According to the courier, their armies had converged by agreed-upon arrangement at Banbury, but there they’d quarreled about billeting their troops. Stafford had become so enraged he’d pulled his men out, gone on ahead. Herbert was thus alone when the army of Robin Redesdale fell upon him without warning. He fought valiantly but by the time Stafford was able to bring his men back to Herbert’s aid, it was too late. Redesdale was victorious and Stafford found himself facing not only Redesdale but the Earl of Warwick, who arrived in time to complete the destruction of the two Yorkist armies.
Hastings had cursed with rare savagery at the tale. Edward, however, had said nothing, had moved to the window, staring down into the courtyard as the precious moments drained away, one by one.
“Ned, you did hear me?”
Edward turned back to face the room. “Yes, Will, I heard you. But where would you have me go?”
“Back toward Nottingham, north to Fotheringhay. Anywhere, Ned, but here!”
“Do you truly think I’d ever reach either, Will?”
“I don’t know. But what other choice have you?” Will moved toward the younger man, said, “Your Queen has given you only daughters, Ned. If you die, the crown passes to George of Clarence. Warwick’s new son-in-law.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Will,” Edward said, and for the first time a roughness crept into his voice.
Richard bit his lip until he tasted blood. He wanted to cry out that Will was wrong, that Warwick was not capable of such an act. He couldn’t.
The door was thrown back with such violence that they all jumped. John Howard hastened into the room. He always looked somber; now, however, his face looked like nothing so much as an alabaster death-mask, ravaged with lines and crevices and hollows.
“Our men are deserting,” he said bluntly. “By the scores. Word’s spread of Herbert and Stafford’s defeat, and that Neville’s approaching Olney with an army thrice the size of ours. Most of them aren’t willing to wait for him.”
Will swore, but Edward only shrugged. “Who can blame them?” he said dispassionately.
“Name of God, Ned!” Will was staring at him. “I’ve never known you to surrender without a struggle. Are you going to put your head in Warwick’s noose yourself? We can at least make a run for it! What have we to lose?”
Richard was no less perplexed than Will. He didn’t think this was like Ned, either. He crossed to his brother, said in a low voice husky with urgency, “Will’s right, Ned. Let’s try for Fotheringhay…please.”
Edward looked into the boy’s eyes, saw the desperation in their depths. “Easy, lad. I’ve no intention of sticking my neck meekly in our cousin’s noose, as Will puts it. Don’t panic on me now, though. If I’m to keep my head, I need you and Will to keep yours.”
Richard nodded wordlessly, and Edward looked toward Will.
“The last time we went hunting in Great Epping, this past May…do you remember, Will? The hounds flushed a day-old fawn. Tell Dickon what did happen to it.”
Will was bewildered. “It froze with fear, didn’t run. Ned, I don’t see—”
“Tell him of the dogs, Will. What did they do?”
“Nothing. They began to bark and circle about in confusion.”
Richard felt a glimmer of comprehension. “Because they expected flight?”
“Exactly, Dickon. Now, tell me what would have happened had the fawn tried to flee.”
Will now saw, too. “It would’ve been torn to pieces,” he said slowly. He frowned, leaned across the table. “Ned, what do you have in mind?”
The corner of Edward’s mouth twitched, in what was not a smile. “Staying alive, Will. Staying alive.”
“I think we’d be better off chancing flight,” Will said, but without conviction.
Richard understood exactly how he felt; a man could hardly be expected to muster any enthusiasm for such a choice. Edward, who had a smattering of Spanish picked up from a Spanish girl in Calais, had taught Richard a proverb that he rather fancied, “Entre la espada y la pared.” Between the sword and the wall. Richard had liked it, too. Until now.
He bit his lip again, felt a twinge of pain. To him, flight was still the lesser of evils; his instinctive preference would always be for action, even if ill advised.
He opened his mouth, and Edward, who read him easily, as always, shook his head.
“No, Dickon. What good would you do me caged in the same cell? Let’s just hope our cousin the Archbishop sees you as too young to matter, and remembers, as well, that Will is his brother-in-law.” With a sudden flash of strained irony. “I can wish now, Will, that you’d been a more loving husband to your Kate,” he said tightly, and Will grimaced in a game attempt at a smile, one that didn’t quite make it.
Richard watched his brother in awe, marveling at Edward’s icy composure—until Edward reached over to claim the wine flagon and in pouring himself a full cup, spilled wine freely over the table, even onto the floor, with a hand nowhere near as steady as his voice.
George Neville, Archbishop of York, felt his stomach muscles contract as he came in sight of the village of Olney. His visor was up, but the helmet was stifling. Sweat soaked his hair; his padded tunic was sodden, chafed him unbearably. He was not accustomed to armor, felt confined and awkward. Above all, he felt fear, fear for what he might find in Olney.
In his discomfort, he sought release in anger, anger directed at his brother, awaiting him in Coventry. He was no soldier; this should have been undertaken by Warwick, not him. Conveniently forgetting for the moment that the suggestion had been his, that he’d thought he could better persuade Ned to yield without a struggle than Warwick or, God forbid, George of Clarence.
That was what frightened him so, the thought that Ned would offer resistance. What if he refused to submit? What if he were killed in the violence that was bound to follow? The Archbishop was well aware that regicide was a mortal sin in the eyes of the common people. He had no desire to go down in English history as the priest who’d killed a King. Let Warwick have that dubious honor, he thought grimly, if such was his intent. He didn’t know what his brother meant to do, was not sure he wanted to know. He did know what Johnny would do, however, if Ned died in his custody. Johnny would never forgive him.
He turned in his saddle, signaled for water; he wondered if men in battle were consumed with thirst like this. He thrust the flask aside, raked his spurs into the side of his mount so that it sprang forward, lengthened stride. He was desperately determined to take Ned prisoner, at any cost. He had no choice. They’d gone this far; they dare not back down. Ned had to be taken.
But there kept flashing before his eyes a truly terrifying image. Ned defiant, having to be seized at swordpoint. He could see it as if it had already happened, see the struggling bodies, the village street dark with blood, the air thick with dust stirred up by panicked horses. Ned was England’s King; if men were to see him dragged to his horse like a felon, what would their reaction be? He cursed Ned for his plight, cursed Warwick, too; he was much too agitated to think of prayer.
His inner turmoil was such that he was slightly queasy as they rode into Olney. The narrow streets of the village were packed with people. Confused yet curious faces stared up at him. Soldiers of the White Rose of York mingled among the villagers; they looked neither confused nor curious, merely afraid, and in a few cases, hostile.
Edward stood in the doorway of the inn, flanked by Richard and Will Hastings, watching as the Archbishop rode into the courtyard. Hastings was grim; Richard had the taut stillness of a colt confronting the unknown, rigid when his every instinct was to bolt. Edward, however, was impassive; the Archbishop could read nothing in his face.
He reined in his mount, not in the least assured by the sight of so many people in the courtyard—citizens, soldiers, even the parish priest. Edward had carefully provided an audience for this encounter. With increasing unease, the Archbishop wondered why.
“Welcome to Olney, my lord Archbishop
.”
“Your Grace is most kind.”
His response had been an automatic acknowledgment of sovereignty, but he did not know what to say next. This was a situation totally beyond his experience. There are no guidelines, he thought morosely, for capturing a King. It occurred to him that he should ask for Edward’s sword, then saw Edward wasn’t wearing one. He sat his horse in the courtyard of the inn, under the eyes of wondering townspeople and watchful soldiers, and tried to get a grip upon his raw nerves.
Edward moved forward, came to stand at the Archbishop’s stirrup. He reached out, began to stroke the arched neck of the other’s mount.
“I assume you wish me to accompany you, Cousin?”
The Archbishop knew Edward could see how sweet and sweeping his relief was; he didn’t care. “Yes,” he said quickly, but keeping the presence of mind to pitch his voice as low as Edward’s had been. “I think that would be advisable, Ned.”
Edward stared at him and then raised his hand. One of his men emerged from the stables, leading a fractious white stallion. At the Archbishop’s look of surprise, Edward said evenly, “I saw no reason to delay your journey. I knew you’d not want to tarry in Olney.”
The Archbishop nodded dumbly, unable to believe all was going so smoothly. He watched intently as Edward walked toward his mount, as if expecting his cousin to spring some last-moment treachery.
Edward reached for the reins, pausing in the act of mounting to glance back over his shoulder.
“I see no reason for Lord Hastings and the Duke of Gloucester to accompany us, do you, my lord?” he queried, as all eyes in the crowd turned with his words toward Richard and Hastings.
“No, Your Grace, I do not,” the Archbishop agreed hastily. “Of course Lord Hastings and His Grace of Gloucester may remain in Olney if they choose.”
Once he saw Edward mounted beside him, saw Edward was truly going to ride willingly from Olney with them, he permitted himself an audible escape of breath, began to feel in control of the situation for the first time since riding into the village.
“However, I must insist, my liege, that Earl Rivers and his sons do come with us.”
“That will not be possible.”
All complacency vanished, was supplanted by tension. The Archbishop forgot the need to preserve the fiction of civility, said in a voice suddenly shrill, “You are not now in a position to tell me what is or isn’t possible, my lord!”
There were murmurings among the villagers at that. They did not think this was the proper tone to take with the King, even if the speaker did happen to be His Eminence, the Archbishop of York, and the King’s kinsman. Edward’s jaw muscles tightened noticeably, but he said only, “You misunderstand me, my lord Archbishop. What I did mean was that my father-by-marriage and his sons are not in Olney. Otherwise, they’d have been no less willing than I to accept your hospitality.” And for the first time, he allowed himself an instant of expressive emotion; a tight bitter smile twisted his mouth.
The Archbishop stared at him. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but I feel I must ascertain that for myself.”
Edward shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, as if it were a matter of indifference, watched without expression as the Archbishop’s men shoved past Richard and Hastings, entered the inn. Only then did he let his eyes seek those of his brother and Lord Chamberlain.
The inn suddenly emptied of people. Most were hastening from the courtyard to follow the progress of the Archbishop and the King through the village, watching until the last of the soldiers had disappeared down the road that led west, toward Coventry.
Richard and Will Hastings stood in silence in the deserted courtyard. Richard had been grasping the hilt of his dagger, clutching it as if it were a lifeline. Now, as his hold suddenly slackened, his fingers began to tingle with the returning rush of blood. He flexed them absently, and then looked down at the dagger as if becoming aware of it for the first time. It slipped smoothly from its sheath, a beautiful lethal weapon, slender of blade and jeweled of hilt, engraven with a tusked boar.
Suddenly he was running, across the courtyard and out to the village well. He didn’t pause, leaned over, and dropped the dagger down into the depths of the well. The water closed over it at once, with hardly a ripple. As he watched, the surface smoothed over, so that none could tell it had been disturbed at all.
11
Warwick Castle
August 1469
The night was unbearably hot. Edward sat up, unfastened his shirt. It didn’t help. He leaned over, began to rummage through the stack of books piled on the floor by the bed. He selected several at random, settled back against the pillows.
The first one he opened was a slim volume bound in Moroccan leather, a thirteenth-century Latin poem, The Debate of the Body and the Soul. He began to read.
Thou, that were ever wont on prancing steed
To ride abroad, by country or by town;
Thou, that wert known for many a shining deed
Of high emprise, a knight of fair renown;
How are thy swelling honors stricken down,
Thy heart of lion-daring lowly bowed!
Where now is thy imperious voice, thy frown
Of withering hate? Thou, that wert so proud,
What dost thou lying here, wrapt in a vulgar shroud?
Edward laughed, with considerable bitterness. A good question, that last. Why, indeed, was he lying here in a stifling bedchamber in his cousin’s castle? Because he’d been a bloody trusting fool, that was why. How could he have been duped by that Robin of Redesdale ruse? How could he have been so gullible?
Where is thy arras stiffening with gold,
Thy couches all with gorgeous hangings strewed,
The ambling jennets, and thy destrier bold,
The hawks and hounds, that came to thee for food?
Where now the troops of friends that round thee stood?
That was another intriguing question. He’d have given a great deal to know the answer, to know the whereabouts of his friends, his supporters. Had the entire country passively acquiesced in his captivity? What of London? He’d always been well liked in London; had the citizens meekly submitted to Warwick’s assumption of authority?
He slammed the book shut. That was the worst, the not knowing. The utter isolation. For eleven days now, he’d had no contact with the outside world, knew no more of what was happening in his own realm than he did of the goings-on in Cathay.
His own realm. A rare jest, that! At the moment, he had no more control over events than that pitiful fool reading his prayer missals in the Tower. It was four years now since Harry of Lancaster had fallen into Yorkist hands, and it was said he seemed more content in confinement than ever he had in the days of his kingship. Edward wondered if it had occurred to his cousin Warwick that he held no less than two Kings of England in his power. Doubtless, it had. That was just the sort of irony to appeal to Warwick’s monumental pride.
Yet had it not been for that very pride, Edward was convinced, he’d have been dead these eleven days past. It was Warwick’s vanity, his glorified image of himself, that had stayed his hand, kept him from murder. For the moment.
Edward believed Warwick was no more eager than the Archbishop of York to take upon himself the onus of killing an anointed King. But he knew Warwick, knew he’d have done it had he felt no other choice was open to him. He was alive now because he’d taken his cousin by surprise with his surrender, with his willingness to accede to Warwick’s wishes, to sign what he was told to sign, to play the puppet King. All under the guise of flawless courtesy, the gracious host and the grateful guest. It was a deadly little game he and his cousin were playing. How long it could last, he didn’t know, doubted that Warwick did, either.
He reached for another book, flipped through it listlessly.
Winter rouses all my grief;
Branches strip til they are bare,
And sighing in sorrow, I despair
That earthly pleas
ures come to nothing.
Seed I planted green now withers,
Jesus, your high purpose show;
Stave off Hell, for when I go
From here, and where, I do not know.
That was too much. Edward yielded to impulse, sent the book sailing across the room. It slammed into the door, and the voices in the outer chamber ceased at once. He didn’t doubt his “bodyguards” were alarmed, wondering how their King was amusing himself. Amusing himself! Christ, he was going mad with sheer boredom. In some ways, that was even worse than the uncertainty of what each dawning day might hold. He’d never experienced a period of forced inactivity before, had never before been denied those pleasures he’d always taken for granted.
He closed his eyes, put off summoning a servant for a while longer. Warwick saw that his needs were well served, had arranged for a man to act as his body squire. Edward did not credit that to Warwick’s generosity. He knew that as long as he was cooperating, it was in Warwick’s interest to preserve the aura of kingship.
After a few moments, he sat up again, shoved the pillow back in shape. Not that all his needs were being served. Except for rare bouts with illness or during campaigns, this was the longest that he’d gone without a woman in his bed. And now, more than at any other time in his life, he needed the relief, the distraction. He should remind his cousin that it was customary to offer a condemned man one last meal!
Not surprisingly, such thoughts brought Elizabeth to his mind. He wasn’t all that worried for her physical safety, for he did not think Warwick would harm a woman. She must be frantic, though, must be wild with fear. And with more reason than any others knew. She’d joined him briefly at Fotheringhay last month, and had told him then that she thought she might be with child.
She still hadn’t been sure, and none had been told. Thank God Jesus for that! The only one he’d mentioned it to was Dickon, and the boy was bright enough to hold his tongue. No, it was best if Warwick did not know Lisbet was breeding again, that she might be carrying the son who would take from George his one dubious distinction, that he stood between Edward’s little girls and the throne.
The Sunne in Splendour Page 19
