The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  George knew, though, that Richard was facing not only Exeter now, but Warwick as well. Shaken by the sudden appearance of the Yorkist vanguard on his flank, Exeter had urgently demanded reinforcements and Warwick had dispatched fully half of his reserves to Exeter’s aid. Richard’s men were outnumbered, being forced to give ground, back toward the marshy hollow, and if the vanguard went the way of the left wing, Edward could not hope to hold alone.

  George knew, too, that before long, Oxford would return to the field. He was too shrewd a soldier to expend his energies in pursuit of men already beaten. It occurred to George, with a chill of horror, that York might lose, that the day might be won by Warwick, his father-in-law, who would never forgive him for Banbury.

  A man was running out of the fog, straight toward him. He swung his sword up, then saw the Blancsanglier badge of his brother. Just a boy, greensick with fear. George reached out, grabbed the boy as he came within range. His hand closed roughly on the other’s shoulder. The youngster gasped and blood welled between the fingers of George’s gauntlet. He shifted his hold, grasped the boy’s forearm.

  “Why aren’t you with Gloucester?” he demanded, bringing his face close in an effort to be heard.

  “Gloucester…he’s down!”

  George’s grip slackened and the boy seized his chance, pulled free, and fled into the fog. George had already forgotten him; he was swinging around, toward his brother, some yards away. He shouted, but knew Edward couldn’t hear. All around him, men were yelling for York or Neville as they came together. Almost at his feet, a wounded man screamed, “Quarter, for Christ’s sake!” The Yorkist soldier who stood astride him plunged his poleaxe downward. The fog swirled, closed again. George saw Edward’s sword flash; a man died.

  George stared, didn’t move. This was madness. This was every nightmare he’d ever had. They’d all die here in this grey dark, this fog that smothered the field like a shroud.

  He caught motion to his right, whirled. The man veered off. The fog hid horrors unspeakable, hid death and dying men. York was beaten…. He shuddered and stumbled after his brother.

  Nothing had prepared Richard for the Hell that was Barnet Heath.

  Thomas Parr was dead. Richard had seen him fall, knew no man could survive the blow Thomas had taken. Too far away to help, he’d shouted a futile warning, watched in horror as his squire crumpled to the ground. That moment of frozen immobility had nearly cost him his own life. A staggering blow knocked him sideways, drove him to his knees. Instinct saved him, instinct and years of practice at the quintain with battle-axe and broadsword. Even as he went down, he reacted, without thought, without conscious choice. As his knee hit the ground, he swung his sword upward, in a maneuver learned years ago at Middleham. Blood spurted over him; the man clutched his stomach, fell backward. Almost at once, Rob Percy was beside him, helping him to rise; the men of his household had not willingly left his side since the battle began, acutely aware that he was a dangerously tempting target for Lancaster—York’s brother and the man who commanded the van.

  Richard had no way of knowing how badly he’d been hurt. The battle-axe had cleaved through his vambrace. His arm was numb from elbow to wrist. There was no pain…not yet; but blood was filling his gauntlet. He mouthed a hasty prayer of thanks to Almighty God that he’d taken the blow on his left arm, and denied himself a last glance back at the twisted inert body of his squire.

  The knights of his household were converging around him, so that he might confer with his battle captains. He listened as they told him they could not hold without reinforcements.

  “No,” he said, dragging the words from a throat already raw from shouting commands. “I’ll not deplete my brother’s reserves. His is the greater need now that Hastings’s line has broken. Send word to His Grace that we still hold our own, that he need not commit his reserves.”

  They argued. Thomas Howard, John Howard’s eldest son, gestured behind them, toward the ravine now hidden in the fog. Richard repeated his orders, and when they still protested, he raged at them, anger being the only emotion he dared allow himself.

  Francis stumbled, sank to his knees, as much from exhaustion as from the weight of his armor. A familiar figure loomed over him, hand outstretched. He grasped the hand gratefully, let Rob help him to his feet.

  “I feel as if I’m running through water,” he confessed shakily. “Even the air is pushing me down.”

  “Stay a minute. Catch your breath.”

  “Can we hold out, d’you think, Rob?”

  “If God and Gloucester do will it,” Rob said grimly.

  Francis was not the only one to have paused, to seek a brief respite. Richard was circled by knights of his household; he signaled for water, had it poured over his vambrace, into his gauntlet.

  “He should have that arm treated, Rob.”

  Rob shook his head, blinking back the sweat that stung his eyes. “He’ll not leave the field; he dare not. He’s the only one who can hold them. God, Francis, just look around you! All that’s keeping them from breaking is that bloody rotten ravine at our backs and the fact that he’s right here with them, offering up his life with theirs.”

  Beside Francis, a water carrier was holding out a flask. He reached for it, rinsed his mouth, and spat. “Do you think Dickon knows his other squire is dead, too?”

  Rob’s shoulder pauldrons moved, shifted as he shrugged. “I’d surely not suggest you tell him! Be you up to moving now?”

  Francis couldn’t help himself, had to say it. “If we’re pushed into the hollow, Rob, we’ll be butchered.”

  “Christ, Francis, you think Dickon doesn’t know that? But when Oxford comes back to the field, the King has got to have reserves left…else Oxford will go through York’s line like a hot knife through butter. Then we’ll all be butchered, not just the van, but every man jack for York.”

  Francis risked lifting his visor, sucked a few lungfuls of air. “It stinks like a charnel house…. Oh, Jesus! Rob!”

  Rob spun around, but it wasn’t Richard who’d gone down; it was Thomas Howard. A freakish arrow shot, a lucky hit. He staggered, fell forward. The shaft broke as his body hit the ground. He jerked once, then lay still.

  Rob and Francis started forward, but others were already there, forming a protective guard. Richard was giving orders, and as they watched, the wounded Howard was lifted, taken toward the rear.

  Richard turned, saw Francis at his side. “Good God, Francis, close your visor!”

  This was the first chance they’d had to exchange any words since the battle began nearly two hours ago. Francis thought there should be something to be said, all too aware that the chance might not come again. But if there was any such healing benediction, any inspired words that might somehow serve as a talisman for them both, they eluded him. All he could do was to blurt out the truth.

  “Dickon, this is Hell.”

  Richard paused, looked back over his shoulder. “I know. But if we lose, Francis, if we lose…”

  He moved away, began to shout commands, gesturing down the line where York was giving ground, and the knights of his household rallied, weary men surging forward with hoarse cries of “À York! À Gloucester!”

  Inside his gauntlets, Francis’s hands were slippery with sweat. The leather clung to his palms; his fingers were cramped and stiff. He tightened his grip on his sword and followed Richard back into the battle.

  It had taken him more than an hour, but Oxford had finally regrouped his plundering troops. Some men had scattered as Oxford galloped into the market square, shouting and cursing; others were staggering, glassyeyed, from looted alehouses to grin good-naturedly at their enraged leader. But Oxford and his captains finally corralled some eight hundred men wearing his badge of the Streaming Star and headed north, back toward the battlefield.

  The field was still thick in fog and Oxford had no way of knowing that, in his absence, the battle lines had shifted, swung from north-south to east-west. Plunging back into the battle,
they thought they bore down on Edward’s rear. They collided, instead, with John Neville’s flank.

  Montagu’s men were taken by surprise. In the swirling fog, the banner flown by these new arrivals was not easily seen, was obscured in mist. To the panic-stricken men, it seemed to glimmer like a streaming sun…the Sunne of York. A cry went up: Ambush! The flank guard of bowmen sent a rain of arrows down upon these Yorkist horsemen and foot soldiers who’d appeared without warning in their midst.

  Horses screamed, went over backward. Oxford’s men staggered back, bleeding, stunned. Oxford swore like one demented. That whoreson Montagu was betraying them. He’d gone over to York, just as they’d feared he’d do. The line rang with shouts of treachery. They flung themselves upon Montagu’s wing and men now died by mistake.

  Yet another messenger had come from Richard. He stood panting before Edward.

  “I am Matt Fletcher, Your Grace. My lord of Gloucester bids me tell you that the van still holds.”

  Someone was handing Edward a flask. He accepted it, drank in gulps, spilling water over his face, his armor; it washed away red.

  “How does he, in truth?”

  The youth hesitated. “The fighting is savage, Your Grace. But we’re not giving ground….” A vision of the steep slopes of the ravine made him add, “So far.”

  Edward nodded. “Tell Gloucester that Montagu’s line is weakening. I know how much I do ask. But if he can hold on awhile longer…”

  “I shall, your Grace,” Matt said tiredly, and Edward started to turn away, stopped, and glanced back at the boy.

  “And tell him, too, to take care, for Christ’s sake…and mine.”

  They both heard it at once, a rising volume of noise—curses of fearful men, cries of betrayal, screams of dying horses. There was sudden activity to their left, midst Montagu’s ranks. Men reeled out of the fog; the line was faltering.

  John Howard was coming at a run, moving with surprising speed for a man of his girth and armored weight, gesturing wildly.

  “Your Grace! Montagu’s firing on Oxford!”

  “Oxford’s Streaming Star! Jesus wept!” Edward raised his visor; Matt had a brief glimpse of blazing blue eyes, white teeth. He didn’t yet understand what was happening, but Edward apparently did, and he felt a throb of excitement as Edward laughed with savage elation, swore exultantly.

  Edward was turning to Howard, clasping him on the shoulders. “Now, Jack! Now I do call upon my reserves! Now it be York’s turn!”

  The fog still clung, still hid the sun, but Richard was drenched in sweat. He felt feverish, his voice nearly gone. His left arm no longer bled, but throbbed so incessantly that he’d begun to fear it might be broken. His right arm ached with pain only a little less intense; his sword was a leaden weight, to be swung solely by sheer force of will. His men were as exhausted as he, desperately aware of the gully at their backs. He’d had no further word from Edward, knew nothing of what was happening on the rest of the field. Time had lost its meaning; he had no idea how many hours had passed since they’d first struggled out of the grey wet marsh to confront Exeter.

  A man was bearing down upon him, swinging the deadly chained mace known as a “holy water sprinkler.” He gave ground, took a glancing blow on the shoulder that staggered him, and drove his sword through the man’s mailed brigandine, under his ribs. The force of his thrust numbed his arm. His grip weakened; the sword dipped dangerously.

  Ahead of him, one of his men fell, reeling with fatigue. Richard stopped, and the soldier gazed up dully, recognized him.

  “My lord…I cannot…”

  “Don’t talk.” Richard’s own voice cracked; he coughed and the muscles of his throat constricted painfully. “Stay…catch your breath. Join us then….”

  Somehow, the man regained his feet, managed a ghostly smile. “I don’t…don’t want to have…”

  Richard never knew what he meant to say. He gasped, both hands going up to his throat, to the protruding shaft of a sheaf arrow. Blood gushed from the dying man, over them both. Richard recoiled, fought back a queasy wave of sickness. He’d bitten down on his lower lip, now tasted blood in his mouth and nearly gagged. The man slid to the ground at his feet, twitching convulsively. Richard shuddered, backed away.

  In the third hour, Exeter’s line began to give way before them. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, they were falling back. Richard’s men found a last surge of strength, flung themselves forward, shouting for York. The Lancastrians were in confusion, no longer giving resistance. The thought now was of flight, and men broke ranks, began to scatter.

  The fog was thinning at last. Men were becoming visible on Richard’s left, men who wore the colors of York. He understood then; the van had joined with the center. Ned had smashed through Johnny’s wing.

  The Sunne banner of York gleamed white-and-gold. Edward’s white polished armor was dulled with dirt, dented and scratched, dark with the blood of other men. He moved forward; men parted to let him pass. Reaching Richard, he raised his visor. Richard saw he was smiling.

  Richard felt no elation, neither triumph nor relief…not yet. Only numbness, a weariness of body and mind unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Slowly he lowered his sword to the ground, let the bloodied blade touch the grass.

  Richard’s shattered vambrace lay on the floor of the surgeon’s tent. Francis and Rob were leaning over him unfastening the straps and buckles that closed his cuirass on the right side, fumbling with the straps across his shoulders. They were no longer used to acting as squires and managed to get in each other’s way, jerking with awkward roughness as they removed Richard’s breastplate, stripped away the battered rerebraces that sheathed his upper arms. Too tired for complaint, he suffered their ministrations in silence, and gave a sigh of relief when he could at last draw a breath without constraint.

  Francis brought forward a tabard that had been fetched from Richard’s tent, helped Richard to pull it over his padded arming doublet. The surgeon was kneeling beside him to examine his wound, by now stiff with congealed blood. Richard flinched at his touch and gratefully accepted the wine flask Rob was offering.

  “Have men been sent out to recover their bodies?”

  Rob nodded. “They’ve found Parr, but not Huddleston…not yet.” He paused, said softly, “It was quick, Dickon, and clean. That’s something.”

  Richard opened his eyes at that; his mouth twisted. “Not much, Rob. Not bloody much.”

  He drank too deeply, choked. The surgeon was pouring honey into the wound to cleanse it; under his probing, the bleeding had begun anew. Richard sagged back, closed his eyes again.

  A shadow fell across him. He looked up as Will Hastings ducked under the tent flap, said tensely, “Has there been word of Warwick or Johnny Neville, Will?”

  Will shook his head. “We know Oxford fled the field when Montagu’s men fired on him, and I’ve heard Exeter is dead, though that’s but rumor so far. But there’s been no word as yet of either Warwick or Montagu.”

  He leaned closer, dropped his voice for Richard alone.

  “Anthony Woodville took a sword thrust across the greave. He’ll have a limp for a while, but no more than that…more’s the pity.”

  Richard summoned up a shadowy smile, and then gasped as the surgeon’s scalpel slipped yet again.

  “Jesus, man, take care!” he snapped, and the surgeon mumbled an apology, thrust a cup into his hand.

  “Agrimony…if Your Grace would drink that down?”

  Will was watching Richard, now said, “You know I did argue against giving you the van. I thought you too young, too green. Your brother disagreed with me. He was right and I was wrong.”

  Richard was not yet ready for compliments; the past three hours were still too close, too raw.

  “What of the casualties?” he asked. “Have we any idea yet as to our losses?”

  “No…But I’d not be surprised if the deaths do number fully fifteen hundred.”

  The tent flap was pulled back.
Edward entered, waved Richard back as he attempted to get to his feet. His eyes shifted to the surgeon.

  “How does my brother of Gloucester?”

  Richard drained the cup with distaste, answered before the surgeon could reply. “I’m sure I’ll survive the wound, but I’m not so sure as to the treatment.”

  Edward grinned. “I see you’re coming around to yourself, Little Brother.” He leaned over the surgeon’s shoulder so he could see Richard’s wound for himself, grimaced, and then said, “There’s a report that Warwick was seen near Wrotham Wood. I’ve dispatched a man from my own household with orders that he’s not to be harmed. As for Johnny, nothing so far….” He stopped, turning as the tent flap was ripped away to admit a herald clad in the battle-stained livery of York.

  He knelt before Edward.

  “Your Grace…they’ve found the Earl of Warwick.”

  More than a dozen men were standing in a semicircle in the clearing, gesturing and laughing among themselves. They drew back expectantly as several horsemen galloped up, recognizing the King.

  Edward flung himself from the saddle, strode toward them. He came to an abrupt halt, staring down at the body sprawled in their midst.

  The men shifted uncertainly, made uneasy by his silence. One bolder than the rest sidled closer, grinned.