The Sunne in Splendour by Sharon Kay Penman
“And what if I do say no?” Warwick said softly. “What if I say you don’t leave here, Cousin? Need I remind you that the men of Middleham do answer to me and only to me?”
Edward did not seem at all impressed, but the Archbishop was appalled.
“My God, Dick, you cannot resort to violence before half the lords of the realm!”
Francis was no less appalled than the Archbishop. He shifted uneasily, and thus brought upon himself what he least desired, the Earl’s attention. Warwick turned to stare at the boy.
“What do you here, Lovell? Well, answer me! Get over here, now!”
Francis moved stiffly across the solar. He was very frightened, knew he was to be the sacrificial lamb for Warwick’s rage. He could only pray that Warwick was acting out of frustrated fury and not something more ominous. He’d willingly face Warwick’s anger if only he could be sure it was free of suspicion.
“My lord…” he whispered, and then staggered backward as Warwick struck him across the face. It wasn’t a particularly hard blow; he’d been punished more severely for lesser infractions. But one of Warwick’s rings happened to catch the corner of his mouth. He gasped, blood beginning to trickle down his chin, and braced himself for whatever Warwick saw fit to inflict upon him.
“You have leave to go, Francis.”
This time Francis’s gasp was not of pain, was one of surprise. He spun around. He’d not expected Edward to intervene on his behalf, but he’d not expected Edward to share Warwick’s anger at his presence either. Yet Edward was watching him with eyes indifferent to his pain; now said in a voice that had nothing in it of past friendliness, “Did you not hear me, Francis? I gave you a command. Do not make me repeat it.”
Francis was shaken by Edward’s icy dismissal as he’d not been by Warwick’s blow. Even though it meant he was spared further exposure to Warwick’s wrath, it hurt; it hurt dreadfully. He gave Warwick a nervous glance, saw Warwick was now looking at Edward, not at him.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said miserably, made an awkward obeisance as Edward moved away from the table, jerked his head toward the door.
“Go on, get out of here,” he said impatiently. But in turning, his back was now to Warwick. As he spoke, he winked at Francis, and the boy’s spirits soared in less than a heartbeat from despair to elation. He backed hastily toward the door, struggling to maintain a properly chastised appearance.
He heard Warwick say, “I wasn’t aware you took such an interest in my ward. I find myself wondering why.”
Francis froze at that, but was reassured somewhat by Edward’s derisive reply.
“I don’t give a damn about your ward. But this is not a conversation for other ears. Unless, of course, you do want an audience to watch you play the fool, Cousin? In that case, I do suggest we return to the great hall and continue this discussion there.”
Francis grabbed for the latch, just as the door sprang back in his face. He recoiled as George of Clarence stumbled into the solar.
“Men at arms!” he blurted out. “Approaching from the south, five hundred at the least!”
The Nevilles turned as one toward Edward.
Edward said nothing. He looked at Warwick and laughed.
Warwick didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes from Edward even as he said to George, “Look to the standards. Under whose command do they march?”
George had yet to look at his brother. Now he hastened to the window seat where Francis had been keeping vigil. Kneeling on the seat, he straightened almost at once and turned to face his father-in-law.
“Hastings,” he said, in a muffled voice. “And the Whyte Boar of Gloucester…Dickon.”
They were all staring at Edward now, but it was to Warwick alone that he said,
“Just so. My brother of Gloucester and my Lord Chamberlain have seen fit to provide a proper escort for my journey back to London.”
For the chilled intake of a breath, their eyes held, and then Warwick’s shoulders slackened.
“I see,” he said tonelessly.
Edward’s gaze flicked suddenly to George and then back to Warwick.
“You should have held them at Olney, Dick.” He sounded almost amused, but there was something chilling, as well, in his voice.
Warwick was silent.
Francis, who’d listened spellbound, belatedly became aware of his peril and took several stealthful steps toward the door. Until George moved toward his brother, said in a low strained voice, “Is it your wish that I accompany you to London, Ned?”
Warwick stiffened, turning to stare at his son-in-law.
So did Edward. “You may go to Hell and be damned for all I care where you go,” he said, slowly and very deliberately.
George flushed, blood pulsing into his face and throat.
“Ned, you don’t see—”
“Oh, but I do see…Brother George. And what I see sickens me, in truth!”
George was rigid, a clenched fist digging bruisingly into his thigh. “You’d best take heed, my liege…. For I’ll not come to heel like one of your damned hunting dogs!”
The Archbishop of York gasped. Warwick, however, was impassive, seemed to be focusing on something far beyond the solar, beyond his Yorkist cousins. And Francis found himself hoping that no one would ever look at him as Edward was now looking at his brother.
For a long moment, Edward regarded George, and then raised his hand. The snapping fingers jolted Warwick’s lounging dogs to their feet and to his side, where they waited, obediently expectant for command.
Francis had seen enough. He dived through the doorway and hastened through the great hall onto the covered porch landing, down the stairs into the sunlit bailey.
There, confusion reigned. A lean fair man whom he recognized as Lord Dacre was dismounting by the stairs. A man brushed by Francis, wearing the Stafford Knot, badge of the youthful Harry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. Across the bailey, he saw the Earl of Essex, and he felt a surge of partisan pleasure that England’s lords had heeded Edward’s summons with such alacrity. No matter how they may despise the Woodvilles, Edward still holds their allegiance, he thought, and then turned at sound of his name.
Anne Neville was hurrying toward him. “Francis, a large force approaches! They told me at the gatehouse that they do number in the hundreds!”
“I know.”
She caught his arm. “They’re still some distance away, so I cannot be sure…. But Francis, I think the banner they fly is the Blancsanglier. The Whyte Boar.”
He nodded, and her hand slipped from his sleeve.
“I knew…. Even before I saw Richard’s standard, I knew,” she whispered and Francis could only nod again.
Within the past year, Anne had begun to make exclusive use of her cousin’s given name. Francis had been unable to resist teasing, “Why do you alone prefer Richard when all others call him Dickon?” And she’d laughed at him, “Have you so little imagination, Francis? For that very reason, because all others do call him Dickon!”
Francis was remembering that conversation now, as she said, “I cannot see him, Francis.”
“Ah, Anne, that’s so unfair. I’d not have thought that you, too, would blame him for his loyalty to his brother. Not knowing him as you do.”
The dark eyes widened. “Oh, but I don’t! God’s truth, I don’t!”
“If you refuse to see him, Anne, he’s bound to believe otherwise.”
She shook her head. “I cannot, Francis.” Her voice wavered. “I cannot.” And then she cried out, for he’d turned to face her fully for the first time, and she saw the blood that welled in the corner of his mouth.
“Francis, you’re hurt! What happened?”
“Your father hit me,” he said before he thought, and at once wished he could have called the words back, for she looked as stricken as if she were the one who’d been struck.
“I do think the world’s gone mad,” she gasped, and before he could reply, she’d turned, was running across the bailey toward the
Francis had not seen Richard for months, and now he edged closer as his friend and Lord Hastings rode toward the stairs of the keep, where Edward awaited them, flanked by the Earl of Warwick and the Archbishop of York. A smile hovered about Will Hastings’s mouth as he swung from the saddle to kneel before Edward, and as his eyes encountered his brother-in-law, the Earl of Warwick, he laughed outright. But Francis did not note Warwick’s reaction, for he was watching Richard’s approach.
The sun was striking him full on, giving the glossy dark hair the sheen of polished ebony and causing him to raise his hand to shield the glare. Unlike Hastings, his thoughts were masked; only the strain showed. Francis thought he looked exhausted. The skin was stretched tightly across the high, hollowed cheekbones; there were smudges under the deep-set dark eyes, the expressive mouth frozen in a taut curve. To Francis, the most conclusive evidence of Richard’s unease was the fact that his friend, a skilled rider, was having some difficulty in handling his horse. The animal, a lathered grey stallion, was shying nervously as if his rider’s mood were contagious; as a result, Richard did not reach the stairs until Will Hastings had already dismounted.
But as he met his brother’s eyes over the stallion’s tossing mane, Richard’s face changed abruptly and he flashed a smile, so radiant with relief that Francis saw at once just what dark thoughts had haunted him during the two months of Edward’s captivity.
Edward was grinning, came forward to raise Richard swiftly up as the boy knelt before him. Richard was always shy of public display of emotion; Edward was not. Careless of formality, he greeted his brother with laughter and an affectionate embrace.
Francis slanted a quick look toward Warwick, but once again he was disappointed; the Earl was watching without expression. Ever since Warwick had emerged from the solar at his royal cousin’s side, Francis had been hoping for signs of strain. He yearned for nothing so much as to see the Earl humiliated before the lords of the realm, but he saw that it was not to be.
His feelings for Warwick were far from benevolent at that moment, but he grudgingly gave credit where due. It be no small feat to summon smiles and make small talk when you have murder in your heart, he thought, and if Warwick wasn’t altogether convincing as the gracious lord of the manor, he was at least in control.
That was more than Francis could say for Warwick’s fellow conspirators. The Archbishop of York was painfully ill at ease; the more he sought to conceal it, the more apparent it became. As for George of Clarence, he was nowhere in evidence.
Standing by his brother’s side as Edward welcomed the lords who continued to ride into the bailey, Richard had seen Francis almost at once and signaled his recognition with a quick warm grin. But the sun had begun its slow slide toward the west before they had the chance to speak together alone.
Meeting in the shadow of the garderobe turret that extended from the south wall of the keep, they had exchanged only a few words when the Earl of Warwick detached himself from the nobles surrounding the King and crossed the bailey toward them.
“Renewing old friendships, Francis?”
Francis’s mouth went dry, with sudden certainty that Warwick knew the part he’d played in Edward’s stratagem. It was with considerable relief, therefore, that he saw the Earl’s eyes had slid past him unheedingly, to Richard.
“My compliments, Dickon. It is a surprise, I admit, but not an unwelcome one. I would far rather it should go to you than to a Woodville.”
Richard had stiffened warily at Warwick’s approach. Now, however, he looked confused. So did Francis. Warwick saw, and smiled thinly.
“It seems that not only am I to be the first to congratulate you, I’m to be the one to give you the news. Since I had Earl Rivers beheaded at Coventry, the post of Lord Constable has been vacant. It was to pass with Rivers’s titles to his eldest son, Anthony Woodville. Your brother has just told me, however, that he does mean to bestow it upon you.”
Francis was stunned. The Lord Constable of England wielded enormous powers, not the least of which was the right to determine treasonable offenses and to pass judgment upon the guilty. He looked at his friend; Richard was just five days past his seventeenth birthday.
Richard was startled and it showed. He opened his mouth, abruptly clamped his teeth down upon his lower lip as Warwick smiled at him, said, “Ned must put great faith in your judgment, to burden you with such responsibilities at so young an age. But I would be the last one to doubt your abilities. It was at Middleham, after all, that they were first tested!”
It was a familiar tactic to Francis; he’d often seen Warwick make claims upon Richard in the guise of Middleham memories. He’d never failed to resent it, on Richard’s behalf, knowing how vulnerable his friend was to that particular appeal. Now he was sorry but not surprised to hear Richard say, “I was well instructed during my years in your household, Cousin.”
“I am glad you do remember that, Dickon.”
Richard did not return the other’s smile.
“In all save honor,” he said, softly but very distinctly.
Francis felt a surge of hot pleasure. Ah, but you weren’t expecting that, were you, my lord Kingmaker, he thought gleefully, seeing Warwick’s mouth twist, the dark eyes go suddenly cold.
“Have a care, Dickon. That be dangerous talk. You owe me better than that.”
“Any debt I did owe you, Cousin, was paid in full at Olney.”
“No, Dickon. You’re wrong. There was no payment demanded at Olney. There could have been, but there wasn’t. You’d best not count upon that again. And that, my young cousin of Gloucester, you may take as the counsel of a friend or as a warning, whichever you choose.” He smiled then, brief and bitter, said, “And I don’t think I much care which it is.”
When Richard made no response, Warwick turned away, adding as if in afterthought, “Have you a message you wish conveyed to my daughter?” And he had the ephemeral satisfaction of seeing that Richard’s painstakingly devised defenses were flawed, after all.
Watching as Warwick walked away, Francis swore softly and spontaneously, and Richard said abruptly, “Let’s walk, Francis. We’ve much to say and little time.”
As Francis fell in step beside him, they crossed the inner bailey, away from the keep and the press of men milling about the stairs where Edward stood laughing in the sun.
Francis was studying England’s new Lord Constable, said ruefully, “It does occur to me, Dickon, that you’re apt to end up passing judgment upon some of my own kin! One of Anna’s brothers died fighting for Warwick at the battle of Edgecot last July and my father-in-law is hand-in-glove with the Earl.”
Richard shrugged. He had ambivalent feelings about Warwick’s revelation, an uneasy blend of excitement and apprehension. He did not want to discuss it before he could speak with his brother; said, instead, “Rob Percy is with me. Did you see him yet?”
Francis shook his head. His friendship with Rob Percy, which had once rested on no stronger foundation than proximity, had gradually evolved into a genuine affection. But he, nonetheless, was now aware of an unfocused undercurrent of resentment. Rob was free to take part in the most consequential happenings while he, as the Earl’s ward, must remain sequestered at Middleham.
After a sideways glance at his friend’s pensive profile, Richard said, “I have a message for you from my brother. He said to tell you that he does not forget wounds gotten in his service!”
Francis laughed, thinking a split lip a small price to pay for the favor of a King.
“I am the one who should be thanking His Grace. He did save me from the Earl’s wrath, yet without stirring suspicion in one notoriously lacking in trust!”
“I can’t say that surprises me. I’ve known few who can think as fast as he does.” Richard glanced with some sympathy at the younger boy’s swollen cheek; already, it gave promise of discoloring into a truly spec
“He also wished me to tell you that he considers me to be most fortunate in my friendships. So do I, Francis.”
They looked at one another and then, suddenly self-conscious, began to walk again.
“Have you seen my brother of Clarence, Francis?”
Taken by surprise, Francis almost blurted out an account of that acrimonious exchange in the Earl’s solar. Thinking better of it, he shook his head.
“It’s passing strange,” Richard said in the ensuing silence, and there were echoes of baffled anger in his voice. “George is three years my elder, and he’s no child, not at twenty. Yet he can be as easily led as the greenest stripling.”
Francis made an appropriately neutral reply, ambiguous enough to satisfy his conscience and, at the same time, to encourage further confidences if Richard were so inclined. But at that moment, Isabel Neville appeared in the doorway leading up to the Lady Chamber.
She faltered and then walked directly toward them, faced Richard with a brittle smile.
“Well, Dickon, I’ll grant you this much…. Your homecomings are nothing if not spectacular!”
“Not by choice,” he said, enunciating each word with chill precision.
She stared at him bleakly and then sighed, gesturing, palms up, in involuntary appeal.
“Sweet Jesú does know we live in ill-fated times. But I must confess. There’s no way on God’s earth that I can bring myself to see you as an enemy, Dickon.”
“As a brother-in-law, then?” he suggested softly, and when she took a step toward him, he caught her in his arms. For a heartbeat, they stood in a wordless embrace, and then moved apart to smile at each other.
“Dickon, no one knows yet, not even my father. We were waiting till I was sure. But I want you to know…I’m with child.”
Richard caught his breath, and she reached up to touch his cheek in soft entreaty, said coaxingly, “Be happy for us, Dickon. Please be happy.”