This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

Anne caught her breath. Was it so obvious? She must be careful not to raise suspicions. “When I was a child,” she said, looking down at her folded hands, “I loved Christmas. We always held it at Fotheringhay and my brothers would come from Ludlow. My brother Edward was marvellous at inventing games and pranks. It was the only time we were all together. Except that once or twice my father was too busy to join us, but the truth is we didn’t miss him.”

  Impulsively, Eleanor leant down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re happy,” she whispered. “I’m happy too.”

  It was a quiet evening. Most of the guests had already taken their leave and returned to their homes. But the one that mattered remained. Some of the household had gone to bed, and some were snoring on the benches, replete with wine and ale when Anne sat down to a game of chess with Thomas and was able to satisfy her curiosity about him.

  “The St. Legers,” he said, “are an ancient family of gentle blood. The first came to England with the Conqueror. Although they followed the usual procedures to procure wealth and advancement, they never really progressed from one generation to the next. If one generation took a step forward, the next went crashing back by falling into debt, making a bad investment, or having to find dowries for too many daughters. But St. Legers sat in parliament and fought at Crecy and Agincourt. We are the kind of family whose men became reeves, bailiffs, or deacons of the church. My father was a sheriff of Northamptonshire.

  All very interesting, thought Anne, but what about you? “Are you the eldest son of your family?”

  “I had an older brother who died a year ago, and I inherited the family estate in Kent as well as this one. I left my brother’s widow and her three children in possession in Kent and chose to live here.”

  “That was good of you.”

  “My reason wasn’t entirely altruistic: my brother’s children are all girls. My mother also lives in Kent along with my two unmarried sisters. It is a feminine household. Dinner conversations revolve around such matters as what old gown could be donated and cut down to provide a new one for my sisters, or how well the pregnancies and or babies of neighbouring women are progressing; or if betony is more efficacious than the steeped leaves of dock to cure a headache, or the drunken cook’s latest outrage, and of course, without fail, when was I going to do something to provide my sisters with dowries? My brother hadn’t succeeded in five years and yet I was supposed to perform miracles in one. My visits tend to be brief with long intervals between, which is the subject of another dinner conversation.”

  “Yours is the kind of family my lord father calls the backbone of England,” Anne said.

  She watched him as he frowned over his next move. Her fingers itched to brush back the hair curling seductively around his face, to smooth out the adorable knot of concentration that nestled between his brows. He glanced up quickly to see her gazing at him, and what else he might have seen in her eyes, she could not know. His own became more intense than she had ever seen them as if they would bore through her very skull and invade her thoughts. Their gazes locked and held for long moments until Thomas broke free and looked back at the board.

  “You’ll be leaving tomorrow, I expect,” she said, striving to sound as casual as if she were asking the question of Lord Clinton.

  “Yes, I expect so.”

  He didn’t look at her after that; even when he was waiting for her next move. Whenever she glanced up, he had his eyes fixed on the board or roaming the hall. Anne felt a lump forming in her throat. The thought of not seeing him again was beyond bearing. He could never, never understand how much the last few days had meant to her.

  After a little while, she excused herself and called for her cloak, murmuring something about the hall being stuffy… she needed fresh air…

  Out she went into the snow; it was chilly enough to be crisp under foot. It came as no surprise to hear the door open and close again quietly; she had hoped he would follow her. If she turned it would not be Lancelot of the Lake standing there, but Thomas St. Leger, flesh and blood, who was so far beneath her that it was presumption on his part to look in her direction.

  She turned to face him. He was standing quite close, but stiffly erect, and she knew some inexplicable thing had come between them.

  “Madam, there is something I must say,” he began, but Anne pressed a finger to his lips, wouldn’t let him continue.

  “No, Thomas, I don’t want you to speak.”

  She closed the space between them, until they stood toe-to-toe, frosty breath mingling, gazes locked. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his lips came down on hers, softly and pleasantly warm in spite of the cold air. He gave her every opportunity to draw back, pull away, end it before it amounted to anything, but it was as if she was mesmerised, and after his lips had touched hers it was even more impossible. Without thinking of consequences, morality, presumption, God or husbands, she pressed her mouth to his, at first clumsily, but with a little adjustment, they fitted together in a perfect fusion. His arms went around her, drawing her tight against him and hers went around him, and their bodies too fitted together perfectly.

  It took an intense effort, but before passion could flare too hot between them, Thomas put his hands on her upper arms and eased her gently away. How long it lasted neither could say, nor whether anyone lurking in the manor grounds spied on them. When they broke apart, they stood looking at one another and no words passed between them. What did one say to one’s host after a feast so beneficent that its like had never been experienced before and never would be again?

  Eventually, Thomas said tautly, “My lady, this cannot be, and you know it as well as I.”

  Anne nodded, although even she didn’t know whether in affirmation or denial.

  He held out his arm. “Will you permit me to escort you back to the hall?” Punctilious. Correct. As if he had not just ravished her very soul.

  “You go first,” she said, and he turned on his heel and went quickly.

  When the door closed behind him, Anne stayed outside a little longer, by turns exhilarated and fearful, excited and panicky.

  Later she was glad that he would be leaving in the morning; it was hard to remain remote and impersonal, to avoid looking at him for fear others might see her naked longing. What did he think of her? Did he despise her for being so forward; or did he want to hold her close, feel her body along the length of his and kiss her again and again until she was limp in his arms?

  Was there a day passed afterwards that Anne did not think about that kiss – pausing in her round of daily business to try and capture and hold some vestigial memory before it vanished forever? No, barely an hour, so great was her longing, her need. That kiss was like a rose; it had brought colour and sweetness and beauty into the gloom that was her cheerless world. And yet, as she told herself frequently, there was no point in thinking about such things. It could never be.

  February found her still at Thorpe Waterfield. The news from the outside world was that King Henry had regained his health and a service of Thanksgiving was held in the local church. Soon after, the King appeared before parliament to dismiss York’s second protectorate, with thanks for his good services. Her father still held the office of Constable he had taken upon himself, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time before his enemies moved to strip him of that. In the end, the blood shed at St. Albans had brought him no more than a few months in power and earned him some particularly virulent enemies who were resolved to hound him to death. Chief among them was the Queen.

  Although they concerned her close kin, these events touched Anne as lightly as a snowflake landing on her nose and had as little effect on her private world. She passed the time daydreaming about an illicit kiss and the man she had shared it with until the terse message came from Exeter ordering her to rejoin him. The timing was just right. Her body was recovered sufficiently to resume its normal cycle and was ready for conception.

  Chapter 22

  May 1456 – Priory of St. Mary’s, Coventryr />
  One of the lay brothers was preparing to slaughter a hog to feed the noble guests at the priory when a townswoman came along and asked if she could have a jug of blood because she wanted to make blood pudding. Having rendered the pig senseless with a blow from his mallet, the lay brother severed the jugular and deftly caught the first gush of blood in the jug she had brought. The woman thanked him, paid him a quarter penny and left with the jug concealed beneath her ragged mantle.

  Outside the priory gates, the lady was waiting. Handing over the jug, the townswoman received the promised six pence. She had no idea who the lady was, nor what the blood was wanted for, not did she care. Hardly able to believe her good fortune, she scuttled away before the lady had time to repent their bargain.

  Eleanor concealed the jug beneath her cloak and went back inside the priory to her mistress’s chamber in the guesthouse. Anne was waiting anxiously for her.

  “Do you have it?” she demanded at once and nodded when Eleanor produced the jug.

  Anne had a hideous black eye. It was swollen almost shut, surrounded by a dusky discoloration and her cheek was red and puffy below it. That was her reward for saying her father had been treated unjustly. Exeter had never actually beaten her, only lashed out occasionally in anger; one good blow seemed to satisfy him. He was much quicker with his fists since St. Albans, but it was the first time he had hit her in the face. She intended it to be the last.

  Wearing one of her oldest gowns, she lay down on the bed.

  “Madam, it’s a terrible thing we do,” Eleanor whispered.

  “Nonsense. Men kill one another in self-defence all the time. I’m merely defending myself with the weapons I have. He doesn’t deserve our consideration, Eleanor. Come on, now. Get on with it.”

  Obediently, Eleanor smeared her thighs with blood and then dumped a liberal amount between them on the bed; a few drops went on the hearth, and the rest was thrown into the fire, creating an acrid smell. The jug was hidden under the bed.

  “All right,” said Anne, “go and tell him.”

  She sank back on the pillows. Two years ago she would not have thought herself capable of such a subterfuge, but now she felt no shame at the deception she was about to perpetrate. The blow to her face was nothing compared to the injuries done her spirit, which would never heal, would only fester, filling her with sourness. Today she would make him suffer.

  He entered with Eleanor on his heels, and she knew at once that Eleanor had played her part well. She had pulled her gown down, but there was enough blood around her to suggest she had bathed in it. A surge of triumph lifted her heart as she saw the anguish writ plain upon his face.

  She came up on her elbows. “Well, my lord,” she said in a harsh voice, determined to spare him nothing. “Do you see what you’ve done? Are you happy now? You’ve killed our son!”

  He shook his head violently, like a bull shot with an arrow trying to dislodge the instrument of its pain. “I didn’t know… Oh, God. Oh, God. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I wanted to wait a little longer.”

  “Christ Jesus, I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Liar! You enjoy hurting people. You felt no shame for what you did to me until now! Now you see the consequences. A dead son! An heir destroyed before he was even formed because of your casual violence.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” He glanced around. “Where is he?”

  “On the fire. Embryos have no soul.”

  He put a hand over his mouth and nose as if to stifle the stench of his son burning, and Anne saw tears fill his eyes. The sight somewhat dimmed her pleasure, and she sank back on the pillows, turning her face away. She heard his footsteps approaching, almost tentatively, and then the bed sagged under his weight. He caught her hand, clutched it tightly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a choked voice. “It won’t happen again, I swear it. I’ll do my best to keep my temper in check. It’s just… ”

  “Your remorse, although too late, is welcome. I only hope you mean it. Now leave me, please. I need to rest after my ordeal.”

  He placed a gentle kiss on her hand before letting it go. It was almost laughable to see a man of Exeter’s temperament reduced to such abject contrition by a lie. But she didn’t feel much like laughing.

  When he’d gone, she said to Eleanor, “You were right. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. I expect I’ll get over it.” She rose from the bed. “I’m going to wash. Get someone to clean up this mess.”

  Chapter 23

  June 1456 – Warwick Castle

  Warwick was in London buying provisions for the fleet he was assembling to take him to Calais. During York’s last brief protectorate he had been appointed Captain of Calais, the most important and prestigious military post in the Crown’s gift and one of Somerset’s old offices, which he had not yet been able to take up. When an exhausted man sporting the Bear and Ragged Staff badge on his shoulder rode in on a lathered horse, he interrupted his business to speak to him. Without a change of expression, Warwick heard the news, thanked him, told him to get some rest, and sent for his brother John. Within moments, both John and Thomas had arrived.

  “I have to return to Warwick Castle. Anne has given birth to another daughter – not without difficulty. She may not recover. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I can. No,” – he held up a hand to forestall any speech – “save your condolences. She’s not dead yet.”

  And with that, he was gone. John marvelled that even at a time of personal crisis he could react with such calm authority.

  “Imagine that,” said Thomas, looking after him. “All that way for a woman! And a woman good only for dropping scrawny lasses.”

  Himself the proud father of a newborn boy, John shrugged. “It’s seventy miles to Warwick, give or take. He’ll kill three horses and be there by morning.”

  And he was. His ten-man escort had been unable to sustain the pace and had dropped behind, and his valet, who insisted on accompanying him everywhere, certain that if he failed in this self-imposed duty, all manner of calamities would befall his master, had disappeared sometime during the night. But he rode without rest, driven by the certainty that if Anne were indeed dying it would ease her passing to have him near.

  He arrived before the sun had reached its zenith, riding up to his great imposing castle on a winded horse, grateful that his guards were alert and had the gate open ready for him to ride through. It was his third horse; he had borrowed the second from one of his retainers, whose manor lay adjacent to the road, but appropriated the third from the stable of a wayside inn, and he had no idea to whom it belonged. It would be returned with a consideration.

  The first face he saw beamed at him. He entered the great hall to a rousing chorus of welcome, from which he gathered that the crisis was past. The physician, who had attended Anne after the midwife’s had finished her duties, confirmed that she had bled profusely, just as she had after the birth of Isabel, but he had packed the wound with swabs, and that seemed to do the trick. The bleeding had eventually slowed, and the Countess was now sleeping peacefully. She was weak and pale from loss of blood, exhausted by her ordeal and not out of the woods yet, but the indications were that she would recover.

  Warwick was already making for the stairs that led to his wife’s bedchamber, and the physician was dogging his heels, asking pointless questions, bothering him with details he didn’t need to know. Finally, he understood and turned with a frown.

  “All right, out with it. What else?”

  “I hardly know how to tell you, my Lord,” the physician whimpered, wringing his hands, a picture of misery.

  Warwick considered himself neither a cruel nor unreasonable man. He had his servants beaten only in the most extreme cases, such as theft or damage to valuable livestock, and could not recall ever punishing the messenger for the message. So, unwarranted as it was, the physician’s dithering irritated him. “You had better find a way,” he said in a hard voice.


  Out it came in a nervous rush. “The damage done to the Countess internally is beyond repair. She will never completely heal. And… she won’t be able to conceive again. Alas, my lord, although the lady improves physically, she is so anguished by this knowledge that her spirit sickens and will not get well.”

  Warwick was stunned, his mind reeling, unable quite to grasp it. That was a blow he hadn’t expected. Unable to conceive. No son for Warwick? “Is this certain?” he asked when he could trust himself to speak.

  The physician bobbed his head up and down, bird-like. “I’m afraid so, my lord.” His tone brightened. “However, there is no reason you cannot continue to engage in marital congress –”

  “Leave me.”

  Jerking a scant bow, the man scampered away. Warwick sank onto the bottom stair and put his face in his hands. How cruel! It tested the limits of one’s faith. Every man wanted a son. Be he tanner or tinker, lord or prince, every man wanted a son of his own body to whom he could pass on his name or titles and the possessions he had spent his tenure on earth accumulating. This was certainly true of a man like the Earl of Warwick who had so much in wealth, titles and estates to pass on. How cruel to have been gifted with so much only to be denied that final, ultimate, priceless blessing. A son was a man’s immortality in a way a daughter never could be. He would see in that sprig stumbling around on shaky legs himself reborn again: my nose, my hair, my temper, my will. He would watch his boy tilting at the quintain, or sparring with a master swordsman, or riding a stallion as if he had sprouted four legs, and feel a greater sense of pride in those accomplishments than in his own. And imagine the pride a man must feel looking upon a grown son and knowing that all he was, his strength, his intelligence, his abilities, all that glorious youthful promise fulfilled, it had all come from himself. My son. My immortality.

  He had never concerned himself with Isabel and felt it likely that this new baby if she lived, would inspire him with the same kind of indifference. In this, he unwittingly emulated his father. Salisbury had always delighted in his sons and ignored his daughters. Girls were useful only in the marriage market; until they reached the proper age, he had no interest in them. One day one of his girls would marry a man who would become Earl of Warwick, just as he had married Anne Beauchamp to become Earl of Warwick, but not his flesh, not his sinews. He would never have a son. He who had so much.