The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  It was one of the most hauntingly beautiful ceremonies of their Church, but never had it seemed so impressive to Francis. As one by one the candles were symbolically quenched, until at last the chapel was lit by a single solitary flame, he felt a foreboding that owed more to superstition than common sense. Fool, he chided uneasily, but as he glanced at Richard, he saw that his friend, too, looked sobered, absorbed in thoughts no less disquieting than his own. The battle, he realized, was very much on all their minds, and there was comfort in that understanding, for anxiety shared was anxiety easier to bear.

  Once back in the presence chamber, he stood alone against the wall nearest the window seat, listening as Edward conversed in low tones with Richard and Will. The talk, he noted, was still of strategy and artillery, and their faces were intent, preoccupied. After a whispered colloquy, Edward’s two stepsons moved closer; they’d been shaken by his quarrel with their mother and it still showed. Edward saw and beckoned with a smile; relief flooded their faces.

  Richard and Will drifted away, but Francis lingered within earshot as Edward continued to discuss his battle plans for the benefit of his stepsons, answering their questions as if they were queries posed by his battle captains.

  “We are to assemble tomorrow morn in St John’s Field,” he told the boys. “Warwick is now at St Albans with Exeter, Oxford, and his brother, Montagu. Tomorrow we march to meet them, for I’ve no intention of letting him pick the time and place, of letting him wait for Marguerite.”

  “And the command?” Dick Grey asked.

  “Fetch me pen and paper and I’ll show you,” Edward offered generously, and was soon sketching by candlelight a rude battle formation for the boy.

  “There now, do you see?” He gestured with the pen. “There are three wings, or ‘battles’ as they be called: the vanguard, the center, and the rearward, with additional men to be held in reserve, else you’d have no means of rallying should your line falter.” Again, Edward jabbed with the pen. “Will Hastings shall command the rear…there. And I’ll take that battle myself.”

  Dick leaned over, nodded. “But if you do take the center, then…”

  Thomas Grey gave his brother a scornful look. “Not the center, stupid…. He’ll take the van.”

  “I’m not likely to mistake the two,” Dick said, offended. “He did point to the center, Tom.”

  “He’s right, Tom, I did,” Edward confirmed, and Thomas gave him an uncertain look. He was hesitant to risk his stepfather’s amusement should he be wrong, but he was proud, too, of his battle lore, and he ventured a cautious objection.

  “But the van does lead the attack, can determine the outcome of the battle. If you or Lord Hastings do not command it, who, then? Lord Howard?”

  “No.” Ink dripped from Edward’s pen, blurring the battle lines. Following his gaze, Francis and the Grey boys saw that he was watching his brother.

  “It is my intent to entrust the vanguard to Dickon.”

  At sound of his name, Richard turned. Now he flashed a smile, but he alone seemed unaffected by Edward’s startling pronouncement. It was clearly no surprise to the men, but Francis saw it was no source of reassurance to them, either. John Howard looked even more somber than usual. Will Hastings, too, showed signs of misgivings, and George, for an unguarded moment, stared at Richard with a jealousy as bitter as it was betraying.

  But if Richard had any qualms about being entrusted with command of the vanguard in what was to be his first battle, it didn’t show. He and Edward were exchanging smiles of satisfaction, satisfaction they alone seemed to share.

  “And York is to have the victory,” Richard predicted, sounding so sure, so free of doubt, that Francis would have felt a touch of envy…had he not remembered the look on Richard’s face during Tenebrae.

  “Should God so will it, Richard,” the Duchess of York reminded him now.

  Acknowledging the rebuke, Richard dutifully crossed himself and tucked the silver pilgrim pledge back into his doublet.

  “I do believe the Lord will watch over York,” he assured his mother, and then he looked over at Edward, grinned.

  “And I’ll see to the vanguard for you, Ned,” he promised.

  Edward nodded slowly. “I know you will, Dickon,” he said, and after a moment, he laughed. “You damned well better, Little Brother, for all our sakes!”

  27

  Barnet Heath

  April 1471

  Easter Eve. A mile north of the village of Barnet, the army of the Earl of Warwick had taken up battle formation along Gladmore Heath. Warwick had gathered twelve thousand men to his standard of the Ragged Staff; his intelligence numbered the army of his cousin at no more than nine thousand. He’d given the center to his battle-wise brother, and John was now in position across the St Albans-Barnet Road. To John’s left lay the wing under the Duke of Exeter, stretching east from the road to the deep marshy hollow that dropped away toward Hadley Wood. West of the road was encamped the Lancastrian vanguard, to be led by Warwick’s brother-in-law the Earl of Oxford. And as his army spread out across the heath, Warwick set up a command post behind the lines, there to oversee the battle and to control the critical reserve.

  Daylight was lingering beyond its time, the sky above their camp painted in bold bright hues of crimson. John Neville was standing in the tent entrance, staring up at the spectacular sunset colors that were so successfully holding back the dark. There was a curious stillness in his pose, as if all his energies, all vitality, were being held in some strange abeyance of spirit, as if all of his inner being were absorbed now in this private purposeful intent, to watch as the last traces of light faded from the sky.

  From the bed, Warwick watched his brother. He should’ve liked to know what Johnny’s thoughts were during this silent sunset vigil on the eve of battle. No, that wasn’t true. Why lie to himself now? He did not want to know, had no intention of asking. The danger was always there that were he to ask, Johnny might tell him.

  God, he hoped he didn’t look as bad as did Johnny! Was this how Johnny had looked at Pontefract as his baffled men waited for the order that never came, the order that would have passed sentence of death on Ned and Dickon and the courageous but foolhardy few who’d followed them? Or was it the letter, the letter Ned had dispatched to Johnny at Coventry? All Warwick knew was that it had been in Ned’s own hand and Johnny had gone grey while reading it, like a man suffering from a wound that refused to heal, that kept on festering until marrow and blood so sickened on it that the body housed only the wasted flesh of mortal contagion.

  Ned’s offer. He didn’t truly need to be told what it had been. He knew. Had he been desperate enough to submit to Ned, his life alone would have been spared…no more than that. All else would be forfeit. But Ned would leave him his life and then claim credit for his magnanimity, for his mercy. Ah, yes, he’d have been pardoned; Ned would have seen to that. Johnny, though…Johnny would have been forgiven.

  “Dick?”

  He jerked his head up. John had turned from the deepening dusk, let the tent flap fall. Seeing he had Warwick’s attention, he said matter-of-factly, “Dick, I’ve been giving it some thought. It’s been my experience that the common soldiers are somewhat resentful that their lords do have such easy access to horses during a battle. While they know their commanders do fight on foot just as they themselves do, they know, too, that the horses are never far from reach should there be need of them. Yes, I know what you’re about to say…. That mounts are often needed to rally your men, or to regroup forces. But they’re used, too, to retreat if the battle does turn against you.”

  He hesitated and then said bluntly, “We cannot afford that suspicion, Dick. Too many of our men don’t believe that either of us be truly pledged to Lancaster. I fear how willing they’ll be to fight for us if all the while they’ve suspicions that we might flee should fortune favor York.”

  “What you really mean, Johnny, is that a good portion of our Lancastrian allies think one or both of us might sw
itch over to York at an opportune moment,” Warwick said sourly, and John gave an imperceptible nod.

  “That, too,” he said quietly.

  “Well, then, what have you in mind?”

  “I’d move the horse park a good distance from the battlefield, far enough so there could be no doubts as to our commitment to this coming battle.”

  Warwick considered this in silence for some moments. John didn’t press him, seemed quite content to wait. At length, Warwick nodded.

  “Yes, there’s something in what you say. I’ll give orders to have the horses tethered in Wrotham Wood. It won’t be the first time, after all, that I’ve had to so act to reassure my men. I once killed my own horse to show I did mean to either prevail or die where I stood. A rather dramatic gesture, I grant you, but it did forestall a rout. You remember, Johnny?”

  “Yes,” John said, and smiled faintly. “You’ve told me of it often enough for it to have been burned into my brain! The skirmish at the Ferrybridge crossing, where Clifford was slain.”

  “Yes, that be the battle,” Warwick said swiftly, almost aggressively. “The day before Towton, it was. I was able to hold my men till Ned sent a second force to ford the river and come to our aid.”

  He’d made deliberate use of Edward’s name, was suddenly angry, unfocused intense anger that for the moment spared no one, not even John. He was aware only of a hazy determination not to spend this battle eve shrinking from ghosts, shying from phantoms.

  John said nothing. Nor did anything show in his face. He continued to look composed, tired and rather distant, as he had on each of the ten days since he’d joined Warwick in Coventry.

  The anger that had come to Warwick as abruptly and searingly as summer lightning now left only singed memory cells behind. In that moment, he came as close as he’d yet done to breaking the barriers of silence that rose up so relentlessly between them.

  He stared at John, thinking of the others. His brother George, who’d defected to York for the promise of a pardon. His son-in-law, who’d betrayed him on the Banbury Road. His great good friend, the King of France, the monarch who called him “dearest comrade” and “cousin” and had now come to terms with Charles of Burgundy. His allies of the moment: Oxford, who was wed to his sister yet trusted him not in the least, and Exeter, who’d accused him to his face of contemplating an accommodation with York. Only Johnny could he trust. Only Johnny had not betrayed him, would not betray him. Johnny, whose heart was with York.

  “Johnny, I do want you to know—”

  “I do,” John cut in hastily. “So there’s no need to talk of it. Is there?”

  “No,” Warwick agreed softly. “No, Johnny, there’s no need.”

  John began to speak then of military matters, began to talk of artillery and the need to have at least one cavalry contingent. Warwick concurred, and before long, they were joined by Exeter and Oxford. The conference continued. A late supper was served, went all but untouched as the men talked on, as the hours passed, as Vespers and then Compline sounded in the little church of Hadley, not a stone’s throw from the Lancastrian lines.

  Soon after dark descended, there was a brief flurry of excitement. Warwick’s scouts reported an unexpected encounter in the streets of Barnet with the Yorkist advance guard. Grimly, Warwick summoned his captains, told them to expect combat on the morrow. The Yorkist army was nearing Barnet.

  How near they were he did not then realize. Reaching the village at dark, Edward made a daring decision. Under cover of night, he ordered his men forward to take up battle positions. It was a difficult, unorthodox maneuver, was to have unforeseen consequences.

  At first, Edward reaped only good from his calculated gamble. Warwick’s guns roared; the night echoed to cannon fire. But Edward’s army was far closer than Warwick estimated. His artillery overshot, and Edward gave orders not to return the fire. His men settled down to pass the night.

  Soon after midnight, fog began to drift across the valley. The Whyte Boar banner that flew from Richard’s command tent hung sodden in the still air.

  Thomas Parr moved, nudged the blanket-clad form next to him. Tom Huddleston, like Thomas, had shared with Richard a boyhood at Middleham; he was the oldest of the three boys, had fought at the battles of Edgecot and Lose-Cote Field. Now he glanced over at Thomas, nodded. Thomas sat up, said softly, “My lord?”

  Richard turned his head, propped himself up on one elbow. “Tom?”

  “You’ve not slept at all. Should you like to talk?”

  Thomas couldn’t see Richard’s face in the shadows. There was silence; Warwick’s guns were stilled at last.

  Thomas rose to his knees, said with certainty, “His Grace the King did win Towton on Palm Sunday. Barnet shall be an Easter victory…by the grace of Almighty God and the service you shall do him tomorrow with the van.”

  Richard stirred, reached across the space that separated them. For a moment, he let his hand rest on Thomas’s shoulder.

  “Sleep while you can,” he said.

  Thomas lay back. “Good-night, my lord.” He closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. He knew that his companions didn’t sleep, either.

  Five A.M. The sun should have been climbing in the sky by now, but a damp grey darkness still blanketed Hadley Wood. During the night, dense fog had rolled in, thicker and heavier than any Richard had ever seen, even on the Yorkshire moors. His men were waiting, all eyes upon him. The chill of night had lingered; his breath frosted the air as he spoke. He looked to his battle captains, gave the signal to advance banner. His trumpets blared, the sound muffled, echoing eerily into the dawn dampness.

  But as the vanguard moved into the fog, it soon became apparent that something was wrong. To their left came stifled sounds of combat as the Yorkist center came together with John Neville’s line. But the hail of arrows their bowmen had loosed at random into the grey sea ahead went unanswered. They were advancing unchallenged, encountering no resistance.

  The ground was beginning to slope away from them; footprints pressed into the earth now oozed mud. With a jolt, Richard understood…all too well. In the dark, the vanguard had outflanked Exeter. They were far to his left, descending into the wide marshy ravine which had anchored Exeter’s position. If they could cross the ravine without detection, they’d come up on Exeter’s flank, and he’d not be expecting an assault from that direction. But if they were discovered while still in the ravine, the muddy marsh would run red with blood, Yorkist blood.

  Richard turned, saw that his men knew what had befallen them. There was no need to command silence. Grimly, they pressed ahead, blindly, into the darkness.

  The Earl of Oxford had demanded command of the vanguard and Warwick had acquiesced. Now as Oxford led his men against the Yorkist left wing, he learned at once what Richard was only belatedly discovering…that in the dark, the battle lines had gone awry. Just as the Yorkist van had outflanked Exeter, the Lancastrian van overlapped the wing commanded by Will Hastings.

  Oxford was luckier, however, than Richard; no treacherous ravine yawned between his men and the Yorkists. With triumphant yells, they erupted from the fog to smash without warning into Hastings’s flank.

  The Yorkists were thrown into disarray, recoiling before this unexpected assault upon their rear. Their line wavered and then gave way before Oxford. As Hastings and his battle captains tried desperately to rally them, the Yorkist left wing broke, disintegrated into flight.

  With Oxford’s troops in gleeful pursuit, they fled the field, casting aside weapons and shields as they ran. Hastings raged in vain. The frightened villagers of Barnet hastily barred their doors as panic-stricken soldiers suddenly stumbled into the cobbled narrow streets. Some sought shelter within the parish church; others stole horses and galloped the ten miles toward London, there to awaken Londoners with shouts of a Yorkist defeat. Oxford’s men soon lost interest in the kill and triumphantly fell to looting and pillaging in Barnet. The battle was less than an hour old and Edward’s left wing was destroyed. />
  George had accepted with poor grace Edward’s decision to entrust the van to Richard. Uncharacteristically prudent, he had contented himself with a few pointed comments as to Richard’s age and inexperience, but it had rankled. Not so much that he begrudged Dickon the honor, he assured himself, but because Ned had seen fit to deny him a command of his own. He knew damned well that Ned wanted him close at hand for one reason only: Ned didn’t trust him. Yes, he knew Ned’s suspicions, knew Ned feared he might desert to Warwick if the battle turned against York. And he resented it bitterly, that he should be so little trusted after he’d brought fully four thousand troops over to York, betrayed his father-in-law for Ned’s sake.

  His resentment had been dispelled, however, within the first five minutes of battle, as he found himself strangling for breath, assailed by the cries of dying men, the stench of blood and gutted entrails. He’d not known it would be like this, and for the first time in his life, he was thankful to stay close to his brother, to follow Ned’s lead. Now he’d not have changed places for his soul’s sake with Dickon, alone somewhere out there in the mists. What security there was in this suddenly savage world was to be found with Ned—Ned, who seemed to know no fear, towering above the other men, slashing a path with a sword that was bloody up to the hilt.

  George watched his brother in uncomprehending awe. He could understand Dickon’s cockiness; this was Dickon’s first battle, as it was his. But Ned had known! How in Christ’s Name had he been so composed yesterday, with the understanding of what they’d be facing come dawn?

  He stumbled over a prone figure, sprawled at an improbable angle on the turf; even more improbably, given the fact that he was virtually disemboweled, the man moaned. George stepped over him, plunged after Edward. The center seemed to be holding its own against John, but George knew the battle was not going well for York. The left wing had been routed; Hastings had taken to horse in a frantic attempt to rally his men, to check their flight before Oxford’s onslaught. The fighting was reported fiercest between Exeter’s men and Richard’s. Only ten minutes ago, a courier had materialized out of the fog with welcome word for Edward: “My lord of Gloucester bids me tell Your Grace that they do well…that you should hold your reserve.”