This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  “No, indeed,” James was quick to assure him. There was a bead of moisture rolling slowly toward his left eye. He longed to raise his hand and wipe it away but was afraid the gesture would be taken as a sign of nervousness. And he was nervous enough without Lord Warwick knowing it. “But there are others, innocent of any wrongdoing, and there is a certain highborn lady of close kin to your lordships. It is a grievous pity that such a lady must suffer for the crimes of others.”

  “If they have done no wrong, I can see no reason why they should take refuge in the Tower. As for my cousin, I too regret any discomfort my decision may cause her, but if I know her at all, she would be the last to beg for food, which must be shared with the likes of Hungerford and Scales. That will be all. Good day to you, Master James.”

  “I shall convey your words to my colleagues.” The alderman jerked another bow. “God be with you on the morrow, my lord, and at the conclusion of your journey.”

  When he had gone, Warwick blew a deep breath through his nostrils and said to his brother, “The council’s vacillation is beginning to concern me. I wonder if I can trust them behind my back.”

  “You're unjust and ungrateful. Your purpose is to win this war, theirs to govern the city, and the more they can hold aloof from the conflict the better, they’ll be able to do it. But they’ve been remarkably good to you. Not only have they given you a hearty welcome, in defiance of the King’s orders, and a substantial loan, but they’ve provided carts and horses for your journey and agreed to appropriate the King’s cannon for use against the Tower. In view of the fact that they owe loyalty to the King – not to you! – I think you’ll agree that you have little to reproach them for.”

  Chastened, Warwick smiled. “It is a grievous fault of mine that I expect too much of people.”

  “You don’t say,” George murmured, his mind awash with childhood memories. “By the way, when is our uncle of York due to return?”

  “When I’ve made the country safe for him. I do the work, and he gets the glory.”

  “And just what role do you foresee for Edward in your scheme of things?”

  “Ah, Edward.” Warwick came to a halt by the window and placed his hands on the sill, looking out into the fading light. “I have yoked Edward to my chariot. He and I will do great and wonderful things together.”

  “You’ll be subordinate to him one day. I wonder how you’ll take to that.”

  “Subordinate in rank only. No, Edward is well accustomed to following where I lead. He’ll be content with that.”

  A cooling breeze swept through the window and laid the candle flame flat for a moment.

  Chapter 40

  July 1460 – Northampton

  Clouds boiled in from the east, grey and bloated, full of moisture and ready to burst. As the first drops fell, spattering on his breastplate, Edward of March, who could generally be counted on to find the proverbial silver lining, said gaily, “I thank Almighty God for his mercy. If we must fight a battle today, at least we won’t broil in our harness.”

  It had in fact hardly stopped raining since they had landed in England and everyone was heartily sick of it.

  There had been occasions in the past when Edward was aware that his great height gave him an advantage over smaller men, not least of which was the powerful impression created in people’s minds by his sheer physical presence. But there were times, too, when it was damned inconvenient. The armour that went north with him was not the outrageously expensive but wonderful Milanese harness he had so looked forward to wearing but had to abandon when they fled Ludlow. That, he had given up for lost. Instead he had ransacked the armoury at Baynard’s Castle to find an odd assortment of pieces, some of which fitted poorly. At least he had a normal sized head and had no difficulty in finding a helm and gorget to fit so that from the neck up he was adequately protected.

  Even before the rain started, his hair was dark with sweat. His relief soon turned to dismay, however, for once unleashed the rain turned to a deluge, pelting so hard and fast that before he could remove his cloak from his saddle pack, his legs were encased in soggy hose, and chilly rivulets of water were finding their way between his gambeson and bare skin.

  “God’s death! Why is it always feast or famine with the weather in England?” he complained to his nearest companions, none of whom had an answer to the enigma that was English weather.

  So hard did the rain come down that it bounced off the road as high as a horse’s fetlock, filled potholes, turned ruts into running streams and bent the ripening grain that stood in nearby fields. It shifted and swirled like a rippling gauzy veil, obscuring the countryside and muting colours that had dazzled in the sun.

  Through that silver-grey curtain, three bishops and their attendants were plodding down the road. One of them was that Bishop of Salisbury who had attempted to bring about a peaceful resolution at Ludlow; now he was using his skills on behalf of the Yorkists. The bishops’ mission, however, had been a failure. They had spoken to the King, but the King had no words for them. He had turned his face away and allowed an embittered Buckingham to rebuke them for coming not as men of God to treat for peace but as men of war, for wasn’t that armour under their Episcopal robes? Why did they need such protection when coming before their King? They were Warwick’s tools, and Warwick was an attainted traitor. If Warwick tried to approach the King, he would die. Upon hearing these words, the chancellor, William Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester, immediately resigned the Great Seal and took himself off.

  Such words were likely to incite Warwick to action, but, much against his inclination, he found himself bowing to the will of the prelates and sent another messenger off, this time a herald instructed to deliver the words, “At two o’clock I will speak to the King or die.” Except for Henry, who everyone would ignore, and some of the prelates who saw their role as peacemakers, both sides were eager to settle their differences in blood. And at two o’clock battle was joined.

  The King had led his army south to Northampton, leaving the Queen and Prince in Coventry. The promise of plunder had not gone unheeded, and the first to suffer from this edict was Northampton itself. Henry’s soldiers had not only sacked the town but set fire to it. The heavy rain had put the worst of the fire out, but as Edward stood on the brow of a hill looking out over the drenched countryside, the acrid smell of smoke and wet ashes assaulted his nostrils. A hideous cloud of dirty smoke hung over the town and its environs.

  Henry had been joined by the Earl of Northumberland and Lords Clifford, Egremont, Neville (of the senior branch), Roos and Dacre; but even with the addition of these forces the Yorkists still had the superior numbers. This was heartening, but it didn’t guarantee victory. The captains of the royal army had chosen the field, and they had had time to entrench themselves firmly. The Yorkists would have to come to them. They were encamped south of Sandyford Bridge, which spanned the River Nene into Northampton and east of the London Road in a meadow called Hardingstone Field, which housed one of the crosses Edward I had erected at every site his dead Queen’s cortege rested on its journey south. To fortify the camp they had dug a deep and wide trench, which was now rapidly filling up with rainwater, and piled up the earth on the far side. Their right flank lay against the river, their left against rough and broken ground around Delapre Abbey.

  “They have found a good position,” Edward remarked.

  Warwick nodded grimly. “We’re going to be hard put to come at them.”

  Even his boundless self-confidence and resolve suffered a qualm or two as he studied the enemy position. The river and the rough ground between the left wing and the abbey negated any possibility of a flanking movement. The only option was a frontal assault, but there were plenty of lethal black snouts sticking out from embrasures in the wall of earth on the far side of the trench, facing forward to repulse an attack from that direction. That was obviously what the enemy wanted, and if that was what the enemy wanted, it stood to reason that it was not in Warwick’s interests. He w
ould have to attack in the face of those guns. The casualties would be horrendous.

  “Any suggestions?” he asked the men around him, who all answered in the negative. Even Fauconberg had nothing to offer. “Then,” said Warwick, forcing a smile, “we shall have to trust to luck.”

  And luck proved to be a trustworthy ally. The Yorkist army formed into ranks: Edward had command of the right flank, Fauconberg the left and Warwick himself the centre. As they advanced, the muzzles of the guns remained mysteriously silent. Nearer, they could see the gunners charging the weapons, but no shot erupted to tear them to pieces. At last, it hit Edward.

  “The powder! They’ve let the powder get wet!” he shouted, and with a whoop of triumph surged forward.

  Nor was the forward advance met with a heavy rain of arrows, from which he deduced that either they hadn’t many archers, or those archers had not adequately protected their bowstrings from the rain. A thin drizzle of arrows were the only missiles fired to halt the Yorkist attack. Still, it wasn’t going to be easy. The sides of the trench were steep, and the rain had turned them to mud making it virtually impossible to get a foothold. Dirt dug from the trench had been piled on the inner lip making it even higher, and it was a palisade of sharpened stakes surmounted it, through which pikemen and halberdiers could stab at those floundering on the slope. Even without cannon and archers, it seemed unassailable.

  But there was no help for it. Edward led his men down into the ditch and there discovered another hazard: brushwood had been placed on the bottom and was now under the water. Clever, he thought, as his men snagged their feet and wrenched their ankles and went down with a cry. Though he wore armour, he was as vulnerable as any; if he went down, there would be no getting up again without aid. And when he got across and tried to clamber up the other side, he found the soil there so slick with rain that he could make no upward progress.

  The luck that Warwick had counted on, and of which he’d already had a generous measure, had not yet run its course. When Edward and his men were floundering in the bottom of the trench, target practice for any archers standing above, they found to their surprise no arrows showering down on them. The pikes and halberds thrust through the palisade were not intended to repulse.

  “I’m Lord Grey of Ruthyn,” a voice shouted from the lip above. “Take hold, men. We’re not your enemies.”

  The weapons were being offered as an aid to climb the high bank. Uncertain, the men held back, fearing a trick, a trap. Edward was the first to go. “Follow me!” he shouted and grasped the head of a pike. Extremely heavy in his armour, he was able to contribute little; while someone below pushed, another above hauled him up the bank. His sword was still in his hand, and he immediately assumed a defensive position, but no one attempted to attack him. All around his men were being hauled up the bank and through a gap in the palisade. He thanked Lord Grey stiffly. Those who changed sides were always welcome; those who changed sides during battle were detestable and would always be suspect.

  Once Edward was inside the defences the battle was about over. Panicked, the enemy fled or tried to. Many more were drowned trying to flee across the river than were killed in the fighting. As at St. Albans, the list of noble dead was shocking: the Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Shrewsbury, Viscount Beaumont and Lord Egremont. Of these, only the Duke of Buckingham was regretted. He was given honourable burial in the Grey Friars Church in Northampton.

  When it was over, a search was made for Henry. He was found alone in his tent, abandoned by his servants and his keepers, not on his knees praying this time, but huddled in a corner weeping. When the Yorkist lords entered his tent, he was frightened of them. It was clear that he had been indoctrinated into believing they truly were his enemies and intended to do him harm. For some reason, perhaps because of his youth, or because he was York’s son and Henry still retained some vestigial faith in the father, he trusted Edward and clung to him with all the pathos of a lonely, bereft child.

  “Where is the Queen, Sire?” Edward asked him over and over.

  But not even for Edward would he reveal her whereabouts.

  Chapter 41

  July 1460 – London

  The Tower had come under a three-pronged attack. The King’s cannon shot from the south bank of the river; Lord Cobham and the sheriffs attacked from the town side and Sir John Wenlock, the Queen’s erstwhile chamberlain, aided by mariners and boatmen had set up a blockade at St. Katherine’s to prevent any excursions in search of food.

  Salisbury directed operations from the south bank, where some of London’s great bombards had been trundled across the bridge and set up near Battle Bridge, directly across from the Tower. The first shots had fallen short, sending up plumes of spray as they fell harmlessly into the river. The Tower’s cannon, lined up along the wharf, replied but these shots also fell short. It hadn’t taken long for the Yorkist gunners to find their range and elevation. Cannon fire damaged the wharf, and the gun emplacements there had to be abandoned. Then St. Thomas’s Tower, the foremost structure, took a direct hit. After that, the focus of the guns shifted a little to a section of the wall between that tower and the Byward Tower, a great barbicans guarding the landward entrance. The top of a small section of the outer wall had been knocked off.

  The noise was an assault on Anne’s ears as the cannon spat their missiles across the river and another little bit of that wall exploded in a shower of flying masonry. From the windows of her tower room, she had an excellent view of the river and had a guard stationed there at all times to warn her whenever there was activity around the cannon, presaging another bombardment. There was no access to the roof of the Wakefield Tower, but from the roof of the adjacent Garden Tower, she also had an excellent view of the river, and of the city

  On the day that St. Thomas’s Tower was hit, which was the day after her brother and cousin left London, she was playing a game of merels with Eleanor when the roar of cannon made her prick up her ears. When it came again, she was sure she was right. Jumping to her feet, upsetting the board, she rushed across the covered walkway between the two towers, emerging on the roof of the Garden Tower. Between the crenellations, she had a wide view that encompassed part of the city, including Coldharbour and Billingsgate, London Bridge, much of Southwark and the fields beyond the Marshalsea where the Yorkist army had camped.

  “My God! My God!” she cried, horrified.

  There were gun emplacements all around the Tower; the artillery on the roof of the Beauchamp Tower along the western wall was in action, shooting into the city. A fire had already broken out somewhere in the lanes between Thames and Tower Streets. Clouds of dense smoke stained the clear blue of the summer sky. Hovels crumbled as if a giant foot had stomped them. In the lull between one fusillade and the next Anne could clearly hear the sound of people shouting and screaming.

  “Not the best way to endear yourself to Londoners,” Jane remarked.

  Anne brushed past her, going down the worn stone stairs too quickly, ignoring Jane’s pleas to be careful, and emerged into the Tower precincts, where she at once espied Lord Scales. He was among a group of others sitting on the grass outside the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, laughing merrily at the antics of a chained monkey, who wore the purple vestments of a bishop, complete with a high mitre that leant tipsily to one side. Anne marched over until she was directly in front of him, blocking his view. The sight of him enjoying himself while inflicting suffering on London only increased her fury.

  “My lord, your men are firing on the city.”

  “I am well aware of that, Madam,” he retorted, trying to peer round her skirts to see what the monkey was doing. There was another loud burst of laughter.

  “I demand that you order them to stop!”

  “I will do so when I determine the citizens have been punished sufficiently.”

  “My lord, those people are not your enemies. They are innocent, shopkeepers and tradesmen, going about their business, the elderly and infirm, women and children,” Sh
e clenched her fists, trying to control her temper, without success. “You are attacking the vulnerable because you haven’t the courage to go out and fight your true enemy.”

  The monkey screeched. Heads turned to look in Anne’s direction. It was a gross insult to impugn a man’s courage, and she knew it. But at least she had got his attention. In spite of his bulk, he shot to his feet, grabbed her by the upper arm and hustled her through the open doorway of the chapel, empty at that time of day.

  “Take your hands off me, you lout!” Anne spat, wrenching her arm from his bruising grip. He let her go but stood towering over her, as if to intimidate her, which he didn’t succeed in doing. Seldom had she been so angry, and anger made a stout shield.

  “Because you are his Grace of Exeter’s wife, I have treated you with respect,” he said, standing so close he showered her with his spittle. “But I won’t allow you to screech at me like a fishwife in front of my people. Don’t forget which side you’re on, Madam, and don’t waste your sympathy on people who are the enemies of the King quite as much as those firing on us from Southwark. London is nothing but a putrid, stinking cauldron of treachery and deserves what it is getting.”

  “You’re a fool, my lord. If common compassion won’t move your wretched heart, at least give some thought to what is likely to happen to you after the Tower falls.”

  With that parting shot, she returned to her chamber and was relieved to realise that the bombardment of the city seemed to have stopped.

  It was inevitable that the Tower would fall, if not through assault, then because of lack of food. Of course, no one had had the forethought to lay in any extra supplies before so many hundreds of extra mouths had converged there. Bartholomew James’ request to the earls had been turned down, and already there was no meat or fish, and rations had been imposed.