This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  There was no life like it, in his opinion, and the best part of all was that he got to spend a lot of time with Warwick. At mealtimes or at the close of the day, or as they rode side-by-side through the spring woodlands, he absorbed Warwick’s opinions about everything from the impending weather to the politics of such distant places as Calabria or Sicily, to the rutting habits of the stag, and the best way to tan leather so that it was soft, supple, and strong. The man was extraordinary. Not learned beyond the norm for his class, but he had an opinion about everything. He could even discourse knowledgeably about matters that should have been outside his sphere of interest, such as at what age a child should be weaned, the best treatment for chilblains, or what ratio of metals was best used to minimise the risk of a cannon cracking. The more Edward learned of his cousin the further under Warwick’s spell he fell. He had never known a man possessed of such boundless confidence, such unshakable belief in himself and his destiny.

  Then there was his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury. Salisbury was not very imposing in height, but he was broad in the shoulder, full in the chest and tight in the stomach in spite of having more than fifty winters. His close-cropped iron gray hair capped a face that was as seamed as a sailor’s, a pair of deep-set brown eyes and the rather prominent, hooked nose that he had bequeathed to all his sons and not a few of his daughters. He had been at Agincourt and also at the siege of Orleans, and he had watched The Maid burn in Rouen. Being a veteran of that long war, he delighted his nephew and squires with an inexhaustible store of tales of courage and heroism, cowardice and folly, strategies that ran amok and battle plans ending in farce. He imbued them all with his dry humour and was as blunt in his denunciation of English incompetents as French ones. There were also gruesome tales of men with half their faces sheared off or helms so deeply embedded in skulls they could only be removed with the aid of a smith, of the walking dead trying to stuff their entrails back in and of the spasmodic contortions of the headless before the bodies finally collapsed.

  “We’ll make memories of our own before this business is done,” Warwick told him one night.

  York overheard and said: “War is a nasty business at best. Worse between people of the same kingdom.”

  ……….

  St. Albans, which lay as if slumbering in the May sunshine, with the abbey sheltering it like a good shepherd, was an ordinary and peaceful little town like many another. Thatch-roofed cottages with as many alehouses as churches were surrounded by a variegated patchwork of meadows and fields under cultivation, intersected by dry stone walls. Sheep grazed in one of the fields; hayricks dotted another. Woods of oak, ash and birch that had once clothed the entire landscape clustered on each side of the road and spread along the horizon. On Holywell Hill, the towers of the church rose to a lofty height from amid the squat stone buildings of the abbey. It stood on the spot where Alban, England’s first martyr, was said to have been beheaded. His bones lay in some secret place within the precincts.

  No one was at work in the fields. The abbey’s great gates were closed, and the monks secure beyond the blank façade of its walls. The cottages were empty, most of the townsfolk having fled. The Lancastrian army occupied the town and was prepared for battle. It was one of those perfect and so fleeting spring days when the breeze is sweet and warm, the hedgerows a profusion of wildflowers, the treetops full of birdsong, and England looking so green and tranquil, so verdant and lovely, it seemed impossible that men were going to come together to fight and maim and kill.

  The army of York approached from the east, along Watling Street. The enemy was massed in two divisions: on St. Peter’s Street at the north end of the town and on Holywell Hill to the south. Each of the four lanes leading east was barricaded and manned. Between the two forces, where the pocked and rutted road widened into the marketplace, an array of banners fluttered in the fitful breeze. It was there that the great lords of the kingdom congregated. The sun winked on their metal casings. While the Yorkists wore only cuirasses for safety and comfort while riding, the lords in St. Albans wore full battle gear, save helms and gauntlets.

  Above their heads the standards swirled in the stiffening breeze, showing their heraldic devices. Edward recognised the Beaufort Portcullis, the Stafford Knot of Buckingham, his uncle-by-marriage, the Wheatsheaf of Exeter – a bitter disappointment for his father who had sacrificed a daughter to win his support. The White Lions of the Percys of Northumberland, hereditary enemies of the Nevilles, were there, alongside the Leopards and Lilies of England, Henry’s Foxtails, Margaret’s Daisy and the Three Ostrich Feathers traditionally assumed by the Prince of Wales since the time of the Black Prince. Neither the Queen nor the Prince was present in fact, only in spirit.

  Spitting the dust of the road back where it came from, the Earl of Salisbury muttered, “There’ll be no parley. They want us to attack.”

  “Surely to God, not all.” York swatted at a swarm of midges circling his head. “We won’t waste time setting up camp. By tonight I expect to occupy the town. In the meantime, have the men take their ease in yonder field. Pass out food and drink. And summon my Herald.”

  Warwick sidled his horse close to Edward. “Among that lot, Buckingham is the only hope of avoiding battle. If we're granted audience, well, you’ll have to wait for another day to blood your sword. If it’s refused, which is a much likelier outcome, your father will have only the unpalatable choices of retiring with his tail between his legs and awarding the day to Somerset, or launching an attack on those barricades.”

  “An act that will be viewed as open defiance even by those who remain neutral. In breaking through that barrier, he would be crossing his own Rubicon.”

  Warwick nodded. “Before he takes that final step he will want to be sure, both for the sake of public opinion and the ease of his conscience, that he has explored every option.”

  York herald rode up in answer to the Duke’s summons. The person of the Herald was inviolable. He carried no weapons, only the staff of his office, and wore no armour, only the blue and murrey livery of the house of York, covered by a loose silk tabard upon which was emblazoned the White Rose. He did not negotiate. His job was to deliver a message, either written or verbal, and bring back an answer verbatim, nothing added, nothing left out.

  He knelt to receive his instructions, which were a simple request for an audience. Rising again, he sprang into the saddle, spun his horse around in a dashing display of horsemanship and cantered off down the road raising a plume of dust behind him. The White Rose banner fluttered over his head, its polished staff held by a cup in his saddle.

  The men drifted off into the meadows east of the town, to take their ease among the poppies, cowslips and giant daisies, or perch on the stone walls, the better to see whatever happened. Ale and water, bread and cheese were passed around. The knights’ horses were watered and tended by their squires. The men-at-arms gave their weapons a final inspection, a loving pat. The archers strung their bows.

  The leaders circled to get a better look at the town and the barricades that were blocking the lanes, which turned into paths through the fields. They came to a halt well out of bowshot range. Overturned carts, furniture, bales of hay, barrels and other assorted items were piled on top of each other as high as a man’s chest. The defenders were archers and pikemen. Any attackers who survived a hail of arrows from the archers would have to scramble over the obstacle while trying to dodge the lethal threat of eight-foot-long pikes. In the unlikely event that any made it through, they would then have to hold off the rest of the army in the narrow streets of the town until enough of their comrades had got through to mount an effective assault. It seemed impossible.

  “How, in God’s name, are we going to get past them?” demanded Salisbury, the only man present who was a veteran of a major battle.

  “We’ll overwhelm them with sheer numbers,” the Duke replied. “If we throw enough men forward, some must get through.”

  “And how many lives will that take?” Warwi
ck asked, appalled. The two older men turned to frown at him.

  “Have you a better suggestion?” York snapped.

  Warwick fell silent.

  The pounding of hooves signalled the herald’s return. York gripped his reins so tightly that his horse tossed its great head in protest and began to back up, nudging the horse behind, which then sidled into its neighbour. He stroked its neck as the herald dismounted and knelt to deliver his message. The King had received him and heard his plea, but it was Somerset who had responded with high words and taunts meant to provoke. It was no more than they had expected.

  The Duke sent him back with another more strongly worded message. As the herald rode away again, York thrust a mailed fist at the sky. “As God lives, I’ll have speech with the King today even if I have to cut my way through all those bloody standards to do it!” He spoke loudly enough for some of the nearby men-at-arms to hear, and they dutifully raised a ragged cheer.

  When the herald returned again, he accompanied Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The two Dukes, Salisbury, Warwick and Edward repaired to a tent for private speech.

  Buckingham put his hands on his hips and glared. “You must love trouble,” he snarled. “Whatever you hope to achieve, you’re going the wrong way about it.”

  “I have made it clear that my only aim is to speak to the King, and convince him if he needs convincing, that I am innocent of the things my enemies are saying of me and as loyal a subject as any in the kingdom.” York paced the small tent, his brows swooping down like thunderous clouds over stormy grey eyes. “Unless you came to escort me to an audience with the King, we have nothing more to say to each other.”

  “You are delusional! You’ll never be granted an audience while you have armed men at your back. Never! That kind of tactic didn’t work last time you tried it at Blackheath, and it won’t work this time. Haven’t you grasped that yet? Disband them!”

  “Once I’ve had words with the King I’ll consider it!”

  Buckingham chewed on his lip for a moment, studied the roof of the tent and tried a softer approach. “You are teetering on the edge of rebellion – a dangerous business and not something to be taken on lightly. And when your enemies point the finger and say: ‘There goes the rebel and traitor’ you won’t be able to refute it. I don’t believe that’s what you want.” He spread his hands, palms up. “What will best serve your ends? Do you truly want to speak to the King, to make your grievances known to him, or do you want a fight that you can only lose? I’m not talking about a defeat on the field – that would, in fact, be a matter of small consequence. But if you take up arms against the King, all you’ll succeed in doing is to alienate those, like me, who have some sympathy for your position and your aims. Think, man! Surely you understand that this is not the way to get what you want. Withdraw back to your estates and avoid a confrontation that ultimately can do you no good.”

  “I will be happy to. Once I’ve had words with the King!”

  With a wordless growl, Buckingham strode to the tent flap, flipped it back, and then turned to deliver his parting words: “Consider well what you do. You are about to instigate a civil war. There can be no turning back.”

  Edward could almost hear the words echoing in the space below the canvas roof, as challenging as a clarion call. It was not just a battle; it was civil war.

  “If so the blame will not lie with us,” Warwick said.

  York held out his hands in an imploring gesture. “I want this no more than you do. I have no choice. You know how I’ve been used! How is it that you stand with my enemies against me?”

  “I am not with your enemies. I am with the King, as every loyal subject should be.” Buckingham let his eyes drift to Salisbury and Warwick, standing impassively, then looked back at York. “I once gave you my support because I thought you were the best choice. Unless you come to your senses and take your men home peaceably, you will be guilty of the most outrageous treason. So I abandon you. And I hope, for the peace and security of the kingdom, that this night finds you in Hell.”

  “Begone! Back to your foul friends,” Warwick growled.

  That should have been the end of the matter, but York sent his herald back a third time. Warwick rolled his eyes heavenward.

  He mounted his horse, jerked its head around and rode toward the meadow where his men were taking their leisure, looking like a field of poppies in their scarlet jackets.

  “Will there be a battle, Cousin?”

  “Sure as Christ died for our sins. It’s been coming for a long time.” He guided his horse through a gap where the wall had crumbled and shot a glance at Edward. “What’s the matter, lad? Afraid you’ll be sent back to Ludlow without seeing any fighting? Won’t have anything to brag to Edmund about?”

  Edward didn’t respond to this banter. On the journey south it had all seemed like a great adventure, the company convivial, and the enemy distant and comfortably anonymous. It was different now. “Many of them are our kinsmen,” he said. “I’d rather be fighting Frenchmen.”

  “And all are your father’s enemies. Let’s not forget that. They’ve made their choice, as we all have, but they have chosen the side of the unjust. Put it out of your mind.”

  A wagon had been drawn up in the shade of the trees, and its contents plundered of food and drink. John and Thomas Neville had availed themselves and were sat on the ground sharing the bole of a tree. Tom had doffed his cuirass, and crumbs littered his tunic.

  “What’s happening? Parley?” he called as Warwick and Edward rode up.

  Sliding from his saddle, Edward ducked under his horse’s head to hold Warwick’s bridle while he dismounted.

  Warwick said neutrally: “His Grace must assure himself that the King won’t receive him and then we’ll fight.”

  “So we wait?”

  “We wait.”

  Squires handed them bread and cheese, with some slices of leathery beef and tankards of ale to wash the dry food down. The abbey bells tolled the hour of Sext.

  “What do you think of our chances?” Warwick asked John:

  “An assault on those barricades would be deadly. I don’t see how we can get past them without heavy losses.”

  Warwick nodded. “Exactly what we’re all thinking.”

  Someone shouted that the Herald was returning. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch as the herald cantered through a breach in the barricade on Butts Lane for what was hoped to be the last time. Edward had just started to unfasten the girths of Warwick’s horse, intending to give it a rub down. He straightened and looked over the saddle. Warwick paused with a tankard of ale halfway to his mouth. Thomas opened his eyes and blinked away the cobwebs of sleep. York was in the lane, dismounted and pacing back and forth. They were too far away to hear what the Herald said to him, but they heard the Duke’s shout, “To arms, men!”

  As if released from a spell, everyone sprang into motion.

  To the blare of trumpets, two waves of men wearing the colours of York gave a great shout and sprinted toward the two barriers at the northern end of the town. When the archers were within range, they knelt in ranks in the road, fitted arrows to their bows and took aim. The men in the rear rank fired between the shoulders of those in front. A hail of arrows arced over the heads of the men-at-arms rushing the barriers at the same time, many to fall harmlessly into the street beyond, a few thudding into wood. Only the luckiest shot found a human target. Meanwhile, the men-at-arms rushed on, shouting battle cries to encourage each other and dishearten the enemy, while those not yet engaged watched and cheered their heroic, doomed efforts. Unprotected, return fire picked them off easily. The archers were decimated while trying to fit the second arrow. Screams tore through the cheers as they flung up their arms, clutched at quivering shafts embedded in their flesh and finally crumpled to the ground. Comrades dragged some to safety; others, too close to the barricade, were left to bleed and die. The survivors of the first barrage of arrows raced on during the brief respite while
the enemy archers refitted their bows. They hurled themselves against the barricade, only to become part of the obstacle themselves.

  Although armoured knights were protected from the archers’ deadly hail, they were too heavily encumbered to be of much use in either climbing or dismantling the barricade, while the lightly armed footmen were agile enough but easy prey for the pikes and halberds poked through the gaps. Lacking the imagination for any other tactic, York threw his men at the barrier again and again.

  At the two barricades at the south end of town, the Earl of Salisbury was engaged in the same useless slaughter.

  “For God’s sake, use fire arrows!” Warwick yelled at his uncle. “Burn the cursed thing! At the least, it will blind them with smoke so that your men have a chance.”

  “I’ll not risk it with those houses so close. In this wind, we could end up burning the whole town.”

  “What wind? This playful little breeze? Houses can be rebuilt! The dead can’t be brought back to life!”

  “Get back to your men!” Furious, the Duke stamped away.

  Warwick stamped away in the opposite direction, his sword clanking against his armoured leg with every stride. At least his men weren’t being butchered. His men were still in the meadow, sprawled in the long grass, watching the massacre in the lane. He had been ordered to hold them in reserve until the barricade was breached. Submission to authority didn’t sit well with him.

  Edward had known there must be casualties and he was no more squeamish about it than most men. But this was something else. This only underscored the futility and waste of war. What was his father thinking? Was it only stubborn pride that prevented him from following Warwick’s suggestion? He could not bring himself to admit that his tactic was all wrong. Still less was he willing to accept advice from a subordinate – although Warwick hadn’t tendered that advice in the most tactful way.