This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  Removing his gauntlets, Warwick grasped his brother’s hand and gave him a congratulatory buffet on the back. “Good job, John. How did it go with you?”

  “Well enough.” John wasn’t much given to excess verbiage or overstatement. He nodded down the street. “Better savour your victory while you can.”

  Here came York.

  “See if you can find us some decent wine. I’m parched,” Warwick said, and Thomas Neville turned to the inn, stepping carefully over Somerset’s body, which toppled over when he opened the door.

  The two brothers turned to watch as the Duke of York strode toward them. Fully encased in armour with his helm under his arm, he cut an impressive figure and the men dutifully raised a cheer for him. But his son and those who knew him well could tell by the down-turned mouth and puckered brow that he was displeased.

  John looked keenly at his brother. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “And have him spoil my plans? Certainly not.”

  “Then you’re about to get your ears blistered, and you deserve it.”

  “Oh, I think not,” Warwick said cheerfully. “At least not now, not in public. He will appear churlish if he berates me when everyone knows I won the day. No, he’ll tell me I did well. The words will stick in his throat, but he’ll choke them out. He’s as predictable as he is unimaginative.”

  He talks about my father as if I’m not here, Edward thought, and not always respectfully.

  In the inn yard, Thomas had righted a couple of benches and the one table that had survived the fight more or less intact and loaded it with ale and wine and several tankards. He had even found some tasty remains of the morning’s baking. Edward and other young squires joined him. Heady with relief that they had survived their first battle with only scratches and bruises – previously unnoticed – they fell to boasting of enemies dispatched, spectacular feats of daring, or narrow escapes from death or dismemberment. Thomas claimed to have killed two men single-handedly; Tom Herbert claimed two also, whereupon Thomas’s count went up to three. When the Duke arrived with his knights and joined Richard and John Neville, the younger men were obliged to surrender their seats and had their tankards appropriated.

  Everyone watched in silence as York went over to the body sprawled across the threshold of the inn and stared down at his fallen enemy. What is he thinking, Edward wondered? Of all the slights throughout the years? The humiliations, insults and frustrations as the two of them tilted for power? The hatred that had grown between them, drawing others into its maw, dividing the country and culminating in this bloody day and this bloody revenge? York had had his moments of triumph, too, but nothing like this. His enemy was dead, and a blight was lifted from the land. And he had Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, to thank for it.

  The Duke shared his thoughts with no one. His face was impassive as he turned away and gave instructions to have the body removed to the abbey where the monks would clean it up before turning it over to his family for burial.

  Warwick was right about him. After accepting the jubilant congratulations of his lords and knights on the brilliance of his tactics, he could hardly admit that the tactics weren’t his and Warwick had disobeyed him. He had much of which to be pleased. His heir was safe, Somerset was no more, and he had won a great victory. He had no choice but to swallow his resentment.

  ……….

  Evening was approaching, turning the breeze cold. The street was bathed a rosy hue by the westering sun, and the shadow of the abbey stretched its length across the fields of barley, wheat and hay, reaching for the trampled gardens. Flies were thick in the air, thousands of them, swarming from the rotting straw of byres and hovels to crawl over the cooling bodies of the slain. The wounded of both sides were taken to the abbey’s infirmary where the monks and the armies’ surgeons would tend them. The dead were being removed, heaved onto carts by burly soldiers with strong stomachs and trundled away. The commons would share a mass grave. The noble and gentle would be identified, carried off to the abbey, washed and placed on biers in the church with candles burning around them. The monks would include them in their prayers and keep vigil until loved ones came to claim them.

  The sun sank into the west amid striations of pink and gold clouds, and the abbey bells rang out Vespers in their deep soothing tones. A lost pony lumbered down the street. Chickens came out of their roosts to peck in the dust. Some of the townsfolk had crept from their hiding places and returned to their homes to assess the damage. Rush lights bloomed in windows and shutters hastily closed.

  Warwick went to one of the houses where some of his men were harassing the occupants. He laid about the malefactors with the flat of his sword and sent them on their way. Thomas came running up, his face flushed with excitement. “Come, Brother. His grace is proceeding to the abbey and requests you both to join him. The King is there, and rumour has it he’s wounded.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Warwick groaned. “How bad? What happened?”

  “A scratch, I believe. Nicked in the neck by a stray arrow during the early part of the battle.”

  “And thank Christ for it.” Edward shook his head. Royal blood had been shed, and shed by those who claimed to be the King’s friends and loyal lords. The commons wouldn’t mourn Somerset’s death, but they would mourn Henry’s little scratch, for no matter his failings, the people still loved their gentle, pious King. It would reflect badly on the Yorkists.

  Warwick suddenly laughed. Thomas grinned at him. “I was just struck by the irony of it all,” Warwick said when he had contained his mirth sufficient to speak. “Our enemies assembled on the pretext of protecting the King, yet not one had the wit to keep the poor fool out of the way of a stray arrow! And his safety never would have been jeopardised if those same lords hadn’t assembled to protect him.”

  Edward’s mouth twitched. “Wounded on the field of battle. It does have a heroic ring to it. Today’s events are the closest Harry of Monmouth’s son is likely to come to an Agincourt of his own!”

  All three were laughing as they turned back toward the marketplace.

  No less shocking than the wounding of the King was the number of noblemen killed or wounded. Along with Somerset, the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Clifford were dead. The Duke of Exeter had taken a wound to the head. ‘Perhaps it will knock some sense into him,’ York suggested hopefully. The Earl of Dorset, who would now assume the mantle of his dead father, Somerset, Devon’s son, the Duke of Buckingham and his son and heir the Earl of Stafford, Lord Dudley and Sir John Wenlock, Margaret’s chamberlain, had all been wounded.

  It was an appalling tally.

  The canonical hours had rung out on time from the bells of the church steeple, summoning the brothers to worship and regulating the lives of all those within hearing, just as they did every day, seven times a day. As if this day was no different from any other. As if a furious battle had not been fought within a stone’s throw of those sacred walls. The abbey was shrouded in the kind of hush only experienced in a holy place. The tall stained glass windows of the church glowed in the night, illuminated from within by tapers and many new votive candles. Torches soaked in pitch hissed and sputtered at intervals, lighting archways and embrasures and the blank stone facades of the buildings.

  The Yorkist lords had provided themselves with an armed escort. It was as well they had taken this precaution, for the abbey’s precincts still crawled with those of the enemy who had instinctively sought the safety and solace of a holy place, or those too badly hurt to flee further. Fugitives could be seen scuttling in shadows, like rats fleeing the light. Others didn’t try to hide but watched the victorious lords with hate-filled eyes and spat when they had passed and muttered curses. York was inclined to be magnanimous. Having gained his victory, he allowed the enemy to stay or go as they chose.

  The abbot was in the infirmary, attending to the wounded, and the King had occupied his residence. The lords entered the brightly lit hall of the abbot’s quarters and glanced around at the m
embers of the King’s entourage who were assembled there, watching them with hostile eyes. Without the exchange of a word, York marched across the room to the abbot’s bedchamber. Just as he reached out to push open the door, a body thrust itself between him and the wooden panels so suddenly that he trod on the other’s toes and almost bumped noses with him. Neither man gave ground, though their faces were only a hand span apart.

  York goggled in outrage. “Get out of my way!”

  “You shall not enter here, my lord Duke,” Sir Richard Tunstall, Henry’s chamberlain, said levelly.

  “How dare you?” York was so furious he began to shake.

  “His Grace is at his devotions,” the other said defiantly. “He wishes not to be disturbed.”

  “You insolent dog! I fought a battle to have speech with the King this day! Do you think I will let a churl like you stop me? Get out of my way!”

  When Tunstall didn’t move fast enough, the Duke seized him by the shoulders, threw him ungently aside, pushed open the door and entered the bedchamber.

  Only three others were in the quiet room, two servants, fussing around the bed, and a monk. Not surprisingly, Henry was indeed at his devotions, kneeling at the prie-dieu in the corner, his hands clasped around the beads of a rosary, his mouth moving in a prayer that wasn’t quite audible. Around his neck, he wore a white bandage, like a collar. A tall, spare monk knelt beside him. The monk glanced around and glared at the intruders before returning to his prayers. Since Henry would allow nothing and no one to interrupt his devotions, the lords were left to cool their heels for a while. The servants tried to ignore them. Catching the eye of one, York jerked his thumb at the door. Not daring to disobey so great a lord even in these circumstances, they went out with downcast eyes and prim mouths.

  Finally, Henry crossed himself and kissed the crucifix. At this signal, the impatient lords went down on their knees and bent their heads in submission – a difficult and noisy undertaking, for they still wore armour.

  Edward had never seen the King before – at least not that he could remember. There was a family tale that when he was very small Henry had taken him upon his lap and tickled him until he chortled with laughter, and the King had been delighted with him. If it was true, he had no memory of it. Now, when Henry came to stand before them, all he could see through his lashes was the hem of a dark blue robe lapping around a pair of old-fashioned round-toed shoes. He almost chortled again. Round-toed shoes! He must be sure to tell Edmund about that!

  Henry was silent for a while, passing the beads of his rosary through fingers as white and delicate as a woman’s. When he spoke, it was in a voice that managed to be sorrowful and petulant at the same time.

  “We have prayed to God that our lords would learn to love one another and live in peace.”

  The pale fingers made a forlorn gesture, and the lords got noisily to their feet. Edward raised his eyes to the King’s face and studied it with interest. It was as pale as parchment, the face of a man who had no love of outdoor pursuits and spent all his leisure time in the chapel. His eyes were blue, but of so pale a shade they appeared almost colourless. There was no intelligence in them, no emotion even, only a kind of moronic vacuity. His mouth was weak, his chin weaker still and slightly receding. The robe he wore was so old and shabby that the hem was frayed and the velvet worn smooth at the knees.

  As a youth on the verge of manhood, Edward was meticulous in his dress and grooming and could only deplore such sartorial sloppiness in the man who was supposed to embody all the power and greatness of England. What must foreign dignitaries think when such a shoddy figure received them? That England must be a shoddy country? That she must be a poor and a weak country? The King, the thirteen-year-old decided, must make his enemies tremble with his power, his subjects proud of his accomplishments; he must dazzle with his riches, awe by his learning and overwhelm by his magnificence all those who came before him. Poor Henry lacked all kingly attributes.

  On the other hand, there was something appealingly child-like, frail and vulnerable about him. Among all the feelings of anger and shame and disgust that Henry‘s appearance evoked in Edward, he was aware of a flicker of pity.

  Henry was sitting in a high-backed chair, one pale hand resting on the arm, the other clutching his rosary. Even when he was sitting down it was obvious that his shoulders stooped like those of an old man or one whose spirit had been crushed by too many cares.

  “We have been informed, to our great sorrow, that our kinsman and councillor, the Duke of Somerset has perished.” He paused to cross himself. “Much blood has been shed – the blood of our loyal subjects. The blood of your kinsmen, too, my lords. Jesus the Redeemer have mercy on us all that we have come to this!” He clasped the rosary to his heart. The sloping chin wobbled as if he was on the point of tears. “Was this done in our name? For our sake? Shame on you, my lords! Ten thousand penances and the absolution of our holy father in Rome will not be sufficient to cleanse your hands of blood!”

  Warwick said gently, “Does the wound pain you much, Sire?”

  Looking confused for a moment, Henry blinked, and then touched the bandage on his neck. “This? No, hardly at all. At first, I thought I’d been stung by a bee!” He frowned, recollecting himself. “What pains us is the slaughter of our subjects.”

  “Your Grace, do I have leave to approach?” York asked.

  At Henry’s brief nod, he moved forward. Bending at the waist, he sought the rigid hand that gripped the arm of the chair. Clearly, Henry didn’t want to relinquish his hold, but York ignored his resistance, pried the hand loose and raised it to his lips.

  Straightening, he said: “Sire, those who stand before you are your most faithful and loving subjects. This I pledge to you with all my heart.” None who knew him would doubt his sincerity, yet in the strained silence of that chamber his words sounded forced and weighted with nervous tension.

  Belatedly, Henry snatched his hand back and fastened it once more on the chair arm. “Above all, we are displeased with you, my lord of York. In you, we placed our faith, our trust.” Striving for sternness, his voice emerged high and querulous. “What does this mean? How dare you come into the presence of your King with an armed force? Explain yourself.”

  “Sire, let all the saints in heaven bear witness that I meant no disrespect. I beg you to pay no heed to the calumnies of my enemies.”

  “We do not listen to calumnies. We need only the witness of our own eyes and ears. You came to us with an armed force at your back, and when we asked you to withdraw your troops in the interests of peace, you proceeded to make war on our loyal subjects. We ask you again, my lord, to explain yourself.”

  York was shaking his head. He spoke with a note of desperation. “Sire, I have served you all your life and served you as faithfully as any man can. I am the premier peer of England and your kinsman. My birth and rank entitle me to a voice in your government, yet I find myself excluded, denied access to the councils and my King. I know this is not your doing, that you would not so reward a loyal servant. And yet when I come to my King, armed for my protection, to seek redress for my grievances, I find my way barred by my enemies. Three times I sent a herald to you this day to beg for an audience and three times was I denied.”

  “With an armed force at your back!” Henry repeated. There was a stubborn set to his chin.

  Edward had to admit that Henry did not lack courage of a sort. If he was at all intimidated to find himself alone with four dissatisfied lords still reeking of the battlefield, he didn’t show it. Not, that is, until Warwick spoke.

  “You’ve been given evil counsel, Sire. It ill becomes you to listen to such.”

  There was a glint of hard malice in his eyes, and Edward realised suddenly that Warwick despised Henry, perhaps even hated him, though in a very impersonal way. And Henry knew it too. He seemed to wilt under Warwick’s hard gaze, sinking further into his chair.

  Then Salisbury spoke. “I, too, claim the privilege of my rank to app
roach my King without having my way barred by those who bear me ill-will. It’s shameful that we should be treated this way. I should like to hear from your lips, Sire, just what we’ve done to deserve it.”

  York visibly winced at the speeches of both men, the verbal challenges, the blatant censure. Henry’s glance darted around the room like a frightened bird unable to find a safe place to alight. Then it came to rest on the handsome blue-eyed youth standing so tall and erect in his blood-spattered armour, and a smile of shy pleasure quite transformed his features.

  “Who is this young lord?”

  “My son, Edward, Earl of March,” York replied. “Come forward, Edward, and greet your King.”

  Edward went down on one knee to kiss the hand that was freely extended to him and rose again in one fluid motion. The childlike smile that Henry bestowed on him only increased his ambivalence.

  “What a splendid-looking young man you are, in truth,” Henry exclaimed, and turned to smile at York. “How the passing years do deceive us, my lord. We had no idea your firstborn was grown to manhood.”

  “He is just thirteen, Sire.”

  Henry’s face crumpled into lines of ineffable sorrow, and he waved Edward back as if the sight of him was an offence. “Fie! Do we put children in harness now? At his age, he should engage in other more productive pursuits.”

  “He studies his catechism,” Warwick murmured, but his irony was entirely lost on Henry.

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  Warwick’s remark had almost made Edward laugh out loud; Henry’s answer was too much for him, and he had to cover his mouth with his hand while he shook with silent mirth. A sharp glance from his father quelled him only until Warwick caught his eye and winked. To avoid further annoying his irate parent, he was forced to turn a snort of amusement into a fit of coughing. During a lecture on manners, his mother had once told him that ill-timed laughter could be as potentially offensive as an insult and he had since discovered that it was true. On this occasion, however, it was unintentional.