The Sun in Splendour

'I know it well. I blame Hastings for much of the King's night adventures. Hastings is a profligate, a rake and a philanderer.'

'Well, Edward knows that as well as any and he continues to give him his friendship.'

'They are two of a kind,' said Elizabeth vehemently.

Anthony was alarmed to see his sister so intense, fearing she might betray her feelings to the King. They owed their prosperity to Elizabeth's relationship with the King; it must not change. No, there was no need to remind Elizabeth of that. She was as much aware of it as any of them.

'So,' said Anthony, 'we should not turn the King away from him by a complaint against his immoral way of life.'

'You mean . . . there could be some other way?'

Her eyes were alight with purpose and again Anthony felt that tremor of disquiet. He laid a hand on her arm. 'There might be a way.'

'How?'

'He has a large household of retainers. There are many who serve . . . .'

'WeU?'

'There may be some member of that retinue who is a little dissatisfied ... a little envious of another . . . one who feels he has not been justly treated.'

'And if he were found?'

'He might discover something against Hastings . . . some little plot involving the King.'

'Edward would never believe a thing against Hastings.'

'It might be possible to remind him that once he was loth to believe Warwick was a traitor to him.'

'First you must find something against Hastings.'

'I will/ Anthony promised.

Elizabeth nodded. And once Hastings was proved to be a traitor it would be a simple matter to suggest that the Captaincy should be given to one whom he could trust and whom could the King trust more than his own brother-in-law?

Hastings could not believe it. There was whispering about him. What had he done? He could find no answer to that. Who should be his enemy? Perhaps a husband of one of the women he had seduced? But which one? There were too many of them for him to guess.

It was a strange feeling.

Clarence looked at him slyly, almost invitingly. What did he mean? Hastings had always suspected that Clarence was looking about him, seeking some way of destroying his brother. Hastings wanted none of such matters. He was Edward's friend; he had always been Edward's friend and he wanted to remain so.

Sometimes he laughed at this shadow which was beginning to grow bigger. It was ridiculous. Who had started such rumours?

He suspected the Queen. She did not like him because he often shared the King's nocturnal adventures. He supposed it was natural for a wife not to care for her husband's companion in debauchery. They often went out together in some sort of disguise, usually dressed as merchants. Edward had a childish pleasure in keeping his identity secret and then suddenly revealing it. It was hard for him to remain incognito. He was so tall for one thing; he was outstandingly handsome and if he were growing somewhat too fat and there were pouches beginning to form under his magnificent eyes, he was still very good-looking. He would be known in merchant's clothes as surely as if he wore one of his favourite devices—the rose-en-soleil emblazoned on his cloak. Hastings had once remarked how appropriate that one particularly was. 'You are like the sun in splendour, Edward,' he

had said. 'You arose on the dark world of poor mad Henry's country and you took the crown and dazzled us all. And here you are high in the sky ... in all your splendour.'

Edward had laughed and called Hastings a romantic poet. But he had liked what he had said; and Hastings noticed he used the badge—a combination of the blazing sun and the rose of York— more than any other.

And how could Edward ever believe that he, William Lord Hashngs, was not the truest friend he had ever had?

Sometimes he wondered what the Queen whispered to him in the connubial bed at night. What poison did she drop into Edward's ear about his faithful friend? It was said that the Queen never meddled, never advised the King, never mentioned state matters or questioned his decisions. But there were ways, of course.

Once he caught Edward regarding him very coolly indeed as though he were assessing him, suspechng him, and he felt himself go cold with apprehension. Edward had changed from the golden youth who used to slip out into the streets of London with his good friend, looking for adventure. Edward still sought adventures; his appetites were as voracious as ever; but he was different. Warwick had deceived him. Warwick had pretended to be his friend so that he had no notion that he was planning to rise against him. And then Edward was forced to flee into exile.

He never recovered from that. Who would? It had changed the light-hearted trusting young man into a hard one ... a suspicious one. Clarence had deceived him too. But perhaps he had never thought very much of Clarence. But that Warwick should have turned against him had done something to Edward which would leave its mark forever.

He was ready to suspect his best friend.

Warwick, he would say to himself. And now . . . Hastings!

So when Edward looked at him with that cold assessment in his eyes Hastings trembled. He had noticed for some time that Edward had chosen other companions and Hastings was now never alone in the King's company. There always seemed to be some member of the Woodville family with him—either his Queen's brother or young Thomas Grey, her eldest son by her first marriage. What had Edward been told? Who were Hastings' enemies?

He did not have to look far. He knew it was the Woodvilles.

The Queen herself. They disliked anyone to be in favour with the King; and it suddenly dawned on him that they might have been angered by his appointment to Calais. The post was one of the most important that could be bestowed on a man; that trading post, the centre through which passed so many goods: leather, wool, tin and lead to be exported to Burgundy, graded and taxed, meant prosperity to the country and who should reap the reward of all this more than any, but the Captain. Yes, it must be the Captaincy of Calais. When he came to think of it this suspicion has grown up since his appointment.

He brooded; he fretted; he walked the streets of London asking himself what he should do. He roamed along by the river and looked at the gloomy fortress of the Tower and thought how many men had entered those dark walls never to emerge again except to the scaffold. Was that the fate they were preparing for him?

Each day he awoke with a heavy cloud upon him. He could not enjoy food, wine, nor even women. He was realizing how alone he might be in a hostile world.

He thought a great deal about Edward. Their friendship dated back for years. Edward had always been so genial, so good-tempered, so easy-going; a perfect companion for one built in the same mould, though, Hastings would be the first to admit, lacking that aura of splendour. T am like the moon,' he had once said, 'reflecting the glory of the sun.'

Edward had laughed at him telling him that such verbal adulation would profit him nothing. 'It's deeds, William,' he had said. 'Deeds that impress me.'

He had joked but he meant it. Now of what deeds had he been accused?

Hastings realized that he could not continue in this way. He was going to the King, and presuming on their long-standing friendship, ask him what was wrong, why he was regarded so coldly, what had been said against him.

Edward had always been affable and amenable. Why should he change now? But he had changed, Warwick's disaffection had changed him. He would never be the same easy-going trusting golden boy again. The sun could be fiercely dangerous as well as benevolent.

But he could not go on in this way. He decided he would speak to Edward. He went to his private apartments and because of