But when she spoke, her voice held no hint of tears. It was not a voice to offer either understanding or absolution, spoke of no quarter given, of a lifetime of love denied.
“God may forgive you for this,” she said, very slowly and distinctly, “but I never shall.”
Rob Apsall was dreaming of a stream that flowed with madeira and hippocras, of a pretty girl who flung herself down laughing beside the bank to drink from its depths. But in the far reaches of the dream thunder had begun to echo ominously. As it grew louder, he began to twitch, until his eyes at last flew open and his groggy senses identified the thunder as a muffled, steady banging. Rob swore sleepily; this had been his thirty-ninth birthday, one celebrated with enjoyable excesses of food and drink, and his head was dull, still fuzzy with wine. Beside him, his wife stirred, lay still again. Above the pounding he heard the chiming of bells; the black friars of the neighboring Dominican friary were being summoned to Matins. The banging was louder now, sounding as if someone were hammering incessantly for admittance. But who would be coming to his door at two o’clock of a Sunday morn? He sat upright, strained to hear.
“Rob?” Amy was yawning. “What be that clatter?”
By now Rob was out of bed, unlatching the shutters. He peered down into pelting rain and blackness, and then gasped.
“Holy Jesus! There be men-at-arms below!”
He was still pulling on his boots when he heard the footsteps pounding up the stairs. A moment later the steward of his household burst into the bedchamber. He was as disheveled as Rob, and no less agitated.
“Sir Robert, there be men below from the King!”
Rob hadn’t known what he was expecting, but surely not this. He sat down abruptly, the second boot forgotten. “The King? Why should the King send soldiers to my house in the middle of the night?”
“They say you are to come with them, Sir Robert. That the King has sent them to take you back to Westminster.” The steward was still panting; he’d taken the steps two at a time and he was not a young man. “I did ask them if you…if you were under arrest. They said they did not know, had only been told to fetch you to the King.”
“Rob! God in Heaven, Rob, what…” Amy had scrambled out of bed, haphazardly clutching a sheet to conceal her nakedness. “Why should the King summon you at such an hour? Rob, what have you done that you haven’t told me?”
“Nothing! Nothing, Amy, I do swear it.” Rob shook his head desperately to clear it, cursing himself for all the wine flagons he’d drained that night, for the refusal of his dazed wits to take this all in.
“I don’t know what the King does want of me.” His heart had begun to hammer painfully against his ribs. “God’s truth, I don’t.”
Rob’s eyes were adjusting to the dark of the room enough for him to make out the shadowy figure of the man sitting at a round three-legged table. Rob was not normally timorous, but so far there’d been nothing remotely normal about the events of this night. Cautiously he groped his way toward Edward. But as he started to kneel, Edward shoved a chair toward him, said with impatience, “Do you think I give a damn about court protocol at this hour? Sit down.”
Rob did as he was told. Edward’s back was to the fire, his face in shadows. Rob waited and then said diffidently, “My liege, I don’t understand. Why am I here? Am I…am I under arrest?”
There was a wine flagon at Edward’s elbow. He reached for it, said, “No, you’re not under arrest. Here, have a drink.” The flagon shot across the table; Rob grabbed it just in time to keep it from going into his lap.
His fear should logically have been much lessened; it wasn’t. There was a tension in this chamber, a dark strain he didn’t understand, but dimly he sensed it was dangerous.
“I did want to talk to you,” Edward was saying now, and this time Rob caught the slight slurring of speech. “Go on, drink.”
“I’m at Your Grace’s service,” Rob began, but Edward cut him off with a gutter oath.
“Shit,” he said, reaching over to reclaim the flagon. “Did I not tell you to forget ceremony? Loosen up, man. I’m no tyrant; I don’t drink the blood of innocents or amuse myself by raping virgins. So why then do you sit there with a face the color of cheese and eyes like a sheep bound for the slaughter?”
Rob could have told him that it was not conducive to ease of manner to be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by men willing to say only that they did come in the King’s name. Struggling with a growing sense of unreality, he contented himself with a mild confession, saying, “The truth of it be that I was in my cups this night, and my head feels like to burst.”
He saw at once that such candor was the best response he could have made. Edward gave an abrupt laugh, much like a cough.
“Here,” he said, “then you do need this more than me!” Sending the flagon back across the table. As Rob hesitated, not seeing how he dare share the same flagon with the King, Edward leaned toward him, said unexpectedly, “I want you to tell me about Edmund.”
Rob gaped at him. “Edmund?”
“You do remember my brother Edmund?” Edward snapped, in a startling shift of mood that left Rob speechless. “The one who died on Wakefield Bridge.” Adding with stinging sarcasm, “I daresay it will come back to you if you do put your mind to it.”
Once as a youngster, Rob had nearly drowned while skating at Moorfields; the ice had cracked without warning, gave way under him as he scrambled for shore. He felt that way now.
“I would have you tell me,” Edward said, “about how he died.”
Rob swallowed, beginning to wonder just how drunk the other man was. “My liege, I…I did tell you that in much painful detail some seventeen years ago.”
“I’ve not forgotten.” Edward’s voice was flat, and, to Rob, full of foreboding. “But I would hear it again.”
Rob decided there must be more to this than an excess of wine. Much more. “What you do ask of me be most difficult,” he said slowly, feeling his way by instinct alone. “Even after all these years, I don’t find it easy to speak of what did happen on Wakefield Bridge….”
Edward shifted in his chair and for the first time the flames from the hearth brought his face into sudden focus. Rob saw enough for his mouth to go dry. He understood now that Edward was drinking to blot out pain, and some of his fear and resentment yielded to sympathy. He must still tread with great care, of course. Any man as deeply troubled as this was apt to be erratic in his temper, to lash out at the slightest provocation. And Edward…Edward was his King; he could no more forget that than he could hope to fly. But Edward had been right in claiming that he was no tyrant. He’d never been one to take pleasure in the abuse of power. And he had loved Edmund, too.
Rob looked down at the table in faint embarrassment, reluctant to gaze upon another’s nakedness of spirit. He didn’t know Edward well, but he did know Edward was not one to reveal to others what did show on his face tonight.
“I’ll have that drink now.” This time he took it from Edward with no hesitation, not yielding up the flagon until his eyes began to smart and his head to swim. Setting the flagon down then, he began to search for words, began haltingly to speak of Edmund.
Edward was slumped low in his chair, one hand raised to shield his eyes against the greying light seeking entry at every window. Rob had risen to stretch, saw with weary wonderment that the sky was streaking in the east.
Glancing back at Edward, his gaze fell upon the empty wine flagon that lay under the table.
“We did finish the last of the flagons, Your Grace. Shall I summon a servant to fetch us another?”
Edward winced. “God, no!” he said, with such distaste that Rob grinned.
“There is something you can do for me, though, Rob. See yon coffer? I want a casket that be stored inside it.”
Rob had no difficulty in finding the casket, but at sight of it, he stiffened slightly. It was an iron box meant to store valuables, to bank coins of silver and gold.
It was not
that Rob did not feel himself entitled to be compensated for this, the most bizarre night of his life; he most emphatically did. He balked, however, at so blatant a payment as this. He was, after all, a knight, a man of rank, not a lowborn servant to be dismissed with a handful of coins.
But Edward was not reaching into the casket for the expected pouchful of angels and half royals. Instead, he was lifting up an elaborately crafted ruby pendant. Under Rob’s awestruck eyes, the stone spun in a slow shimmering circle, seemed always to be turning toward the light.
“I would like your wife to accept this, with my apologies for disrupting her sleep and borrowing her husband.”
“She’ll cherish it ever, Your Grace!” Rob carefully secreted the pendant away within his clothing. He should have known better, in truth he should…. Whatever Edward’s faults, he was no fool, was too shrewd knowingly to disparage the value of another man’s dignity.
Edward was raising a fist to stifle a yawn; he looked haggard, hungover and years older than thirty-five. Rob still didn’t know what devils had driven Edward into seeking out the dubious comfort of his company. But memories of a youth long dead had proven to be an effective bridge between sovereign and subject. So strong was Rob’s sense of exhausted intimacy, in fact, that he now felt free to ask candidly, “Your Grace…did I help at all?”
Edward glanced up, gave a tired smile, but he didn’t answer.
There was a folded paper on the floor, almost at Rob’s feet. Stooping, he discovered it was a letter, much handled and discolored with age.
“This seems to have fallen to the floor, my liege. I think it a personal letter. Do you want it?”
Edward shook his head. “No,” he said. “Throw it in the fire.”
15
London
February 1478
“Richard? Not that I do want to rush you, love, but cobwebs be forming on your pawn!”
Richard started, looked down at the chessboard as if he’d never seen it before, and Anne sighed. It wasn’t true that all roads did lead to Rome. These days, all roads led to the Tower.
“There be no fun in winning by default,” she chided, torn between impatience and understanding. “Why don’t we move over onto the settle? I’ll read to you, if you like. That way”—she smiled to take the sting out—”you can brood in peace and I’ll pretend you be listening!”
Fetching a book Richard had only recently acquired, The Romance of Tristan de Leonnais, Anne resumed reading where she’d last left off, as Richard settled down comfortably with his head in her lap. She’d only read half a page, however, when one of their servants knocked on the solar door.
“I know it’s late for callers, my lord, but there be a gentleman asking for an audience. He’d not give his name, but he did give me this….” Holding out a sealed paper.
Before Richard could respond, he hurried into an unasked-for, uncomfortable explanation. “I realize this be most irregular, Your Grace, but I didn’t feel I should turn him away. He’s a man with the habit of command, and I don’t doubt for a moment that he be a personage of rank, a lord….”
Richard’s curiosity won out. He reached for the paper, and his servant withdrew, looking quite pleased with himself.
Richard watched him go. Then he broke the seal, saying dryly, “I suspect what Alan really means is that yon nameless stranger did make it worth his while to deliver this message.” But as he scanned the few lines written in barely legible French, his expression changed. Looking up at Anne, he said, “I shall have to see him, ma belle.”
“What is it, Richard?” Anne was frowning; instinct told her that a mystery caller on a night errand was not likely to be the bearer of good tidings.
He shook his head. “I’m as much in the dark as you, Anne. But Alan was right in assuming he was dealing with a lord. With a Duke, in fact…. My cousin Buckingham.”
Because he wore clothes well and had the means to indulge his taste, Harry Stafford had a wardrobe even Edward might envy. Anne and Richard were surprised, therefore, at sight of him now. Gone were the gem-studded velvets, the flamboyant sun-color satins; he was muffled, instead, in a hooded cloak of some nondescript color midst black and brown. And he was alone, startling in itself, for he was not a man to move about the city without considerable ceremony and a sizable retinue.
Greetings exchanged, he wasted no time in coming to the point. “It be good of you to see me at such an hour, Cousin. I expect you’re rather curious as to my reasons for calling…incognito, as it were!”
Drawing off his gloves, he warmed his hands at the hearth before favoring Anne with a brilliant smile.
“But I’d not have it said that I bored so lovely a lady with dull talk of business matters! Nor need you fret, sweet Cousin Anne. I’ll not keep your lord long; on that, you’ve my word!”
Anne stiffened. She knew, of course, that there were men who’d no more think to include their women in political discussions than they would their dogs. But she was luckier than many wives, had never been treated by Richard as if she were incapable of serious thought. She found herself feeling a touch of pity for Buckingham’s Woodville wife; feeling, too, a debt of gratitude to her remarkable mother-in-law. A debt also owed by Elizabeth, and even Isabel, for no son of Cecily Neville could ever think of women as mere brainless broodmares.
She was too well mannered to offend a guest in her home. But she had no intention of being dismissed from her own solar like an errant child. She glanced over at Richard, only to see that he was amused, both by Buckingham’s condescension and her indignation. But he redeemed himself fully in her eyes a moment later by saying pointedly, “I have no secrets from my wife, Harry.”
Buckingham’s eyebrows shot upward. But if he was annoyed, he kept it well hidden, and yielded with apparent ease. “I confess, Cousin, I do envy you in that! To have found a wife as faithful as she is fair….” He nodded gallantly toward Anne, and at once forgot her, leaning toward Richard.
“Jesú knows I’m not one to be often tongue-tied; to the contrary, I’ve been told that I do talk even in my sleep! But now I do find it surprisingly difficult to begin. You see, I’m breaking a vow I made to myself long ago…. Never to meddle in matters not of my personal concern.”
“This matter of which you speak…I assume it does concern me?”
“Very much so. Your brother Clarence has been living in the shadow of the axe these ten days past, as you well know. I think you should also know that tomorrow the axe is to fall.”
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; but it did. The longer Edward delayed, the easier Richard had found it to hope. Now he said, rather sharply, “How do you know that?”
Buckingham shrugged. “I have friends in unlikely places. But that’s not important. There is this you should know. On the morrow, Will Alyngton, Speaker of the Commons, does plan to petition the King to have Clarence’s death sentence carried out.” He paused.
“If you do wonder why he should of a sudden be so hot to hasten Clarence to God, the answer be what you might expect. Gold can buy much, it seems. And, in truth, it be a right clever scheme, with credit where due to Madame the Queen.” His smile was sardonic. “For ten days Clarence has been teetering on the edge of the grave. I suspect Alyngton’s petition will provide the final push. She’s giving the King the excuse he seems to need, making Clarence’s execution a response to public demand. Yes…very clever, indeed.”
Richard came to his feet, stood for a moment looking down at Buckingham. He’d been acquainted with the younger man for most of his life, but he didn’t know Buckingham well at all, had never had any but the most superficial social contact with him until this night.
“I do thank you,” he said, “for telling me of this, Harry. It was the act of a friend, one I’ll not forget.”
Buckingham’s eyes focused on Richard with sudden sharp intensity, gold-flecked eyes, as inscrutable as a cat’s. “Good luck,” he said. “I fear you’ll be needing it.”
These past ten da
ys had been among the worst of Elizabeth’s life. Watching as Edward stalled, found excuse after excuse to delay George’s execution, she began to question his resolve, to fear he might not be able to go through with it. She’d always detested the Duchess of York, disliked Richard. Now she hated them both, hated them for the unrelenting pressure they were putting on Edward, for the chance they might succeed. Again and again, she told herself that her fears were groundless, that Ned had no choice; George had to die. But she knew Ned was racking his brain for another way, a way of silencing George short of murder, and this frightened her all the more. Ned was the most intelligent man she’d ever known; if there was such a way, he just might find it.
But now she had the leverage she needed. When Alyngton did publicly call for George’s death, that would force Ned’s hand; she was sure of it. What worried her were these hours still to go till the morrow, her fear that Ned might somehow be swayed by a last-minute appeal. To keep this from happening, she’d resolved to stay by his side, had come unbidden to his bedchamber. Relations between them were still too strained to depend solely on sex; instead, she’d brought their youngest son, a gravely good-natured child not yet a year old. It was well past his bedtime, of course, but he had just begun to walk, and it served as the perfect pretext, showing Ned his son’s prowess and reminding him, too, just who had the most to lose.
Edward greeted his son with his usual exuberance, hugging and tossing the little boy up into the air till the child shrieked with laughter. But as he knelt down to watch the youngster toddle toward him, he raised his eyes to Elizabeth.
“You,” he said evenly, “are as subtle as a runaway wagon.”
Elizabeth reached down to steady her son. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
“The Devil you don’t.” But he was smiling, and after a moment, Elizabeth smiled, too, albeit tartly.
“Subtlety,” she admitted, “is a luxury I can no longer afford.”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 83