The Sunne in Splendour

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Tudor’s bodyguards were frantic. His standard-bearer wheeled about, spurred his mount into White Surrey, rising out of the saddle to strike. Richard twisted sideways and the blow glanced off his stallion’s armor. He was using his battle-axe now and caught the standard-bearer in the throat. The axe cleaved through the man’s gorget with murderous ease; death was mercifully quick. Richard’s axe swung a second time and the Dragon of Cadwallader went down into the dust.

  A Yorkist knight came careening into Francis’s stallion, almost knocking his horse to its knees. He recognized the other animal before he recognized the rider, a distinctively marked chestnut with mane and tail the color of flax, Rob’s favorite destrier. Rob was hauling at the reins, trying to turn his maddened mount away from Francis.

  “Stanley’s moving!” he shouted. “Get to Dickon, warn him!”

  Francis recklessly jerked up his visor. A sea of red was sweeping down upon them, Stanley’s hooded Cheshiremen.

  “Christ Jesus, no!” There was no fear, not yet, only a dazed disbelief. All around him, men were turning, yelling, cursing. With reinforcements on the way, Tudor’s beleaguered bodyguards were pulling back; Francis could no longer find Tudor.

  Richard was some yards away; he, too, had swung his stallion about. His isolation struck Francis like a physical blow. Shouting Richard’s name, he urged his stallion forward. His mount picked up speed, veered aside to avoid a dead horse, and shattered its cannon bone; Francis actually heard it snap. He had no time to react, not even to cry out. The ground dropped away and he pitched forward.

  He landed on his back, every bone in his body jarred by the force of his fall. Stunned, he lay motionless for several moments; there was a wild ringing in his ears and a warm wetness on his face. Blinded, dazed, he struggled to sit up and, in panic, yanked at his helmet until it came loose in his hands. Wiping away blood, he was able to see again, and suddenly he was fully conscious, he remembered all.

  Somehow, he got to his feet. He was alone; the battle had passed him by. But even as he lurched forward, Stanley’s cavalry slammed into the knights of Richard’s household, less than a hundred men against two thousand. It was like watching an avalanche, engulfing all in its path, engulfing his friends.

  “Oh, God, God no….” He fell, regained his feet. Richard’s banners still fluttered, St George and the Whyte Boar, but as he stumbled toward them, they disappeared from sight, were dragged down into the surging red tide. Francis cursed, sobbed, and then he saw White Surrey. The stallion was rearing up, forelegs flailing the air, teeth bared like some huge, savage dog.

  “Dickon! Christ, no!” Richard was utterly surrounded by Stanley’s soldiers, hemmed in on all sides. He’d lost his axe, was lashing out with his sword, gripping it with both hands and swinging it like a scythe as more and more men fought with each other to get close enough to strike at him, beating against his armor with mace and halberd. In a frenzy of fear and rage, White Surrey was going up again, and Francis saw a pike thrust upward, into the animal’s unprotected underbelly. The stallion screamed in agony and crashed heavily to earth, dragging Richard down, too. Stanley’s men closed in.

  Unable to absorb what he’d just seen, Francis struggled on, falling repeatedly, no longer feeling the pain. A horse came galloping toward him out of the melee and, reacting instinctively, he grabbed at the trailing reins. The shock all but wrenched his arms out of their sockets, but somehow he held on and, the weight of his armor acting much like an anchor, was able to bring the horse to a shuddering stop. For a time he could only cling to the saddle pommel, leaned heavily against the animal’s heaving side. The stallion’s saddle was smeared in red; even its mane was matted with blood. Francis stared at the blood, stared at the horse, a distinctively marked chestnut with mane and tail the color of flax. The reins slipped through his fingers; he stumbled backward.

  He caught movement to his right, saw a knight spurring his mount away from the slaughter the battle had become. At sight of Francis, the knight changed course abruptly, rode right for him. Francis had lost both sword and lance in his fall, had no weapon but a dagger; he made no move to unsheathe it, simply stood there and watched the knight come on.

  “Francis!”

  Expecting a sword-thrust, Francis blinked, looked up blankly at this unknown adversary who called him by name. The man’s visor was going up; the face within was ashen, familiar.

  Humphrey Stafford grabbed the reins of Rob’s horse, held it out to Francis. “Can you mount alone? For the love of Jesus, Francis, make haste!”

  Francis started to reach for the reins, stopped abruptly. “A sword…I need a sword.”

  “Francis, it be too late for that.” Humphrey glanced back over his shoulder and then swung down from the saddle. “Here, let me help you. Lean on me.”

  Francis backed away. “The battle….”

  “It’s over, Francis. He’s dead. They’re all dead. It’s over.”

  Francis shook his head. “No,” he said. “No.”

  29

  Sheriff Hutton

  August 1485

  Cecily raised her candle, stared down at her cousin. In sleep, Edward looked much younger than ten, looked as if his dreams were as troubled as his daylight hours. His face was wax-white, lashes matted and wet. She reached out, touched the flaxen hair. God pity him, so little love in his life. No wonder he’d given his heart so completely into Anne’s keeping. The hurt had yet to heal; he still grieved for her. And now, not six months later, his uncle, too, was dead, and what was to become of him?

  It was not a question Cecily could answer. She knew only that she feared for him, feared for them all in an England ruled by Henry Tudor.

  Five days had passed since Tudor’s soldiers had come to Sheriff Hutton. Cecily was still in shock, still unable to believe that the victory had gone to Tudor, that her uncle was dead. No King of England had died in battle since the Conquest. How had it happened? How could God have let it happen?

  She backed away from Edward’s bed, closed the door quietly behind her. It was late but she did not want to go up to the chamber she shared with her sister. Tomorrow they were to depart for London; let Bess have these last hours alone, free from all eyes. She would to God there was more she could do.

  But Bess was suddenly a stranger. Her emotions had always been sun-warmed, open to light and air; since earliest childhood, she’d been so. Yet now it was as if all emotion were glazed over, congealed in the ice of an unnatural indifference. She did not weep for her uncle; she did not pray. Tearless and taut, she’d retreated into a frozen silence none dared to breach, not even Cecily.

  As little as Cecily could do for her sister, she could do even less for her cousin Johnny. She, too, had lost her father at fourteen, and she ached for the boy, but when she sought to comfort him, he merely looked at her. Since being told of Redmore Plain, he’d moved about the castle like a ghost, mute, beyond reach. Cecily tried not to think what the future might hold for him.

  Leaving Edward’s bedchamber, she encountered one of Tudor’s soldiers in the stairwell. He greeted her with deference, let her pass unchallenged, but she could feel his eyes upon her as she climbed, and she knew that other eyes would be watching to make sure she entered her bedchamber, to make sure she was safely accounted for.

  Well, let them spy on her. Let them see her go into her cousin’s chamber. She didn’t care. A sudden draft claimed her candle flame. She’d never before feared the dark, but now she shivered, feeling her way along the wall by touch until she found the door. She didn’t knock, shoved the latch back, and slipped inside.

  The three men within turned startled faces toward her. Her cousin, Jack de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, York’s heir. Nearby, a lean greying man in middle age, a dark face made memorable by the slash of a Lancastrian blade; the scar at once drew all eyes, carving across his cheekbone in a trail whitened and knotted by time. And in the shadows, a younger man, hair bright as fresh-spilt blood, right arm cradled in a s
oiled white sling.

  Cecily ignored him, ignored her cousin, spoke only to the man with the scar. “The castle steward told me you were here. You be Thomas Wrangwysh. You’ve come to tell my cousin about the battle, haven’t you?” She didn’t wait for a response, moved toward him. “I would have you tell me, too, Master Wrangwysh. I…” She drew a steadying breath. “I have the right to know.”

  The men exchanged glances. She saw her cousin Jack nod, and then she was being ushered to a chair. The young man with the fiery hair moved to pour wine for them all; Cecily gripped her cup gratefully, entwined her fingers around the stem to hide her trembling. She did not want them to know how much she dreaded to hear what they were about to tell her.

  “How did you get the guards to give you entry, Master Wrangwysh?”

  “I was given a pass, my lady.” The night was chill, warned of an early winter, and Wrangwysh shifted his seat closer to the hearth. “Henry Tudor has sent an emissary to York to proclaim his right to the English crown. Henry the Seventh by the Grace of God….” He leaned over, spat very deliberately into the floor rushes. “But his man—Cotam, his name be—feared to enter the city, feared he’d be torn limb for limb…as well he might. He’s been keeping out of sight in an inn on the Ermine Road, sent word to Lord Mayor Lancastre and the city council to wait upon him there. We did, pledged that we’d keep his whereabouts a secret. In return, I asked for the right to enter Sheriff Hutton, to confer with your cousin, the Earl of Lincoln.”

  He turned then, gestured toward the third man. “This be John Sponer, York’s Sergeant to the Mace. When Northumberland—God rot him—issued no call to arms for the city, we sent John to King Richard at Nottingham. After dispatching word back to York, he accompanied the King south…to Redmore Plain.”

  John Sponer flushed under their scrutiny, began to fidget nervously with his bandage. “It be an ugly tale.” Almost inaudibly. “If you want to know why King Richard died, I can tell you plain out in just one word…treason.”

  Silence settled over the room. Jack and Cecily waited. He sloshed wine into his cup, but didn’t drink. Wrangwysh at last leaned forward. “Go on, lad.”

  Sponer nodded, said bleakly, “Had he only withdrawn into the North once he saw the battle was lost…all of Yorkshire would’ve rallied to him. But he chose, instead, to gamble on reaching Tudor. And came so close, he did, came within a sword’s thrust….” His voice trailed off.

  Again, silence. Thomas Wrangwysh drank too deeply, began to cough. “It was a slaughter, no honor in it. Of King Richard’s friends. Viscount Lovell alone survived the carnage on the field. He and Sir Humphrey Stafford have taken sanctuary at Colchester. The others died with the King, good men, all….” He drank again. “That whoreson Stanley found King Richard’s crown…after. Caught in a hawthorn bush, it was, all dented and—” He stopped abruptly. Fumbling for his handkerchief, he started to turn his face away. And then, scorning subterfuge, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose, saying thickly, “ ’Tis nothing to be shamed about, to mourn a friend….”

  There was a self-conscious challenge in that last word, as if he feared he was taking a liberty that might not be permitted. But neither Cecily nor Jack thought to dispute him. They knew Richard would have been pleased to have Wrangwysh call him friend.

  For a time, quiet prevailed, a silent shared grieving for a man each remembered all too well. Cecily raised her hand to her face, was dully surprised to find it wet. “You must tell me,” she said, and her voice was tremulous, pleading. “I know naught of battles. My uncle’s death…. Was it quick?”

  A long pause, and then Sponer nodded. “Very quick, my lady.” But none of the men would meet her eyes. She braced herself against the back of her chair, clutched the armrests with icy fingers; she was cold, so very cold. Before she could speak, Thomas Wrangwysh said hastily,

  “You should know that Doctor Stillington has been arrested, Tudor giving the order the very day of the battle. He was brought into York two days past, is to be taken to London to the Tower. He’s in a pitiful state, sore crazed by reason of his troubles. We did what we could; our Lord Mayor insisted that he be allowed to stay within the city for a few days. But we do only delay the inevitable….”

  Jack stood up suddenly. “I thank you both for coming to me. And for confirming what I’d already suspected…that I’d best make my peace with God while I still can. With all the sins I have to answer for, I’ll need more time than most men, I daresay.”

  It was a game attempt at a jest, one that fell utterly flat. Cecily made a small sound, quickly stifled. Sponer stared down at his hands. But Wrangwysh shook his head.

  “No, my lord, mayhap not. Yorkist loyalties did not die with King Richard at Redmore Plain. A good portion of the country still holds for York. Tudor knows that; whatever else the man may be, he’s no fool. Cotam told us that if you be willing to swear allegiance to Tudor, he’ll spare your life, may even find you a place in his government.”

  Jack gave a strained mirthless laugh. “For how long?”

  At that Sponer spoke up. “He cannot charge you with treason, my lord. You weren’t at the battle, didn’t fight for King Richard.”

  “But…but how could Tudor charge anyone with treason?” Bewildered, Cecily looked from one man to the other. “He cannot attaint any of my uncle’s supporters. For how could men fighting for an anointed King ever be accused of treason?”

  “Quite easily, my lady,” Wrangwysh said bitterly. “Tudor means to date his reign from the day before Redmore Plain!”

  Cecily stared at him, stunned. “But surely he’d not get away with that? It be so blatantly illegal, so unjust….”

  “Unjust?” Sponer could contain himself no longer. “You think men like Tudor and the Stanleys know aught of justice, of common Christian decency? After what they did to King Richard’s body…” He caught himself, but not in time.

  “What mean you by that?” Jack demanded, and when Sponer still hesitated, he snapped, “He be my uncle, damn you! Tell me!”

  Sponer’s face was bloodless, as if all vitality and life had been sapped by his flaming thatch of red-fire hair; livid freckles stood out across his nose like pinpoint wounds.

  “He never had a chance,” he whispered. “That damned crown, it drew all of Stanley’s cutthroats down on him. He died shouting ‘treason,’ died hard. They kept stabbing and hacking at him long after he was dead; I heard it said that men sickened afterward at sight of his body. They stripped him naked, knotted a felon’s halter about his neck, and slung him over a horse, made one of his own heralds ride it back into Leicester, where they dumped his body in the court of the Grey Friars, left it there for two full days ere they’d allow burial. I heard it said, too, that some anointed him in his own blood, that they even—”

  Cecily didn’t realize she’d cried out until they all turned toward her, until Jack pulled her to her feet, into his arms. “Hush, lass, hush…. Don’t think about it, Cecily, don’t….”

  He was giving her wine; she drank, choked, and began to sob. Jack reclaimed his wine cup, drained it in one long swallow.

  John Sponer was on his feet, too. “My lady, forgive me! God curse my stupid tongue, I never meant for you to know….”

  “No,” she said faintly. “Better that I do, that I know the nature of the man we be dealing with. But Jesú, to so dishonor the dead….” She shuddered and then straightened up, moved out of Jack’s embrace. “You must promise me…all of you. You must swear by all the saints that you’ll not say a word of this to my sister. She mustn’t be told, mustn’t ever know!”

  “She won’t, Cecily,” Jack said swiftly. “I’ll see to it, I swear it.”

  “Lady Cecily….” Thomas Wrangwysh rose, came toward her. “Upon the health of my soul, I’d not grieve you further. I would to God I need not burden you with yet more cares. But you must understand what be at stake.

  “Your brothers…. It be known that they’ve not been seen in London for these two years past. That n
ever troubled us in York; it be clear as well-water that King Richard had them moved, had them settled somewhere safe. He has…had any number of secluded moorland castles….” He paused, waiting for a response. When it didn’t come, he continued reluctantly, “I don’t mean to frighten you. But know you if your uncle made provisions for the boys in the event of his defeat? He must’ve known they’d not long survive him should Tudor win the field, that they’d have to be smuggled out of the country, to Burgundy….”

  Cecily roused herself, said, “You needn’t fear for my brothers, Master Wrangwysh. They be beyond Tudor’s reach.”

  “God’s blessed truth, it’s glad I am to hear you say that,” he admitted. “For Tudor has no choice but to repeal the Act of Titulus Regius, to declare the plight-troth fraudulent. He’s committed to it, has sworn a public oath to make your sister his Queen, and Cotam says he means to hold to that oath. She be a threat to him, you see, Edward of York’s firstborn. He’ll not let her go. He can’t risk having her find an ambitious husband eager to advance the claims of York on her behalf.”

  “You’re saying, then, that she must wed with Tudor?”

  He nodded. “My lady, listen to me. You know that your cousin, the Earl of Warwick, is to go to London with you and the Lady Bess. But Cotam told us that the lad is then to be escorted to the Tower and there confined.”

  “Christ,” Jack said softly. Cecily felt his hands tighten on her shoulders.

  “But he be so young,” she whispered. “Just a little boy….”

  “Aye, but he’s also the Duke of Clarence’s son, and that be what matters to Tudor, to”—his mouth twisted—“our new King. Now do you understand, my lady? Your sister must marry him; she’ll be given no choice. You must make her realize that, must—”

  “She already knows, Master Wrangwysh.” Cecily turned away, blinking back tears. “Lady Mary pity her, she knows….”

  30