for several moments longer, but his temper was already cooling rapidly; he was beginning to see what a problem was posed by George’s intransigence. He knew George to be capable of any folly. He was vexing beyond endurance, stupid in a sly sort of way, and lusted for land as another man might lust after women. But he was dangerous, too. He’d proven that more than once.
He’d have to be given something, have to be bought off in some way. Either that or have his head stricken from his shoulders. If he only knew how thin ran the blood that now stood between him and the block on Tower Green! But bought off with what? Dickon would be well content with Middleham alone. But it was his need, not Dickon’s, that did concern him. He meant for Dickon to hold the North for him. That was more important than anything else, to have a man he could trust to keep the country quiet north of the Trent. That meant Dickon had to hold Sheriff Hutton, too. He inhaled sharply, let his breath escape very slowly. Perhaps it was just as well that the Countess of Warwick had chosen so conveniently to sequester herself at Beaulieu Abbey.
He looked down in disgust at the scattered wine cups, swore again, and then said abruptly, “What you saw tonight is but a foretaste of what you’ll have to contend with from George if you do, in fact, want to wed the Neville girl. If you should decide you must have her, I’ll back you; that goes without saying. But I cannot very well cage George within the Tower because he covets land that isn’t his…however much I might like to! So I would ask this much of you. Be sure that you truly want the girl, that she be worth all the trouble you’ll have to go through to get her. Just be sure, Dickon.”
3
London
May 1471
Richard had been given the honor of leading the victory procession into London, mounted on a burnished chestnut stallion, his armor ablaze with light, damascened with his brother’s Sunbursts and his own Whyte Boars. The sky was a sea of blue over his head; white roses rained from open windows, lay browning in the sun in dying tribute to the victorious Yorkists. Pretty girls waved scarves of murrey and blue, and veterans of the French campaigns saluted him as he rode by, drank his health in oceans of ale. Richard was flushed with pride; to be acclaimed as a battle commander of proven abilities was the highest accolade he could imagine. Laughing, guiding his mount through a shower of flung white roses, he thought this was a day he’d never forget.
The Yorkist cavalcade had ended at the Tower Palace, where Edward’s Queen and children awaited him. George had ridden at once to the Herber, the manor house he’d taken over upon Warwick’s death. Richard, who was to leave at dawn the next day in pursuit of Fauconberg, hoped to find the time that night to visit the Herber himself, for he’d not seen Anne for nine days now. But first he’d gone to Baynard’s Castle. Almost at once, though, had come a courier from his brother, summoning him back to the Tower.
Mounting the stairs that led to the top floor of the White Tower keep, Richard found himself wondering why Ned should so suddenly have need of him again; he’d not have thought Ned likely to leave Elizabeth’s bed till Vespers. But all such speculation was forgotten at sight of the woman emerging from the Council Chamber, a handsome rather heavy woman in her early thirties, his sister Anne, Duchess of Exeter.
Taken aback, Richard supposed she’d come to plead for her husband. Exeter had been severely wounded at Barnet, was lodged here in the Tower as a prisoner of state.
“Dickon! Dearest!”
He was even more taken aback when she enveloped him in a perfumed embrace, smeared lip rouge liberally across his cheek.
“You must come and dine with me at Coldharbor. I shall be looking forward to it!”
Ned must have agreed to pardon Exeter, Richard decided, marveling at her sudden sisterly affection; on the occasions he’d seen her in recent years, she’d shown him little more than absentminded politeness.
Edward was standing by an open window, looking down upon the royal residence that lay just east of the Garden Tower. He turned now, said with a smile, “I see you bear the brand of Sister Anne!”
Richard found a handkerchief, swiped once or twice at his cheek. “What did bring her here, Ned? She wants Exeter freed?”
“Not unless it be by way of the executioner’s axe!” Seeing Richard’s surprise, Edward gave a brief laugh. “No, it is her own freedom she does seek. It seems that while Exeter was in exile, she did find another to take to her bed. I daresay it was a grievous disappointment to her that he did survive Barnet! Be that as it may, she wants my support in dissolving the marriage; wants, as well, my consent to marry her present paramour. Not that she put it as bluntly as that, mind you, but her meaning was plain enough.”
“I gather from the kiss I got that you did agree to both?”
Edward nodded. “I can’t say I blame her for wanting to be shed of Exeter. Regrettably, her current choice is little better than the one she did have forced upon her as a little lass. Thomas St Leger…You know him?”
Richard found the memory he sought. “One of your esquires of the body? Wasn’t he the one who got himself into a brawl a few years ago, came to blows with one of your marshals right in the palace, was to have his hand cut off as punishment till you intervened on his behalf? Am I thinking of the right man?”
Edward smiled. “That’s Tom, all right, and not the first time I’ve had to pull his chestnuts from the fire. He’s a likable sort, but none too bright. Still, if he be what Anne wants…In truth, I don’t really much care, one way or the other.”
Richard didn’t much care, either; Anne was a virtual stranger to him. “I cannot foresee any problem with His Holiness the Pope. But Ma Mère might be another matter altogether! You know she does hold that marriage be for life, no matter the circumstances.”
“As to that, we did strike a bargain. I deal with the Vatican, she deals with Baynard’s Castle!”
He gestured toward the sideboard. “Pour us from that flask of vernage, Dickon. That be your favorite, is it not?”
Richard nodded, did as he was bade. Edward generally kept a servant or two always at hand, for his own convenience, and Richard thought it odd that his brother should be all alone like this, today of all days.
“Your summons did take me somewhat by surprise,” he said candidly. “I would have expected you to linger longer with the Queen.” Like all the family, he’d fallen into the habit of referring to his sister-in-law by her title; it was far safer that way, for God forbid, he thought, that any of them should slip and make free with her Christian name!
Edward merely shrugged. “I intend to call a council meeting tonight, after Compline. I did want to speak to you beforehand, hence the summons.”
Richard’s heart sank. A council meeting tonight meant he’d have no chance to seek out Anne at the Herber, would have to leave London in the morning without seeing her at all.
“I was hoping I might be able to see Anne tonight,” he chose to remind Edward now, saw the latter shake his head.
“Dickon, sit down. I have a question to put to you. It’s one you’ll not much like, but it’s something I do need to know.”
“All right, Ned,” Richard said slowly, sat down in the seat indicated. “What is it?”
“There’s no easy way to ask. I want you to tell me if you think Anne could be carrying Lancaster’s child.”
“No!”
Richard started to rise, but Edward reached a
cross the table, caught his arm.
“Think carefully, Dickon. Be you sure?”
Richard sank back in his seat. The very thought was so abhorrent to him that he found it almost impossible to consider it dispassionately, but he trusted Edward, knew the question had been prompted by a legitimate concern and not mere morbid curiosity.
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s been nigh on six weeks since Barnet. I don’t think he did…did touch her after that, after they knew her to be of no further use to them. If she thought she might be with child, I believe she would have told me.”
Edward nodded. “Yes, I agree with you, Dickon. I think she would, too. The girl does love you and she’s far from a fool, besides, would know what it would mean if she were breeding.”
“And now that you’re sure she’s not? What does that mean to you, Ned?”
“I think you do know that already, Dickon.”
When Richard shook his head, too vehemently, Edward leaned back in his chair, said, “Your face does say otherwise, but if you do want me to spell it out, I will. If I did think Anne were pregnant with Lancaster’s child, there’d be no point then in doing what I mean to do tonight.”
He should have been shocked; why wasn’t he? What shock there was came not from Ned’s matter-of-fact admission, but from the realization that there was so little surprise, that he’d somehow known what Ned had in mind, had known ever since that moment in the Bishop of London’s Palace.
“Oh, Jesus, Ned, not that addled old man….”
“As long as Harry of Lancaster does live, there will be those to plot on his behalf, to stir up rebellion in his name. I can see no way to end that risk other than by ending his life. I won’t pretend I do like it any, but I don’t need to like it. It is enough that it need be done, that I’m willing to have it done.”
“You did hold him in the Tower for nigh on six years without doing him harm, without resorting to murder.”
“As long as he did have a son alive and free in France, it would have been a needless cruelty to put him to death, and stupid as well. I don’t think I’m any more cruel than most men, and I’m most assuredly not stupid, Dickon.”
What seemed particularly repellent to Richard was that they could be talking of it so calmly, discussing over a wine flagon the murder of a harmless half-wit, a man, moreover, who’d once been an anointed King, however flawed his title.
“Ned, you’d never have stained your honor with a woman’s blood, even a woman as guilt-cursed as Marguerite d’Anjou. But don’t you see? To kill that poor pathetic creature in the Tower would be no less shameful, no less dishonorable.”
Richard saw something flicker darkly within his brother’s eyes at that, saw Ned was not quite as detached about this as he would wish to appear. Somehow, that made Richard feel better, if only a little. He didn’t really expect to be able to talk Ned out of it; once Ned did make up his mind to a thing, he was not one to be swayed from his resolve. If Ned was set upon doing this, he’d have no choice but to accept it, however little he liked it. But what he couldn’t have accepted would have been to believe Ned capable of putting Lancaster to death without qualm, without reluctance. He needed to see that it would hurt, that it would leave a scar.
“Dickon, do you remember that night in Bruges, the night we drank together at the Gulden Vlies? Do you remember what I told you that night, that so much of what had happened was my own fault? It wasn’t just Johnny, Dickon. I was unwilling to see coming trouble till it did have me by the throat. How else could I have let myself be taken at Olney? And again at Doncaster! No, I was too quick to trust, too slow to suspect. And I came close, Christ, so close to losing all. I’ve made my share of mistakes in my life, but I’ve never been one to repeat the same ones. Harry of Lancaster is a threat, poses a threat with every breath he does take. If I can have done with that danger only by stopping that breath, then so be it.”
“You could keep him fast within the Tower, Ned. You needn’t go to so extreme a measure; at least, not now. Why not wait?…See if in fact there be risings stirred up on his behalf?”
“Dickon, as long as he does live, he will be a rallying point for rebels, a source of dissension within the realm. As long as he lives, there will be malcontents willing to make use of him, to foment rebellion in the guise of restoring him to the throne, to focus discontent around his person, no matter how securely caged he be. As long as he does live, Dickon.”
Richard could muster no effective argument to that; there was too much truth in what Edward said. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand the cold logic in what Edward meant to do. He just didn’t like it any.
“You’ll not heed me, I know. But I wish to God you’d not do this, Ned,” he said softly. “I don’t care about Lancaster. How sweet can life be to a man who seems not to know or care whether he be hailed as King one week and prisoner the next? It isn’t Lancaster, Ned…. It be you.”
The corner of Edward’s mouth quirked. “My immortal soul, Dickon?”
Richard nodded somberly, watched his brother with dark troubled eyes, but he saw no sign that Edward had been affected by his plea.
“You might be taking upon yourself a guilt God could not forgive,” he cautioned quietly, was startled when Edward shrugged.
“As to that, Dickon, I’ll know only when called to account before the Throne of God. But for now, what does concern me most is the throne at Westminster.”
Richard’s eyes widened fractionally. There were times when he thought Ned treaded perilously close to blasphemy. It occurred to him uneasily now that when he did offer up prayers for the repose of the souls of his dead father and brother, he might do well to pray, too, for Ned.
He conceded then, asked reluctantly, “When will it be done? Tonight?”
“After the council meeting.”
That was a meeting Richard would as soon have missed. He came to his feet, felt as tired suddenly as if he’d spent fully three days in the saddle without surcease.
“As you will, Ned. Only…” He hesitated and then blurted out unhappily, “Only I cannot forget what he did say to you that day at the Bishop’s Palace…. That he knew his life would be safe in your hands. Jesus, Ned, if I cannot forget, how can you to whom it was said?”
“Enough, Dickon! That’s more than enough!”
The fury in his brother’s face was such that Richard recoiled, pulled back from an anger that had come, like lightning from an empty sky, without warning, sudden, intense, and searing.
“I called you to me to do you the courtesy of telling you before the others. A courtesy it was, no more than that. It was not my intent to argue with you about it. The decision is mine to make and yours to accept and I’ll hear no more on it from you…. Not now, not tonight. Above all, not tonight. Be that clear?”
Richard nodded wordlessly. Never before had he borne the full brunt of Edward’s wrath; he found it to be more unnerving than he cared to admit.
He’d been dismissed; that he knew without need of words. He halted at the door, said miserably, “Ned, I’m sorry if I’ve let you down in this. I did not mean to, but…”
He saw Edward’s eyes soften at that. “I shall see you tonight, Dickon,” he said.
Richard still hesitated. “Ned, I would rather not attend if it be all right with you….”
“It wouldn’t.” Tersely. “The meeting is to be held in this chamber, to start at eight. Be on time.”
There was little for Richard to do then but depart. He slammed the door behind him. It didn’t help. It came as a distinct surprise to him, as he emerged out into the inner Tower bailey, to find the day still warmed by a dusk-fall sun, to see the faces of those he encountered still stretched in smiles, still showing the pleasure all had taken in the heartfelt welcome London had accorded the House of York.
The Council Chamber was lit by torches, the windows open to the slowly cooling night air. The room was wrapped in silence. Of the nine men assembled there, seven now watched Edward. Richard alone did not.
He was standing apart, leaned against a far wall, his expression sullen; he’d not spoken half a dozen words since the council began. Edward looked over at him briefly and then away, back toward the others.
George showed only indifference. The other men, though, shared a surprisingly similar expression, one of distaste bordering upon discomfort. Both Edward’s brothers-by-marriage, Suffolk and Anthony Woodville, had once been Lancastrian in their loyalties, had once pledged fealty to the man Edward now meant to murder. Uneasy memories of all-but-forgotten loyalties showed briefly in their faces. Neither spoke, however; Edward had known they wouldn’t. The Earl of Essex was regarding him with dismay. To so pious a man as Essex, what Edward meant to do was a mortal sin, would imperil his very soul. But Essex, too, said nothing. Edward’s Chancellor, Robert Stillington, was Bishop of Bath and Wells; he, of all men, should have been arguing against the death of an innocent. He was, instead, giving his total attention to the spillover of a sputtering candle, scraping industriously with his thumbnail at the sticky wax drippings. Edward’s eyes passed over the priest with a thinly veiled contempt, came to rest upon Will Hastings and John Howard. Hard-headed realists, the both of them, they could see the need in it. Edward knew that; knew, too, that they didn’t like it any better than Richard.
With the possible exception of George, there was not a man in the room who did, he thought now. Not a one of them wouldn’t have been grateful for it had Harry of Lancaster died suddenly in his sleep, choked to death on a chicken bone, took a chill that proved fatal. But not a one of them was comfortable with the thought of hastening Harry through Heaven’s gate. He’d been expecting just such a reaction, however—knew they were likely to be squeamish at putting to death a man so simple that many viewed him as saintly.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 55