The Murders of Richard III (6 page)

Wilkes's melancholy expression did not change. Thomas had to agree that his errand was probably vain. When Sir Richard got into the library it was hard to get him out, especially when he had a new audience.

The door of the room stood open; from the corridor Thomas could hear Weldon's voice rising and falling in gentle, uninterrupted cadence. He paused in the doorway for a moment, enjoying the chance of watching the others before they realized they were being observed.

Most of them had abandoned medieval garb, but Percy still wore his messy costume. Either he didn't know how terrible he looked, or he didn't care. Philip, leaning gracefully against the carved stone mantel, was also in costume. Unconsciously Thomas pulled in his stomach.

He was next struck by the unnatural alliance between Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones and Lady Isobel, who were seated side by side. They looked comical together, the ample girth of the one emphasizing the scrawniness of the other. They were united by a common emotion; two pairs of narrowed eyes stared intently at the enemy. Jacqueline was wearing her favorite green, a misty shade that set off her tanned arms and shoulders.
It clung to her tall body, and the ladies weren't the only ones who were staring.

Weldon had taken Jacqueline's arm in order to lead her around. He was still talking.

There was plenty for him to talk about. High-ceilinged, with French doors opening onto the terrace, the room contained two tiers of bookshelves with an open gallery running around three sides and stairs leading up to it. Another flight of narrow circular steps went up from the gallery. It opened, as Thomas knew, into the private sitting room of Sir Richard's suite, so that the scholarly gentleman could reach his beloved books without a long walk through the house.

A big library table and an equally mammoth desk were dwarfed by the dimensions of the room. Fat leather chairs and sofas were scattered about. Thick wall-to-wall carpeting muffled voices and footsteps. Glass cases, spaced at intervals, contained some of the rarer items of Weldon's collection, and there were other exhibits on the wall over the fireplace—an impressive array of medieval weapons. Prominent among these was an enormous two-handed sword. It was this object Weldon was discussing as Thomas entered.

“I am convinced it was Richard's. It comes from Leicester, near Bosworth, and the tradition—”

Kent interrupted with a snort.

“Nonsense. The weapon is certainly sixteenth century. You may be the handwriting expert, but I'm the authority on armament, and I assure you—”

Weldon turned. He looked almost grim enough for Richard III.

“I beg your pardon. The historical tradition—”

Kent gave another volcanic snort and Frank said tactfully, “I can't understand how any soldier could wield a weapon so heavy. How long is it precisely, sir?”

Instead of answering, Weldon climbed nimbly onto a chair and lifted the sword down. Jacqueline stepped back as the mammoth blade left its support, but Weldon handled it easily.

“It only weighs fourteen pounds and a bit,” he said.

“Overall length, eighty-nine inches,” Kent added. “The blade is well over six feet.”

The startling dimensions of the sword became clearer when Weldon held it upright. He was several inches under six feet; the hilt topped his head by a foot and a half.

“You are thinking in terms of modern dueling,” Kent said to Frank. “That didn't begin until the seventeenth century. In Richard's time the idea was to whack your enemy as hard and as often as
you could. The sword was used for cutting, not thrusting.”

He demonstrated, taking the weapon from Weldon. The blade cut the air with a deadly and surprising precision; even Thomas, in the distant doorway, stepped back a pace.

“There's a knack to it,” Kent warned, as the others crowded forward, wanting to try their hands. “Don't swing it as I did, you'll lop an ear off someone.”

Frank was the first to try; he was properly cautious, remarking on the poor balance of the weapon. Lady Isobel made a show of trying in vain to lift the weight. Jacqueline gave her a thoughtful look and hoisted the sword without difficulty, remarking, “My purse weighs more than that.” But when Percy swaggered forward and reached for the sword, Thomas decided it was time to intervene.

“Hey,” he said. “You're all supposed to be back in the drawing room. Wilkes is sulking…”

It was too late.

“Dinner is served,” said Wilkes, and gave Thomas a reproachful look.

They were dining early so that the business meeting could start at a reasonable hour. It was still light outside; from his seat Thomas could see out across the wide lawns toward the maze and the rose garden. The softening light made the fabulous turf look like smooth green velvet. It was a lovely view, a scene out of the England of glamorized history and legend.

Then two figures appeared, one human, the other four-legged. A watchman, with a large mastiff on a leash.

It was ridiculous, Thomas thought sourly. All this fuss and furor over a few reporters. You'd think the place were under siege by howling Lancastrians waving pikes and thirsting for Weldon's head.

Thomas was sulking, although he would not have chosen that word. Rohan and Kent, the most aggressive males in the group, had grabbed the chairs next to Jacqueline. Weldon had disposed of the two older women with the skill a hunted man develops. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones sat triumphantly at the foot of the table as hostess, but Lady Isobel had won the seat at her host's right. Thomas was stuck between Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones and Liz, and was getting no attention from either. Liz was preempted by Frank, on her other side, and Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones
was preoccupied with her son. Percy was directly across from Thomas, and the latter watched Percy eat with fascinated disgust. Eat was hardly the word—the wretched boy swallowed food like a python, and his besotted mother kept urging him to eat more. Thomas averted his eyes and let fragments of conversation drift through his ears into his brain. The discussion, as might have been expected, was predominantly Ricardian.

“…Richard blamed the Woodvilles for Clarence's death. They had a pressing motive for wanting him out of the way if, as seems probable, he knew about the precontract.”

“…try to eat another teeny bit of beef, darling. Agrowing boy must keep up his strength.”

“…wore German armor. It was the best available.”

“…might have won if Northumberland had not remained aloof from the battle. Richard ought to have known he was treacherous…”

“Why? He had loaded the rascal with favors.”

The rector's voice rose over those of the other speakers. He and the American visitor were refighting the Battle of Bosworth, and Thomas smiled to himself as he saw others turn toward the debaters. He was reminded of Southern friends talking about a more recent war. “If Stonewall Jackson hadn't been killed…If England
had come in on our side…” The lost causes, the romantic failures…the flight to Varennes, the Forty-Five. Bonnie Dundee and the Lost Dauphin. “If only…” Futile speculations, impractical and thoroughly irresistible.

The American answered.

“Richard's popularity in the North threatened Northumberland's position in that region. If Henry Tudor won, Northumberland could expect to be supreme—”

“He didn't have to risk supporting the wrong side,” Kent interrupted. “All he had to do was sit tight and refuse to move. Shrewd—very shrewd.”

“Despicable, you mean,” squeaked Lady Isobel.

“Ah, the gentle illogic of women,” Kent said, with a vicious smile. “I regret Richard's betrayal as much as you, dear lady, but I must admit he did not act with his usual good sense. If he had anticipated the treachery of the Stanleys—”

A chorus of voices drowned him out.

“Yes, the Stanleys were the decisive factor.”

“…incredibly naive of Richard. Stanley was the husband of Henry Tudor's mother.”

“What do you mean, naive? Richard had Stanley's own son as hostage…”

“Stanley knew Richard wouldn't kill the boy. He was too damned soft-headed.”

“Too sensitive and kind! No, poor dear Richard's greatest error was in attacking Henry Tudor personally. He ought to have remained safely in the rear!”

“Balderdash. That was a brilliant move, and it came damned close to winning the day. Richard was a bonny fighter and Henry was a coward. Five more minutes and Richard would have smashed the rascal's skull—”

“Five minutes? Two minutes! Richard struck down the biggest brutes in Henry's bodyguard….”

Thomas was shaken by a vertiginous shock of confusion. Had it happened five hundred years ago, or only yesterday? Turning, he met the eyes of the girl beside him and saw his own incredulity mirrored in her face.

“We're all mad,” she muttered.

“It's a harmless madness,” Thomas answered slowly. “And you at least seem impervious….”

Liz shook her head. Her fine brown hair shifted silkily.

“I'm as bad as they are. ‘King Richard, alone, was killed fighting manfully in the thickest press of his enemies….' It was his enemies who said that about him; even though they hated him and murdered him, they couldn't deny him that tribute. And I…” She laughed softly, but there was a note in her voice
Thomas didn't like. “I've got a schoolgirl crush on him. I'm too sophisticated to fall for the pop musicians and the nude centerfold types. I dream about a man who's been dead and rotten for five hundred years.”

“Liz…”

The girl shook her head again. The cloud cleared from her face, which regained its habitual expression of sulky boredom.

“Thomas, you are too much,” she said lightly. “One can't resist teasing you, you're so trusting.”

Without giving Thomas time to reply, she raised her voice in a shout.

“Mother! Isn't it time for the ladies to retire? We'll never start the meeting at this rate.”

Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones glared. She was not quick at repartee. It was Weldon who replied amiably,

“What conventional circles you move in, Liz. I thought your generation lingered over the port along with the men.”

“Port is not what we linger over,” said Liz. “You're close, though.”

“None of us is going to linger tonight,” Weldon said, as Philip laughed and Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones pondered Liz's comment. “We'll have coffee later, at the meeting, if that is agreeable. In the Great Hall at eight, then. Frank, you're giving the first paper.”

“Right, sir. I'd better go up and get my notes together.”

Weldon gave the younger man a friendly pat on the back.

“Not nervous, are you?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Nothing to be nervous about. We're all friends.”

Frank glanced from Philip's wide white grin to Kent's anticipatory smile. His affable face took on a look of deep gloom.

The reverberations of a gong summoned the members to the meeting. Thomas had been refreshing his memory with Kendall's
Richard III
; when he reached the Hall, most of the others were already present. He stopped in the entrance to enjoy a moment of sentimentality; the reconstruction of Richard's former home delighted him. Jacqueline, also late, came up behind him, and Thomas moved aside so she could see.

It was a vast room, its floor of unpolished Purbeck marble stretching away like a skating rink. The fireplace was a simple rounded arch of carved stone, without mantel or hood. At the far end a minstrel's gallery, balustraded in dark oak, was reached by a winding stair. Windows filled
the upper half of the Hall; each light rose to a pointed arch framed in stone trefoils. Panes of stained glass replaced some of the diamond-shaped panes, and Weldon had made sure Richard's coat of arms was included along with those of other characters in the Ricardian drama. The lower half of the walls was covered with priceless old tapestries from Weldon's collection.

The real glory of the room was its ceiling. Sculptured, painted beams intersected in complex patterns, with bosses and hanging ornaments at the points of intersection. Enough of the natural wood had been left to provide a mellow brown background for the designs in crimson and green and shining gold. Thomas had never asked, but he felt quite sure that the gilt was genuine gold leaf.

On the dais at the far end Weldon had placed a table, as long as a fallen oak, surrounded by chairs that were copies of fifteenth-century furniture, with high, carved backs and seats of crimson velvet. Weldon was already seated at the head of the table. His mammoth chair dwarfed his slight body, and Thomas's mouth pursed in a silent whistle as he observed the chair. It was new since his last visit, and from the crown on the back to the shape of the arms it rather suggested a throne.

Perhaps it was the throne that had cast a hush
over the assembled group. The silence continued as Thomas escorted Jacqueline down the length of the room. He felt like the victim of some formal ceremony, marriage or investiture or coronation, and he wondered if the floor was as slippery as it looked. Jacqueline paced solemnly at his side, looking neither to right nor to left. Thomas knew she was enjoying herself immensely.

Liz winked at him as he took his seat. Philip was sitting next to the girl; he nudged her and said something in a whisper, so close to her ear that his breath stirred the curls on her cheek. Liz giggled. Her mother glared.

Frank was the only one who had not arrived. Thomas wondered if the boy really was nervous. Surely a lawyer ought not to suffer from stage fright. It was a hard audience for a novice to face, though. Frank was new to Ricardian controversy, having joined the society after he became engaged to Liz. Now he had to perform before a group of critical experts, and in the presence of his fiancée's equally critical family—including the wealthy, expert head of that family.

Thomas glanced at the program. Weldon didn't do things by halves; the document was printed on expensive paper and bound in calf. Frank's was the first paper of the evening, and Thomas sighed inwardly as he read the title.