The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [13]
“You are Elizabeth of York?” Jacqueline asked. “The writer of the famous letter?”
Liz laughed. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Dickon’s niece and I’m supposed to show a hopeless incestuous passion for him.”
She leered at Sir Richard, who smiled fondly.
Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones moved in. She was so much larger than Sir Richard that she seemed about to engulf him like a giant amoeba, and the look she gave her daughter held no maternal warmth.
“Don’t be offensive, Elizabeth. You are distracting your cousin Richard from his duties as host.”
“Elizabeth distracts all of us.” A man sauntered toward them. “My name’s Kent, Dr. Kirby. I’m glad you could join us. As the only heretic in this group, I welcome support. Hello, Thomas.”
Kent’s short, stocky body appeared almost cylindrical in his long black-and-gold robe. He wore his gray hair clipped short. All his hirsute efforts had been concentrated on his moustache, which curled out and up like the horns of a buffalo. The sleeves of his robe were slit to the shoulders, and the heavy hanging folds were fur-trimmed, as was the hem of the garment. On Kent’s head was perched an absurd tall hat with a rounded top and a yellow padded edge.
“Major General Sir Archibald Kent?” Jacqueline asked, shaking hands.
“Thomas has briefed you?”
“He had no need to do so. Even in the wilds of America the newspapers follow your career with interest. Don’t you find Ricardiana research a little dull after your—er—activities in the Middle East?”
“Not at all.” Kent displayed long, yellowing teeth in a wolfish smile. “The Arabs and Israelis are easy to deal with compared with my colleagues.”
“Why do you regard yourself as a heretic?” Jacqueline asked. “I thought membership in this society was contingent upon belief in Richard’s innocence.”
“You make us sound rather like a peculiar religious sect,” Weldon said with a smile.
Kent gave a brusque, barking laugh. “That’s what we are, Dick. You see, Doctor, the others admire Richard because they believe he was innocent of the vital crime—the murder of his nephews. I admire him because I think he was guilty. They want to make him a medieval liberal left-winger; I see him as a practical politician and a damn good soldier. It was sound policy in those days to rid yourself of disinherited princes; they were a focus for rebellion.”
“Fascinating,” said Jacqueline.
“Disgusting,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones.
“He doesn’t mean it,” said Lady Isobel, with a high-pitched giggle. “He loves to tease us.”
Jacqueline hadn’t taken her eyes from Kent. “What part are you playing?” she asked.
“Buckingham.” Kent barked again. “Very appropriate, eh? I insisted on the role. The duke is one of the strong suspects for the murder, you know. His behavior was damn peculiar; first his solid support of Richard against the Woodvilles—he was one of the first to urge that Richard take the crown. Then suddenly he is leading a rebellion against his former ally.”
“It was peculiar behavior.”
“Not at all,” Kent said promptly. “Buckingham wanted to be the power behind the throne. Richard wouldn’t stand for it. So Buckingham decided to play Kingmaker with Henry Tudor, who might prove more malleable. Perhaps he planned to claim the throne himself, after he had made use of the Tudor. Perfectly sensible plan.”
“It makes more sense than you do,” Thomas said, scowling. “Ignore him, Jacqueline; he’ll argue on either side of a question just for the fun of it. No more debate, colleagues, until the formalities are over.”
There were only three others to be introduced. Donald Ellis, a chubby man with eyes of luminous innocence, wore gorgeous purple velvet and a crown. A pastor of the Church of England, he had chosen to portray the lusty, virile Edward IV. Thomas’s eyes, meeting Jacqueline’s, saw the amusement in them and knew she had not missed the