The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Do you remember, Dickon, when you rode at the quintain, how you had a twofold concern?…First to hit the target full on and then to avoid being struck when the impact of your blow whipped it around behind you.”

  “I’ve good reason to remember,” Richard said bemusedly. “That was how I broke my shoulder when I was ten. I was hit and unhorsed when the sandbag swung back on me. But what does that have to do with now?”

  “It’s as good a description as any for the way I feel tonight. I was braced for the first shock. But I wasn’t ready for the the sandbag….”

  Reaching into his doublet, Edward tossed a rolled sheet of paper onto the table in front of Richard.

  “Read that.”

  Richard picked it up. There was no salutation or signature; both had been cut away. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him and written in English. A sentence in the opening paragraph caught his eye: “I protest that I have always held aloof from the quarrels about the English throne.” He glanced up quickly at Edward and then dropped his gaze to the text of the letter.

  “I should be sorely grieved if the ambition of a single man should give occasion for dissension and hostilities between me and a people and kingdom to which I have ever shown myself so strongly attached.”

  By now, Richard knew the writer to be his brother-in-law. The bombastic style was unmistakable. He threw it down with an oath.

  “I see Charles’s fine hand in this,” he said sarcastically. “But to whom was it written?”

  “To John Wenlock, at Calais.”

  “How did you get hold of it, Ned?”

  “Wenlock is playing a high-risk game. He holds Calais for Warwick, as once he did for me. But he knows fortune may yet show herself to be a fickle bitch, and so he keeps a weather eye to the future.”

  “So you had it from Wenlock himself….” Richard grimaced. “I could pity Warwick his friends…almost.” Picking up the letter again, he skimmed the remaining paragraphs rapidly.

  “ ‘Descended from the blood of Lancaster,’ ” he quoted caustically. “How convenient for Charles that he now recollects his mother can claim kinship to Lancaster! And he stands ready to recognize the English King, whomsoever he might be!”

  He swore again and then pulled the candle toward him, held the letter to the flame as Edward and Marie watched.

  “He’s a fool, Ned, if he thinks he’ll prosper once he comes to terms with Warwick.”

  “Charles likes Warwick no better than he does me. But Warwick holds England, and…”

  “And he’d pledge the whole of Northumbria to keep you in Burgundy,” Richard finished grimly, and Edward nodded.

  “Dickon…there’s more. The sandbag, remember?” Edward leaned forward, said quietly, “Meg sent a courier to me tonight. To warn us that Charles intends to issue a proclamation forbidding his subjects to give any aid or assistance to York.”

  Richard caught his breath and then slammed his fist down on the table. Wine sloshed from their cups and the candle holder skidded across the wet wood till it teetered on the very edge of space. Marie alone noticed and reached out to steady it.

  “Christ, Ned, how can Charles be so shortsighted? Louis has already declared war on Burgundy; there are French troops in Picardy even now. Whatever Warwick might promise Charles, he’s bound to France both by choice and necessity. With Warwick and Lancaster ruling England, war with Burgundy is inevitable.”

  “As you said, Dickon, our brother-in-law of Burgundy is a fool,” Edward said acidly. He drained his wine cup, set it down.

  “You’d best plan to meet with me and Will in the morning. It seems as good a time as any to dispatch another letter to Francis of Brittany. An exercise in futility, I don’t doubt, but our options are narrowing.”

  “Ned, we’ve got to talk to Meg again. Somehow we must persuade Charles to see you. If you could just talk to him….”

  “I think your confidence is misplaced, Dickon…if rather flattering. We are in agreement, though, on what must be done. We’ve but one chance: to make Charles see that his only security lies in a Yorkist England.”

  He pushed the bench back, rising abruptly to his feet.

  “But if we fail in that…then you’d best resign yourself to the ways of Burgundy, for you’ll be here for some time to come.”

  Richard started to speak, hesitated, and then said in a rush, “Ned, you said I’d had a choice. If it were mine to make again, I’d do it no differently.”

  Edward stood looking down at him. His expression was somber, fatigued, and for once, free of mockery. “I know, Dickon…and in the past year, I’ve come to depend upon that loyalty, to trust you as I’ve trusted no one else…. Not even Edmund.”

  Richard was speechless, and after a moment, Edward laughed. “But for God’s sake, don’t let it go to your head!”

  “That might be difficult,” Richard said huskily, and gestured about the now crowded common room, strident with foreign tongues and hazy with smoke, “…given all that I’ve gained for my loyalty!”

  Edward’s eyes lightened with silent, sardonic laughter. “You’ll do, damn you, you’ll do.”

  He bent down, retrieved his cloak from the bench. It was in far better condition than Richard’s; he didn’t share the boy’s qualms about accepting Gruuthuse’s bounty.

  “And now, take this patient and pretty wanton to bed and, for a few hours, try to forget Warwick and Brother George and the little cousin you should have wed.”

  Richard realized that an oblique apology had just been tendered, an unspoken regret implied. He smiled.

  “Go with God, my liege.”

  21

  Aire, Burgundy

  January 1471

  Philippe de Commynes, Lord Chamberlain of Burgundy, was only twenty-five years of age, but no one stood higher than he in the esteem and confidence of the man known to intimates and enemies alike as Charles the Bold. Philippe was valued as a trusted confidant, astute adviser, skilled diplomat, and when, in late December, he reversed himself and urged Charles to meet with his brother-in-law of York, Charles listened and reconsidered. On December 26, he summoned Edward to meet with him in early January at Aire, in Artois.

  Neither Charles nor Philippe had ever met Edward of York before Aire, although they both had preconceived expectations as to what he would be like, this pleasure-loving Plantagenet who was as renowned for his exploits in the bedchamber as for those on the battlefield. Charles, a man who’d scandalized his court with the quaint belief that a husband should be faithful to his wife, was prepared to dislike the English exile on sight. Philippe, who admired discipline above all other qualities, was equally certain that he’d find little to like in this self-indulgent arrogant Prince who’d forfeited his throne for lack of care.

  As his master and the Yorkist King exchanged wary courtesies, Philippe took the opportunity to appraise the adversary. Edward Plantagenet had been called the handsomest man ever to grace the English throne, and Philippe tended to agree with that assessment. Edward of York had a resonant voice, remarkably even features, eyes of a blue rarely seen beyond Dublin, and the yellow-gold hair common to Plantagenet Princes since the first of their line, Henry Fitz-Empress, had claimed the crown in 1154. But while the physical description fit the man, the reputation did not, and Philippe found himself watching the Englishman closely, searching for clues to the character of this man who was not what Philippe had expected him to be.

  Philippe cared little about the fortunes of the English royal House; he had no personal stake in the dynastic duel between York and Lancaster. Harry of Lancaster he knew to be a fool, and until now, he’d had little reason to think much more highly of Edward of York. When Edward sought refuge in Burgundy, Philippe had shared his sovereign’s disgust at the unexpected turn of events. At Charles’s bidding, he had journeyed to Calais in October, in an attempt to counteract the damage being done by Edward’s continuing presence in his country. The visit had been a revelation to him.

  Philippe prided himse
lf upon his pragmatic, objective approach to statecraft; he’d often wished that his stubborn tempestuous Duke had more in common with their deadliest foe, the calculating King of France. Nonetheless, he’d been taken aback by the cynical speed with which Calais embraced the Bear and Ragged Staff.

  Dining with Lord Wenlock and the English lords of Calais, he’d listened, bemused, as Edward of York was reviled by all present in the most scathing terms imaginable. Philippe decided he was not quite the supreme realist he’d thought himself to be. He’d been genuinely shocked by Warwick’s willingness to sacrifice his daughter for political gain, and now he found himself disconcerted by, and disdainful of, these English lords who were so quick to jettison York for Lancaster. His sense of moral superiority did not deter him, however, from earnestly assuring Wenlock and company that the troublesome Edward of York was dead.

  He’d thus bought time for his lord and for his land, but he knew the reprieve would be fleeting. Sooner or later, he and his Duke must deal with France. Philippe knew war to be inevitable. The question as yet unanswered was whether it was possible to prevent a French-English alliance directed against Burgundy, and Philippe was growing increasingly pessimistic about that prospect.

  Since mid-December, French envoys had been consulting with Warwick in London. There were unsettling rumors, as yet unconfirmed, that the French King was tempting Warwick with the promise of Flemish territory as the Kingmaker’s share of the spoils of war against Burgundy. With these ominous portents in the wind, Philippe had deemed it time to reconsider all their options, one of which was most certainly the man sitting across the table from him.

  “I’ve heard much of my brother-in-law of Burgundy’s Lord Chamberlain, more than enough to bestir my curiosity, Monsieur de Commynes,” Philippe’s option was saying, and Philippe acknowledged the compliment, if indeed it was meant to be one, with an innocuous pleasantry.

  The English jarred his ear, and he felt a momentary irritation with his Duke for insisting that the conference be conducted in their guest’s mother tongue. Edward spoke French, as did all well-born Englishmen, and they could as easily have conversed in that language, one far more familiar to Philippe. But Charles, who spoke French, Flemish, English, Latin, and some Italian, was proud of his fluency in English and could never resist an opportunity to display his linguistic skills.

  Charles now leaned forward; he scorned subtlety as other men might deplore sloth or greed. “Tell me, my Yorkist friend, why should I help you? Why should I risk incurring the hostility of the man who rules England for the sake of a man who hasn’t a sou or a soldier to his name?”

  Philippe winced; when would his lord learn to tread that fine line between audacity and outrage? Edward did not look insulted, however. He seemed more amused than anything else.

  “Because, my lord, you cannot afford not to help me,” he said with a smile, and Philippe noted with interest how unhesitatingly he’d abandoned courtesy for candor.

  “Indeed? Perhaps you’d be good enough to explain?” Charles said coolly. “I should be most interested in your reply.”

  So was Philippe, and he kept his eyes on the Englishman as Edward said, “Burgundy is a state of immense wealth and power. But even Burgundy would be hard-pressed to fight a war on two fronts. Your Grace can, in all likelihood, prevail against Louis of France. I doubt, however, that you can withstand a concerted two-pronged attack by both France and England.

  “We both do know Louis would barter his very soul to see the fleur-de-lis flying over Burgundy. If I were you, I’d not sleep well nights knowing that England is to be ruled by a Frenchwoman and a seasoned soldier who is far too fond of the French King.”

  “Granted,” Charles said without hesitation. “But you are making a supposition, my lord, which has yet to be proven: that Warwick will, in fact, go to war for the King of France. However much he may like Louis, I rather doubt that their friendship is worth that much to Warwick.”

  “So do I,” Edward agreed at once, and Charles frowned.

  “Well, then?” he asked impatiently.

  “Men do not wage war for friendship; you are right in that. They fight for more tangible aims: to hold on to a needed alliance, to eliminate a potential threat. And often, my lord and esteemed brother-in-law, they fight for personal gain.”

  Philippe straightened; the Englishman was speaking like one holding a trump card. He wanted to know what it was.

  “Personal gain, Your Grace?” he queried politely.

  “Holland and Zeeland, Monsieur de Commynes. I would surely count the acquisition of such rich provinces as gain, would you not?”

  “What are you saying?” Charles demanded. “That Louis has promised Burgundian territory to Warwick in return for English support?”

  “ ‘The counties and lordships of Holland and Zeeland,’ ” Edward said, as if quoting from memory, and when he did not elaborate further, Philippe reluctantly awarded him points, thinking that even if this were no more than a high-stakes bluff, Edward played his hand very well.

  “If I may seek clarification, my lord…My English is not all it should be…. Monseigneur de Warwick is to take our lands of Holland and Zeeland as his reward for joining in a war upon Burgundy? Is this your meaning?”

  “Precisely my meaning, sir.”

  Charles and Philippe exchanged glances. Charles nodded almost imperceptibly and Philippe smiled, with a regretful shake of his head.

  “Forgive me, my lord, if I appear to doubt your word…. It is only that you do amaze me so with such news. May I ask how you came by this information?”

  “From one who is closer than a friend to my cousin of Warwick.”

  “A son-in-law, perhaps?” Philippe suggested, and Edward shrugged.

  “Perhaps.”

  Charles lost patience; there were times when his Lord Chamberlain could be tiresomely French in his preference for the oblique, the circular approach.

  “Is your brother Clarence contemplating a second betrayal?” he asked bluntly.

  Edward grinned. “I prefer to think of it as a heretic returning to the True Faith!”

  “I’d say the Duke of Clarence changes faiths as other men change clothing,” Charles said after a brief silence, but the sarcasm was offered almost absently, without rancor. He was, Philippe saw, absorbed in contemplative consideration of the plot suddenly suggested to them: Clarence as the Trojan Horse in the Warwick camp. It did, Philippe admitted, alter the odds somewhat.

  Charles shoved his chair back, subjecting his Yorkist brother-in-law to a challenging critical scrutiny. “Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that what Clarence told you is true, that Warwick has been given ample reason for war with Burgundy. Even so, it doesn’t necessarily follow that I can resolve all my problems by backing you.” He paused.

  “To be frank, my lord of York, I like not your chances of defeating Warwick. And others do share my view. Perhaps you’ve heard what the Milanese Ambassador did say of your chances? ‘It is difficult to go back through the window after leaving by the door.’ ” Charles smiled at Edward, said with a touch of malice, “He wagers that if you attempt a return to England, you’ll leave your skin there.”

  Edward laughed, and even to the suspicious ears of his audience, it sounded genuine enough.

  “I’ll take that wager,” he said easily. “Will you? What say you, Charles le Téméraire? My skin against a Yorkist England unfriendly to France…. How could you possibly lose?”

  Philippe grinned, bringing his hand up belatedly to hide it, and after a pause, Charles laughed grudgingly.

  “I admit I like you better than I thought I would,” he conceded. “But I doubt that I like you well enough to finance an expedition doomed to failure.”

  Edward was still smiling. “My sister told me you do speak your mind. If I might do likewise…. You can lose only by doing nothing. If you back me, I can assure you that I’ll keep my cousin Warwick too busy to concern himself with wars of conquest! If you don’t, you’re sure to
face an Anglo-French force before the spring thaw.”

  “You truly think you can win?” Charles sounded more curious than skeptical, and both Edward and Philippe noted the change in tone.

  “I think I might best answer that by putting a question to you, Brother-in-law. Tell me this: have you ever heard it said that the Earl of Warwick could defeat Edward of York in the field?”

  “You are persuasive, my lord of York,” Charles said at last. “But you forget my fondness for the House of Lancaster. Am I not a great-grandson of John of Gaunt, the first Duke of Lancaster? Although I did wed with your sister, and glad I am for it, the fact is that I have always befriended Lancaster. As you doubtlessly do know, for several years now two of the mightiest Lancastrian lords, the Dukes of Somerset and Exeter, have resided at my court.”

  Edward nodded. “Brave men, both,” he said coolly. “And true to Lancaster unto death. If I were in your place, do you know what I would do with those noble lords?”

  “I can guess,” Charles said, with a grim smile. “You’d send them to God.”

  “No…I’d send them to England.”

  Charles was too startled to hide his surprise. “But they are pledged heart and soul to Lancaster!”

  Edward smiled, said nothing.

  Philippe was impassive, but it took an effort of will. He was careful not to meet the eyes of the Englishman, sure that if he did, he’d reveal that he’d recognized a kindred spirit in Edward of York. He turned, instead, to Charles.

  “Indeed, they are, Your Grace,” he agreed. “But I think His Grace of York is more interested in their enmities than their loyalties. Neither man bears any love for the Earl of Warwick.” With a courteously questioning look at Edward. “Do they, my lord?”

  “No, Monsieur de Commynes, I would think not,” Edward said composedly. “There has ever been bad blood between the Beauforts and the Nevilles. As for Exeter, he has feuded with the Nevilles for years. He does blame Warwick for his years in exile…. Or so I’ve been told.”