The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (34 page)

WESTMINSTER
November 1470
AS October yielded to November, the weather took a nasty turn. Snow had begun to fall at dawn on
Friday, All Souls' Day, and by the time Elizabeth Woodville had been delivered of her child, the city was at a standstill, as a storm of unwonted savagery swept the streets of all signs of life and churned the
Thames into an icy froth, spreading fears of flooding in the low-lying bankside and driving all but the most foolhardy boatmen to the shelter of tavern and alehouse.
Alison, Lady Scrope of Bolton Castle, was returning to the Jerusalem Chamber in the Abbot's lodging, which lay within the confines of the Benedictine Abbey of St Peter at Westminster. It was here that
Elizabeth had sought sanctuary for herself and her children.
Elizabeth had received a warmer welcome than the grudging admittance accorded those unfortunates of lesser rank who came to claim this ancient right of refuge. Thomas Millyng, the Lord Abbot, had received the wife of the exiled Yorkist King as if she were still the consort of a reigning sovereign, turning over his own private quarters for her use. She was far more comfortable than she would otherwise have been, but
Alison was willing to concede that this was still quite a comedown for a woman accustomed to the splendors of the royal palaces at Westminster, Eltham, Windsor, and Shene.
Alison was balancing on a small wooden tray a steaming mug of raspberry-leaf tea. Not that she expected Elizabeth to need its known therapeutic benefits. Alison had seen few births as easy as this one, and Marjory Cobb, Elizabeth's midwife, had concurred.
She paused in the doorway. Alison had no liking for the Yorkist Queen; she had agreed to attend her only to accommodate her husband's friend and northern neighbor, the Earl of Warwick. But she acknowl-

edged now that they presented a fetching tableau, the mother with baby nestled at her breast and her oldest daughter, a pretty precocious child not yet five, perched on the foot of the bed, watching with extreme interest as the infant suckled.
How are the mighty fallen, Alison thought, with malicious satisfaction. The woman who'd once eaten only from plate of gold now maintained herself and her children on half a beef and two muttons delivered to her every week by a butcher with Yorkist sympathies, and the baskets sent as a charity by the Duchess of York.
Alison was not moved by Elizabeth's plight. It was her opinion that Elizabeth should consider herself thankful that Warwick was a man of honor who scorned to revenge himself upon a woman. Had he not personally requested that she attend Elizabeth during her lying-in? No,ii Alison felt Warwick had accorded Elizabeth mercies she did not deserve and would never have returned had their positions been reversed. TT
All in all, Alison and her husband thought their friend had been most."', magnanimous in the month that he'd exercised power. He'd claimed no blood debts, sought no settlements of old scores. Of course, he'd wasted no time restoring the chancellorship to his brother, the
Archbishop of York, but he'd pardoned the man who'd held the chancellorship until Edward's fall, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. Much to Alison's wonderment, Warwick had even agreed to pardon one of Elizabeth's younger brothers. And when parliament was to meet on November twenty-sixth, Alison and her husband knew that Warwick intended to seek only two Bills of Attainder, for Edward of York and his brother, Richard of Gloucester.
Elizabeth looked up as she entered, and Alison thought a woman in childbed had no right to look as beautiful as did this woman; it was uncanny, unnatural. Those who spoke of Elizabeth's "gilt" hair did not exaggerate. It was luxuriant, lustrous, purest silver-blonde in color, and even now, hanging in disarray about her breasts and shoulders, made one wish to touch it, to see if it were really as soft, as silken as it seemed. Her skin was perfect enough to bear the most critical examination; Alison, not without envy, doubted whether Elizabeth had ever had to cope with the blemishes and freckles that were the lot of her less fortunate sisters. She had a full mouth, sullenly sensual in repose, and the high wide brow so prized by minstrels and poets. Only in eye-color did she fail to satisfy the fashionable standards of their day;
china-blue was the most preferred of hues, and Elizabeth's heavy-lidded eyes were cat-green.
Alison knew Elizabeth was in her early thirties, well past a woman's prime, yet she had a body any man would desire, any woman would envy; and no one who saw those full firm breasts would ever have thought she'd been brought to bed of six children. Not for the first time, it

occurred to Alison that there might be truth to those tales which held Elizabeth to be one who practiced the black arts.
Alison closed the door softly behind her, moved toward the bed. Elizabeth watched in silence; she never bothered to make polite conversation, never addressed Alison at all unless she had some need she wanted met.
Alison had not been witness to Elizabeth's initial response to the devastating news of Doncaster. Rumor had it that she'd at first refused to believe it, stubbornly rejected all evidence brought before her, and continued to do so until she was confronted with a hastily scribbled warning in her husband's own hand.
It was said that she'd then given in to hysterics, an emotional outburst so violent that she'd raised fears for the well-being of the child she carried. Her recovery had been rapid enough, however, for her to have thought to take with her into sanctuary all her jewelry and much of her wardrobe.
It had been a fortnight now since Alison had come into the sanctuary, and she sought in vain for cracks in the aloof composure that sealed off from the world whatever pain or fears tormented Elizabeth's private hours. Alison had to admit that the other woman was bearing up remarkably well under the circumstances. Much as it vexed her pride, Alison knew that, were she in Elizabeth's predicament, she'd not have done half as well as this woman she liked so little.
"How does he?" she made herself ask politely. What a pity this child must be a boy! How much simpler it would have been had she given birth to yet another daughter.
"He sleeps now." Elizabeth glanced down at the small head pillowed on her breast. The corners of her mouth curved upward, as if in secret satisfaction of a pleasure too sweet to share.
"Tell me, Lady Scrope, do you not think it an omen that my son should be born here ... in the Jerusalem
Chamber?"
Seeing Alison's lack of comprehension, she smiled. "It was in this very chamber, was it not, that the first of the Lancastrian Kings did die? Do you not find the contrast striking, a Lancastrian death and a Yorkist birth?"
Alison had no intention of being trapped in a pointless political discussion. "I know nothing of omens, Madame," she said brusquely. "Nurse Cobb will be back directly she has supped. May I do anything for you?"
"As it happens, you can. I have asked Abbot Thomas to stand as godfather." Elizabeth was stroking the cheek of the sleeping child, all the while watching Alison. "Will you act as godmother to my son, Lady
Scrope?"
Alison was too surprised to hide it. She knew Elizabeth was well aware of her animosity. She looked from Elizabeth to the small wrinkled

bundle Elizabeth held, swathed in folds of white linen. He had a surprisingly thick thatch of hair, but so light in color that at first glance he looked bald. He was awake and kneading with tiny pink fingers the soft warm flesh he found within his grasp.
"Yes . . . yes, I will," Alison said at last, and Elizabeth inclined her head, as if there were nothing extraordinary in either the offer or the acceptance.
"Why cannot I be godmother?" Bess demanded, and pouted when Elizabeth said, "You're too young, sweet."
Alison reached down to fondle the child's flaxen hair. She'd grown fond of Bess, for all that she talked incessantly of her father. She'd been his pet, and in this strange cramped world she now occupied, it was his absence she found hardest to accept or understand.
Now she leaned closer to peer at her brother, and then asked, with the candor peculiar to very young children, "Will Papa still love me now he has a son?"
Alison was touched, but Elizabeth said composedly, "Yes, Bess. You are his firstborn and that is special in itself."
"What will we name him, Mama?"
Elizabeth looked from her son to Alison.
"He shall be christened Edward . . . Prince Edward of England. And in time, Bess, he shall be titled as
Prince of Wales, as befitting the heir to England's crown."
"That is a title which belongs, by rights, to the son of His Grace, King Henry," Alison said coolly.
But in a darkened corner of her mind, she cried out in protest that she, Lady Scrope of Bolton Castle, should have to proclaim a Frenchwoman's bastard son as England's King-to-be; that for Warwick, whom they did love, she and her John must accept Lancaster, whom they did not.
"The son of the French whore? He's no son to Harry and all do know it. But even if the Lord God
Almighty were to declare him a true-born son of Lancaster, it matters little."
Elizabeth raised the squirming child, held him up as he began to wail. "Here is the heir of England . . . my son."
"You take considerable risk in speaking so," Alison said slowly, as she sought to keep her temper in check. "The Earl of Warwick will not take punitive measures against you for your rash talk. But I would caution you, Madame. When Marguerite d'Anjou is once more in England, she'll brook no such claims as you make now. Such defiance will cost you dear."
Elizabeth guided the whimpering child's mouth to her breast. "You

do know my husband, Lady Scrope. Do you truly think he will be content to keep to Burgundy while
Warwick rules England? My husband?"
She laughed, and Alison decided that if her amusement was not genuine, she was a gifted actress.
"And when Edward is once more in England, he'll brook no such claims as you make now," Elizabeth echoed mockingly, and Alison flushed.
It was only with a conscious effort that she reminded herself this woman had given birth but hours before;
reminded herself, too, of the innocent presence of Edward's daughter, rapt at mention of her father's name.
"I think this does serve for naught," she said, as steadily as her anger would allow.
Elizabeth leaned back against the pillow. "Prince Edward of England," she said recklessly, and smiled.
"And you may tell Warwick what I said . . . word for word."
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A M O I E FRANCE
December 1470
A, LNNE Neville and Prince Edward of Lancaster were distant cousins, as his great-grandfather, Henry IV, and her great- grandmother, Joan Beaufort, were brother and sister. It was necessary, therefore, to secure a papal dispensation before they could wed. An understanding was reached between Warwick and his friend, Louis of France. As Warwick sailed for England, the French King exercised his renowned powers of persuasion upon a merchant of Tours, who prudently agreed to advance the gold needed for an appeal to the Holy See.
On July 25, the betrothal of the Houses of Lancaster and Neville had been solemnized in the Cathedral of
Angers, sworn on the blessed Cross of St Laud d'Angers. Since then, the Earl's wife and daughters had re

sided in the household of Marguerite d'Anjou at Amboise, in central France.
At Amboise, they'd learned of Warwick's success in winning over his disgruntled unhappy brother;
learned of John's volte-face, which had driven their cousins of York into exile; learned, too, of Warwick's triumphal entry into London. And at Amboise, word had reached them that a dispensation for the wedding had been secured from the Patriarch of Jerusalem. On this Thursday, the thirteenth of
December, the Grand Vicar of Bayeux was to wed the seventeen-year-old Lancastrian Prince to the younger daughter of the Earl of Warwick.
Isabel Neville had risen at dawn to hear Mass in the Queen's Chapel and now she and her ladies were returning to her chambers to dress for the wedding ceremony to be held at noon. Isabel was only three months beyond her nineteenth birthday, yet she leaned heavily upon the arm of a solicitous attendant, and she had to pause repeatedly as they mounted the stone stairway.
More than seven months had passed since she'd gone into labor aboard ship in the harbor at Calais, but she had yet to recover Wr health. Always slender, she was thin now, dangerously so, and her pallor was so pronounced that even her brother-in-law-to-be had noticed and suggested she consult a physician.
She had no appetite, no energy, and when she rose in the mornings, the hazel eyes were dulled, shadow-smudged.
Lord Wenlock, the Deputy Governor of Calais, was a friend of long standing, and Warwick had anticipated cooperation, or at the least, neu- | trality. But Calais was so honeycombed with Edward's agents that'
Wenlock dared not give entry to a declared enemy of the crown, and as their ship wallowed sickeningly in heavy swells, Isabel had been brought to birth of her child.
She'd been in labor for fully a day and night, with only her mother and Anne to attend her; with no hot water, no camomile oil or rue plant, not even egg whites. At the last, Wenlock had heeded Warwick's desperate pleas and dispatched two casks of wine for Isabel, but the wine could neither numb her pain nor save her child.
The baby, a son, was stillborn, and when Isabel began to hemorrhage, it seemed certain that she, too, would die. When the bleeding ceased, they could only attribute it to the divine mercy of the Blessed
Mother Mary; and as Isabel lay delirious, her mother and sister washed the infant, wrapped him in a white blanket, and prayed as the small body /| was lowered into the sea.
There'd been a time when Isabel had seen herself as Queen of England. Under her father's tutelage, she was encouraged to entertain visions of a truly dazzling future. Ned had shown himself unworthy to be
King. He would be deposed and George would be crowned. She would rule as

1 5
his consort, would be loved by the people as Elizabeth Woodville never was. Life would once more be sweet, as in the days before her father's quarrel with her cousin shadowed the happiness she'd once so innocently accepted as her birthright.
As beautiful as this dream had been, it had proven to be no more substantial than the soap bubbles Isabel had so delighted in playing with as a small child. Reality was a frantic midnight flight aboard ship at
Exeter. Reality was the tiny bundle buried at sea, the baby she'd never even seen. Reality was a sickbed at Honfleur in Normandy, when the French midwife summoned to nurse her bluntly expressed doubts that she would ever carry a child to full term. Reality was the plight-troth of her sister Anne to the heir of
Lancaster, an alliance that had transformed her married life into a hell of recrimination and accusation.
Her embittered husband had turned upon her the resentment he dare not voice to her father, and by the time his fury was tempered by the realization that her disappointment was as keen as his own, the damage had been done.
She was in extremely low spirits this morning, plagued by fatigue, back pain, and a particularly severe headache. She'd slept little that night, thinking of the dismal future she faced at a Lancastrian court, thinking of the marriage that would make Anne Princess of Wales and, one day, Queen of England ... if their father prevailed. And on this icy December day, with Edward of York a penniless fugitive and her father in unchallenged command of England, there was no reason for Isabel to doubt that he would indeed prevail.
"Madame la Duchesse! Votre soeur, la Princesse Anne . . ."
It was some moments before Isabel was able to understand. Her command of French was fair and improving daily, but the girl was excited, rattling on breathlessly at an incomprehensible rate of speed.
"Sweet Blood of Christ!" she swore when she did understand, and those of her attendants who knew enough of her language to appreciate English oaths exchanged surreptitious smiles of amused speculation.
It would be a scandal of delightful proportions if the English girl was truly refusing to wed Prince
Edouard.
Isabel briefly considered alerting her mother, and then decided against it. Anne was no closer to their mother than she herself was. The confines of the Countess of Warwick's world were circumscribed by the breath and blood of her lord husband. As far back as Isabel could remember, it had been so, and she did not think her lady mother was likely to be of assistance now.
Anne's chamber was cold; neither the Flemish wall arras nor a heated brazier could withstand the chill.
Yet Anne was clad only in a kirtle of cream-colored silk, sitting before the pier glass, surrounded by an impressive array of perfumes, rose water, and cosmetics . . . kohl and