This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  By moving from one side of the window to the other, Warwick was able to expand his view to encompass the men of the Marches emerging through the gatehouse, the White Lions of March rippling on pennants and banner. The muster was complete. York had five thousand men. It was an army – an army that would fight if required, and he was going to march it south to an audience with the King.

  “Your son has arrived.”

  Rising, York stretched his arms above his head to work the kinks out of his back. “All right, that will do for today,” he said to his clerks. “You may go. And have the Earl of March attend me.”

  The young earl came promptly. Warwick looked him over and decided he liked what he saw, perhaps because he bore so little resemblance to his father. Edward was taller than himself, though he had none of the awkward gangliness of youths still trying to adjust to rapid growth, and gave promise of being physically powerful when he reached maturity. He moved with easy grace and a confidence that belied his years. Beyond that, he was quite the most beautiful youth Warwick had ever set eyes on, with smiling blue eyes, a full rosy mouth, straight nose and a fair complexion that was still a stranger to razors. His hair was light brown, with streaks of sun-bleached gold. Hard to imagine that York had produced such a fine specimen, but of course he was Cecily’s boy through and through. A strapping lad. Any father would be proud of such a son. But it quickly became obvious that York wasn’t.

  Edward went down on one knee and bent his head. “My love and duty to you, sir. I trust I find you well.” He sounded stilted.

  “Rise, boy.” Extending his hand, York grasped his son by the forearm, man to man. “Greet your cousin, the Earl of Warwick.”

  “A pleasure,” Warwick said, holding out his hand, happy to note that the boy didn’t take the opportunity to engage him in a contest of strength, but merely applied a firm pressure as they grasped each other’s wrists.

  There was more than a hint of admiration in those vivid blue eyes. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Cousin, and look forward to knowing you better.”

  “How was the march?”

  “Trouble-free, but very exciting.”

  “Exciting?”

  “Yes. It was my first experience of army life, and I enjoyed it.”

  “I’m told you did very well with the mustering,” York said, also sounding stilted as if the admission came hard. “How is Edmund?”

  “He would have liked to be here too.”

  York grunted. “Now that our numbers are complete we’ll set forth for the south within a few days. You are to return to Ludlow.”

  This news apparently came as an unpleasant surprise to the lad. So great was his disappointment that his father had already turned away from him before he could find words. “But, Father, I thought I was to go on with you to meet the King.”

  The Duke turned back, frowning. “Did Hastings tell you that?”

  “No, he didn’t. I just assumed –”

  “Then you are well lessoned. It is a mistake to assume. You are far too young to take any further part in these proceedings.”

  Edward shifted his eyes to the arrow slit window over his father’s shoulder and made his tone one of calm reasonableness. “With respect, Father, since you have just admitted that I did well with the mustering, I ask that you reconsider. I am thirteen now, in many ways accounted a man, and I believe I can be of help to you in your fight against the enemies of our house. I ask you to give me a chance to prove myself.”

  York glowered at him from under lowered brows. “What you have to do, my son, is to prove yourself at Ludlow first, to your tutors and your governor, whose reports all too frequently do not please me. I perceive you to be headstrong, ill-disciplined and resentful of authority.”

  “I am not in the least headstrong,” said Edward impassively, hiding his disappointment. Warwick choked back a laugh.

  “Don’t be so bloody facetious,” snapped the Duke. “That is another thing: your deplorable habit of not taking things seriously. Until you have the self-discipline to curb such tendencies, you have no place at my side. Do you understand?”

  “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  It was clear to Warwick that the boy was holding himself under rigid control and could not, in justice, be said to lack self-discipline.

  “Very good. Get your things together. Prepare to leave tomorrow. I’ll spare you an escort of two dozen. You may pick them from your marcher men.” The Duke turned away back to his desk.

  With superb aplomb in the circumstances, Edward said: “In that case, farewell, Father. I wish you a satisfactory conclusion at the end of your journey.”

  “Thank you, Edward. You may go.”

  Warwick saw him later in the bailey seeing to the disposition of his men. At supper, he was sitting at a board among the marcher barons. The great hall was a tumult of male voices and the clatter of cups and plates, with now and then a shout or a burst of laughter rising above the general uproar as lords and knights and captains sank rivers of ale and speared slabs of dripping meat on the ends of their knives. In the midst of all this noise, Edward seemed to occupy a little bubble of melancholic isolation.

  Warwick squeezed in next to him. “God save you, Cousin.”

  Edward returned his greeting politely and then introduced his nearest table companions. The Herbert brothers. The Vaughans, father and son. Warwick paid little attention. His only interest was Edward. The reason for that interest was that he knew the lad would be a vital element in his life. Sometime in the future he would step into Salisbury’s shoes, and Edward would step into York’s, and it would be the two of them against the enemies of the house of York.

  “How old are you now, Edward?”

  “I’ve just turned thirteen, my lord.”

  “Thirteen is a young age to be leading men.”

  William Herbert banged his tankard down on the table. “Ha! In the Marches, our babes wear a harness over their swaddling.”

  Edward smiled faintly at the joke. “I thought if I efficiently discharged the tasks my father gave me I’d be allowed to stay and join him on the march south. I’m not too young. The master-at-arms at Ludlow says I have the sword arm of a veteran. On occasion, I can even beat him. I can also use the battle axe quite well. I’m not boasting either. I don’t boast.” He spoke the last words with just a touch of juvenile hauteur.

  “Well,” said Warwick, rising, “I believe I have some small influence with your father. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The effect of these words was like the sun coming out from behind a bank of sullen clouds. The blue eyes lit up, and the smile was so bright Warwick might have warmed his hands at it. Edward grasped his forearm. “Would you, my lord? If you could persuade him to change his mind, I’ll be in your debt forever.”

  “Release me, fair Cousin!” Warwick laughed. “I’ve no mind to have my bones crushed because you don’t want to go home.”

  The Duke was at the high table with Salisbury on one side and Warwick’s empty chair on the other, and the knights of his household ranged alongside.

  “Tardy,” said the Duke.

  “Busy,” said Warwick. “I’ve just been talking to your son. He wants to join us on the march.”

  “I was going to take him at first, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it.” The Duke made a deprecating gesture as if to dismiss the vagaries of women.

  “Is that the only reason – to please your lady?” Warwick asked mildly, and the Duke, predictably, bridled at the implication that his wife ruled him.

  “No, of course not. As I told him, he’s not yet mature enough to take a man’s part. He’s too imprudent and has no respect for authority. I don't trust him on his own, and I shall be too preoccupied to give him proper supervision.”

  “And yet he did what you required of him, raised the men you needed and got them here on time. Doesn’t that show a level of maturity beyond his age?” Warwick snatched a wine cup from a passing manservant. “You know, Uncle, some lads only b
egin to fulfil their potential when they’re entrusted with responsibility. Perhaps Edward is one of those.”

  “Oh, you think so? Ask him about the boar hunt,” the Duke said dourly.

  Is there a kernel of jealousy in every relationship between father and son, Warwick wondered? Why do fathers so strenuously resist their sons’ maturation process? Is it that in our waxing they see their waning, our growth stripping the vigour from their limbs? He was a full-grown man, married, with a daughter, powerful, wealthy, influential, yet his father still had the ability to make him feel like a bungling adolescent. Where did fathers get that power?

  “I don’t agree with you. I think at thirteen a boy is ready to take up duties as a squire and Hastings tells me his governor and tutors regard Edward as a precocious youth. He is highly intelligent and the equal of any man when it comes to the disciplines of knighthood. Any lapses in good conduct are surely due to youthful exuberance which he will grow out of. In fact, Uncle, I think your son has outgrown Ludlow and will benefit from new challenges and experiences.”

  York eyed him rather sourly. “You appear to know him well on such short acquaintance.”

  Oh, I know him. He is me a decade ago. I couldn’t please my father, so I stopped trying and did what I pleased, and I earned every whipping I got. The Duke knew his son only in the most superficial way, nor understood him at all, nor recognised his strengths, only deplored his weaknesses.

  “As it happens, I could use another squire. I was hoping I could have Edward. I’ll undertake to keep a sharp eye on him and keep him out of trouble.”

  “You may get more than you bargained for.”

  “Oh, but I like him. I think we shall get along. Do it as a favour to me. Let him have this chance to show what he’s made of.”

  The Duke chewed a sliver of roast venison as he considered this and finally nodded. “All right. Get him to tell you about the boar hunt and then if you still want him he’s yours. But I warn you, Nephew, you’ll need to be vigilant.”

  Smiling, Warwick beckoned his young cousin, who had been watching him avidly, though he was too far away to hear. They walked outside into the late afternoon sunshine. The inner and outer baileys and even the livestock pens, where a few cows and sheep not yet butchered, were crammed with the tents and ramshackle shelters of common soldiers. The horses that weren’t stabled were kept in a separate paddock. Hens pecked in the dust. Dogs lay in the sun. The air was full of the smell of dung. Latrine pits were outside the wall, which meant a long walk for many who preferred the convenience of angles in the wall or the midden heap behind the kitchens.

  “By Christ, we’d best be on the move soon, or we’ll be knee deep in shit,” Warwick growled.

  “What did my lord father say, Cousin?”

  “He told me to ask you about the boar hunt.”

  The flare of hope that had kindled in Edward’s eyes faded. “Oh, that. It wasn’t much.”

  “I’ve never hunted boar. Tell me about it.”

  Edward kicked at a lump of horse dung. “Edmund and I and some of the others were out riding one day in a wood near Much Wenlock when we came across a pig run. We’d heard there was a wild one in the area and so we stopped to examine the prints, and it seemed to us that one set went deeper than the rest and we wondered if we’d found its trail. So as soon as we were able, we borrowed a couple of boar spears from the armoury, told everyone we were going looking for birds’ eggs and instead rode back to Much Wenlock.”

  “Alone?” Warwick bellowed so loudly that those nearby turned to look at him. “Dear God in Heaven! Your father called you imprudent. I could think of harsher terms that would be more apt.” Even while he was delivering this rebuke, Warwick was thinking: What a boy! “Well, what happened?”

  Edward looked wretched. “We followed the trail until it disappeared into an area of thick undergrowth which we thought might be its covert. Sure enough, as we waited in the bushes we heard the thing grunt and snuffle, and so we began to throw sticks until it came out: a huge boar, a great ugly brute. And we killed him.”

  “And we killed him,’” Warwick echoed, hardly able to believe his ears.

  Wild boars were becoming rare in England, having been hunted almost to extinction. Domestic pigs were often turned out into the woods to eat the mast and occasionally some strayed, turned wild and bred. Warwick would have relished the opportunity to hunt one, but if he ever did he would be sure to have hounds, beaters and a few companions with him to minimise the risk. Though he loved a challenge, the boar was an exceedingly dangerous animal. He could hardly believe two pre-teen lords had hunted and killed such a beast. And yet he did.

  “Were you injured?”

  Edward peered at him and smiled at the memory. “Just a little. I got my spear into him, but then it broke, and he came down on top of me. I had my forearm into his throat, and he was bleeding and slavering all over me. My brother was behind him, and he kept jabbing the thing with his spear, which of course only enraged it more. Edmund daren’t strike because the beast wriggled and jerked so fiercely, he was afraid he would miss and hit me. But finally, he did it. I was black and blue from neck to knees, and when our governor was through with me, my backside was raw. It was worth it, though.”

  No, the lad doesn’t boast, Warwick thought. He was doing his best to minimise the risks. And, being young and thoughtless, it had probably never occurred to either of them that their governor was lucky to keep his position for what his charges had done. “How were you found out? The broken spear?”

  “No. We put the good one back in the armoury. No one missed the broken one. I was all for leaving the boar where it was, but Edmund said it was a shame to waste the meat, so we decided to take it to the Rose in Ludlow. At first, we tried to get it onto the back of my horse but it was too heavy, and the horse didn’t like it and wouldn’t stand still.” He was warming to his story now. “Eventually we made a kind of sling from saplings and some rope I’d brought and dragged it behind us. My horse didn’t like that either, or me – I was covered in blood and filthy. No one was in the inn yard, and we hoped just to leave it and ride off without being seen. But as soon as we approached the dogs went berserk and tried to rip the thing apart. Everyone came out to see what was happening. I suppose eventually word reached our governor.”

  Warwick came to a halt and turned to him. “Let me ask you something. When you were waiting in the bushes and first saw him – those vicious tusks and all the brute strength in that powerful body – didn’t you piss yourself?”

  “No. Stupid, perhaps, but I didn’t believe that a beast could get the better of Edmund and me.” He grinned, unabashed. “I just thought it would be great sport. And it was.”

  By God, what a boy, Warwick thought again. When he had a son, he hoped he would be like this fearless lad.

  Just then the Duke came by with his entourage of knights and paused to say to his son: “As you know, I was against your staying on. I would never have granted my permission if my lord of Warwick hadn’t undertaken to keep you under the strictest supervision. See that you don’t make me regret my trust.” That said, he moved on.

  Edward looked ruefully at his cousin. “I suppose now…” he said and let the sentence hang, looking woebegone.

  “Have you met my brother Tom?” Warwick asked.

  “Briefly.”

  “Tom squires for me, but I need someone competent to take care of my arms and horses. Care for the job?”

  “It will be a privilege to serve such a great knight,” Edward said fervently.

  “Good. Then that’s settled.”

  Chapter 16

  May 1455 – St. Albans

  Edward was ecstatic. He had seen his dreams of adventure and glory dissolving before his eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of going back to Ludlow, back to the tedium of the schoolroom. Even the martial exercises, which he had always enjoyed, no longer held any appeal when great things were about to happen that he longed to be part of. He had a much better un
derstanding of how his brother must have felt to be left behind when he rode away from Ludlow.

  Now, he was on his way to meet the King and the great lords, and no one knew what would happen then. And it was all due to his cousin of Warwick, to whom he would ever be grateful.

  Every morning when he woke up – early enough to be ready to attend Warwick when he awoke – his first thought was one of gratitude that he had no Latin to learn, no mathematics to wrestle with, no dry and dreary tutors to spoil his pleasure in the day. His second thought was of Edmund and what a pity that his brother wasn’t here to share all this with him. His head was already stuffed with anecdotes and details to tell Edmund when he saw him again.

  At first light, he scrambled from his camp bed, absolutely ravenous, went behind the tent to relieve himself and then hunkered down beside one of the cook fires to wolf down a bowl of oatmeal fortified with salt pork and half a dozen oatcakes hot from the griddle. As soon as he detected movement within Warwick’s tent, he went to attend him with the other squires. The only duties he had at this time were to help his cousin into whatever arms and armour he chose to wear that day and then lead forth his horse after the groom had accoutered it. And then they were off.

  He loved spending the day outdoors and never seemed to get tired as others did. Nor did he complain about the rain and the extra work it created or the heat when it wasn’t raining. In the rough, vulgar, totally masculine world of an army, he felt completely at ease, learned to drink his wine unwatered, how to swear fluently, and more about what went on between a man and a woman than his mother would have wished him to know at his tender age. He enjoyed the camaraderie of his fellows and even came to like Tom Neville, who was a good sort when he wasn’t full of himself. Perhaps because Tom was the youngest of remarkable brothers and much would be expected of him, he tried to compensate for his lack of talent by being boastful and conceited. Edward liked John better: blunt-spoken, down-to-earth and tough as old shoe leather.