The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (73 page)

water or dirt. There's but one thing standing between you and the block on Tower Green, the thin thread of Anne Neville's life. You'd best pray very hard that it does not break, George."
Edward looked down again at the pendant he held in his hand, at the Yorkist White Rose, and then flung it at George's feet.
"Now take that bauble with the cognizance you've no right to claim, and get out of here. The very sight of you does sicken me. Go home and light candles and entreat God that it wasn't Anne you did so gleefully send Dickon to look upon. If not, you do have a tomorrow. But not many of them, George. Not unless
Anne be found alive and unharmed. That I do promise you."
LONDON
October 1471
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LUGH and Alice Brownell had that summer celebrated twenty-five years of wedlock. They'd been luckier than most; of their ten children, six had survived the perilous voyage through infancy and they now had four able-bodied sons and two healthy daughters gathered at their hearth, helping in the operation of the inn and giving promise of a secure old age for the elder Brownells.
They'd made quite a press of people as they crowded that September Sunday into Hugh and Alice
Brownell's bedchamber to hear the story that suddenly was not as easy in the telling as Veronique had expected it to be. She'd found herself faltering before this circle of trusting faces, and her conscience was not eased when she saw her hesitation only served to make her tale that much more credible to them.
"... and so we could not stay there, not once I knew what he ... he wanted of me. I didn't know what else to do. I had nowhere to go but here. . . . You are the only friends I do have in London, in all of England.
I know how much I do ask of you, but . . . Oh, please, will you not help us?"

All eyes shifted to Hugh Brownell, for the decision would be his to make. He was a greying, weathered man who looked considerably older than his forty-some years, so lean of frame that it seemed incongruous that he should have sired four such strapping big-boned sons. Now he rose with the slow deliberation he'd cultivated of necessity to balance a stiffened right leg, the result of a fall taken in youth.
"I cannot say it does surprise me any, your story. I'd no sooner expect to hear good of Clarence than I
would of Judas. But never you mind. You and your sister be welcome here, for as long as you like."
That was all the others had been waiting for, and Veronique and Anne found themselves engulfed in warmth. Veronique felt tears prick her eyes as she looked about her at these people so willing to offer a roof, refuge, friendship.
Stephen was, at twenty-three, the eldest Brownell son; Veronique now received a shy hug and a smile from Celia, his flaxen-haired wife who was very young and very pregnant. Sixteen-year-old Matthew
Brownell was watching Anne with an interest only slightly dampened by the news that she understood very little English, spoke it hardly at all. Catherine, who was seventeen, was fingering the skirt of
Veronique's gown, saying it was too fine for everyday wear but she was sure she and her mother could find some spare russet in their materials coffer.
Veronique murmured her thanks, watching as Anne thawed under Alice Brownell's maternal solicitude, answered questions with a soft "oui" or "non." She watched and smiled and nodded and felt very guilty, for the lies she'd told them that they'd accepted without question and for the terrible trouble she might be bringing down upon them.
it was early, just past eight. The streets had been astir for several hours, however, as life in London began anew with the coming of light. Veronique's basket was beginning to rub against her wrist, and she paused to shift it to her other arm. She was pleased with her thrift and knew Alice Brownell would be, too, for she'd been able to buy six ounces of butter for a halfpenny and a large cheese for a shilling. Much of the time, the Brownell women churned their own butter, but this coming Sunday was the Feast Day of St
Edward the Confessor, and Alice was laying in a store of food in expectation of a greater flow of wayfarers than usual.
It had been a source of some controversy at first, whether Veronique should share the marketing duties with Catherine. The Brownells were very conscious that Veronique was not of their class; she was the daughter of a knight, had been privileged to serve their ill-fated Queen. They were not all that comfortable that Veronique should be gathering eggs or

drawing water or assisting Alice and Celia in the brewing of their ale. But they were far from affluent. The livelihood they earned from their inn was marginal; it was old and rather run-down, and the Brownell boys confided in Veronique their suspicion that they'd been hurt, as well, by their known allegiance to the
House of Lancaster. They were clearly relieved when Veronique insisted that she wanted to do her share.
So, too, did her sister Marthe, she assured them, but she must ask that Marthe be spared any errands which would take her beyond the confines of the inn, given her unfamiliarity with English. The Brownells looked at Anne's delicate profile, mistaking her wide-eyed wonder at the strangeness of her surroundings for extreme timidity, and agreed at once that Marthe should stay within the inn, under Alice's protective eye.
Anne had shown herself to be more adroit at deception than Veronique had expected. She had yet to forget and not respond when addressed as Martha, and she'd adapted very well to the Brownells'
peculiar habit of chattering to her as if she spoke fluent English and, at the same time, feeling free to discuss her to her face as if she could not comprehend a word being spoken. That, she'd laughed to a bemused Veronique, was an offshoot of the deeply rooted conviction of the English that you could make any foreigner understand you if only you spoke loudly enough.
But there was no denying that life in an Aldgate inn was a far cry from the world as they'd known it at the
Herber. Anne was accustomed to eating from silver plate; now she made do with a wooden bowl and spoon. These days she wore frieze, a coarse wool, when once she'd worn only velvets and satins. From childhood, she'd lain upon the softest of feather beds; she now stretched out at night upon a mattress filled with straw in the little chamber she and Veronique shared up under the eaves of the roof.
There was no fireplace, of course, and the only source of warmth in the room was a small brazier heaped with coals. Year-round frequent baths were a pleasure Anne had taken for granted all her life; at the
Rose and Crown, a bath became a complicated and cumbersome affair, involved the dragging of a large unwieldy tub before a well-stoked kitchen fire, heating pots of water beforehand and, most difficult of all, trying to ensure that rarest of luxuries, privacy.
There were no chairs in the inn, merely a few stools, coffers, and a bench or two, one large trestle table for family meals, and several smaller ones for cooking and sewing; the bedchambers held beds, coffers, lavers for washing, and little else. There were no arras hangings for the walls, no mirrors, no glass for the windows, some of which were open to the elements when not shuttered and others screened with oiled linen, which blocked out the wind but much of the light, too. There were no garderobes, either, only chamber pots and an outdoor privy.

Mealtimes were no less a novelty to both girls. Anne was used to eating manchet loaf made from white flour; Veronique had acquired a like taste at the Herber, but at Aubepine, she'd breakfasted on the coarser- grained ravel bread of unbolted flour and bran. Now they both ate barley bread and acorn loaf.
Veronique was positive Anne had not eaten roasted turnips before seeking shelter with the Brownells;
neither girl had ever tasted boiled cabbage before.
Anne had yet to complain about this unusual fare; she ate without comment the salted herring and pottage served up for breakfast. And during those sun-warmed days of late September and early October, she even learned to cook those breakfasts herself.
Not that Anne was ignorant of the arts of cooking. That was something all girls were expected to know.
Anne, like Veronique in France and Catherine Brownell in Aldgate, had been taught how to season meats with herbs and stew apples with almonds, saffron, and salt, how to prepare frumenty stew and to bake custard and cheesecake. But there the similarities among the three girls ended.
Catherine's education had been confined strictly to the teaching of household tasks. She could neither read nor write, nor did she feel the lack. In Catherine's world, it was enough that she could cook and sew, that she had a basic knowledge of medicinal herbs, that she would know how to tend to her children and content her husband.
Veronique's education had been more extensive than Catherine's, although it had much of the aspects of a patchwork quilt, with a bit of learning snatched here and there, from a number of sometimes surprising sources. Her brother could not afford to board her with the nuns who generally saw to the teaching of young girls of her rank. He had, however, engaged a tutor for his sons, and from him, Veronique had learned the alphabet. Spurred on by the boredom of Aubepine more than anything else, she'd disciplined herself until she read without difficulty and could write as well, although with far less ease. From her sister-in-law, she was taught needlework and cooking and the arts of healing; at Marguerite's court at
Koeur, she'd gained some knowledge of music. She had no Latin other than the Pater Noster, the Ave, and the Credo, but from Ralph Delves she'd learned English, and this summer past under Anne's tutelage, she'd begun the struggle to translate it from the ear to the page.
With Anne, it had been quite different. Anne was fluent in French, had some comprehension of Latin. She rode well, had been taught to hawk, to dance, to play chess. She played the lute quite well, and could pick out a passable melody upon the lyre. But these accomplishments were only a portion of what she'd been taught to do.
Anne had been raised with the expectation ever in mind that one day she would have to manage a great household of several hundred people.

She had to be able to balance a budget, to keep orderly household accounts from Michaelmas to
Michaelmas. She had to know how much j money should be set aside for almsgiving and what should be paid out in wages. She would have to be able to supervise all that must be done to keep functioning a castle such as Middleham or Warwick, to see that bread was baked in ample amounts, that sufficient draughts of ale were brewed in the alehouse, that butter and cheese were being produced in the dairy and candles in the larder, that meat was salted for the coming winter and herb gardens tended.
But it was one thing to understand how to perform a task for supervisory purposes and quite another to turn her hand to it herself. In that, Anne had not been prepared for what was expected of her now that she had abandoned the Herber for Aldgate.
Anne knew quite well that Gauncele sauce was made with flour, milk, saffron, and garlic; she had never stood before an open fire stirring the concoction in a heavy brass frying pan. She knew sheets must be soaked in a wooden trough with a solution of wood ashes and caustic soda; she had never knelt before the tub scrubbing out the stains herself. Never before had she made beds or washed dishes or swept floors, all of which the Brownell women did every day, with some haphazard help from Mary and
Dorothy, their kitchen maids.
Anne did all this now, and without complaint. But she was unaccustomed to sleeping in an unheated room, to groping her way at night down unlit stairwells and out into the damp ground of the garden to use the privy, to be awakened by rain dripping through the eaves, and like a garden flower suddenly uprooted to grow wild, she'd soon sickened. She'd had a hacking cough for more than a week now, and
Veronique was beginning to become concerned.
So, too, was Alice, and she'd directed Veronique to stop at an herb shop for white horehound; when mixed with honey, it was thought to be an effective cough medicine. Having done so, Veronique continued west on Cornhill Street, purchased six wax candles from a local chandler's shop. She wasn't overly worried about venturing out on her own, felt sure that only the most accursed ill luck could bring her to Clarence's eye. Much of the time, she felt that to be true for Anne, too. As long as Anne was sheltered within the Rose and Crown, she was safe; Veronique could not conceive of anyone thinking to look for the Earl of Warwick's daughter in an Aldgate inn. No, they were well camouflaged here, need only wait till the Duke of Gloucester did come back to London.
But when he did come, how would they know?
It was a cruel jest of God, Veronique thought, that the Brownells' Lancastrian sympathies, which had proven to be the bridge to their salva

tion, should now isolate them as thoroughly as if a moat were dug around the inn. None of the Brownells, even the youngest, were inclined to gossip about the happenings at the Yorkist court. They did not know what was occurring at Edward of York's court; nor did they much care. And the result was that Anne and Veronique knew no more of what was happening in Westminster than they did of the events taking place in the North of England, where Richard might or might not still be.
Veronique had begun to offer at every opportunity to shop, to run errands. In this way, she hoped to hear some word of Richard's whereabouts; most people, she knew, were not as indifferent as the
Brownells to Yorkist comings and goings, would be only too happy to gossip about the King's youngest brother. She'd even discussed with Anne the advisability of making the long walk across town to
Baynard's Castle, but Anne had been adamantly opposed to letting her take such a risk. Both girls were convinced that George would have Baynard's Castle under close surveillance, just waiting for one of them to try to contact Richard. Until they were sure that Richard was back in London and able to give them his protection, they could do little but wait.
THREE days later, however, Veronique found herself on Thames Street, staring up at the greying stone walls of Baynard's Castle. She was shivering, as much from apprehension as from the cold, and to her uneasy eye, every man that passed seemed suspect, seemed sure to be a spy for the Duke of Clarence.
She shouldn't have come; Anne had been right. But Anne was ill, drifting in and out of a fevered sleep, drenched with sweat and suffering from coughing spasms so severe she'd begun to bring up phlegm flecked with blood.
After two days and nights at Anne's bedside, Veronique, too, was far from well, was numb with fatigue and fear. It was the fear that proved strongest, that sent her out into city streets slick with rain, that brought her now to Baynard's Castle. Once there, however, her courage failed her. It was so imposing a structure, a veritable stone fortress rather than a manor house like the Herber. She hadn't the faintest idea what to do next, loitered for some moments, hoping fervently that Richard might magically appear. He didn't. Instead, she attracted the attention of several men clad in the blue and murrey of York; taking her for a harlot in search of customers, they began to yell offers down from the outer bailey walls. Thoroughly flustered, she retreated in haste, moved back up Addle Street to regain her composure and to nerve herself to approach again the gatehouse guards.
Directly in front of the castle, several drovers were swearing and