The Sun in Splendour (The Plantagenets Book 6)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Edward kissed his son, releasing a chain about his neck from the child's fingers. ‘There, my son, let go. By St. Anthony, you are strong.’ He gave the child into the nurse's arms once more and sat down, the Queen beside him, while a lay brother, so flustered he could scarcely hold the flagon, hurried in to serve wine, a gift from the Abbot.

  Edward took a deep pull from the goblet and then said, ‘Henry was at the Bishop of London's palace – where I suppose one might expect to find him rather than at the seat of government – and Archbishop Neville presented himself to me with such smooth words that you'd have thought he'd never turned against me. Well, he is in the Tower for his treachery now. And so is Henry. I pity him, gullible fellow.’

  ‘I do not,’ Elizabeth retorted fiercely. ‘Jesu, I'd have had his head off.’

  ‘Dearest, you cannot top a king,’ Edward answered.

  ‘A way was found to dispose of King Richard at Pontefract,’ she said, ‘and the second Edward in Berkeley Castle.’

  ‘Most unpleasantly. We'll not talk of that. You know I would not stoop to such means. And Henry has done little harm, he has merely been used. He came smiling to me and said he was glad – glad! – that I was back for he did not like the trappings of kingship and greatly feared the Earl of Warwick. The Archbishop did not like that, I can tell you. He is to be held close, but I've given orders Henry is to be well treated.’

  ‘You are generous,’ the Duchess said. ‘And do you mean to tell us you came to London with no blow struck?’

  ‘Not one. Warwick sat tight behind his walls at Coventry and I would not waste my time on a siege. He knows he must fight me sooner or later and my intelligence is that he is moving down towards St. Albans.’

  ‘Then it is not all joy.’ The Queen laid her hand on his. ‘You are not safe yet, Edward.’

  ‘Safe?’ he echoed. ‘I swear by Almighty God Who has brought me thus far that I will make this kingdom safe once and for all, for the rest of my days and for our son after me.’

  He took them all to Baynards Castle and there was a further reunion, this time between mother and sons. The Duchess Cicely was prepared to look coldly upon George of Clarence, but he knelt to her, kissed her hand and begged her pardon, his tongue all honey, his handsome face wearing just the right expression. ‘They forced me to sign that declaration,’ he swore. ‘Warwick and his brother the Archbishop. I knew it was not true, but they'd have slain me if I had not.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Cicely said. She surveyed him for a moment. ‘Well, get up, George. And try to repay your brother for his forbearance. He had more cause to see you in your grave than Warwick did.’

  ‘I know, and I loathe Warwick!’ Clarence said in sudden fury before recalling his role of humility. ‘Edward knows how true is my sorrow.’

  ‘And where is your wife?’

  ‘At Totnes Castle, madame. When I send for her she will come.’

  The Duchess nodded, and then leaning forward kissed his cheek. ‘Foolish George. Let loyalty rule you from now on.’ She turned to embrace her youngest son and George greeted his sisters. The Duchess of Suffolk's son, John, fell into an argument with Thomas Grey as to where the battle might be fought, and Edward put his arm about his stepson. ‘It is time this boy became a man. Will you ride with me tomorrow, my son?’

  Thomas almost jumped, a flush of excitement rising to his cheek. ‘Sire! Indeed I have had enough of tutors and being shut in with no men's company but the tedious holy brothers.’

  ‘Thomas!’ his mother protested and added to her husband, ‘Edward, he is too young yet for such danger.’

  ‘Young?’ Edward echoed amusedly. ‘I was fighting when I was less than his age. And I'll have a care for him, my heart. Keep your Richard under your wing a little longer if you wish.’

  ‘There,’ Thomas said exultantly to his brother, ‘I told you it would be so and you would not be able to come.’

  ‘Richard's turn will not be far off,’ the King smiled at the disappointed younger boy, and the pair of them were soon racing about the palace with the younger Suffolk children, so that the evening ended as so many family gatherings, with a joyful supper, weary children, and the talk going on long past the usual time for bed.

  Bess started up the stair towards the tiny chamber allotted to her and Lady Scrope, pausing by a narrow window to lean her throbbing head against the cold stone. She thought of Edward and Elizabeth in their chamber below, together after so long; she thought of Humphrey and longed for him and wondered how soon he would come, and she anticipated with dread the inevitable battle. Suppose Edward was killed? After all they had suffered could it happen? She faced the awful prospect and shivered a little as the cool night air came in through the window. Tomorrow was Good Friday, when muffled bells would toll, when everyone would fast, the churches and chapels swathed in black. Was that a bad omen? She did not know, she could only clasp her hands and pray desperately that God would preserve the King. Then, worn out by the excitement of the day, she indulged in what Humphrey had always called her shower of rain.

  In the morning, pale and heavy-eyed, she heard that all the King's lords who were available had assembled for a hasty conference. His uncle the Earl of Essex had arrived and Lord John Howard and his son Thomas and many others, and all the morning they were locked in council. Eventually they emerged and Humphrey's uncle came to her. ‘My dear child, you must be anxious,’ he said, ‘but as far as I know Humphrey and my brother have been in Kent and will I'm sure be with us soon.’

  ‘What is to happen?’ she asked.

  ‘There was some discussion as to whether it would be right to press on to a fight on Easter Day but we believe that is unlikely to deter our enemies. We must confront Warwick before Queen Margaret comes.’

  The Duke of Gloucester, also on his way from the meeting, added, ‘She has probably landed by now and at all costs we must keep Warwick from her. Perhaps he thinks to surprise us at our devotions but we shall do the King's business and keep Our Lord's resurrection as well.’

  They went off together, the tall stately Earl and the diminutive Gloucester, and Bess sat down on a nearby bench. The speed of events was becoming breath-taking.

  All day men came in, but there was no sign of Humphrey. In the evening, when darkness had fallen and she had no more duties, she was making her way to bed when she heard a further clatter of hooves. She paused and then giving a little sigh opened the door of her bedchamber. Lady Scrope was already there, her head-dress off and her maid about to remove her shoes.

  ‘Was there ever such a Good Friday?’ she demanded as Bess came in. ‘I swear I am asleep on my feet. What with council meetings and devotions and a lean supper we all need a good night's sleep.’

  ‘Aye.’ Bess sat down on the bed. ‘Is Lord Scrope come yet?’

  ‘No, but he'll not be long if I know him, and very out of temper if he misses the fight. Did I ever tell you –’ Lady Scrope broke off for there was a tap on the door. ‘Who can that be? Surely the Queen cannot want us at this hour?’ She gave Bess a sly smile and pushed her maidservant. ‘Well, open it, girl, we are not yet undressed.’

  The maid did as she was told, and then Bess gave one cry and stumbled across the room and into Humphrey's arms.

  ‘Well!’ Lady Scrope said and put her feet back into her shoes. ‘You and I, girl, are not needed here tonight. Bring my gear and we will seek other lodging.’

  ‘Oh – I beg your pardon.’ Deep in Humphrey's embrace and hardly hearing his first greeting, Bess turned back. ‘Lady Scrope, pray stay. My lord and I will –’

  ‘You will not,’ her friend said firmly. ‘Welcome, Sir Humphrey. I am quite sure you do not want to tramp about this warren seeking a bed.’ And when he laughed and shook his head, she added, ‘No doubt my lady Exeter will share hers with me, seeing she has no man to do so – none that I know of, anyway!’ And before there could be further discussion she had whisked herself and her maid out of the room and Bess and Humphrey were alone.

&nb
sp; They kissed again and again between a jumble of words, Humphrey telling of his months of hiding on his manor deep in the Kentish Weald, Bess of her long imprisonment in sanctuary.

  ‘And now,’ she whispered, ‘no more partings, please God. How I have prayed for you, Humphrey.’

  ‘And I for you. How is my little Annette, and Margaret? And that boy of ours? You have heard?’

  ‘Oh yes, they are well and growing fast I dare say. Please God we will see them soon, and together.’

  ‘Aye, but there's one more parting, though only a brief one if God is good. We march out at dawn to meet Warwick.’

  ‘So soon!’ She clung to him, fear clutching at her. ‘Have you seen the King?’

  ‘Only for a moment, but I had to report to him first. I've brought a hundred or so stout Kentishmen with me. Even Mistress Elysia's father wanted to come. He's not borne a sword for twenty-five years, but he would do so now to see the Lancastrians brought low.’ Humphrey paused for a moment. ‘He hates them strangely, especially Queen Margaret, for a man who is a plain Canterbury merchant.’

  ‘He is here then?’

  ‘No. I persuaded him his arm would be rusty as well as his sword, but he has sent two of his journeymen who are skilled archers. I have a fine troop of men.’

  ‘I wish the fighting was over,’ she sighed.

  ‘Please God it soon will be, though –’ he gave her a swift smile, ‘– there is not a man among us that is not eager for battle. My new squire young Bellasis has not left me all this time and is thirsting to be at the enemy. Only my uncle the Archbishop still thinks it ill chosen to fight on Easter Day, but he is an old man and lives in church. We're to take Henry with us that he may see for himself to whom God gives the victory.’

  Through dry lips she said, ‘You are all so sure?’

  ‘Of course. Our scouts say Warwick has a great army, but we have right on our side and every man will go out in good heart tomorrow.’

  Bess held him, her arms about him. ‘Then we have so little time.’

  ‘So little time?'' he teased. ‘We've all our lives. And now we've talked enough. Jesu, but I've wanted you, wife.’

  He undressed her himself, kissing every part of her body as he laid it bare and then lifting her to the bed. And such was their need, their longing after the weary months, Bess neither knew nor cared whether he had bedded anyone else, tavern wench or lady, in all that time. Men found it hard to be chaste, she knew, but all she cared for now was his warm body pressed hard against hers, his mouth seeking, his hands on her. Not in all the time of their marriage had they had such a night and for once there was no thought in her head for any man but him. She laughed and cried and strained him to her and when at last she was drifting into sleep it was in as deep a happiness as she had ever known.

  In the morning the King moved the Queen as once before to the safety of the Tower before setting off on the road towards Barnet and St. Albans. Bess said farewell to Humphrey in the crowded space below the White Tower where men and horses were jumbled together and Rob Fitchett held his master's percheron, his helm dangling from the pommel of the saddle, while Robert Bellasis carried the Bourchier banner. ‘Goodbye, my dearest one,’ Humphrey said. ‘We'll be back with Warwick's head before the Easter dinner tomorrow.’

  The half-joking promise made her shudder. Men were always so confident, so sure of their prowess, and yet looking at him, at the man who would lead them all, she felt her own hopes rise. She saw Edward's standard bearing the golden sun emblem held high over the King's equally golden head and the last doubts fled.

  ‘Come back safe with your victory,’ she said, ‘and I would not care if we dined off bread and water.’

  He put one last kiss on her forehead and then swung himself into the saddle. Still deep in the aftermath of last night's joy she stood with the other women to watch the men file out under the stone archway; Gloucester grave as usual under his banner of the White Boar but with his head up and his eyes on Edward. Clarence with everything lavish about his armour and accoutrements, and itching to revenge himself on the man whom he considered had cheated him so miserably of his ambitions. What was it Humphrey had said to her? ‘We've all our lives . . .’ Please God it was true, she prayed, and that she would never again know this waiting for him to come back from battle.

  By that evening the King's army had reached Barnet. Warwick's troops were already in the streets, the banner of the Bear and the Ragged Staff much in evidence, but it was only a vanguard and Edward's foremost troops had no trouble in driving them out. Humphrey and his father rode in with the rear after this first skirmish, and with the rest were hoping for a comfortable night in lodgings in the town, envisaging a hot supper and a mug or two of mulled ale, but the word came back down the lines – no man to fall out, all to continue forward and spread out at the King's command north of the town.

  ‘I'm getting too old for this,’ Lord Berners said.

  Humphrey grinned at him in the darkness. ‘You'd not miss this fight for anything. If my Uncle Essex can take to the field, so can you.’

  Lord Berners did not comment further, but there was a faint smile on his face as they moved forward. It was pitch dark, and silence was commanded as the army moved nearer to where they estimated the enemy lines were. One or two bombards went off but the shot went over their heads. ‘We must be nearer to them than we realized,’ Humphrey said.

  Anthony Woodville came up to them. ‘You're to be on my wing, my lord, and you, Sir Humphrey. The King has the centre and Gloucester and Hastings the other flank.’

  ‘And my lord of Clarence?’ Humphrey asked. Anthony laughed. ‘Between me and the King where he can do no harm. Get what sleep you can. I hope this damned mist will lift. Warwick's gunners can't know what they are firing at.’

  The ground was damp and sleep fitful. In the morning the mist had thickened into a fog so that the growing light only gave an impression of whiteness.

  Lord Howard lumbered through a rough patch of scrub and clapped Humphrey on the shoulder. ‘I'm on my way to your uncle's contingent, though God knows where they are. The men of East Anglia must stick together, eh? I've lost my son, but as he's got several hundred of our fellows with him, no doubt I'll stumble over him shortly.’

  He disappeared from sight. No one could see more than a few yards ahead, but the trumpets were sounding on both sides and Humphrey with his father and their own troops began to move forward. The guns had ceased and with a suddenness caused by the fog the two armies came together. The fighting was fierce, no one sure of any deployment other than his own small section. Humphrey called out a word of encouragement to his squire, gripped his sword, saw some of the enemy coming at him out of the whiteness and thrust towards a man with a red plume in his helm. He heard him yelp with pain, struck out at another, warded off a spear with his shield. Beside him his father fought with silent, dogged efficiency and Humphrey had no idea how long they were engaged in this sharp contact, nor what was happening anywhere else on the field.

  Somewhere to their left the Earl of Oxford, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘For God and King Henry!’ broke through the Yorkist ranks and went careering down the hill to Barnet, his men convinced the battle was won, their opponents in flight.

  ‘God damn this fog,’ Humphrey muttered and heard Anthony call out, ‘Forward! Forward!’

  Suddenly they seemed to be disengaged, but they plunged on to find another pocket of Lancastrians. Humphrey's men panted behind him, a lance grazed his cheek, but scarcely aware of either pain or blood running down his neck, he dealt blows and parried others, clambering over the dead and wounded, the cries and screams of the fallen sounding eerily in the still, clinging wetness of the fog. Time had ceased to be – that three hours had passed in swift attacks, sudden feints and breathless pauses, he did not realize.

  And then there seemed to be a wild panic somewhere away to the side, Warwick's men yelling in confusion, and someone bellowed, ‘Treason! Treason!’

  A mes
senger, dashing up through the mist, called out to the Bourchier contingent, ‘Oxford's men are come back and have fallen on their own troops in error. The King bids you turn your flank.’

  ‘Tell him it's done,’ Essex answered and shouting orders swung the line. There was a sharp confrontation and then they felt the enemy give way, such confusion among the ranks that it was hard to know friend from foe. But it was the Lancastrians who broke and fled, Oxford himself among them. On the far flank the Duke of Exeter's men were also being driven back by Richard of Gloucester. Edward threw in his reserve and the heart of the Neville army crumbled. John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, that most unwilling traitor, fell and was glad to die. The Earl of Warwick, only a few yards away, saw his brother slain, knew his flanks gone and turned to abandon the field, his face convulsed beneath the helm that covered it. With a triumphant yell a dozen Yorkist soldiers saw him, saw his banner fall, and went after him. They forced him to the ground, wrenched up his vizor, and one drove a sword full into his face. Too late the King came up and pushed up his own vizor.

  ‘I did not want him slain,’ he bellowed. ‘I would have let him live.’

  But it was too late. A few last pockets of resistance, not knowing of their leader's death, still held out and Humphrey led one last charge on his flank. ‘On!’ he yelled. ‘For God and King Edward! Come on, my good fellows. Was there ever a better Easter Day?’ And he swung his reddened sword, sticky in his gauntleted hand, at a little cluster of Lancastrians. One of them had a spear and held it steady as Humphrey rushed forward.

  * * *

  They brought his body back to Bess in the afternoon. All day men had poured into London and she had waited. Edward returned with his blood­stained lords and knights and walked gravely down the aisle of St. Paul's Church to give thanks for his victory, and by afternoon the wounded were being brought in with the dead of note, the rest being buried where they lay. Humphrey's cousin Lord Cromwell had been slain, and Lord Howard's son carried back, his thigh badly slashed, and still Bess waited. She rode to Westminster with the Queen, her dread growing as more and more men returned, but none with any news of Humphrey.