The Sun in Splendour (The Plantagenets Book 6)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘No,’ Edward agreed, but he was uneasy. The north had clamoured for the restoration of young Percy to his father's titles and Edward had thought it best to buy his loyalty, but the inexperienced and seemingly over-cautious youth had sent a message saying he was not strong enough to tackle the rebels. Edward could not imagine Percy's grandfather, the mighty Hotspur, making such a remark. And from Montagu there had been no word at all, a fact which so worried Edward that he himself was marching north.

  However he said, cheerfully. ‘With our ships and Burgundy's blockading the Channel, Warwick will not find it easy to land, and if he makes for Yorkshire we will be ready for him.’

  ‘Mother of God,’ Elizabeth said. ‘That it should come now, when I am with child.’

  ‘I know.’ Edward came to her, his hand on the swelling under her gown. ‘Perhaps in adversity we may be blessed with a son. But pray that I shall be home, our enemies scattered, before you are brought to bed.’

  Humphrey was to ride with the King and he and Bess said their farewells once more. The children were at Ashwellthorpe and he begged her as soon as the Queen was safely delivered to return there. Smiling a little to hide his anxiety, he said, ‘If we do not fare too well I would wish you there.’

  ‘Oh!’ She twisted her hands together. ‘There is nowhere else I would want to be, yet how could I desert the Queen?’

  ‘She has other ladies. But do as you think best, my heart. I trust you. And we both trust the King.’

  He rode out leaving Bess, he felt, safe at least within the massive walls of the Tower. They had reached Ripon, a small determined army, when the shattering news followed them that instead of making the Yorkshire coast as expected, Warwick had landed in Devonshire, at Dartmouth. ‘With your brother, sire,’ the messenger said, ‘and the Earls of Oxford and Pembroke.’

  ‘By God!’ Edward's hands were clenched. ‘This disturbance in the north was to lure me from my Queen and London! Clerk! Write immediately: To the Marquess of Montagu at Pontefract . . . I bid you come with all your force. I will press on to Doncaster where we will join our strength. There, is it written? Quickly, fellow! Now let me sign it.’ He scrawled his name and sealed the wax with the great ring he wore, and a few minutes later another messenger clattered off into the night.

  Edward sat down to supper with Lord Hastings, Anthony, Humphrey and a few other gentlemen, his more sanguine nature ousting the shock brought by the news. ‘My lord of Warwick thinks he has us stranded,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but it is not so. We too can march on London and at first light. Do not look so concerned, my friends. If Warwick wants a race he shall have it and we have more strength than he knows.’

  At dawn Humphrey rode out behind the royal standard, and on the silent ride, a fierce pace barring much talk, he thought of the Queen and Bess in the Tower, of old Henry saying his beads. He thought too of Warwick riding equally hard from the west with Queen Margaret probably not far behind him.

  At Doncaster they rested for the night and Humphrey, acting as gentleman of the bedchamber, took a pallet at Edward's feet. It was a chilly night, the room draughty despite the fire in the hearth. They drank a glass of wine together and were hardly settled for sleep when the door was thrown open and a man burst into the room. Humphrey leapt up, reaching for his sword, suspecting a paid assassin, but Edward, instantly alert, called out, ‘Hold, Humphrey, it is only Master Godber. What are you doing here? Do you expect to sing me to sleep?’

  ‘Sire! Sire!’ The flames of the fire showed that the serjeant of the King's minstrels was ashen­faced. ‘Your enemies are coming to take you. Oh, get up, get up!’

  ‘Enemies? What enemies?’ Edward demanded. He pushed the hair from his forehead and sat up in bed. ‘My lord of Warwick is in the west country.’

  ‘It is not he, my lord. My cousin is Lord Montagu's minstrel and he has ridden to tell me his master will not come to you, that the Marquess has sent word to his brother Warwick that he is on his side and will march to seize your person.’

  ‘I don't believe it,’ Edward said incredulously. ‘John Neville was always my friend. When did he and his brother ever see eye to eye? It is nonsense, my good Godber. Your cousin must have a lively imagination.’

  ‘Your grace!’ The serjeant fell on his knees. ‘I beg you, be warned. We shall all be murdered in our beds.’

  ‘Not tonight, I think,’ the King retorted. ‘Go back to yours, Godber, and we will await news in the morning.’ He lay down again and uncertainly the man bowed himself out, secretly thinking his King was a little mad. When the door had closed Edward said, ‘I doubt we're about to be attacked, but I mislike it, Humphrey. Master Godber's cousin may have heard more than mere gossip.’

  ‘It sounded like truth,’ Humphrey agreed. ‘But could it be that my lord Montagu has really deserted us?’

  ‘If he has I have misjudged my man.’ Edward lay back, his arms clasped behind his head. ‘We had an agreement of friendship, I thought.’

  But long after he was silent Humphrey lay awake. Fear for Edward 's life, the imminent danger opened up if the Marquess's treachery was proved, kept sleep from him.

  In the morning all those fears were fully justified. Fugitives came in with the dawn, all telling the same tale. Montagu, dissatisfied with the loss of Northumberland, declared that Edward had given him in return only ‘a pie's nest with which to maintain himself,’ and had decided to throw in his lot with his brothers. Already he was on the march towards Doncaster, his army far outnumbering Edward's own small following.

  Grimly the King listened. ‘We are trapped. With Montagu behind us and Warwick in front, and Tudor no doubt raising his Welshmen, where can we go to find men?’

  Even Richard of Gloucester realized he could not reach his beloved Yorkshire to raise troops there and he watched his brother in stricken silence.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Hastings asked and Anthony added, ‘My poor sister! We must fight our way through to her, sire.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘Of what use shall I be to her if I am dead? Which I shall surely be, for we are beset on all sides. Warwick does not want me to live, I am sure of that, but I am equally sure he would not harm Elizabeth, not now. As for me, by God and His Mother, I will live to fight another day.’

  ‘Aye,’ Richard said. There was a light in the grey eyes. ‘Where shall we go, brother?’

  The King threw his arm about Richard's shoulders in the familiar manner. ‘Why, where but to our sister Margaret? Burgundy won't want France with a powerful foot in England. We will ride for the coast at once.’

  He dismissed his little army in the courtyard of the castle, with kind words and thanks for their service, so that many of the men were in tears. ‘I will come back,’ he promised. ‘The rose of York is not dead; indeed I swear to you it will bloom again. Only be ready when I come.’

  Then with Richard, Hastings, Humphrey and Anthony, Thomas Howard and a few followers he prepared to ride out. He was in the very act of mounting when another messenger came swiftly under the arched gateway.

  ‘My lord,’ the man called out, ‘I have been following you all the way from London. I went to Ripon but you had gone. I have a letter for you – from France.’

  Edward took the crumpled parchment and broke the seal. As he read, first came a frown and then suddenly he broke into dry laughter. ‘Jesu, but George is unpredictable! Dickon, he writes that he has been belittled by our cousin Warwick, that nothing has come about as he expected and he wishes himself back with me. He might, he says, bring me valuable help! The day I need George's help I shall be in a poor case! And I warrant he will have changed his mind again by now.’

  Richard took the letter and read it. ‘Anyone can play upon him, it seems,’ was all he said.

  Edward mounted. ‘Well, there's no time for thinking of that. I have one brother I can rely on. When you chose Loyaulte me lie as your motto, Dickon, you chose well.’ And Richard, flushing with silent pleasure, mounted his own horse to ride beside the King.
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  All through the day they pressed on, pausing only to rest the horses, and at last as dusk came reached the marshy shore. They found some small craft, commandeered them and set sail, but the night was dark, the wind high and the boats too small for the open sea. With the gale and spray plastering his hair to his face Edward grasped the mast and laughed across at Humphrey. ‘Sick, my friend? Well no wonder, it is a bad sea and no fit boat. Please God our sailors will get us to Lynn.’

  They made the harbour by morning but Humphrey to his disgust was laid so low with seasickness that he could do nothing but vomit and had to be carried ashore by Fitchett and his squire. Even on land his stomach still heaved and his legs would not carry him.

  ‘I've found a ship to take us to Burgundy.’ Edward came to stand beside him where he lay on the harbour wall covered by a cloak. ‘I'm sorry, my friend, but you'd best stay here.’

  Humphrey tried to drag himself to his feet. ‘I'll be well now, my lord. My place is with you.’ But as he looked at the mountainous grey sea, his nausea rose again and Edward shook his head.

  ‘You are too sick. Thank God I've a good stomach for the sea. Thomas Howard has gone to sanctuary in Colchester and I suggest you go to your wife's house at Ashwellthorpe or to Stanstead Hall to our uncle and wait for me. I'll get word to you when I come back with my sister's aid. And don't doubt that I shall come back.’

  Weak and shivering, Humphrey looked up at the strong determined figure and managed a faint smile. ‘I don't doubt it, sire,’ he said. And he would not let his men carry him to shelter until he had watched the King's ship vanish from sight into the murk of the October night.

  When the news of Edward's flight reached London panic seized the citizens. People ran wild in the streets, well-known Yorkists fled to the country or to sanctuary while Archbishop Neville rode headlong towards Southwark to prepare for his brother's entry into the capital.

  In the Tower a few desperate women faced each other. The Queen, over eight months pregnant, could do little for a while but moan, her hands over her face, terror shaking her limbs. Bess and Lady Scrope forced her to take some wine and rubbed her chilled hands. Bess herself was trembling, her fear for Edward, for Humphrey, such that she could not think clearly, and it was Lady Scrope who said, ‘We must go to the Abbey, to Westminster. You will be safe there, your grace. Sanctuary is inviolable and the guest house will give you as much comfort as we dare hope for.’

  Tears began to stream down the Queen's face. ‘What will happen to Edward? And to me? Will Warwick have us all slain? He is a devil, a devil!’

  ‘No, madame,’ Lady Scrope answered firmly. ‘I cannot believe he will wage war on women, and we know the King sailed for Burgundy.’

  ‘If he reaches land! The French ships may take him – or storms – the message said he'd gone in a fishing boat – oh God, oh God, we are utterly lost.’ She began to rock to and fro, on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Bess had forgotten protocol. ‘Stop! Stop, or you will injure yourself and the child. Maybe it is Edward's heir you carry. Oh be calm, I beg you.’

  At that moment the door burst open and the Queen's two sons came hurrying into the room.

  ‘Madame,’ Thomas cried, ‘is it true? Is my stepfather really fled? How could he run away? Is he afraid of my lord of Warwick?’

  Elizabeth's tears ceased and her hysteria. She rose and slapped her son hard across the face. ‘How dare you? How dare you call the King a coward? When he comes back and beats his enemies I will have him beat you too for your insolence. And you thought yourself fit to ride with him!’

  His cheek scarlet with the marks of her fingers, Thomas insisted belligerently, ‘I'd not have run away.’

  ‘No, and been spitted on one of the rebels' spears,’ his mother retorted. ‘Thomas, you are not a child. Use your head. The King has done what he must – for the moment.’

  ‘So I said,’ her younger son agreed quietly. ‘I told Thomas he was a fool to think his grace could have done aught else.’

  ‘You be quiet,’ Thomas flared. ‘You don't know anything!’

  ‘You will both be quiet.’ The door had opened and this time it was the Duchess Jaquetta who entered. Her face was pale but she was calm. ‘How can you so distress your mother at such a time? Elizabeth, my dear, we must not be afraid, nor let any see if we are.’

  The incident, however, had restored Elizabeth's common sense. ‘We are going into sanctuary, at once,’ she said briskly. ‘You too, Mother. Everything must be packed and ready within the hour. Hurry! Hurry!’

  Bess fled to her own chamber and she and Elysia stuffed what they could into her traveling chest. Frightened serving men carried the Queen's goods and those of her ladies down to the hastily saddled horses in the courtyard while Elizabeth herself was helped into a litter.

  Bess mounted with Wat Sable's aid and as she did so he jerked his head towards a single tower. ‘What of him?’ he asked in his laconic way. ‘What will they do to him, mistress?’

  ‘God knows.’ Bess glanced up and saw a face at a window. Was it Henry, she wondered, but in this moment of stress and anxiety he mattered nothing to her.

  The sanctuary house at Westminster was not uncomfortable and the Abbot received his royal guest as he would, he said, have received anyone seeking God's protection, as he would receive the Lord Christ Himself. The women settled in, the Queen in a small bedchamber, Bess and Lady Scrope on pallet beds in another leading from it.

  It was hard to know nothing, to hear nothing, and when barely two weeks later the bells began to ring in unusual clamour it caused them all to start, sudden hope rising and dying as quickly. ‘It must be for the Earl,’ the Queen said faintly. ' ‘It could not be – Edward could not have come home already.’

  ‘No, my dear.’ The Duchess took one of her hands. ‘We cannot hope for that yet.’

  They waited another hour, all four restless, starting to speak and then stopping again. Thomas and Richard were in the Abbey school and Bess was glad they were not there to irritate their mother with questions. At last a monk came in, bringing a delivery of salt and spices, a gift from one of Edward's city friends, and they asked him what the bells had been ringing for.

  ‘Why, your grace, my ladies, King Henry has been crowned again with my lord of Warwick bearing his train and the Earl of Oxford his sword of state. I did not see it, but one of our brethren told me he looked pale, as if he scarce knew what was happening.’

  ‘And the people?’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘What in God's name do the people make of it? They were always ready to cheer my husband in the streets.’

  The old monk sighed. He had been many years at the Abbey and seen much change. ‘The ways of the world are strange, lady. I do not understand them. The men of this city care only for their trade and they will cheer one king as well as another.’

  ‘It is wicked! Wicked!’

  ‘Ordinary folk, lady, must live, whatever the great ones do. And we grieve because Bishop Stillington, who was always a good benefactor to us, has had the Chancellor's seal taken from him.’

  ‘And given back to the Archbishop of York, no doubt,’ the Duchess snapped.

  After that the sanctuary rooms were quiet again. The Earl of Warwick showed no disposition to persecute the women there. A butcher was permitted to deliver good beef to them and wine was sent in regularly. As the Queen's time drew near her own midwife was allowed to attend her, and Bess herself to go out to purchase anything Elizabeth might need. Warwick's generosity did little to heal her soreness of heart, however, for there was still no news of Humphrey. On the second of these expeditions she ventured to go to her own house and there found a message from her father. No one had dared come to Westminster to bring the tidings, but it seemed that Humphrey was safe and somewhere in East Anglia though no one knew where. Also, the steward said, Burgundian merchants had spread the news round town that King Edward and his friends were safe with his sister and her husband Duke Charles, and great plans were afoot. Bess li
stened, glowing, to her steward's tale, so overcome with relief that she gave little attention to his accounting of his own care of her household.

  She returned to Westminster, a basket of delicacies over her arm, and a happiness in her that she had not known since that last day at Ashwellthorpe when Edward had dined with them all. She was almost back at the Abbey when she heard her name called and turning saw that it was Master Paston who hailed her.

  ‘Dame Bourchier! I did not know you were in London.’

  ‘I am with the Queen in sanctuary,’ she answered. ‘And you, Master Paston? I would have thought you would have stayed quiet at home.’

  He flushed. ‘I see you do not know. The Duke of Norfolk has been made to release Caister to us. You know he took it after King Edward left, that I was forced to surrender it to his bullies? Now it is ours again and my brother and I are here to attend to legal matters concerning it.’

  ‘I see,’ she said scornfully. ‘You have made quick use of the turn of affairs.’

  Stiffly he bowed. ‘The Earl of Oxford was always a good lord to us, and he –’

  ‘– is a traitor,’ Bess finished, and turning on her heel walked away. But she soon forgot Master Paston's little triumph in the joy of imparting her news to the women awaiting her return.

  Elizabeth's own relief, bringing with it a return of hope, made the last days of her pregnancy more peaceful, and on a dark night, on the feast of All Souls, the longed-for son was born.

  Lying with the babe cradled in her arm Elizabeth looked up at her mother with luminous eyes and said, ‘It is a sign, an omen from God Himself. Here is Edward's son, he shall be called Edward, and Edward will return.’

  The Duchess smoothed back the damp hair from Elizabeth's face. ‘I pray so, my child.’

  ‘Of course it will be so,’ the Queen said softly. She touched the baby's tiny hand. ‘This is the Prince of Wales, not that son of the Anjou Bitch.’

  Silence fell in the little room and Elizabeth slept.

  The days slid by in monotonous regularity, shortening as Christmas came.