This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  Deeply troubled, the Duke left them. Civil war. And he would be the instigator. The blame would be his, in this world and the next.

  Chapter 13

  February 1455 – Fotheringhay Castle

  When he rode north, York thought of little else, and his thoughts were as bitter as the raw February wind, his prospects as bleak as the hoary landscape.

  Above the column of knights and men-at-arms huddled in their cloaks, the standards snapped against a pallid sky, blazoned with the quarterings of the house of York. They signified a proud heritage. There was the White Rose, his own device, the Falcon and Fetterlock of his uncle whose death at Agincourt had catapulted him to prominence, the Black Bull of Clarence and the White Lions of Mortimer. As a direct descendant of Edward III, he also had the right to quarter his arms with the Leopards and Lilies of England and France.

  But what did any of that matter? For almost a year he had held the reins of government. He had made all the decisions that counted, begun to institute changes and prepare petitions to present to parliament. All that he had striven for would be undone, and he, the premier peer of England hadn’t one office to his name. All he could do now was retire to his estates and get ready for the clash that was to come. Warwick was right about that. It was inevitable. His spirit shrank within him at the thought. He didn’t want to take up arms, to appear in the eyes of the world as a rebel against his King, and he would do all he could to avert it. But he knew they wouldn’t let him. He would do whatever he had to do to protect himself and his family. Yes, Warwick was right.

  He could feel his blood start to boil at the mere thought of that inept parvenu Somerset lording it in Westminster, manipulating the King, plotting with the Queen, obtaining sinecures for his friends, while he, a Plantagenet prince, had no post to his name and must keep to his estates. He deserved a voice in the government; he deserved a post commensurate with his rank and – yes, by God – he deserved better than this from his King.

  As he breasted a hump in the road, the Duke could see his castle of Fotheringhay rising from the middle of two man-made lakes fed by the River Nene and his spirits lifted a little. It was always a pleasure to come home to a place where his peace of mind was disturbed by nothing more tumultuous than the sound of his children at play.

  Crowding the road at the foot of the castle was a small village of thatch-roofed wattle and daub cottages with the few businesses without which no community could thrive. It wasn’t unlike many other villages scattered the length and breadth of England, and yet there were some important differences. Here the houses were neat and in good repair, with an occasional charming flourish like a vine-covered trellis or brightly painted shutters, which suggested pride of ownership, as well as a higher degree of prosperity than usual. The people too looked well fed and content. And they looked happy. They had money in their purses after rents and taxes. If their crops failed or disaster struck, they knew they could count on their lord’s help. If their children sickened, the Duchess would send her favourite remedies or her personal physician. Sometimes she visited the sick herself. Best of all, these villagers enjoyed a kind of justice rarely found in England except on the Duke of York’s estates. In short, he did all that a feudal lord was supposed to do, and seldom did.

  Between the village and the river, a church spire rose cobwebbed with scaffolding. Edmund Langley, the fourth son of Edward III, had started the work over fifty years ago. The present Duke, his grandson, intended to finish it and dedicate it as a collegiate church, but he sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t take another fifty years. There never seemed to be time for such things.

  It was the castle itself that dominated the landscape and broke the monotony of the flat skyline. It was built in the twelfth century in the shape of a fetterlock. Massive towers and crenellated curtain walls surrounded the great keep, where the banner of the White Rose was going up to show that its lord was once again in residence. It was a splendid castle with a view for miles across the countryside in every direction. As the principal residence of the Yorks, it boasted many modern amenities.

  This was where the Duke was happiest. He supposed he might have achieved a measure of contentment as a minor lord or knight of the shire, administering his estate, watching his brood of children grow and building a monument for the edification of future generations. When he was tired or embittered by his failures, as now, he liked to think about retiring from the national stage and devoting himself to the kind of life that brought the satisfaction of fulfilment. But he recognised the idea as a bit of whimsy, brought on by disappointment and disillusionment. It soon passed.

  As he entered the village, he slowed his horse to a walk so his people could see him and he could see that all was well with them. The blacksmith came out of his forge and touched his forelock, and a new mother held up her baby for his blessing. The tavern disgorged its customers, who stood in the street to shout their greetings. Women came to their doors with toddlers straddling their hips. The Duke lifted a hand and managed a sombre smile, for here at least his efforts were recognised and appreciated.

  The two lads who ran at his stirrups from the village received a groat apiece and ran off happy as mudlarks as the Duke and his escort rode over the drawbridge, the horses’ hooves thundering on the thick boards. The guards stood at attention as he passed through the gatehouse and into the pandemonium of the bailey. Dogs barked, men shouted orders, grooms erupted from the stables to seize the bridles of stamping, snorting horses and people came running from all parts of the castle to welcome their loved ones home.

  Cecily was waiting for him outside the door of the great hall, rubbing her arms against the chill. She searched his face anxiously. “You look tired. Are you well?”

  “Don’t fuss, Cec,” he said testily, which told Cecily all she needed to know.

  As he entered the hall, George hurtled toward him, kicking up chaff and dust from the floor rushes. “Papa! Papa!” he shrieked.

  Meg followed behind him more sedately, full of news that wouldn’t wait until the Duke had divested himself of his outer clothes. “Papa, I have two new kittens. I call them Pins and Needles because their teeth and claws are sharp.”

  Ah, sanity.

  ……….

  Having spent a busy year, the Duke had a great deal of business concerning his estates to catch up on as well as his correspondence with foreign courts. He spent the following morning closeted with his secretary and a couple of clerks, reading reports, going through accounts and dictating letters that should have been dealt with months ago. In the afternoon, he took a break to join the Duchess in her sunny solar. Cecily dismissed her ladies so they could talk privately.

  “Warwick thinks it will come to civil war,” he said abruptly.

  At this shocking statement, though Cecily’s face remained impassive, a hand crept up to her throat. “Do you think he’s right?”

  “By the Mass, I don’t know!”

  “In truth, I don’t much care for Warwick, for any number of reasons. To begin with, I’m suspicious of such a blend of impetuosity and cool calculation. Is he advocating open rebellion, or does he intend to instigate it?”

  “I don’t think he wants it anymore than I do,” he said, but without conviction.

  “I disagree,” Cecily said after a moment’s reflection. “I know how torn you are between your loyalty to Henry and your concern for the country, but I don’t think Warwick experiences any such ambivalence. I believe his motive is nothing more than personal ambition. You must be sure you can live with the choices you make.”

  “That’s the crux of it,” he said morosely. “Henry. If he were evil it would be so much easier, but he’s not. He’s a poor King but a good man.”

  Cecily sniffed. “To me, there is nothing worse than one who commits a wrong and then lets another take the blame for it. Essentially that’s how Henry rules his kingdom. Because he’s lax in his duties, officials are lax in theirs, and their clerks are lax, and on it goes. But no one blames
gentle, pious Henry.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I keep telling myself that it’s not his fault, that he’s easily manipulated, but that excuse is beginning to wear thin as it must bear the burden of more and more grievances.”

  “It’s not Henry that’s the problem. It’s her. She has always taken an unbecoming interest in the affairs of the kingdom, but it seems to me that she is taking a more active part since the Prince's birth. And that frightens me because…”

  “Because?”

  “I sense she has no restraints.”

  York heaved a deep sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. When he lowered it, he looked more downcast than ever. “I’m sick of it all, Cec. Sick of being used and discarded like an old shoe when I’m no longer needed. Sick of the vermin at Westminster treating me as if I’m the King’s worst enemy. Henry is weak. How will poor England survive with a weak King and the French growing in strength? If something isn’t done, if steps aren’t taken to remedy the problems that beset our land, I very much fear we’ll soon have Frenchmen invading our coasts. We’ll find ourselves as powerless against them as they were against us when their own land was assailed by the same kind of troubles.”

  “Oh, surely not!” Cecily was inclined to dismiss this prediction as a product of her husband’s natural pessimism. As a woman, she had never been smitten with what she called ‘Agincourt fever’, a virulent malady that seemed to claim all males as soon as they reached puberty. Typical symptoms were a brightening of the eyes, shakes and sweats, and a rise in temperature brought on by patriotic zeal, resulting in a complete loss of common sense and for which there was no known cure. But even as a woman Cecily was able to appreciate the shame that would be England’s if her husband’s dire prediction came true.

  “What else don’t you like about him?” the Duke asked.

  “He’s very ambitious,” she said slowly and thoughtfully.

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Not in itself, no. It’s just that I have a feeling that in him it’s… well, he’s like Margaret: without restraint.”

  “He wouldn’t thank you for comparing him to our beloved Queen.”

  Just then the door suddenly burst open and in tumbled George, just a hand-span beyond the reach of a cross nurse. His face was red with temper, his eyes streaming, nose running, and there was a sticky residue around his mouth. “She won’t let me have another custard tart!” he sobbed, running toward his mother. “I want another custard tart!”

  “And that, my dear,” said Cecily with a sigh, “is the death knell of a peaceful afternoon.”

  Chapter 14

  March-April 1455 – Ludlow Castle

  Amid the soft contours and bare escarpments of the Shropshire Hills stood Ludlow Castle, the administrative headquarters of the marches and home to the two boys who would carry the banners of the house of York in the next generation. Nestled in a curve formed by the River Teme and its tributary, the Corve, the castle was further protected by two defensive walls reinforced by stout towers. In one of those towers Edward, Earl of March and Clare and Lord of Wigmore stared mutinously at his tutor.

  “Why,” he demanded, “are we required to learn Latin as if we are intended for careers in the church? I assure you we have no intention of becoming bishops.” He included his younger brother in this speech and then nodded his bright head at the two other boys present, two of his Bourchier cousins. “John and Humphrey are now studying history, which is far more interesting. Kindly explain, Master Ramsey, the relevance of Latin in our lives?”

  “Did you enjoy Xenophon, my lord?” the scant-haired tutor asked patiently, without looking up from whatever engaged his attention on his desk.

  Edward immediately discerned the trap laid for him in that question but since he saw no way to avoid it, only said lamely: “Yes, it was about soldiers and history.”

  “True. And did you happen to notice in what language it was written?”

  “He’s got you there,” his brother Edmund, Earl of Rutland, whispered.

  “No, he hasn’t!” Edward snapped, not ready to concede defeat. “It was written in Greek,” he said triumphantly.

  At last, the tutor looked up from his reading to favour his young charge with the mild, slightly amused expression that always irritated Edward. “Do you mean to tell me, my lord, that you can read Greek? Well done! I had no idea. But, if you can master Greek without the benefit of proper tuition, I’m confident you’ll have no trouble with Latin.”

  The other boys laughed.

  His fair face flushed, Edward said: “I only meant to say the original was written in Greek.”

  “Ah, of course. But you read a Latin translation as no English or French translation exists. And that, my lord, to answer your original question, is the relevance of Latin. If you had no Latin, you would not have been able to enjoy Xenophon. Latin is not only the language of the church but also of the classics.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed, his mouth clamped shut. Thinking that he had won a battle for a change, Master Ramsey said: “Continue.”

  But as soon as he looked away, Edward spoke again. “Perhaps John and Humphrey would like to read Xenophon also,” he said slyly.

  “No, thanks!” the other two boys shouted and brayed with laughter.

  “It is most unfortunate that they’ll never have that pleasure. It is your lord father’s command that you be able to read, write and translate Latin.”

  ““Well, I can read it. I just have a little difficulty with writing and translating,” Edward muttered, thinking how unfair of his father to impose this burden on his sons when he hadn’t had his youth blighted by the tortuous intricacies of Latin. Edward lacked nothing in intelligence. But when it came to such dry and dreary subjects as Latin and even mathematics, it was as if a wall went up, built of a dogged belief that if it was not enjoyable it wasn’t worth learning, and no amount of whacks from a birch rod was going to breach that wall.

  “Oh, just get on with it!” Edmund said irritably.

  For which Edward gave him an elbow in the ribs and when Edmund tried to retaliate in kind Edward laughed and fended him off, only to be caught by an unexpected kick to the shins that made him yelp. Born only thirteen months apart, they were bound to be either the best of friends or the most dedicated of rivals. They were the best of friends.

  Master Ramsey brought his stick down on the table with a loud thwack, a none too gentle reminder of the kind of pain that dread instrument could inflict when applied to palms or, for more serious offences, young backsides. This was the punishment prescribed by the Duke of York for his adolescent sons, but its effectiveness was questionable. To Edward, such chastisement was an exercise in self-control. He would simply bend over a desk and, while the birch rod was applied with vigour, would study his fingernails, or yawn, or hum to himself and, when it was over, would then enquire nonchalantly: ‘Are you finished yet, Master Ramsey?’ He was the eldest, a born leader, and the other boys tried to emulate him.

  The tutor glared at the offenders, and while Edmund murmured an apology, Edward donned a mask of angelic tranquillity and dipped his pen in the inkpot. Beside the English ‘to be’ which he had carefully inscribed on the sheet of parchment, he wrote ‘esse’, then sat, pen in hand, looking wistfully out the window at a bright, blustery late March day.

  Edward was beginning to chafe at the rules and restriction that were imposed on him, as well as coming into an awareness of his rank. He was almost thirteen, a belted earl and a knight, and yet in a castle of some two hundred souls, all of lesser rank, he was still treated like a little boy. In fact, he suffered the same restraints as when he had actually been a little boy. No allowance had been made for the transition from puberty to adolescence. Along with a growth spurt that made his bones ache, Edward had discovered in himself a liking for girls and was forced to use all his considerable resourcefulness to escape his keepers and pursue his interest.

  Master Ramsay picked up the piece of parchment and glared at it,
then turned his glare on his pupil. “Is this all?”

  Just then the door opened and in walked the earls’ governor, Sir Richard Croft, a lanky man with a bald dome and the hair lying around it in a springy tightly curled bush.

  Master Ramsay shook the parchment at him. “An hour’s work from this wretched boy.” He clawed another piece from off Edmund’s desk. “And this, the same hour’s work from Lord Edmund.”

  “Don’t use me as an example – he’s bound to suffer by comparison,” Edmund said cheekily, setting off a round of boyish laughter in which his brother joined.

  “That’s all I wrote down. I did plenty of work in my head,” Edward protested.

  Ignoring the contretemps, Croft said: “You have a visitor, my lords. William Hastings has arrived with urgent word from your lord father. As soon as you’re ready, you will attend him in the Mortimer Tower.”

  “What’s happened, Sir Richard?” asked Edmund, while properly tidying up his desk.

  “I have no idea, my lord, only that the matter is urgent. Follow me.”

  Down a spiral stair, they emerged into the open, into the fitful sunshine, racing clouds and a blustery wind that tore Croft’s beaver hat off and sent it sailing in mad, erratic flight across the bailey until it came to earth and rolled end over end. Forgetting their dignity, as they so often did, the two boys took off after it. Once Edward almost closed his hand upon it, but at that moment the wind lifted it and carried it away, depositing it finally by the wall of the round chapel. This time when he got near enough, Edward stamped his foot on it and then stooped to retrieve it. The hat was returned to its owner covered in a layer of dust, a little wet from a dipping in a puddle and with the quill of the handsome plume snapped in half.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Croft said flatly, peering down at the wreck of his hat.

  They entered the upper chamber of the Mortimer Tower to find a maidservant comfortably ensconced on William Hastings’ lap with her bodice gaping. Head down, she scurried out as the castle martinet and his two charges entered.