This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  “Only when he’s right,” Edward said and moved his queen without much apparent thought.

  “You should pay more attention,” Edmund said smugly. “Your queen is in jeopardy.” With his next move, he scooped the prize up and awarded his brother a mocking smile.

  “Don’t gloat yet, youngling. The game isn’t over. So far I’ve just been toying with you.”

  But it was almost over. Edmund’s next move was the one Edward had anticipated. It only required the coup de grace, which Edward administered within a half dozen moves. Now it was his turn to gloat.

  “You have no subtlety, Edmund. That’s why you always lose.”

  Edmund was not put out. “And for someone who prides himself on a forthright manner, you can be surprisingly devious. Because I’m a good sport, I’ll concede that the trap you set by sacrificing your queen was quite clever.”

  Shortly, their nurses took George and Richard off to bed. The Duchess of York stifled a yawn. Edward glanced at Lady Elizabeth Lucy and an unspoken message passed between them as he and his brother bade the company a good night and went through the connecting passage into the hall, where Edward paused to whisper, “Sleep in the hall tonight.”

  Edmund was mortified. “Again! I’ll get fleas! It takes me days to get rid of them! Anyway, how can you even think of women tonight of all nights?”

  Edward rolled his eyes and went into the hall.

  Their father and Warwick were just entering after giving the defences a final inspection. The Duke had drawn up his first line of defence behind a trench between the town of Ludlow and the small village of Ludford with a shallow stretch of the Teme at its back. At dawn, they would join the men who were already in battle position and wait for the enemy to appear. In fact, there had already been a clash between this force and the royal army’s vanguard.

  Edward squatted on his heels between Will and Tom Herbert who were dicing. That day the Duke had offered a purse of twenty crowns to the winner of an archery contest. There had been a number of challengers, including Edward and Edmund, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Will Herbert made off with the prize. Edward cherished the hope of winning a portion of that princely purse from him.

  Shaking the dice in a little ebony cup, Will said in his musical Welsh brogue, “If you dice as well as you draw a bow, my Lord, perhaps you had better retire now while you still have a castle to call your own.”

  “If empty boasts were coins of the realm,” Edward retorted, smiling, “all Welshmen would be rich as Croesus.”

  Leaning against the wall behind his brother, Edmund said, “Dicing owes more to luck than skill and Edward is lucky.” Laughter turned to groans as Edward proceeded to prove him right.

  Edward played for almost an hour until Complin rang out. He gathered up his considerable winnings and, laughing at his companions’ protests, bid them all good night. By this time, most of the castle denizens were abed.

  It was fortunate that the apartment shared by the young earls, known as the Tower of Pendover, was at the eastern end of the north range, and there was a stairwell that led from the apartment either down to the inner bailey or up to the battlements. With the connivance of the sentries, who were happy to help, it was relatively straightforward for Edward to smuggle his amours into his bedchamber undetected.

  While waiting for his latest conquest, he sat between two merlons in a very isolated part of the curtain wall. No torches burned there. It was where the sentries turned around and walked back. If he looked over the wall to the east, he overlooked the moat, the outer wall and the dark streets of Ludlow. He was able to make out the shape of a dog padding slowly down the middle of Broad Street, and the figure of the priest stood in the open door of St. Leonard’s church. If he turned to the south, he looked down on the round roof of the chapel of St. Mary Magdalene and the rectangular roof of its chancel. In that direction lay Ludford, the camp and fortifications, but hidden from view by distance. To the north, in the angle formed by the wall of the tower and the battlements was only a dizzying drop into the River Teme.

  He looked toward St. Leonard’s church and could just make out the glow of campfires in a copse of trees where the Calais men had made their camp. Earlier that evening, he had as usual checked with the captain of the guard and found him in the gatehouse. The captain was a man who had served at Ludlow since Edward had been a toddler and was on terms of easy familiarity with his young lord.

  ‘How goes it, Rob?’ he had asked, perching on the edge of the table.

  ‘It goes well, my Lord, all things considered. There is only one small matter to report. Those Calais men who came with the Earl of Warwick. Jack there fell into conversation with a couple of ‘em and learned things that might interest you.’

  ‘Is that so, Jack?’

  ‘Aye, matters relating to their state of mind, my lord. See, they’re not happy about maybe having to fight the King. They told Lord Warwick so from the start, and he said it would be Somerset and the Queen they’d be fighting, not the King. He said he was a loyal subject and would never ask them to do that. But now they see the army getting closer every day, and the King is with it, and they suspect Lord Warwick has deceived them. They’re not happy.’

  Andrew Trollope, Edward remembered, had said much the same thing the night Warwick arrived.

  ‘It might be a good idea to drop a word in my lord of Warwick’s ear about what these fellows are saying,’ the captain suggested.

  ‘I will. And let me know if you hear anything further.’

  He hopped off the table and went out. Crossing the inner bailey toward the great hall, he considered the possible implications and consequences of what he had just learned. The Duke of York and other high lords owed allegiance directly to the King, and for him to rebel was treason. A knight owed his allegiance, not to the King, but to his overlord in return for protection and patronage should the need arise. In a battle between the Duke and the King, if a knight went over to the King he would be guilty of treachery and might have to pay with his life. But if he remained loyal to his overlord he would have done no wrong. This didn’t necessarily mean that he wouldn’t be punished for failing to support his King – such were the ambiguous laws of feudal society. The position of the Calais men was even more ambiguous. They, too, owed allegiance to the Crown, which paid their wages – when they were paid at all, which was seldom. As soldiers, they must obey their superior officer, and that officer was Warwick. Poor fellows were in a cleft stick.

  At his earliest opportunity, Edward spoke to Warwick about what the Calais men had said, but Warwick was inclined to dismiss it as the grumbling of soldiers too prone to independent thinking. They were loyal to him, he assured Edward.

  ‘He’s a braggart of epic proportions,’ Edmund had said.

  ‘He’s the best thing that has happened to England in years,’ Edward retorted. ‘His acts of piracy are… pure schoolboy fantasy.’

  ‘Marching across England like that was a piece of reckless folly. His legend has gone to his head. He thinks he’s wonderful. Would you have done it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Edward admitted. ‘If my intent were to reach Ludlow, I’d not beg trouble along the way.’ That pleased Edmund until he added with a grin, “But I’m not Warwick.’

  ……….

  It was a peaceful night. The air was damp but without rain. Wisps of cloud drifted across the face of the moon like the tattered banners of some phantom army. It was hard to believe the enemy would be here tomorrow.

  Before very long a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows beside the tower with a whisper of footsteps, a rustle of velvet on stone. A dark cloak covered the figure of a young woman, the hood pulled forward so that even her face was hidden from view.

  Although expected and eagerly awaited, Edward was startled by her sudden appearance.

  “Oh, you gave me a start, sweetheart.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

  Edward laughed softly. Young as he was, he knew
better than to admit to taking a woman for granted. “I hoped you would.”

  Lady Elizabeth Lucy was the wife of one of his father’s knights and had accompanied the duchess to Ludlow. Had she deliberately sought him out or had he done the pursuing? He couldn’t remember now. It had just seemed to happen naturally that they were drawn to one another. Suddenly he found himself looking for her wherever he went, determined to have her. The first time they had lain together, he had had to coax her into forgetting that what they did was both sinful and immoral, but rather was something delightful to be cherished. She admitted she had never experienced such climaxes with her husband, who was kind and indulgent, increasing her sense of guilt. By the time her husband arrived with the Duke, Edward had her utterly captivated.

  He held out a hand. “Come closer so I can kiss you breathless.”

  She accepted this invitation with such unexpected alacrity that he only just had time to gain his feet before she flung herself into his arms with such force that he had a sudden mental image of the two of them hurtling over the battlements and splashing into the moat, locked forever in an illicit embrace. Then his mouth was on hers, and his hands slipped inside her cloak to draw her nearer.

  After a moment he raised his head. “You’re trembling, sweetheart. Is that the effect I have on you or does something ail you?”

  “You can ask me that?” She stepped back so she could look up at him, a long way up, without straining her neck. “I’m afraid! All this talk of war has my nerves on edge. No one seems to know what will happen tomorrow – if there will be a battle or not.”

  Ah, so that was it, he thought belatedly. Battle-eve nerves. Well, if experienced knights suffered from them, why not women? It was easy to forget that they had a lot to lose too. Lifting her effortlessly, he perched her on the wall between two merlons so that their faces were almost level. Her eyes were like stars gleaming in the darkness of her hood.

  “I don’t know what will happen either,” he said, and it was true, even though he had sat in on all the war councils. He sometimes wondering if even his father did. It was the uncertainty that made everyone anxious. “There was some fighting today near Ludford. Nothing serious, just an exchange of bowshots with their fore-riders. They’ll be here in force tomorrow, I expect.” He kissed her nose. “But you mustn’t fret, sweetheart. Even if the worst should happen and the castle falls, no harm will come to you.”

  Stung, Elizabeth gave him an angry little shove. “I’m not afraid for myself! I know I shall be safe enough. It’s you. You’ll have to fight, and I’m afraid for you. I have a premonition that something terrible is going to happen. I can’t seem to shake it off.”

  “Morbid fancies, my sweet. You’ll run mad if you pay them any heed. Nothing is going to happen to me.” Then he added impishly, “Unless, of course, my mother finds out about us and then you would have reason to fear for my safety.”

  “Be serious, Edward!”

  “Must I? I’ve never found it helps.”

  She tipped her head to one side and studied him. “You’re not afraid, are you? Not at all?”

  That was true. Even in his secret heart, he wasn’t. It wasn’t courage exactly, although he knew he didn't lack that. It wasn’t only that when you’re seventeen and life was sweet and privileged and full of promise, as it was for him, it was hard to conceive of its abrupt and senseless termination. He was willing to allow that there were probably many young men who had cherished this groundless faith rotting under the sod of old battlefields. No, it was simply a belief in his own future, a belief that he wouldn’t die until he had done was he was born to do. And he had no idea what that was.

  To Elizabeth, he only said, “I’m afraid of one thing – that I won’t be able to coax you out of this morbid humour.”

  While they were speaking, he had been busy. He had lowered her hood to rest across her shoulders, then loosened her hair from its confining braid, letting it run through his fingers like molten lava. It fell to her thighs in a shimmering copper mass, with traces of chestnut, fire and gold. Wanton hair, he called it, because the mere sight of it could arouse him. But when his hands moved to her breasts, she gave a protesting little cry and pushed them away with more success than intent.

  “Oh, don’t – not here! Someone might come.”

  “Then let’s go to my chamber.”

  He took her by the wrist but found her immovable.

  “We can’t,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “Because something might happen. A crisis… What if we’re discovered? I daren’t think what will happen.”

  “Then don’t think about it.” The irrefutable logic of this statement was lost on Elizabeth who planted her feet firmly and wouldn’t budge. Suppressing both vexation and rising ardour, he tried again. “We won’t be discovered, sweetheart. If anything happens, my brother will give us plenty of warning. What’s got into you tonight?” Women, he had found, were full of vagaries. Had she not come up here with the purpose of going to bed with him? And now she’d gone a fair way to talk herself out of it. “Is it your husband?”

  She shook her head, stirring coppery tendrils. “I’ve told him about us. I had to. I couldn’t bear to deceive him any longer.”

  “Thank God and Jesus for complaisant husbands,” he said with youthful cynicism.

  ”Oh? Have you known many?” she snapped.

  “Oh, Bess, I’m an idiot. Forgive me,” he said contritely. For he already understood that he must be gentle with her, that her heart was more fully engaged than his own. What for him was a delightful summer’s dalliance was far more meaningful to her. To divert her, he applied his lips and tongue to the corner of her mouth while she continued to scold him until she finally turned her head and he was able to silence her with a kiss that was long and deep. When it was over, they were both breathless.

  “Carpe diem, my sweet and lovely Bess. Live for the day.” His voice was low and husky, seductive, evoking images of entwined bodies and erotic whispers in the dark. When he took her hand this time, she didn’t resist.

  Chapter 30

  October 1469 – Ludlow Castle, Shropshire

  Edmund was awakened suddenly by something smooth and wet slithering over his face. Startled, he jerked bolt upright and cracked his head on something hard. Only then did he remember that Edward had an assignation and in his usual careless manner had invited him to vacate their shared bedchamber. He couldn’t understand why his brother would risk their parents’ displeasure by smuggling a wench into his room – especially on this night – or why he couldn’t take his pleasure in the stable loft or some discreet corner of the bailey as usual. Edward had been surprisingly reticent about it. ‘I’ll do the same for you one day,’ he’d coaxed.

  The hall was not a pleasant place in which to sleep. As well as the snores and farts of the somnolent, the early part of the night was loud with heavy breathing, erotic whispers and the rustlings of bodies entwined in the timeless rhythm of copulation, sounding rather like the stirring of so many rodents in the not so fragrant rushes.

  It took him a moment longer to realise that the wet tongue of one of the friendly wolfhounds had awakened him. He pushed the dog away, rolled out from under the stack of trestles where he had made his bed and looked around, blinking in surprise.

  The torches, which had been extinguished earlier, were being replaced, and by their light, he could see that the hall, which should have been still quietly sleeping was astir. But he could divine nothing of the cause. The excitement was spreading like eddies in a still pool when a pebble is thrown in, and the centre of all the excitement was Warwick, half-dressed and so furious that he was shaking with the effort of controlling himself. His voice was a snarl, but beyond the obscenities, Edmund could make very little sense of what he said. His first thought was that the Lancastrian army was already at the gate, but he was soon disabused of that notion when he spotted Will Hastings, fully dressed, and sidled over to him.
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  “Do you know what’s going on?” he whispered.

  “The Calais men have gone over to the enemy,” Hastings said calmly.

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be much doubt. As you see, Warwick is beside himself. Your father’s been summoned. I wonder what will happen now,” Hastings said with rare detachment as if this piece of treachery could have no more effect on his life than a change in the weather.

  The Duke arrived, not having bothered to dress at all. He was wearing only a furred bed gown, and his greying hair was tousled. He spoke to Warwick, and their voices rose until they were shouting at one another before the Duke remembered himself and terminated the conversation. His mouth was a perfect inverted ‘U’. His eyes finally fell on his younger son, and he snapped, “How is it you are here and not your brother?”

  Edmund was not as good at spontaneous fabrication as his brother because he had not had as much practice and just stood there colouring guiltily, his mouth hanging open, and waiting for inspiration. Finally, he started toward the door, saying: “I’ll find out what’s keeping him.”

  Arriving at the door of the chamber he had always shared with Edward, he almost burst straight in out of habit, but checked himself in time and put his ear to the wooden panels. Sure enough, he could hear the rhythmic creaking of the bed frame under Edward’s weight, even the soft, breathy gasps of a woman in the throes of love. In spite of the gravity of the situation, he felt a certain malicious pleasure as he imagined his brother’s face at being thus interrupted, and tapped quietly on the door. Putting his ear to the boards again, he heard everything go quiet and then a muttered curse. Grinning, he knocked louder.

  “Come on, Edward, open up. I have to talk to you.”

  There was another throaty growl, a scuffle, bare feet slapping on bare floorboards, and then the door was yanked open with such force that Edmund feared for the ancient hinges.