This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  He came as soon as the baby had been bathed and swaddled, his bastard brothers at his heels. Without evincing any disappointment, he took the baby into his arms, and a gloating pleasure suffused his handsome face.

  “You have done well, wife,” he told her. “Next time we’ll have a boy. I fancy you’ll be like your mother, birthing strong babies easily.”

  Oh, I hope not, thought Anne, turning her face away from husband and child. Her mother had produced twelve children in sixteen years, though only seven of them had survived. Like many women, she had suffered a number of miscarriages. But that is what I was born to do. I have no other purpose than to receive my husband’s seed, to give birth to his babies, to nurture them until they come of age and, having played out my role in life, to die. With as little fuss of possible.

  Soon he would return to her bed, and the awful business of procreation would begin all over again. That was all that was expected of a highborn wife, as she understood it: to lay supine while he pumped his seed into her. She certainly wasn’t expected to display any ardour or take any initiative. No one had told her there could be pleasure involved, and if anyone had she would not have believed it, for her only experience was of loathing.

  Once she was pregnant – Oh, joy! – she had no difficulty in persuading him to sate his lusts elsewhere. He apparently enjoyed their couplings no more than she did and often complained that she was cold and unresponsive. It was like being in bed with an effigy, he said, like sticking his prick in a knothole. But the revelations of his sisters-in-law had left her with a terrible dilemma. She could not avoid the conclusion that in encouraging him to sate his lusts elsewhere, she must bear a share of the blame for his continued rape of Eleanor. So she could no longer deny him her bed – not at least until that last awful month – but nor could she, with the best will in the world, welcome him there.

  Soon he would be back to renew his onslaughts on her body in pursuance of that elusive heir. There would be years of it, years of that heavy body pounding hers, years of pinching and probing, grunting and sweating, glassy eyes and foul breath, kisses that suffocated and that final sickening mewling sound as he emptied his seed into her. And so it would continue because even if she produced an heir, another would be wanted and another – a man was never satisfied with one – until somewhere between her thirtieth and fortieth year the final child would kill her.

  She never used his name; even in her thoughts, he was Exeter. To call him Henry was to endow a degenerate monster with humanity.

  After the birth of the child in whom she had no interest, Anne fell into a depression that only those who are without hope experience. While her body healed, her spirit sank into such a slough of despair that she could not bear the thought of having to attend the Christmas court, which was being held at Coventry that year, where the Queen had taken the sick King. When she sought Exeter’s permission to celebrate Christmas quietly and simply at Thorpe Waterfield, the fortified manor house in Northamptonshire that was part of her dowry, he agreed, since she was of no further use to him until her body had fully recovered from its ordeal. He, of course, had no interest in wallowing in bucolic idleness during Christmas and would attend the court. So much the better. The mere thought of getting away from him for a while was enough to lift Anne’s spirits.

  At Thorpe Waterfield, she intended to set up a permanent home for little Anne and any siblings God might see fit to send in the future. This was not an unusual procedure, as the great were of necessity peripatetic. Her parents had done it with Edward and Edmund at Ludlow and the younger ones at Fotheringhay. The arrangement would give her the opportunity to escape from Exeter occasionally. When he became unbearable, she would experience a sudden urge to see her daughter at times when it was impossible for him to accompany her.

  Chapter 21

  December 1455-February 1456 – Thorpe Waterfield, Northampton

  She had never visited the manor before and found it charming, built of local honey-coloured sandstone, the main door surrounded by creepers, the windows glazed, the roof bristling with chimneys. Orchards and gardens encircled it, and the whole was enclosed by a defensive wall, with woods in the farther distance and the spire of a church poking up from their midst indicating a village.

  Even here, where he had never set foot, Exeter’s parsimonious habits were strictly enforced. Chimneys there were aplenty, but no smoke came from them. The hall was chill as a tomb, and no one had troubled to warm her bedchamber in preparation for her coming. Only when she arrived did a servant, a young girl, hasten to light a fire and Anne noticed that her hands were so seriously chilblained that using them caused her pain.

  Having taken stock of their resources, Jane reported to her mistress. “The woodpile is meagre. Any wood that’s now cut will be green, and the steward tells me he has no funds to buy more. The villagers have the right to collect dead wood, so there is little of that around. I fear there is no choice, Madam. We must go on to Coventry. This cold will harm the baby.”

  “No,” Anne said adamantly. “We’ll burn the furniture first.” She held out her gloved hands toward the pitiful flames in her bedchamber. The cradle was directly in front of the hearth, the infant whining annoyingly. “Is there enough wood for cooking?”

  “Yes, Madam, I think so, but certainly not enough to warm the other chambers for the twelve days, let alone any longer.”

  “Then here’s what we’ll do. We’ll use what fuel we have in the kitchen, and everyone will eat, sleep and live there.”

  “Madam!” Jane couldn’t have sounded more shocked had her mistress suggested she take a bath in St. Paul’s with the bishop presiding, and the butterflies were making sounds of distress.

  “Do you foresee any difficulty with that arrangement?”

  “It’s just so… peculiar.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is, but eminently practical in the circumstances.” Anne gave her a sweet smile. “Let’s get to work, shall we.”

  “Oh, Madam!” one of the butterflies trilled. “Must we sleep in the kitchen too?”

  “Yes, but we’ll see if we can find a pallet for you to share. Come along, girls. It’s going to be fun.”

  Fun it was not. The arrangement suited none but Anne, especially the kitchen staff, who had to work around piled up bedding and stacked pallets. It was fortunate she had a small household. Her mother had a household of around a hundred and fifty, the Countess of Warwick about the same, but Anne’s numbered less than half of theirs. Exeter was the newest and poorest of the dukedoms.

  St. Nicholas’ Eve was spectacular, cold and beckoning. The sky was bright blue, and the sun sparkled on a blanket of pristine snow that had fallen the night before. Unable to resist the appeal of such a day, Anne wrapped herself in her warmest cloak, lined with costly ermine, a fur only those of ducal rank or better were permitted to wear. Like all her finest possessions, it was a part of her trousseau, not a gift from her husband. Along with some of the younger members of the household, she went out into the woods to seek out the traditional Yule log, which would be dragged back to the manor and put on the fire in the hall to burn throughout the twelve days. To light it and keep it burning would require a great deal of their precious fuel, but Anne was determined to maintain certain traditions.

  Purged from memory was last year’s Christmas, spent at Windsor in the company of her husband. Instead, she remembered the Christmases of her youth when lessons were suspended, vigilance relaxed, and little misdemeanours more likely to be overlooked. Their brothers, Edward and Edmund, came from Ludlow and led the other children in new games and adventures. They brought in holly boughs and bunches of mistletoe to brighten the old castle, ranged far and wide to find a suitable Yule log and spent hours painting pine cones in bright colours to hang in the hall. Candles and torches lit every corner, holding the early darkness at bay. Dried rosemary and thyme were sprinkled on fresh floor rushes to give off a sweet aroma when crushed beneath booted feet. Crisp white linen covered the tables to show off
the best of the family plate. A huge wassail bowl stood by the door to welcome visitors, of which there was always an interesting variety. It was a time both sacred and profane; a time of choirs and carol singing and nativity plays, of sumptuous feasts of traditional fare, mumming and revels, where the Master of Misrule held sway, of riotous games and gift-giving. She wondered, sadly, if they were all together this Christmas and if they missed her as much as she missed them.

  The search for a suitable log was temporarily abandoned when one of the butterflies pitched a snowball at Eleanor, and the steward, entering into the spirit, lobbed one back that knocked the girl off her feet. She sat in the snow sputtering and laughing while snowballs whizzed over her head in a free for all.

  Leaving them to it, Anne wandered through the woods, enjoying the cold crisp air and amusing herself by trying to spot and identify animal tracks and to distinguish the different trees when stripped of their leaves. Eventually, the voices and laughter faded behind her. She wandered on, unafraid of becoming lost because her footprints would lead her back to the others, or them to her. The air was crystalline, pure and invigorating. The soft snow smothered the sound of her footfalls. She came across a tangle of holly bushes, with glistening leaves and bright red berries, and made a mental note to herself to bring some of the others back to harvest them. They would look wonderful decorating the walls of the hall.

  Some measure of that buoyant spirit that had been hers in childhood remained with her, for her heart lifted to the vast white silence that surrounded her. The sense of freedom, the solitude, was intoxicating. How long had it been since she had been alone with herself, no one to watch, to listen, to report her doings to him? I could stay here forever, she thought. Yes, I could. Wandering this white solitude forever. She came to a halt under the stark branches of an oak tree, to enjoy a rush of happiness so painfully poignant because she knew it would be fleeting and rare. Looking up, she saw a lone bird circling in the blue dome of the sky, and as she watched its majestic flight, a mound of snow dislodged itself from a branch of the tree and fell on her face. That shocking event was made more so by the sound of hearty male laughter.

  Not frightened, only angry that someone had invaded her solitude, Anne brushed the snow from her face with a gloved hand and opened her eyes to see a man standing only a few feet from her, still laughing gaily. Where had he come from? Had he been following her? Spying on her? He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties and obviously of gentle if not noble birth. There was nothing threatening about him, no reason to be afraid. Anne glared at him.

  “How dare you laugh, you mannerless boor?” she demanded haughtily. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  He bit off his laughter and moved closer to offer her a handkerchief for her face, which she disdained.

  “Forgive me, my lady. I am a boor indeed to laugh at your distress. It was just… I couldn’t… I’m afraid I have a perverse sense of humour.”

  He didn’t look in the least contrite; indeed, his lips twitched as if he was having difficulty restraining his laughter. In spite of herself, Anne found herself smiling. He didn’t say anything further, only looked at her with beautiful velvet brown eyes in a ruggedly handsome face. Moving closer, he took her hand. Anne did not withdraw it, nor resist, as she generally would with a stranger.

  “I assume I have the honour of addressing the Duchess of Exeter,” he said. “The entire neighbourhood has been looking forward to your Grace’s coming. Permit me to present myself: I am Sir Thomas St. Leger, a very fortunate neighbour.”

  As he bent over her hand to bestow a kiss upon her glove, Anne felt an odd compulsion to reach out and touch his hair. It was the colour of beechnuts and reflected in those warm brown eyes. He had a beautiful mouth, she noticed when he straightened, perfectly shaped and plumply contoured, and even white teeth. And below the neck – oh, divine! Broad shoulders – but not bullishly broad like the Bastards – muscular chest and arms, slender waist and hips, long, straight legs, flawless from crown to feet.

  Her gaze reached his legs, before being arrested by the sight of a brace of rabbits held in his right hand. “What is this, sir? Are you poaching?” she asked, but with a smile intended to make light of the matter.

  “On the contrary, my lady. You are on my land. You passed the boundary stone a while back,” he said, releasing her hand reluctantly.

  “Oh, I hadn’t realised.”

  “Don’t be concerned. You are quite the most charming and welcome trespasser I have ever had.” Wedging the rabbits in the fork of a tree, he extended his arm. “Will you give me the pleasure of escorting you back to the manor, my lady?”

  “Thank you, that would be most kind,” she replied, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the warmth of his body against her cold fingers.

  “Are you comfortable at Thorpe Waterfield?” he asked as they began to walk slowly back following Anne’s footprints. The sun was putting forth enough heat that all around them they could hear the tiny sounds of melting snow, dripping from the trees and forming miniature runnels on the earth.

  “I like the manor very well, but there isn’t enough wood and the rooms are cold. Where is your manor, Master Thomas?” Anne asked, slowing her steps even more, unwilling to leave the magical snow-laden woods to return to the real world. Unwilling, also, to leave the side of this attractive man.

  “It lies just to the south of yours, in a little hollow.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes, quite alone. My mother, sisters and widowed sister-in-law all live in Kent, which is why I prefer to live here.”

  “Oh, yes, I see,” said Anne and laughed. So, unencumbered by wife or children, she thought, not bothering to ask herself why it mattered.

  All of a sudden there came the soft cooing of a dove out of season. Anne and Thomas glanced at one another, laughed softly and looked up into the trees but could see no sign of the bird.

  Thomas did not escort her as far as the manor, only until they came within the sound of the others’ voices when she bade him leave her there; it would be best if her household didn’t know that she had been in the woods alone with a man.

  All that day she was in a state nearing happiness. Just the thought of Thomas close by made the world seem a kinder and a safer place.

  The following day a full waggon piled high with wood arrived at the manor. “My master heard you were short of wood here,” the driver explained, without mentioning how his master had heard.

  It was received like a gift of the Magi. The household was almost delirious with joy and soon had fires blazing in all the main chambers. A profligate burning of the wood in the hall had it warmed to its farthest corners by nightfall and set the Yule log smouldering nicely. When the chill had been taken off her bedchamber, Anne wrote a note of gratitude to Thomas St. Leger and then, after a brief reflection, added an invitation to come and spend the Holy Season with her in the spirit of neighbourliness. Later in the day, a message was returned: in the same spirit; Thomas agreed.

  In light of the gift, Anne’s invitation to her neighbour seemed only natural, but to avoid arousing suspicion, she also invited some of her other neighbours, including her father’s old friend, Lord Clinton. It was a merry company. Anne thought that had a great deal to do with the fact that Exeter and the Bastards were absent, but the rest of the household believed it was because their lady seemed happier.

  On the Eve of the Nativity, everyone trooped into the village to hear midnight Mass, and the following day was given over to religious observation, carol singing and private devotions. After that, the Lord of Misrule was given his mandate and went to his task with a good will. It was a small company compared to those Anne remembered at Fotheringhay, where her mother had presided over a hall full of noble guests and where the feasts were lavish and the entertainment of the very best. Those Christmases of her childhood were full of sweet and funny and profound memories, but this present one had special meaning because of the presenc
e of one man. It gave Anne great pleasure to arrange the solemnities and celebrations knowing that he would be there to share them with her.

  The old year passed into history: the year her father had defeated his enemies in battle; the year she had given birth to Exeter’s child; the year she had met Thomas St Leger. Already she was thinking of that meeting as being one of the momentous events of the year, perhaps even of her life.

  In Thomas, Anne had found a palliative for her sore and troubled spirit. None of the people who shared that Christmas with her had any idea that their lady faced a future so bleak she couldn’t bear to think about it, for when they looked her way they often saw her with a faint dreamy smile lurking in the shadowed corners of her mouth. Did she want music? Would she like to be read to? No, she just wanted to rest. And to daydream. In her daydreams, she cast Thomas in the role of Sir Lancelot, and she was Guinevere, beautiful and unattainable; though he loved her madly and dangerously, he always treated her with worshipful respect, for he was a proper knight and could not bring himself to betray his Lord. But wasn’t there more to the story?

  It snowed again on Epiphany. Sitting by the window of her bedchamber, resting and daydreaming, Anne imagined she could hear it falling, whisper soft, winter’s kisses.

  Alone with Thomas Bastard’s poor abused wife, she asked: “Eleanor, do you remember in the legend of Arthur, if Sir Lancelot and Guinevere ever became lovers?”

  “I believe so, my lady.”

  “That’s what I thought. And Arthur found out, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, and sent Lancelot away. The lovers were forced apart. But why on earth are you thinking about such things, my lady?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, preparing to return to Camelot.

  Eleanor was putting newly laundered linen away but paused to say with a smile, “You seem happier here.”