The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I think we must put politics aside, do what be in the best interests of our city. I would suggest that we compromise, that we do offer admittance to Edward…Duke of York.”

  The resolve found ready acceptance in the glances now exchanged with nods and relieved murmurs of satisfaction.

  “Gentlemen, I move that we vote upon the suggestion put forth by Master Berwyk.”

  “Is that truly necessary, Rob? I’d venture we’re in agreement…except perhaps for Will here? What say you, Master Holbeck? Do you want it writ in the city records that you alone would deny entry to Edward of York?”

  Holbeck glared at him, and then said, as grudgingly as if words had the worth of gold, “You win, Wrangwysh. Do as you wish. But I’m damned if I like it any. And this I can tell you for true, that the Earl of Warwick will not like it, either.”

  Rob Percy had decided that if he were ever asked to name the worst night of his life, he would, without hesitation, say that it had been a Thursday, the fourteenth of March. But if the same question were to be put to Richard, he felt sure that Richard would have chosen today, the eighteenth. He had never seen Richard so tense, so quick to anger as he was on this most miserable of Mondays, the fourth day of their arrival in England.

  They’d sailed from Flushing on the eleventh, in the heaviest seas Rob had ever seen; the mere memory was enough to dredge up a queasy pang. He thought they’d been damnably lucky, though, for they’d evaded the English fleet under command of Warwick’s kinsman, the Bastard of Fauconberg, and they’d lost only one ship during the crossing, one of the supply ships carrying their horses.

  By the twelfth they were within sight of the Norfolk coast, where they could reasonably expect aid from the Yorkist Duke of Norfolk and from Edward and Richard’s brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk. Edward had prudently sent two of his party ashore before they all disembarked, and his caution had served him well, for they’d rapidly returned with grim word that the Duke of Norfolk was under arrest, Suffolk absent, and the Lancastrian Duke of Oxford had the entire region under close surveillance. Edward had ordered their ships to put out to sea again, this time to head for Yorkshire. But they’d been hit by squalls and their small fleet scattered.

  On the night of the fourteenth, Richard’s ship had dropped anchor off the Yorkshire coast, a few miles north of the tiny fishing village of Ravenspur, and thus began the most harrowing ten hours of Rob’s life. There was no sign of their comrades, and it occurred to him that they alone might have ridden out the storm, that they might be stranded here in a land hostile to York, to face the armies of John Neville and his own kinsman Percy, just he and Richard and the three hundred men under Richard’s command. It was a chilling thought, and one that he was sure had crossed Richard’s mind, too.

  Looking back, Rob found he still marveled at the icy control his friend had shown during that darkest of nights. Richard had rallied their men, somehow kept panic from spreading through their ranks, and at dawn, he’d led them south in search of the others.

  Rob had never been so thankful as when they encountered the five hundred men of the Antony, the ship under command of Edward and Will Hastings. While Edward sent out scouts to find Anthony Woodville and the two hundred men who’d sailed with him, Rob had ventured to compliment Richard on what he saw as an admirable display of courage. But Richard had merely given him a quizzical look and said laconically, “I wasn’t aware I had a choice, Rob.”

  Yet if Richard had shown no nerves at all on Thursday, today he was nothing but nerves, and had been ever since Edward had shouted him and Will Hastings down and ridden alone into the city of York.

  It was no secret in their camp that the Yorkist leaders had quarreled bitterly over Edward’s intention to enter York. Their voices had carried clearly beyond the tent flaps, and Rob was not the only one to have gathered at a prudent distance to listen. They’d all vehemently opposed Edward in this, Richard and Will Hastings and Anthony Woodville, and the conversation had become quite heated at times. But Edward had prevailed, and then Richard and Hastings had demanded to accompany him into the city. Edward had refused and they’d insisted, but in the end, Edward had his way.

  More than three hours ago, he’d spurred his horse toward the city gate known as Walmgate. They had watched as it opened to admit him and then closed ominously behind him. It was at once the most courageous act Rob had ever witnessed and the most incredible folly, and as the hours passed, he watched Richard’s composure shred like parchment under pressure.

  He’d briefly considered making an attempt to reassure Richard that Edward was in no danger, but decided against it. His encouragement was bound to be hollow, as he thought Edward to be in the greatest danger imaginable. Moreover, as short-tempered as Richard had shown himself to be all afternoon, Rob preferred to keep him at a distance.

  It wasn’t only Dickon, he thought glumly. They were all as jumpy as wet cats, as quick to take offense. They’d just seen proof enough of that, as the normally unflappable Hastings startled all within earshot by tongue-lashing one of the Flemish gunners. Rob wondered how long it would be before Dickon and Hastings fell out with Anthony Woodville. He wasn’t sure how they felt about each other, but he was damned well sure that neither one of them could abide Anthony, who returned their dislike in full measure. And he wondered what they would do if Edward had ridden into a trap, encountered an assassin’s dagger.

  There was a sudden stir among the men. The iron-barred portcullis was rising; several horsemen were passing through the Walmgate barbican. The youth stationed to keep watch now forgot all protocol and yelled, “Tell Gloucester!” and Rob hastily adjusted his scabbard, moving closer for a better view of the approaching riders.

  Richard and Will Hastings were standing together, and Rob saw Richard grin suddenly, heard him say in a low voice, “The news be good, Will! That’s Tom Wrangwysh with them. If there’d been trouble, we’d see it in his face.”

  Both city sheriffs were impassive, but Tom Wrangwysh and Thomas Conyers looked enormously well pleased with themselves, and Conyers blurted out their news even as he was dismounting. They were all welcome now within the city walls, and my lord of York did await them at the guildhall. If they would—

  Tom Wrangwysh interrupted happily, “My lords, you should have seen him! You’d have thought he had an army at his back, so cool he was…. There were many he did win over by his courage alone. And then he did speak to the people and made a marvelously fair speech in which he said he would content himself to be Duke of York and serve good King Harry and the crowds cheered him till we all were hoarse!”

  Word was spreading swiftly; all around Rob, men were laughing and pounding each other on the back. Richard was trying to make himself heard over the uproar, but soon abandoned the attempt and watched with a grin as their men raised a cheer for His Grace of York and the city that was now willing to admit his army.

  Rob moved to Richard’s side, just in time to hear Tom Wrangwysh confide, “My lord, how ever did His Grace think to lay claim to the duchy of York? I can say with certainty that had it not been for that, the city would’ve stayed closed to him.”

  Richard laughed. “It was used once before, Tom. Harry of Lancaster’s grandfather did return from exile to claim only his duchy of Lancaster and, of course, deposed a King. My brother thought it only fitting that a gambit used by the first Lancastrian King should now serve York!”

  24

  Coventry

  March 1471

  The Earl of Warwick was rereading the letter he’d just dictated to one Henry Vernon of Haddon in Derbyshire, a man long allied both to the Earl and his son-in-law of Clarence. The letter was brief, to the point, an appeal for military aid in this, Warwick’s time of greatest need. Scanning the page rapidly, he picked up a pen and signed, “R. Warwick,” saying, “It will do.”

  But as the man moved toward the door, Warwick turned and, on impulse, reclaimed the letter.

  “Give me that pen again,” he demanded, and hastily
scribbled a postscript in his own hand on the margin of the page:

  “Henry, I pray you fail me not now as ever I may do for you.”

  From the white city walls of Coventry, the Yorkist army stretched as far as the eye could see, spread out in battle formation under the Sunne in Splendour banner of Edward of York. The Yorkist herald had just given challenge to combat, as he had on each of the two preceding days, and as he had done then, the Earl of Warwick refused to pick up the gauntlet, staring down in silence from the city walls at the army of his cousin of York.

  They were well within recognition range; he had no doubts that he was watching Ned himself, mounted as always on a showy white stallion, giving commands, dispatching messengers, and all the while gazing toward Coventry. Warwick was sure the blue eyes would be aglitter with mockery and triumph…and why not? Ned had reason and more for jubilation. In just a fortnight, he’d come as far as the walls of Coventry, when by rights, he should never have left Yorkshire alive.

  A slighter figure on an equally eye-catching mount was now at Ned’s side. Even before the second rider removed his helmet, thus revealing a head of tousled dark hair, Warwick knew this was Dickon. His brother-in-law Hastings would be there, too.

  The thought of Hastings brought to mind another brother-in-law, Lord Stanley. He should’ve known he could not trust Stanley. The Stanleys were ever a shifty lot, always with an eye to the prevailing winds. So it had come as no real surprise to him when the self-seeking Stanley had not responded to the urgent summons for aid. Instead, he’d seized this chance to besiege the castle of the Harringtons in Lancashire, for whom he’d long harbored a grudge.

  Warwick had expected more, however, from Henry Percy. But that Judas-in-the-making Percy had kept to his estates in the North, refused to give challenge to Ned, and because the Percy family cast so long a shadow in Yorkshire, Warwick knew Ned had benefited enormously from Percy’s apparent neutrality. The people of the North were weary of these endless wars of succession. The House of Percy had always held for Lancaster. But if their lord was not disposed to oppose the Yorkist King who’d restored to him his forfeited earldom, they were content to follow their lord’s lead. Let the blood be spilt elsewhere; there were too many northern widows and orphans who still grieved for the dead of Towton.

  The thought of Percy was an especially galling one to Warwick, for Northumberland could so easily have ended for all time the hopes of the House of York. Once again, one of Ned’s high-stakes gambles had paid off.

  The Devil tends to its own. It must be true. How else explain the way Ned had passed unscathed through three hostile armies?

  Now that he stood before Coventry, he’d cast aside all pretense and openly proclaimed himself as King of England. But that perfidious claim to the duchy of York had served its purpose. It had gained him entry into York, and once word had spread that the chief city of the North had opened its gates to him, the smaller towns had been loath to deny him entry. Few had joined his ranks, it was true, but fewer still were inclined to offer resistance. Like the Earl of Northumberland, they chose to wait and watch.

  Ned always did have unholy luck. Warwick vaguely recalled saying something of the sort to his brother George at Warwick Castle less than a fortnight ago. But it wasn’t luck that had gotten Ned safely past Pontefract. Johnny had let him pass. They’d have been butchered for sure had Johnny chosen to fall upon them; as outnumbered as they were, they’d have died to a man. But Johnny had stayed his hand, let them go by.

  There were those of Warwick’s advisers who’d claimed his brother the Marquess of Montagu must have feared to provoke Henry Percy into choosing sides. Others, more credulous, even suggested that Montagu had accepted Edward’s claim that he sought only his duchy of York. Warwick knew better. Knew Johnny had never forgiven himself for betraying Ned at Doncaster, and in his moment of truth when all was at stake, he’d not been able to act against the cousin he’d loved like a brother, acknowledged as his King.

  As for the others, his Lancastrian allies, they’d proven worthless to a man. Many remained on their estates, so unwilling to fight for a Neville that they’d rather see Edward of York advancing unchecked through the very heartland of England. That hell-spawn Somerset had ridden into London at the head of a well-armed force, and then insolently sent Warwick word that he was heading for the southern coast, there to await the arrival of his Queen and Prince from France.

  Exeter and Oxford had, at least, made a show of resistance. When word had come of Ned’s landing in Yorkshire, they’d assembled several thousand men and marched north along the Fosse Road to run him to earth.

  And for a brief while, Warwick did dare think that Ned had trapped himself. Ned had halted at Nottingham, there to welcome Sir William Parr and six hundred new converts to his cause. Suddenly it seemed that the reckoning had come. Three armies were reported converging upon him. Johnny was shadowing his rear; Oxford and Exeter had by then reached Newark and were threatening his east flank; and Warwick himself was only two days’ march from Nottingham.

  But even as Warwick moved north, word reached him that Ned had suddenly swung around and launched an unexpected assault upon Exeter and Oxford. Awakened at 2:00 A.M. with the news that the Yorkists were on the outskirts of Newark, those two Lancastrian lords had bolted in panic. Warwick had been wild with rage upon hearing of their flight, knowing their forces had far outnumbered those under Ned’s command. And worse was to come. It soon became apparent that Ned’s attack had, in fact, been a feint with an advance scouting party. He’d scattered the Lancastrians with what was no more than a daring bluff.

  Cut off from contact with Oxford and Exeter, hearing nothing from his brother, Warwick had withdrawn into Coventry. And suddenly on the morning of the twenty-ninth, Ned had appeared before the city walls, daring him to do battle as he waited for word from the men who had so far proven to be such useless allies.

  That night, Warwick examined the flimsy substance of the world he himself had constructed at such terrible cost. He now knew himself to be alone, walled in by unhealed hatreds, facing a future shadowed with foreboding. After six months of striving somehow to hold together this alliance of irreconcilable loyalties, he felt drained, emotionally exhausted. And Marguerite d’Anjou had yet to set foot in England. Marguerite, his ally of expedience. Marguerite, the implacable, the unforgiving. He thought of lords like Somerset and Tudor, who would not fight for him, who despised him all the more for his newfound allegiance to Lancaster. He thought of Johnny, who grieved for the cousins whose lives he was now sworn to take. And he thought of Ludlow, Calais, and Towton; in his weariness, called to mind memories long buried under the bitterness and grievances stored up over the past six years.

  It was in those predawn hours, when he was most vulnerable to the past, most pessimistic for the future, that he at last yielded to despair and before he could repent of it, dispatched a herald to his cousin’s camp with an offer to enter into negotiations. Back came Ned’s reply, cool and uncompromising. He was, indeed, willing to negotiate. But he was prepared to offer Warwick no more than a pardon and his life, that and that alone.

  It was not an offer that Warwick was prepared to accept. Nor, were he to be honest with himself, was it one he’d been expecting. He needed no time to consider; a prideful message of rejection was on its way to Warwick Castle within the hour. For it was at Warwick’s own castle that Ned had chosen to encamp his army, a gesture that, for pure provocation, could hardly have been improved upon.

  And so he waited for Johnny, for Exeter and Oxford. Waited, too, for the arrival of his son-in-law, who was even now advancing from the southwest, sending messages of reassurance and support. He had no choice but to believe them, to wait. But he could not help wondering if Ned, too, were not waiting for George of Clarence.

  April 3 dawned unseasonably warm, so much so as to cause discomfort for the four thousand men under command of the Duke of Clarence. Heading north, they’d halted in Burford for the night and this morning res
umed their march toward Banbury, some three miles from Warwick Castle, where Edward was reported to be quartered.

  George had never tolerated heat well, and he felt as if he would swelter under the weight of armor and glare of the sun. Impatiently fumbling with the visor of his helmet, he was finding it virtually impossible to wipe the sweat from his brow with a gauntleted hand. He swore and could see heads turn in his direction, could feel the eyes boring into his back.

  His lieutenants had been giving him irritatingly covert glances all morning, trying to guess what was in his mind, wondering if he’d take the field against his brothers. Well, they could damned well wonder.

  Now, with word from his scouts that the Yorkist army was moving south to meet him, the tension of his battle captains had grown intolerable. Twice within the past quarter-hour, Thomas Burdett had approached him to make anxious query and twice George had, with rare patience, repeated his order, that they were to wait, to do nothing until he gave the command.

  Burdett was back again. “My lord…they come,” he said unnecessarily, gesturing down the road.

  “I’ve eyes to see, Tom,” George said curtly. The sight of his brother’s banner had affected him more than he’d anticipated. He swallowed; there was a tightness in his throat, which had nothing to do with the heat or the dust of the road. He knew he could trust Dickon. But what of Ned? He glanced back over his shoulder, at the men deployed in battle formation, men so desperately needed by his father-in-law, awaiting him at Coventry.

  “Your Grace!”

  Burdett was pointing again, and George saw that something seemed to be happening in the Yorkist ranks. There was movement, dust swirled, and then they were parting to let a lone rider pass through. As all watched, he wheeled his mount and then galloped toward them.

  Once away from the Yorkist army, the rider eased his mount somewhat, held the stallion to an easy, unhurried canter. He was unhelmeted and the sun burnished his armor in a blaze of light, beat down on hair as black as purest jet. Behind him George heard the first murmurings of recognition, heard the name Gloucester rustling through the ranks, with mounting excitement.