This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  “But you’ve already told me everything I need to know.”

  “I have?”

  “Certainly. You’ve told me that your husband doesn’t want you visiting your family, but you came anyway and you left in tears. I suspect that means Father was unable to help. I can also guess what the subject of your discussion was, since I know that you have an unhappy marriage and your husband is a glutinous worm.”

  He paused while he guided her around a dog lying dead in the street with its ribs caved in like the staves of a broken barrel. A recent kill, it had not yet begun to stink. There was a city ordinance in effect requiring dead animals to be taken beyond the walls to the north where a ditch had been dug for the purpose and sprinkled with lime before being covered. But that was a long way to go and a lot of work when the Thames was so handily close.

  “I am not unsympathetic, sweet Sister. Truly I’m not. But did you expect Father to help you, especially given the fact that he and your husband have so recently crossed swords, metaphorically, if not literally, at St. Albans? Not to mention that you now carry a little Exeter. What exactly did you expect him to do?”

  “I know you’re right,” said Anne, biting her lip. “I guess I was just desperate. It wasn’t so much the fact that Father was unable to help that upset me. It was that he seemed more embarrassed than outraged by some of my revelations.”

  “Oh, you mean like the sister-in-law thing?” Edward murmured. Guiltily, he remembered enjoying a good laugh when Will Hastings told him about Exeter’s predilection for his brothers’ wives. Funny how when it came to male peccadilloes one seldom gave thought to the wife, even when the wife was one’s, own sister. Poor Anne. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than being a woman.

  “Yes, the sister-in-law thing. I think he just wanted me to go away and leave him alone.”

  “He has a lot on his mind – as you may imagine. His victory at St. Albans has not been universally applauded. Some of the neutral lords are no longer so neutral, and his enemies are more virulent than ever.” He waited for a response but when Anne didn’t take up the offer of a change of subject he resumed. Billingsgate was still a long way off. “Since Father was unable to help you, it’s doubtful that I can,” he said, very seriously. “I would be happy to if I could. All I can think to do is to offer you this advice: Talk to Mother. If you aren’t allowed to see her in person, then write to her. Tell her everything. She won’t be shocked or embarrassed as Father was. She’s the most sensible woman I know and not lacking in understanding. I’m sure she will have some sensible advice for you.”

  Anne laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Yes, but I’m afraid I’ve already heard it. How did she put it? ‘Even if he is cruel or indifferent, I must bear it with dignity.’ What if he’s both, and an unregenerate monster as well? Oh yes, and – ‘even married to the worst kind of man, a woman can find a measure of contentment when the children come.’ Can you imagine, dear Brother, spending the rest of your days with a spouse who is odious to you? Can you imagine sharing intimacies with a spouse whose mere touch makes your skin crawl? No, of course, you can’t! You’ve no idea what I’m talking about. You’re still young enough to think that only good things await you. And if it should happen one day that you’re joined in wedlock with the female version of Henry Holland, all you have to do is lock the odious creature away in a distant manor and take a more pleasing one to your bed. You can even have children with her, and no one will think the worse of you. But I am exhorted to bear it with dignity. Good advice, no doubt, but tell me how? How can I bear it?”

  Chapter 19

  June 1455 - London

  Every Saturday a horse market was held at Smithfield, a tree-dotted open space to the north-west of the city. It was a huge and popular market that drew buyers, sellers and breeders from all over Europe, as well as idlers, come to watch the animals put through their paces and learn what was new in the horse world. Every kind of horse, pony, mule and donkey that man’s husbandry had so far produced was available. The cream of the crop were powerful stallions, called destriers that carried knights into battle and were in fact weapons of war if properly trained. The smallest were the miniature ponies raised in the Shetland Isles of Scotland, smaller than an ass, useful only as first mounts for pampered little girls.

  Busy as he was, York gave himself the morning off to take his son to the Saturday market.

  “You need a new horse,” he said. “A man’s horse, since you’re almost a man now.” A pronouncement Edward resolutely took as a sign of his father’s approval.

  He was excited about having a new horse but hoped his father would delegate the task to someone like Will Hastings, who would make the outing far more interesting, or even his Master of the Horse, a post that was often a sinecure in a noble house. York’s horse master so loved his charges that he would make a journey of many days to be present at a birth or to hold its head as a beloved animal expired. He knew everything there was to know about horses.

  However, it was his dour parent who accompanied Edward to Smithfield that sunny June day and he had to reconcile himself to the fact that he would have little say in the choice of horse. As they rode across ground churned up by hooves, so that it was unable to grow more than sparse clumps of hardy weeds, Edward’s eye was caught and held by a particular horse. He could tell by the broad head and powerful musculature, the massive size – easily seventeen hands high – and above all by the fiery temperament that it was a destrier, a war-horse. Put it in armour, and it would be a four-legged fortress, impregnable, indestructible, and awe-inspiring. Its gleaming coat was a brown so dark it was almost, but not quite, black, rippling like a night-dark sea in whorls and eddies over bunched and twitching muscles. Its black eye rolled as it tossed its great head and Edward had a keen sense that it looked directly at him. The cautious handlers had it roped to a stockade post; four of them were surrounding it, trying to get the bit into its mouth. Each time they got close it reared back as far as the rope would allow, kicked out with its wicked fore hooves, gnashed its teeth and screamed in fury, forcing the men to scramble out of the way. It was quite the most magnificent beast Edward had ever seen. They will have to shorten the rope, keep his head down, he thought, watching over his shoulder, so intent on the business that he didn’t realise his father had come to a halt until he was called back.

  York dismounted beside a stockade containing a dozen fine-looking horses, which was supervised by several monks. Monks! I don’t want a horse raised by monks, Edward thought, as he joined his father and cast another glance at the dark horse, still fighting his handlers. I want one with fire in its belly and the gleam of madness in its eyes. Like that one.

  “My son, Edward, Earl of March. This is Brother Peter of Jervaulx Abbey,” the Duke said. Jervaulx – now where have I heard that name before? Edward wondered as he shook hands with the little monk who barely reached his shoulder. Of course! From Warwick. Warwick had told him that his father’s castle of Middleham was close by and they both bought stock from the abbey, which bred the finest horses in all of England. A recommendation from Warwick was certainly good enough for him, but a quick survey of the stockade revealed that there was nothing within quite as magnificent as the destrier. He looked back longingly and saw that his handlers had succeeded in getting the bit on him, though one was retiring from the fray nursing a bleeding arm. They had two ropes around his neck now, and two brawny fellows were hanging on to that massive head for dear life.

  “Forget it,” said his father, following his gaze. “In a few more years perhaps you could handle a beast like that, but not yet. We must find you something a little more tractable.” He turned back to look at the horses in the stockade. “Your recommendations, Brother Peter.”

  After that, Edward lost interest. He had now attained the height of many a grown man and was strong for his age, but his frame was still immature, with a whip-like slenderness lacking the bulk and musculature that would come with the years. And although he was sens
ible enough to admit to himself that he might not be able to master such a horse, that didn’t prevent him from wanting it with every fibre of his being.

  The horse that Brother Peter led forward for their inspection was a beauty, and Edward was already learning an appreciation of beautiful things. Creamy-white, with mane and tail like a frothy cascade of water, a high-stepping stallion with a noble head and plenty of Arab in it. A courser, said Brother Peter, bred for speed, that would make a fairly adequate warhorse.

  “A far more satisfactory beast,” said the Duke. “Saddle him up. We’ll see what he can do.”

  One of his servants had brought along a folding stool and set it in the shade of a small structure the brothers had put up for their comfort. No sooner had he availed himself of it than he espied, coming toward him and clearly intent on an encounter, his brother-in-law, the lanky Duke of Buckingham. The two Dukes bowed to one another, signed their respective entourages to stay put and drew apart. Edward followed his father, curious to observe the dealings between two men who had been on different sides in that bloody battle – the first fought on English soil since Henry of Bolingbroke won the crown of Richard II.

  It was York who broke the brief but strained silence. “I am happy to see you recovered,” he said stiffly.

  “It was a flesh wound only,” Buckingham replied, unconsciously massaging his left shoulder, where a sword point had found a gap between cuirass and pauldron. A man in full plate armour was reckoned to be pretty much invulnerable during battle, but when he was knocked off his feet, as Buckingham had been, he was as helpless and vulnerable as a tortoise on its back. His unknown adversary had been leisurely stabbing at anything that might be a weak point in his armour before his knights had been able to rescue him.

  York had to ask. He steeled himself. “And Stafford – is there any improvement?”

  “My son does very poorly,” Buckingham replied evenly. “I have no confidence that the physicians can mend him. My wife risks her health praying for his recovery at all hours. Whereas I –” a deep sigh swelled his thin chest for a moment “– I pray only that his suffering should end, one way or another.”

  Buckingham’s son and heir had taken a wound to the groin. It had missed the artery but, as everyone knew, such wounds were generally fatal. Buckingham was wealthy enough to afford the best, and the best was a surgeon trained at Padua, who had not given up but had followed the path of the wound, suturing or cauterising as the case warranted, and recited incantations to ward off infection. Every few days brought a new crisis.

  This was the worst of a struggle where uncles, nephews and former friends fought each other; those like Buckingham and the King weren’t the intended targets, and men like Stafford weren’t meant to die hideously.

  “I am sorry. Very sorry,” said York, feeling his insides twisting. “I shall join my prayers to yours.”

  “Yes,” said Buckingham, so very noncommittally it was impossible to know what he meant to convey by the word – if anything. His eyes, so full of a cold desolation, refused to meet York’s but gazed blindly at the jolly crowds milling about Smithfield that day. “This is a fortunate encounter,” he said after another strained silence. “I’m not sure I could have brought myself to seek you out deliberately, but since we have chanced upon each other, I might as well tell you that I have been reassessing my position. Don’t think for one moment that I’ve changed my opinion. You were in the wrong at St. Albans. Battle will never settle anything, only pile up more grievances. Believe me, I know. It would be the easiest thing in the world to blame you for my poor son’s suffering and would, I think, give me a crumb of comfort.”

  “But you don’t?” asked York, curious.

  “No more than I blame myself. I fought, too. Did I kill or maim another man’s son? Possibly. I blame the forces at work in our world that brought us all together that day and prevented us going our separate ways without strife.”

  “Very generous of you,” said York, his eyes on his handsome son who could as easily have suffered Stafford’s fate. And how would I feel then? he wondered.

  Buckingham followed his gaze. “Your boy was there,” he said, not so much a question as a veiled accusation.

  “And acquitted himself well,” York replied, sounding the wrong note altogether. His insides were still all twisted up.

  “I don’t like the methods you employ to gain your ends,” Buckingham continued. “However, I do believe that your motives were for the best and you still represent England’s only hope for the future. And I have to admit that you have behaved with restraint and common sense since returning to London. So, in the interests of healing our fractured land, I offer you my hand, not in friendship – that can never be – but in the spirit of reconciliation.”

  “And I accept it right gladly under any condition,” York said, turning up the corners of his mouth and grasping the extended forearm. When he would have withdrawn it, Buckingham held on, and the anguished eyes looked into his for the first time.

  “This escalation into war has to stop. Here. Now. There has to be reconciliation. I will do my part if you will do yours.”

  “Nothing is closer to my heart,” York assured him, thinking, believing, that now at last, with Somerset dead, Margaret out of the way and Buckingham conciliatory, it could be achieved.

  They parted on that note, and York turned his attention back to his son and the white stallion that was now accoutred not in a simple, serviceable harness but in handsome trappings evidently intended to emphasise his best points – and to drive the price up. The monks asked twenty pounds. It was a figure York felt to be on the high side, but since his son was still casting lingering glances at the fierce beast across the way, he quickly concluded the deal and got the trappings thrown in. To his delight, Edward was permitted to ride his new horse on the way back to Baynard’s Castle.

  That business finished, he informed Edward that he could see no point in keeping him in London any longer and he was to make ready to return to Ludlow. Edward wasn’t too disappointed. His first excursion into the great world had proved to be every bit as thrilling and eventful as he had imagined when he first set out. He had fought in a battle, blooded his sword, witnessed Somerset’s death – now that time had distanced him from that incident it no longer seemed quite so shocking; it was simply the way things went in battle. He had lain with whores and learned all kinds of interesting things from them, got drunk, been chased by the watch and now had a beautiful white stallion instead of the roan gelding he had been riding since he was nine. Although he knew it was going to be hard to revert to his old life when the last few weeks had been so exciting, he missed Edmund and was looking forward to regaling him with all his adventures.

  Not the least thrilling of those adventures was meeting and getting to know the Earl of Warwick. He was confident they would remain friends forever.

  Chapter 20

  October 1455-December 1456 – Rougemont Castle, Exeter

  The Duke of York took upon himself the office of Constable and the Earl of Warwick was appointed Captain of Calais, the most important and prestigious military post in the Crown’s gift and one of Somerset’s old offices. Archbishop Bourchier of Canterbury retained the Great Seal and his brother, Viscount Bourchier, became Treasurer. Henry had confirmed these appointments before his brain was overtaken by such murkiness that he was unable to function and his Queen whisked him off to Coventry.

  Even so, York’s position was tenuous. In order to have his actions validated by popular support, he took the unusual step of summoning parliament during the summer months. Everyone hated London in the summer, not least because of the danger of plague. The Commons granted him his wish to be named protector again. The Lords were reluctant, feeling that he was already too powerful, but in the end, they gave in. The first thing he did was to prorogue parliament until November, his reason being to spare its members the dual threat of plague and, as always in times of upheaval, the armed men who were prowling the streets loo
king for trouble.

  In Rougemont Castle, after a travail of two full days, the Duchess of Exeter gave a final grunt and pushed out into the world a thin, greyish creature with a screwed up little face that resembled nothing so much as a combination of a wrinkled old man and Lady Duras’s pet monkey. When it was over she was exhausted; her womb felt as if it had been pummeled to a pulp and her belly was revoltingly soft and doughy, and all, she thought miserably, for a girl.

  She remembered her mother’s words: ‘Children can be a source of solace and strength,’ but she believed that women were inclined to trot out such trite observations to make their lot easier to bear. It certainly wasn’t true of her. Even when her daughter was in her arms for the first time, it failed to inspire her with any degree of maternal solicitude. It might have been a puppy. Or a hedgehog. The idea of suckling it was loathsome. She was fully aware that this was a dreadful way for a mother to feel about her offspring, especially when she had always been so fond of her siblings, but the reason wasn’t hard to find: The baby was his. As it grew older it would perhaps develop some of his characteristics or his loathsome habits; it might even look like him. So that even when he was absent, or if she should be lucky enough to be widowed early, his daughter would always be a reminder of him.

  By the time the women had changed her linen, brushed her hair and washed her body with warm scented water, the baby was no longer grey but had developed a lovely pink and white complexion, and a fluff of blonde hair had revealed itself.

  “She’s bidding fair to become a miniature copy of her mother and grandmother,” Eleanor said.

  The midwife said she was perfect. The ladies cooed over her and declared her adorable. The butterflies fluttered around her. But Anne couldn’t warm to her. Also, she was the wrong sex. Exeter would want to try again as soon as possible.