This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  “Lord George was so brave,” Anne said, as they settled back into their seats.

  “That child,” Cecily said with a sigh. “Sometimes – no, often – he can be thoroughly exasperating, but he’s always capable of surprising one. Is it because he’s usually so badly behaved that his good behaviour, by contrast, takes us completely by surprise and inclines us to overlook all the past bad behaviour?”

  “One thing we can say for sure: He’ll always be unpredictable.”

  “Perhaps capricious would be a better word,” Cecily said wryly.

  She looked out of the window without seeing. “Did I do the right thing?”

  “You did the only thing you could do, my lady. Neither rank nor youth is proof against the wickedness of the Queen and those who serve her,” the nurse replied with asperity. For almost twenty years she had guided the first tottering steps of the York children. Edmund had been one of her nurslings.

  It was full daylight now. Away from the river, the fog had lifted, and Cecily could see men prowling the streets in twos and threes, armed, shouting, menacing. Not that she was afraid. In London, the arms of York displayed on the door of the carriage were all that were needed to assure her safety.

  With another sigh, she drew the leather blind down and signalled Anne to do likewise on the other side. “There’s going to be trouble,” she said tersely.

  The carriage reached Baynard’s castle without incident and Cecily, and the nurse alighted. As soon as they entered the hall, Anne, Warwick’s fluttery wife, hurried over.

  “Aunt Cecily, where have you been?”

  “I have been to the docks. George and Richard are on a ship bound for Burgundy.”

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t done that! My lord was against it. He won’t be pleased.”

  “Pleasing your lord,” Cecily said in freezing tones, “was not my primary concern.”

  Feeling that icy blast, Anne wisely decided to say no more. “No, of course not. But I’m glad you’re back. I have received wonderful news. My lord is alive and is on his way west to meet your son. It’s certain this time. A messenger directly from him is in the kitchen right now.” Anne clasped her hands to her bosom in transports of delight.

  “You are fortunate,” said Cecily, and Anne nodded, too self-centred to grasp the deeper meaning.

  “And foolish. How could I have doubted him?”

  She had been distraught, nearly hysterical when the first news reached London that Warwick had been killed in the battle. For three days she had lain in her bed, pleading to be allowed to die, while her women pressed cold cloths to her brow and begged her not to despair. Cecily realised for the first time how very much Anne loved her husband, adored him, intensely, passionately and to the exclusion of everyone else. For she spared not a thought for her two little daughters during that agonising time when she believed Warwick dead. When later news said he was alive and would make his way to Calais, her tearful reprieve had been as pitiful to watch as her grief.

  “That is good news,” Cecily agreed, but she was thinking of Edward rather than Warwick. Her agony had been almost as acute as Anne’s when she believed Warwick dead and alleviated not at all when rumour said he had gone to Calais, for she greatly feared that she was about to lose another son to the terrible Queen and didn’t think she could bear it. Even though Warwick had lost his battle and Edward had won his, she felt a great deal better knowing that her son would not have to face Margaret alone.

  Her chamberlain appeared at her side. “I wish you had gone with your sons, Madam,” he said mournfully.

  “We’ve been over this already, William. Sending the boys to Burgundy was the prudent thing to do. Had I gone it would have been an act of cowardice. My duty is to remain here and guard the interests of Edward as best I can and, as you know, I have never shirked a duty in my life. Now, why are there armed men on the streets? Just yesterday they agreed to stay quiet while the negotiations proceeded.”

  “Madam, this morning the city received an order to proclaim the Lord Edward a traitor,” said Sir William in his usual aloof manner, but then he permitted himself a small smile. “I imagine this is the citizens’ way of letting the magistrates know that they will obey no orders coming from the Queen.”

  “I see. All right,” Cecily said crisply. “I want the house closed up tight. Keep everyone within. No one is to be allowed in or out without my leave.”

  The previous day, Mayor Lee called on everyone to stay quietly indoors so that the King and Queen could enter the city without incident. This brought the citizens surging into the streets, armed and spoiling for a fight as a demonstration of their power. The city fathers were far from understanding the will of the people.

  ……….

  The following day, Cecily again ordered the house closed up tight. Mayor Lee had instructed everyone to stay home in spite of it being Sunday. But the citizens were in defiant mood. A mob of them congregated at the Standard in Chepe, shouting and waving fists in the air, cursing the Queen, her henchmen, and the city fathers. They swore that never, never, never, while there was breath in their collective body, would the army of the She-wolf set foot in their beloved city. They would put their faith in Edward of York, who was now reported in the Cotswolds and coming fast. The merchants and wealthier sort were at home ready to defend their valuables from Scots marauders or fellow citizens alike. The mob was composed of the poorer sort, with scarcely a decent weapon between them but armed with the tools of trade or household, or simply a stout piece of wood broken from a tree branch. They chose a vociferous brewer as their leader and milled about the Standard, aimless and restless, a mob looking for victims, an army with no enemy to fight.

  Then came news of just the sort for which they were eager. Sir Baldwin Fulford, that doughty Devonshire knight, who had promised his head if he didn’t destroy the Earl of Warwick, and four hundred men had arrived at Aldgate and demanded entrance. Since negotiations were still going on, in earnest at least on the part of the city fathers, even Mayor Lee was outraged by this presumption and went to Aldgate in person to inform Fulford that they would never enter with his consent. After which Fulford’s men began to plunder the suburbs, thereby confirming the citizens’ worst fears. Everyone in the vicinity of the Standard heard the roar as the enraged Londoners, perhaps fifty in all swarmed through the streets banging on doors and calling forth others to join them. They numbered in the hundreds by the time they poured through Aldgate and fell on the hated Northmen – they were all Northmen now – with such fury that Fulford’s men flung down their weapons and scattered at the run, leaving a few dead and wounded behind. Aldgate slammed shut again and the keys seized along with the keys to all the other gates, by men more determined than ever that the Queen’s army should never set foot within their walls.

  Mayor Lee was forced to reassess his position. He could not ignore this final message from the citizens. As a partisan of the Queen, he fancied himself being remembered in the annals of his city as the mayor who handed the capital peacefully over to the King after his great travails. But he was first and foremost a Londoner and loved the city of his birth quite as much those of his colleagues who were urging defiance.

  He was reported to have said to the other councillors, ‘Defiance it is then. And God help us all.’

  Chapter 57

  February 1461 – Chipping Norton

  As he listened to the appalling series of blunders that culminated in Warwick’s defeat, Edward of York found it hard to equate such a disaster with his mighty cousin. Warwick, who had not only been successful in everything he had undertaken but brilliantly so. Warwick, the popular hero, the man the commons called ‘the lodestar of chivalry’, friend of princes, and the most accomplished knight in England. He had failed and, typically, his failure was every bit as spectacular as his successes.

  He liked to boast of his luck. It had certainly deserted him at St. Albans. What happened? What had he done wrong? Had he done anything wrong, or was it just that his luck
had turned? There was a reason, or reasons, for such a terrible debacle, and Edward tried to find them because the only thing to be done with mistakes was to learn from them.

  Well, there were those handguns. Edward was sufficiently a man of his times to be suspicious of new-fangled weapons, and he had thought Warwick would be too, having been trained with the trusty sword and the trusty axe in the arts of conventional warfare. What was he thinking to equip men going into battle with a new weapon without sufficiently testing it first? And obviously he hadn’t tested it first, or he would have realised how unreliable it was. But the guns had been distributed to only a few and could not be entirely responsible for what happened. Then there were those infernal devices with which he had littered his front. Edward pounded his fist into his palm at the sheer idiocy of such a tactic. An army could only move in two directions, forward or back – to move sideways or to pivot were much more difficult undertakings, certainly best avoided once battle was engaged. In placing those devices at his front Warwick had robbed his army of its manoeuvrability, ensuring that its only possible movement was in retreat. If it was winning and wanted to gain ground, it couldn’t without being fouled by its own defences. If it wanted to turn about, which was the case at St. Albans, a difficult manoeuvre became a hazardous one. How was it Warwick didn’t know that? It was only common sense. But this, too, was not wholly responsible for the defeat.

  Was the fact that Margaret had stolen a march on him his fault also? No, not entirely. She wouldn’t have been able to do so if scouts had kept him properly informed of her movements, as they were supposed to do. The fact that she had hit him on the flank was something he couldn’t have anticipated without proper report of her movements. But, with archers in the town, John Neville two miles north of them and Warwick himself two miles further still, he had obviously been spread too thin and, once again, proper intelligence had not been forthcoming. Margaret had the superior numbers. Why, then, had Warwick split his force into three smaller ones making easy pickings of them all? He thought he knew the answer to that, the only conceivable answer: Warwick had hoped to catch the enemy in a pincer between the two forces, a good strategy in the circumstances, but it had all gone horribly wrong because, once again, proper intelligence had not been forthcoming. Blame the scouts, yes, but it was the responsibility of the one in command to make sure the scouts did their job right.

  As he considered these matters, Edward came to a conclusion that staggered him. It was hubris had lost the second battle of St. Albans. Warwick wanted victory, yes, and being Warwick he probably never once doubted that he would have it; but more than that, he wanted victory on a scale and with the grandiosity that men had come to associate with the name Warwick. It was a shocking thing for Edward to discover that his idol had feet of clay.

  Was it possible to recover from this catastrophe, coming so soon after Wakefield? He saw now that Mortimer’s Cross was a small victory, entirely eclipsed by the major defeat that was St. Albans. Was there any hope? Would those who had given their support to York through all the changes of capricious fortune now decide, like the treacherous Lovelace, that they had backed the wrong horse and hasten to make overtures to Margaret? Or flee overseas with their valuables? And what of those who had changed sides? They would be scrambling for safety now. So many must already be feeling the bite of the axe on their necks.

  Even in the midst of this catastrophic time, Edward found himself thinking that there were reasons to thank God for small blessings. The Earl of Warwick liked to be admired. He expected it and usually deserved it. So Edward was vastly relieved that he heard the news of St. Albans from a messenger before having to face Warwick himself. As gifted as he was in the art of dissembling, he was not at all certain he would have been able to sit through a recitation of such blunders and still maintain a mien of respect and admiration. He was grateful to be allowed some time to school himself before his cousin joined him at Chipping Norton in the Oxfordshire Cotswolds.

  Edward’s disappointment in his idol did not survive more than an hour in his company. They exchanged tales of battle while Warwick bathed and changed, and by the time he had finished Edward was thinking: What a man! Look at him: thoroughly trounced – and by a woman, God save us! – yet unbowed, proud as ever, indefatigable. Nothing can put a dent in that colossal confidence. He’s probably already got a new stratagem devised. And as he gazed around his camp, looked into the faces of his men, even his friends, he saw how the despondency that had assailed them after hearing the news of St. Albans had fallen away. They picked up their feet now, straightened their shoulders, smiled more readily. There was a new air of optimism in the camp simply because of Warwick’s presence.

  “Have you any news of John?” Edward asked, having heard none himself.

  “Taken prisoner,” said Warwick glumly. “Again. Jesu, he was free less than half a year and now…”

  He’d been ransomed before, but with Edmund’s death, things had changed. Who could say that any ransom would be enough to save his life?

  “He’d better be safe,” Warwick growled. “Luckily I hold Somerset’s brother. If anything happens to John, I’ll ‘head the bastard myself. I happen to be right fond of my brother – even if he does spend too much time with our enemies!”

  They exchanged scraps of news from London and various friends. Then Warwick said portentously, “Edward, I think it’s time you and I reviewed our position. We need a new strategy.”

  Unable to help himself, Edward laughed. “Ah, cousin, you do have a talent for understatement!”

  “Your father – God assoil him – often accused me of being rash and impulsive. To which I plead guilty. But sometimes quick action is what’s needed. I do believe if The Bitch had left her army at St. Albans and marched on London right away with only Henry and a small escort, she would have been let in. By delaying, she has given the citizens time to pluck up their courage to resist her. Good thing for us she did.”

  “More than that,” Edward added. “By opening up negotiations, she has given them to understand that there is something to negotiate. There isn’t! What right do lowborn citizens have to prevent their King from entering his capital? None, but she has given them that right.”

  “They must know, these doughty warriors, that one day the King will return to power, and that means the Queen will too. One day the gates will have to be opened to their sovereign lord and lady. What do you suppose will happen to our doughty warriors then?”

  Edward drew a finger across his throat. “No question.”

  “Gruesomely, for, as you said, they are lowborn. Which would be a terrible pity, because they’ve made history, these fellows. They’ve done something that has never been done in this country of ours before. They’ve kept the King out of his capital. It’s a rejection of sorts, don’t you think?”

  Edward leant forward, aware of nuances and undercurrents in that statement that he couldn’t quite pin down. “What are you getting at, Cousin?”

  Upon entering the tent, Warwick had immediately dismissed Edward’s companions. Edward hadn’t objected, in part because he was used to his cousin’s high-handedness and also because there was much to be discussed and very little time in which to act.

  Warwick poured himself a cup of ale from an earthenware pitcher, and drank deeply, taking his time. “I’ve always been rather contemptuous of Henry,” he said reflectively. “Everyone lauds him for his gentleness, his piety and goodness. They don’t even hold it against him that his wits go a-wandering from time to time. He gets no blame for all the ills that beset the kingdom – no, they’re the fault of his ministers, his wife, the King of France, your father, me, anybody but that poor fool. But he’s the one supposed to be ruling; he’s the supreme authority. Who else should be blamed? We have suffered a great deal because of Henry’s unfitness to rule. I don’t just mean you and I but also the entire country. I could forgive him more easily if he tried to rule and failed at it, like so many kings, but he doesn’t even try! And he d
oesn’t have the wherewithal to select good men – men like your father – to rule for him, but leaves it to that conscienceless bitch and a parcel of rapacious incompetents, whom I hardly need to name!”

  “My father always felt Henry wanted to be a good king and just needed guidance, a firm and fair hand to show him the right road. Instead, he got Margaret and Somerset and the like.”

  “But he changed his mind in the end, didn’t he? He saw that he had no choice but to take the crown himself.”

  “And that was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it?” Edward said. “That’s what has brought us to this point today.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was.” Warwick smiled enigmatically. “But we are far from the end, fair Cousin. Come on, let’s take a walk and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

  There had been more snow, and the ground underfoot was a mixture of mud and slush into which their boots sank. The air was chilly, but they wrapped themselves closely in their cloaks and pulled on gloves.

  “It has been a thoroughly rotten winter,” Warwick said conversationally as they walked between the tents. “Wakefield, St. Albans, and, oh, the weather! The old ones are saying they can’t remember one as cold or with so much snow. Let us hope spring will bring better things.”

  They came to the edge of the camp. Just beyond it was a stone wall beside the road to Chipping Norton. Warwick hopped up onto the stile, with the idea of walking into the little market town, but the ditch beyond was full of foul, stagnant water, so he sat down on the stile.

  “Do you think it will?” Edward asked as he perched on the wall. He was more than willing to be persuaded that their cause was not lost.