“Christ, Anne, I just cannot understand it, any of it! Ned doesn’t truly want to do this; I’d stake my life on that. To show George’s shame up to the world like this, to give Ma Mère and Meg such grief…and knowing all the while that George cannot be other than as he is! It makes no sense. But nothing we say does seem to matter to him. These days, there appears to be but one voice he heeds—hers!”
Anne discreetly kept silent. She didn’t doubt that Elizabeth was urging Ned to have George put to death, as were all the Woodvilles. But she found it almost impossible to imagine her brother-in-law being led into doing anything he did not want to do. This was not something she meant to say to her husband, however. If Richard needed a crutch, she would not be the one to kick it out from under him, she resolved, and said instead, “Let’s not talk any more of George, love. Not tonight.”
Edward was in the Painted Chamber. As usual, he was surrounded by people, the focus of all eyes. But he seemed not to notice those clustering about him, seemed to be alone with his thoughts. Thoughts, Will would wager, that were anything but pleasant.
Edward happened to glance then in his direction, looked past Will with unseeing bloodshot eyes. He looks as weary as ever I’ve seen him, Will thought uneasily. At the least, it can be said that he’s carrying his thirty-five years very heavily these days. What in the name of the saints does he mean to do? It’s been fully a week now since sentence of death was passed on Clarence. Yet he does nothing, he stays his hand and drinks. Why? If he be as reluctant as that to take Clarence’s life, why charge him with high treason?
There was much about this that Will did not understand. There was a darkness about it; even the Bill of Attainder itself shed little light. It had not even made mention of Ankarette Twynyho. Why, then, was Clarence to die? Will didn’t know; Ned’s reasoning was beyond him. And this was Ned’s doing, despite common belief that George had blundered heedlessly into a Woodville web. Will knew better, for he knew Ned. But he didn’t like it, not at all.
He had no objection to silencing Clarence, thought that should have been done seven years ago. But he would far rather Ned had simply thrown him into the Tower and forgotten about him. As unstable as Clarence was, it wouldn’t have taken long; he’d have been babbling and ranting like any Bedlam inmate in no time at all. Will would even have preferred it had Ned chosen to have Clarence quietly and discreetly dispatched to God. As with Harry of Lancaster, it could then have been given out that Clarence had died of a fever, or perhaps a fall.
But this way Ned did have the worst of both worlds. By bringing Clarence to trial for reasons only hinted at, Ned did invite the wildest sort of public speculation. No rumor was too preposterous to be rejected out of hand; in tavern and alehouse, gossips found themselves ready audiences. There was even a small groundswell of sympathy for George, confined mainly among those who’d had no personal contact with him. Will didn’t doubt that the villagers of Warwick would thank God fasting for George’s death, but there were others who saw only his youth, were moved to pity because he’d been lavish in his almsgiving and fair to look upon.
Above all, Will disapproved of Clarence’s impending execution because it would be sure to further entrench the Woodvilles. To have men think that Elizabeth and her kin had the power to bring down the King’s own brother was almost as dangerous as having that power in truth. Men would remember what had befallen Clarence, remember with fear.
How hot they were for Clarence’s blood! Will’s face remained impassive, the mask of a practiced courtier, as he watched Thomas Grey harangue all within earshot. “Under sentence of death…legally tried and found guilty…what more be needed?”
Will drank to conceal the scornful twist to his mouth. Elizabeth should have lingered; she was astute enough to have curbed her son’s flapping tongue. Thomas was a fool; didn’t he know by now that Ned wasn’t one to be pushed?
“Thomas Grey hasn’t the sense God gave a sheep.”
The voice was well modulated, falling pleasantly on the ear, and, to Will, surprisingly familiar. Surprising, because that wasn’t the sort of comment he’d have expected from Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.
Buckingham was very much an enigma to Will. He’d been wed at age twelve to Elizabeth Woodville’s sister Katherine, but his lineage was impeccably Lancastrian; both his father and grandfather had died fighting York at the battles of Northampton and St Albans, and his mother was a Beaufort, sister to the Duke of Somerset executed after Tewkesbury. Yet he had ties to York, too, for his grandmother was Cecily Neville’s elder sister. By blood, he stood closer than most to the English throne, for like his Yorkist cousins, he did trace his ancestry from one of the sons of Edward III. As a cousin and brother-in-law of the King, titled and wealthy and amiable, he should long ago have taken his rightful place in Edward’s government. That he hadn’t was a riddle Will had yet to solve.
Buckingham was not a member of Edward’s council, had never been chosen by Edward to serve on a diplomatic mission overseas, held no post commensurate with his birth and rank. Even more inexplicable to Will, he was not even appointed to Commissions of the Peace outside of his own Staffordshire. It had occurred to Will that it was not politic to so shunt aside a scion of the old nobility, and he’d once taken Edward mildly to task for it. Edward, generally so pragmatic in making use of the talents of political opponents, had surprised Will somewhat by confessing that he didn’t much like his young cousin of Buckingham and, when pressed why, could only respond even more vaguely that Buckingham did remind him overly much of George.
Will hadn’t seen the resemblance until Edward thus called it to his attention, but then he wondered how he could have missed it. When on his best behavior, George had been capable of a certain brittle charm; Buckingham, too, was volatile, given to extremes of expression and mood, to taking up enthusiasms with wholehearted intensity and tiring of them with record speed. Will tended to attribute this in part to Buckingham’s youth; he was just twenty-three. But Buckingham was unlike George in that if he had a dark side, none saw it. If he resented Edward’s neglect, he alone knew it. He was appealingly goodnatured, openhanded with his wealth, and if his humor did at times cut too close to the bone, such lapses were put down more to insensitivity than to malice. He was unlike George, too, in that he’d always seemed to be far more interested in the pursuit of pleasure than in political intrigue. It was for this reason that he’d surprised Will by his tart-tongued assessment of Thomas Grey.
But then, Will reminded himself, Grey and Buckingham had been at odds for several years now. In fact, Buckingham was no favorite of the Queen. Rumor had it that he’d proven himself to be a far from satisfactory husband to his Woodville wife, had been imprudent enough to let her know he felt it demeaning that he, a Stafford, should be wed to a mere knight’s daughter.
Nothing was better guaranteed to gain him Elizabeth’s enmity than that, and Will suspected her hostility, as much as any superficial resemblance to George, was why Buckingham had been relegated to the outer fringes of power. While Edward was not one to let himself be influenced in matters of importance, Will knew he did have a habit of yielding to Elizabeth’s whims when he felt it would cost him little to do so.
“What do you make of it, Harry?” he murmured. There was no need to clarify his question; there was but one topic of conversation at court this February.
“That it be a quicksand bog in truth and any man willing to venture into it had best be cat-sure of his footing! We both do know the Queen would never forgive anyone foolhardy enough to espouse Clarence’s cause openly. But I can show you an even bigger fool, and that is the man who urges the King to put Clarence to death…like our friend Thomas there.”
Will was amused, but faintly impressed, too; Buckingham was making sense. “Why is that?”
“Because I think the day may come when my cousin the King, whatever his reasons now, might regret very much that his brother did die at his command. And should that day come, he’ll look around for oth
ers with whom to share his guilt.” A quick smile. “Kings always do, you know. And on such a day, I would not want to be one who’d pressed for Clarence’s death and then wore yellow when he died.”
“Cynical, aren’t you?”
“Realistic. And then, too…”
“Yes?”
“I was merely thinking that if to plead for Clarence is to gain the Queen’s ill will, to contrive at his death is to win an enemy no less dangerous.”
“Gloucester?”
“Yes…Gloucester.” And Buckingham nodded toward the doorway, where Richard had entered, unnoticed, stood listening in frozen silence as Thomas Grey argued for the execution of his brother.
At that moment, Thomas, irked by Edward’s lack of response, said loudly, “Has Your Grace forgotten how Clarence sought out soothsayers to learn the length of your reign? How he noised it about that upon your death the name of England’s next King would begin with a G? G for George!”
“G for George? Why not G for Gloucester?”
Richard was no longer unnoticed. Conversation ceased. People began to circle closer, expectant, scenting blood, while others, more squeamish, edged away.
Thomas suddenly found himself alone. Taken aback that Richard should have chosen deliberately to call attention to so awkward a coincidence, he hesitated, watched Richard warily.
“G for Gloucester?” Richard repeated, unrelenting. “Or even G…for Grey?”
Thomas whitened, whirling to make sure his stepfather was not heeding this heresy.
Edward’s mouth was twitching. Now he began to laugh, thus freeing all others to do so, too. People began to murmur among themselves, most relishing Thomas Grey’s discomfort.
As Richard moved toward him, Edward waved the others away. “A nice thrust,” he grinned. “But that was scarcely an even match!”
Richard shrugged. “Ned, I do want you to give me leave to see George. You cannot keep refusing. Not now, not when there be a death sentence hanging over his head.”
Edward’s grin faded. “Why in God’s Grace would you want to subject yourself to that?” he asked slowly. “Surely you don’t expect a warm welcome? George loves you not, Dickon; have you forgotten?” He shook his head. “No, such a meeting would serve for naught. I think it best that you do not.”
“You cannot mean that!” Richard was incredulous, no longer cared that conversation around them had stilled. “You’d deny George even that much? Jesus wept, you’d do that to him? Have him die believing that none of his own did even care enough to bid him farewell?” He drew a steadying breath, said with less intensity, “You might well be right; I daresay it would be a most painful meeting. But if I be willing to chance it, you haven’t the right to forbid it.”
“You be wrong, Dickon,” Edward snapped. “I do have that right and I choose to exercise it. Such a meeting would be neither in your interest nor in George’s. Your request is denied.” And with that, he turned away, left Richard staring after him in stunned silence.
14
Westminster
February 1478
Dr Hobbys was already abed when the summons came from the King. Somewhat surprised by the request, for he could count on the fingers of one hand the times when Edward had wanted a sleeping draught, he hastily mixed up a potion of wine, poppy, and dried bryony root and took it to the King’s bedchamber. There the atmosphere was a subdued one; servants were tending to the hearth, turning back the coverlets, moving about as inconspicuously as possible. Dr Hobbys shared their unease; he, too, had heard of the King’s quarrel earlier that evening with his brother Gloucester.
Edward’s squires had already removed his doublet and were unbuttoning his shirt when an usher appeared in the doorway. For a moment or so, he shifted uncertainly from foot to foot and then approached Dr Hobbys, murmured a few words in the doctor’s ear. Dr Hobbys gave the man a startled look and then hesitantly cleared his throat.
“My liege…” He coughed, began again. “My liege, an audience be most urgently desired by your—”
Edward’s head jerked around. “I’ll see no one at this hour.”
“But Your Grace, it be—”
“Did you not hear me? I don’t care who it is! No one…no one at all!”
Dr Hobbys fidgeted, fervently wished himself elsewhere. Yet the information he’d been given could not be withheld. “But my liege, it be your lady mother!”
There was a sudden silence, broken by a cry of pain, quickly cut off; one of the grooms of the chamber had been lighting candles, held his hand a moment too long to the flame. His comrades exchanged surreptitious glances, prudently kept very still. Even the squire kneeling at Edward’s feet froze; the hand that had been reaching up to untie the points of Edward’s hose went limp, fell to his side.
“Get out. All of you.” It was spoken in a low voice, without emphasis or inflection, but no man in the chamber waited to be told twice. Abandoning their labors, they fled.
“I have no choice, Ma Mère. How often must I tell you that? What would you have me do? Overlook his treason, the innocent blood on his hands? Would you truly have me mock justice because he’s my brother?”
“George’s sins shall not go unpunished; he will have much to answer for come Judgment Day. I do think of you, Edward, as much as George when I entreat you to consider what you mean to do. Have you forgotten what Our Lord Jesus Christ did reply when Peter asked of him, ‘Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? As many as seven times?’ His answer was, ‘I do not say to you seven times but seventy times seven.’ ”
Edward’s mouth tightened; with difficulty he bit back an oath. “This does serve for naught, Madame,” he said coldly, “and we both do know it.”
He suddenly found himself looking into eyes of grey ice, eyes capable of stripping away the trappings of adulthood and reestablishing the priorities and vulnerabilities of forgotten youthful yesterdays.
“Have I been dismissed, Your Grace?” she queried, with a coldness to equal his own, and he capitulated.
“No, of course not, Ma Mère. Surely you know that would never be a command you’d hear from my lips.”
He wasn’t prepared for what she did next. She was dressed in an unadorned starkly simple gown of ink-blue, so dark as to be almost black, one he thought to be uncomfortably close to mourning garb; her still-slender waist was girdled by a narrow silk-braided belt, from which hung a rosary, a ring of keys, and a small leather pouch. It was to this pouch that she was now directing her attention, drawing forth a folded square of yellowed paper.
“In those weeks after your father and brother died at Sandal Castle, I had only faith to sustain me, my faith in the Almighty and my faith in you, Edward. You gave me such reason for pride…. The way you kept your head, rallied your men like the most seasoned battle commander, acted to ransom Rob Apsall, that young knight who was Edmund’s friend. Above all, because you thought to write letters of comfort to your little brothers and sister…and to me. This be that letter, the one you did write to me.” She held it out toward him; he recoiled, drew back a step.
“For seventeen years, I’ve kept it, cherished it, Edward. Now I do want you to read it. To read what you did tell me, that there be family ties not even death can destroy. You did speak of the love you bore me, the love you bore your brothers and sisters. And you swore a solemn vow that you’d let no harm befall us, that you’d always be there for us. Go on, take it….”
Edward found himself staring, not at the outstretched letter, but at the hand holding it. He could see delicately webbed blue veins, see the swelling at the knuckles, the slight tremor that defied a once invincible will; it wasn’t his mother’s hand, was the thin fragile hand of an aging stranger. He refused to reach for the letter, refused to take it, and at last she laid it on the table.
“You must not do this, Edward. You must not spill your brother’s blood. For your own soul’s sake, you must not.”
He clamped his jaw till it ached, kept silent, and
she then made the plea he most dreaded.
“For me,” she said. “If not for George, do it for me.”
She crossed swiftly to him, and for an appalled instant, he feared she meant to kneel to him. She was, however, a woman to kneel willingly only to God, and she merely reached out, laid her hand upon his wrist.
“Have I ever asked anything of you? Have I, Edward?”
“No,” he said shortly, unwillingly.
“I do ask you now, ask you for the life of my son.”
She was close enough for him to see that her eyes, eyes that could burn through bone to the very soul, were now awash in tears. The shock of that realization was almost physical; he could not remember ever having seen his mother cry.
“If it is not enough for you that George be your brother, spare his life for me, Edward…. For me.”
“Ma Mère…” He found that his voice was husky, uneven. “Ma Mère, I…I cannot….”
She closed her eyes; for a moment, her fingers tightened on his arm, clung. And then she released him, stepped back.
He could clearly hear her breathing; she sounded as if she’d been running. His own breathing was equally labored. As he watched, the tears on her lashes suddenly broke free, began to streak her face, splashed silently upon the collar of her gown; she blinked, but made no attempt to wipe them away. Her fingers were fumbling at her belt, instinctively seeking the solace of rosary beads, and at that, he took a step toward her. As he did, her head came up.
“I would see him, Edward.”
It was no request; he knew it to be an ultimatum. He shook his head violently, not trusting his voice.
Time passed. She was staring at him, saying nothing, and on her face was a look of stunned disbelief, of anguished accusation he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 82