The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (137 page)

no man's courage greater than your own. I cannot begin to comprehend your resolve, your strength of will; I can only marvel at it."
Cecily looked down at her hands; they were veined with age, no longer as steady as she would wish. "I
truly believe the Almighty does not ask of us more than we have to give, that He does not abandon us in our time of need, and in His love we find the strength to endure, to accept what must be. While it be true that death has come too often for those I've loved, I do feel that I've been more fortunate than most, for
I've never known the greatest of all griefs, pain such as yours."
Richard stared at her in disbelief. "How in God's Name can you say that, Ma Mere? You've lost husband, son, brother, and three nephews ... all on the field of battle. Of the twelve children you bore my father, you did bury nine. What can my griefs possibly be when weighed on the scales against such as that?"
"Yes," she said simply, "but yet I've never known what it be like to feel as you do now, forsaken by
God."
Richard stiffened, and she smiled sadly. "Ah, Richard, did you think I'd need to be told? It must seem to you as if your crown were anointed in blood. ... So many deaths, so much grief. Being the man you are, you could not but question why." She leaned over, reached out to touch his face in the lightest, most fleeting of caresses.
"I know my sons. Had it been Edward, he, too, might have doubted his right, but not for long. Your brother was not one to wear a hairshirt, and all his life had a lamentable tendency to confuse God's will with his own. As for my poor George, he was as deaf to the voice of conscience as he was blind to the consequences of his sins. But you and Edmund . . . you were ever my vulnerable ones."
"Can you tell me that I'm wrong, Ma Mere? Can you in all honesty tell me that I've not sinned in taking the crown?"
"No, Richard, I cannot. Only God can answer that, and you, for you alone know what was in your heart when you took the crown."
"That's just it, Ma Mere, I don't know anymore. At the time, I truly thought I had no choice, that I had the right. But now . . . now I can't be sure." He paused, said with wrenching candor, "I wanted it, you see. I wanted to be King."
"That in and of itself is not a sin, Richard," Cecily said, very softly.
"Tell me this, then. In little more than a month, it will be two years since I was anointed with the holy chrism, asked the Almighty to uphold my right, Richard, by the Grace of God. ... I have the kingship, Ma
Mere, have the blessed crown of the Confessor. But my brother's sons are dead, the children he entrusted to my keeping. My own son died a death that was not easy, and Anne ... I watched her life ebb away like sand through my fingers, unable to ease her suffering, to do anything at all for

her. And even as she lay dying, there were men to say I welcomed her death, that I lusted after my own niece, and there were those to believe it of me, those who do think me guilty of child-murder, adultery, and incest. If I have not sinned against God, why am I being punished like this?"
"Ah, Richard. ..." Cecily's voice had thickened; she drew a deep shuddering breath, at last said, "God does sometimes act to test our faith, in ways we cannot hope to understand. Did not Satan say to the
Lord of Job, 'Put forth Thy hand now and touch all he has and he will curse Thee to Thy face,' and the
Lord did reply to Satan, 'Behold, all that he has is in your power/ and Job did suffer greatly, did lose his family and his health, had to lose all to find anew his faith in the Almighty."
Richard raised his eyes to hers, saw with shock that her face was wet with tears. He could not remember ever having seen her cry openly before, not even when he'd come to tell her that George had been put to death, and stricken with remorse, he sought to make amends the only way he could, saying urgently, "I'm sorry, Ma Mere, so sorry. Can you not forget this, forget what I've said? I didn't mean it. I'm just tired and more dispirited than usual tonight, more inclined to self-pity. That's all it was, in truth."
Cecily said nothing. She understood now what had previously seemed inexplicable to her, why he was willing to put Stanley's loyalty to the test, a risk that he need not have taken. He was no longer listening to the dictates of self-interest, was following inner instincts more compelling than reason. Trial by combat, to seek God's judgment on the field of battle. If his claim to the crown was just, he'd prevail. If not, Tudor would have the victory.
She had known fear for her sons before. Until she'd been reassured by her husband's confessor that both he and Edmund had been shriven on Christmas Eve, she'd lived in terror that they might have been denied salvation, died in mortal sin. It was her fear for George's immortal soul that had at last impelled her to take holy vows, for she had not been able to take much comfort in Stillington's assurance that
George had confessed, received absolution for his sins. The Sacrament of Penance was meaningless unless the sinner was truly repentant, and Cecily harbored grave doubts that her troubled son had been capable of contrition. Her fear for Richard now was such that her mouth went dry, and her soul cried out in anguish that her faith was not strong enough, not sufficient unto the Lord, for how could she ever bear it should she lose this son, too? She squeezed the rosary until the beads imprinted themselves in the palm of her hand, until she was able to give him the assurance he so needed, to say with at least a semblance of conviction, "I know you didn't mean it, Richard, and if you want this conversation forgotten, then it is."

The shadow-world of sleep recognized no borders. There the past and present were one country, shaped by memory and peopled by need. Richard had been dreaming of Anne, dreaming of a
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The sleeping draught was beginning to have its effect; Richard's dark eyes were drowsy, heavy-lidded, and she could take some satisfaction in that, at least, that she'd given him one night's untroubled rest.
"You're tired; we'll talk in the morning," she said gently. Leaning over, she brushed her lips against his forehead and then straightened, for his shirt was open and his throat bare, no longer encircled by silver.
"Richard, what happened to your pilgrim pledge? Did you lose it?"
"No. . . . I gave it to Anne."
"Here then, take this." She fumbled with the chain around her neck, and disregarding his protests, pressed her own crucifix into his hand.
Richard was deeply touched. "Thank you, Ma Mere." There was an intensity of emotion in this moment impossible to acknowledge, too much that they could not put into words, and he swallowed, said as lightly as he could, "Do you have vervain in your garden? I've been told it acts to safeguard men in battle."
She knew he was teasing, knew there was no other way for them to deal with the dangers he'd be facing, but she felt a chill, nonetheless, and she who all her life had been so sparing in her caresses, so prudent with her praise, found herself wanting only to gather him to her and keep him safe within her arms, to comfort the boy he had been and heal the man he now was, her lastborn and the dearest of her children.
Richard's eyes were all but closed; lashes of surprising length and thickness shadowed his cheek. She reached out, let her fingers trace the deep lines that undercut his mouth.
"I shall pray for you," she said.
2 7
NOTTINGHAM

day that had never been, and when he awoke, it was with a start, a sense of disorientation so strong that he did not at once know where he was.
Daybreak was spreading across the sky, the half-light of coming dawn slowly restoring form and familiarity to the bedchamber. Exhausted, he lay back against the pillows. How queer dreams were; they had a reality all their own. He'd never lain with a woman out on the moors, had never lain with Anne in the grass by the River Cover, and yet he could still feel the turf, spongy under their bodies and sweet-smelling. There'd been grass stains on Anne's skirt, her head pillowed on the tangled thickness of her own hair, her breasts bare to the sun. "Oh, love, love ..." she'd gasped at the moment of joining, and his own body quivered now in involuntary response. With a muffled curse, he rolled over onto his stomach, but the hard throbbing ache in his groin was beyond easing. The memories of flesh and blood and bone were far more unrelenting than those of the heart and head; what man would willingly torment himself with desire for a dead woman?
It was a need that seemed to grow worse with each passing day of this humid, sweltering summer.
Perhaps it was being back at Nottingham, his castle of care, where he'd had to tell Anne that their son was dead, where Hobbys had pronounced Anne's sentence of death. Perhaps if he had chosen to wait in
York . . . But Tudor would never have dared to come ashore in the North. No, Nottingham had been the most logical site to keep vigil, in the very heartland of his realm. So he'd taken up residence in early June, dispatched Francis to Southampton to take charge of the coast defenses, left London in Jack Howard's capable hands, ordered the English fleet to sea, and the waiting began.
Mayhap it was true what Ned had so often liked to say, that there were but two kinds of fools in this world, those who ran ahead to meet trouble more than halfway and those who hid in hopes it would somehow pass them by. If so, he was a fool of the first sort, had never been able to endure waiting for anything, good or bad. It was the longest summer of his life. When Thursday last he'd gotten word that
Tudor had landed on August 7 at Milford Haven in South Wales, his first reaction had been one almost of relief.
He'd at once sent an urgent summons to Thomas Stanley, ordering him to Nottingham. His other captains were to join him at Leicester, where the royal army was to gather. On the morrow, he would be departing Nottingham, begin moving slowly southward. Today was a Monday, the fifteenth of August, one of the most holy days of the Church calendar, the Assumption of Our Lady. By this time next week, it was very likely that it would all be over, one way or the other. Why, then, did he feel so detached, so cut off from his own emotions?
At the least, there should be anger, hatred for this Welsh pretender

who dared affix "Rex" to his signature as if he were already England's anointed King and found his invasion force among mercenaries and men set loose from Normandy gaols. But the fury was forced, the hatred curiously lacking in passion. Even now, on the very eve of departure, he felt numb, unable to summon up more than a weary sense of wonder that the waiting should at last be almost over.
His servants were moving into the room, and Loki ended his night vigil by the door, grudgingly let them pass. Feeling slightly queasy, feeling as if he'd never been to bed at all, Richard sat up and his day began.
He was being shaved when the letter from Thomas Stanley came. Stanley's man had arrived at the castle at the same time as Francis Lovell, just come up from the South, and it was Francis who escorted him into Richard's bedchamber, followed closely by Jack de la Pole and a visibly nervous Will Catesby. All knew how much hung upon Stanley's response.
Richard broke the seal, skimmed the contents. Should he have been surprised? You can never go wrong suspecting a Stanley, prodded a memory. He saw that he'd crumpled the paper, and he straightened it as best he could, passed it to Jack.
"Stanley does regret that he cannot comply with my command," he said tonelessly. "He says he be suffering from the sweating sickness, is not up to riding a horse."
They raged, of course, called Stanley names as abusive as they were accurate. Richard listened in silence, interrupted his nephew's harangue only to say briefly, "You'd best see to it that Stanley's son be kept under close watch from now on."
Jack nodded, would have gone at once to give the necessary commands had Richard not stopped him.
"No, Jack, not yet. I do need to speak with you . . . alone."
"SWEET Jesus, but you cannot be serious? You'd send me away, have me wait out the battle like some gutless craven? How could you ask that of me?"
"I'm not asking, Jack."
"Well, I won't do it, I won't!"
"You're more than my nephew; you're my heir. Would you have us both risk our lives against Tudor? If the battle goes against me, would you have the House of York dragged down into the dust, too?"
Jack's anger was all the more intense because he could not deny the truth of that. "You expect to lose, don't you?" he accused. "You've been trained all your life in the ways of war, while Tudor be grass-green, and yet you expect to lose!"

"No, Jack, I do not."
Jack was not convinced. "Moreover, I don't think you even care!"
Richard looked at him. "I care," he said.
Jack shook his head. "Not enough, Uncle. Not nearly enough."
DARK had long since descended, but the day's heat had yet to ebb. Richard was alone in the gardens;
more and more he craved solitude as other men craved wine, and this day that had begun with Stanley's ominous letter had ended with worse. A few hours ago, Richard's scouts sent word that Tudor had advanced unchallenged through Wales, that on August 13 the border town of Shrewsbury had opened its gates to him.
It should have come as no surprise. He of all men should have expected as much. What opposition had
Warwick encountered, after all, when he'd landed in Devon? Or Ned, when they'd come ashore at
Ravenspur? Most people were little inclined to spill their own blood in these endless conflicts over the crown, not after thirty years of such strife. And yet it hurt, nonetheless; against all logic and common sense, ithurt.
Much of his thinking seemed equally clouded to him these days. Why should he feel betrayed by Stanley when he'd known from the first that the man was a born Judas? And he'd chosen to let Stanley depart for
Lathom, he and no other; but now, asking himself why, he was no longer sure of the answer. Had he been testing Stanley? Or testing himself?
Much on his mind, too, was his quarrel with his sister's son. Jack was wrong. He sought neither defeat nor death. For those were the stakes, an all-or-nothing wager in which he was offering up more than his crown; he was offering up his life.
He did not think there was a moment in which he'd consciously made that choice; it was rather as if there'd been no choice to make. He'd not fight a civil war to hold on to the crown, would neither retreat into the North nor seek soldiers and aid from overseas. Twice in his life he had sought refuge in
Burgundy; there'd not be a third time. But what he was asking of the Almighty was vindication through victory on the field, and failing that, death, and to die like that would be to die in mortal sin.
The air was warm on his face, fragrant and alive with the sounds of a summer night: cicadas, crickets, and unseen birds. He'd lost track of time, found himself watching the antics of two well-fed grey squirrels. As a boy, he'd once had a pet squirrel, and he sought to lure them over. The bolder of the two came readily, advancing close enough to sniff at his outstretched hand and then withdrew with such obvious disappointment that Richard grinned.
"Expecting alms, were you? Sorry I can't oblige," he said, and the little creature chattered back noisily, almost as if it understood.