The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [40]
He had to contain himself while the doctor spoke on medieval medicine and Percy read a pompous long-winded paper on the education of a boy of noble rank in the fifteenth century. As the afternoon wore on, the room began to darken. The sun had vanished behind the rain clouds Jacqueline had predicted earlier. A cool wind came through the open window, and Thomas fidgeted impatiently. A burst of applause brought him out of his brown study. Percy had finished and his fond mama was clapping. Thunder rolled in ominous echo as Sir Richard brought his gavel down, ending the meeting.
Thomas caught up with his host at the library door and drew him aside. The others were heading for their rooms to prepare for the banquet. Jacqueline lingered, but Thomas scowled at her and made shooing motions with his hand. He wanted to tackle Sir Richard alone. For a wonder, Jacqueline obeyed.
The interview was not satisfactory. Weldon was vague. Of course he meant to show the letter to his colleagues. There had been so many distractions…. Tonight? Possibly…. They would discuss it later. Would Thomas excuse him? He had to consult with Wilkes about the arrangements for the banquet….
Weldon slid away, smiling sweetly. Thomas swore. He felt the need of something to calm his nerves, so he rang and ordered a drink. It was brought by one of the footmen; Wilkes was evidently busy. Carrying his glass, Thomas went upstairs.
He took off his coat, tie, and shoes, and settled himself comfortably on the bed with a copy of Sir Thomas More. Rain hissed softly against the window; drawn draperies and an excellent reading light gave a warm, enclosed feeling to the room. The slanders of Sir Thomas exacerbate the feelings of Ricardians, but his prose is not particularly stimulating. Thomas’s eyelids drooped….
He was awakened by a tap on the door. He fumbled for the book, with the unreasonable sense of guilt people feel when they are caught sleeping during the day.
Jacqueline slipped into the room. She was wearing a dark-green housecoat that matched her eyes. Thomas sat up. He was no longer sleepy, but one look at Jacqueline’s face told him that his hope was in vain.
“I came for a chat,” she said, sitting down in an armchair. “What are you reading? Oh, Sir Thomas More. Or do you follow the school that claims Morton wrote the book?”
Thomas sighed. Really, Jacqueline’s expertise was very exasperating.
“Bishop Morton was one of Richard’s bitterest enemies. More undoubtedly got some of his information from the old wretch, but…no, I think More wrote it. What does that prove? More may be a saint but he’s not canonically infallible. Damn it, it’s a terrible book! Full of lies, innuendos, dirty—”
“You people are such masochists,” Jacqueline said. “Why do you read it if it infuriates you so much?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s incredulity; I can’t believe an intellectual like More could produce such stuff. He’s a master of doublethink. Listen to this:
‘He slew with his own hands king Henry the sixth, being prisoner in the Tower, as men constantly say, and that without commandment or knowledge of the king, which would undoubtedly if he had intended that thing, have appointed that butcherly office to some other than his own brother.’ ”
Thomas’s tone italicized the phrases. He added, with mounting indignation, “Pure rumor, in other words. ‘Men say!’ And did you get that incredible piece of logic in the last part? If the king had ordered Henry to be killed, he wouldn’t have sent his own brother to do the deed; but men say Richard did it, so therefore it must have been done without Edward’s knowledge! The book is full of that sort of thing. Here…”
“You don’t have to convince me. I agree with you.”
“Here, where he says…” Thomas put the book down. “If you agree, why are you being so obnoxious about Richard? Want to join the society?”
Jacqueline smiled. She stretched lazily; the long, wide sleeves fell