This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  It was St. Albans all over again. The perception would be that the Duke was taking up arms against the King. Once his enemies called for his surrender, he would be in open rebellion if he refused. If he submitted, on the other hand, he’d be in the Tower quicker than you could spit. At St. Albans he had won, took the King into his custody, pacified the neutrals, dealt honourably with his enemies, but for all that he’d been unable to stay in power. He’d let it slip through his inert fingers. So now it was to be done all over again. Where would it end? How would it end?

  York now had a growing body of support, though not, unfortunately among the lords. The clergy, the gentry, the merchant and professional classes, and the bulk of the common folk appreciated the restraint and willingness to compromise that Warwick saw as indecisiveness, as well as approving of his plans to reform the government. In spite of his failures, the Duke’s aims had not changed to reflect the changing times: He still believed that he could persuade Henry to get rid of ineffectual and corrupt ministers and install able and honest ones with himself at the head. But it was evident to everyone else that he would never succeed while Margaret was at Henry’s side. Since St. Albans she had emerged as a potent political force. Her hatred was so virulent. And, the truth was, York was no match for her.

  I would like to separate myself from him, thought Warwick, sipping his wine reflectively in the crowded hall. He’s past his best, and his best was never very good anyway. His talent is administration; he hasn’t got the balls of a soldier or the craft of a statesman. He will forever be the plaything of destiny, instead of seizing it, moulding it to his own desires as I would. As I long to do! Seven years have I served him, and nothing has changed. He is no nearer to attaining his goals than he was that night at Blackheath. In fact, he’s in much the same position now as he was then, unable to go back, unwilling to go forward. He just keeps on repeating the same patterns, making some little headway then slipping back to where he started. Like that Greek fellow condemned to roll a stone uphill only to find once he gets to the top that it falls back down and he has to start all over again. Over and over for all eternity. What the devil is his name? Sisyphus. That’s it. Well, I’m no Sisyphus. I’m a thirty-year-old Earl and pirate, but I’m going nowhere because I hitched my star to the waggon of a man who is going nowhere, a man fettered by his own cautiously restrained nature. I have a hunger for power, but I’m not going to win it by helping my uncle roll stones up hills.

  The trouble is I can’t separate myself from him. That would mean three parties, of which mine would be the weakest. I don’t have his clout, the prestige of his name and blood. The other lords would not accord me the same respect they do him. For they do. They may not always agree with him – the moderates – but they respect him. He would be weaker too, without me. We’d both be fair game for Margaret. She’d gobble us up and spit us out in pieces. No, I’ll just have to stick by him until my time comes, and that might not be until he’s dead. God help me.

  Now Edward, he thought, glancing at his cousin, is not made in the same mould. This boar-killer thinks that marching across England is a spectacular feat. As I do. We think alike, he and I. If we were in harness together we would be invincible! He liked Edward for his quick wit, his unruffled composure and the adventurous spirit that marched in perfect harmony with his own. He also liked that Edward seemed to admire him; it was important that he not forfeit that admiration. They were the future. Their fathers were old. Soon it would be their turn to be the leaders and decision-makers. They must work closely together, he and his young cousin of York, which meant that Edward must be prepared to defer to him.

  “Walk with me, Edward,” he said, after bidding his father and uncle goodnight.

  As often happens in October, the night had quickly turned chilly. Warwick drew his cloak about him as he walked across the bailey toward the gatehouse. Guards strolled the parapets, their weapons and basin-like sallets gleaming in the moonlight.

  “It’s a fine castle,” he said. “But how defensible is it? And will it withstand siege?”

  “Siege, yes. We’ve plenty of stores and over there,” he pointed toward the kitchen court, “we have a well of sweet water. Perhaps you didn’t notice the proximity of the river when you arrived. It’s directly behind the North Range here, so we’ll never be without water. As for its defensive strength –I don’t think it has ever come under attack, so its strength has never been tested. Of course, the outer bailey can easily be overrun. Its wall isn’t high enough to keep out a gang of determined children. The inner bailey is more defensible. The Mortimer Tower, where you will lodge, is probably one of the weakest spots as it has a door to the outside.”

  “So what does he plan?” Warwick asked as they passed through the massive gatehouse. He turned away from the Mortimer Tower to where the stables stood against the outer curtain wall. Whenever he was in a strange place, he liked to make sure his horse was getting the best care.

  “A good question, Cousin. Now that you’ve arrived, he intends to hold a strategy session and come up with a plan. Speaking for myself, I would hate to see Ludlow attacked and damaged, of course, but quite aside from such personal considerations, I think the castle should be the last line of defence, not the first.”

  “I agree. I’d prefer a battle in the open if possible. There’s something makes my blood run cold about being trapped in a castle with an attacking force outside.”

  “Do you think they’ll attack us, Cousin? Surely the King won’t allow it.”

  “You don’t know the Queen, Edward. For all she’s a shrew, she has Henry wrapped tight around her little finger. There’ll be no backing down with her holding the reins. She’ll attack over his protests and then cozen him into believing we were the aggressors.”

  It was warm inside the stable, redolent of hay and horseflesh and fresh manure. Warwick was afraid his horse had already been turned out into the paddock. But there he was in a stall and living like a prince, with oats and water nearby, a blanket over his back and a mare in the next stall. He had been brushed too, and his coat gleamed like ebony.

  “I could tell he’d had a hard ride, so I thought I’d give him plenty of rest before turning him out,” one of the grooms said. Warwick gave him a coin for that, and said to Edward as they walked back, “There’s something terribly inequitable about my horse having a private chamber with a very comely mare next door, while I must be content with a ‘mouse hole!’”

  “I can’t do anything about the ‘mouse hole,’ but I can find you a ‘comely mare’ if you like,” Edward offered.

  “Holy Cross, I want none of your leavings, Cousin!” said Warwick, laughing.

  In the Mortimer Tower, Edward made himself comfortable on Warwick’s bed and said, “Now, tell me of your adventures at Calais.”

  Warwick was divested of his cuirass by his squire, who then placed it on a rack, where the rest of his armour stood, gleaming dully.

  “It was glorious, Edward,” he said, rubbing his armpits with evident pleasure. “I once accused your dear brother-by-marriage, Exeter, of not knowing a carrack from a coracle but the truth is I knew next to nothing of naval matters either. But, having been given a commission to keep the seas for three years, I decided it was time I learned. There was no shortage of men in the English ports willing to teach me. So I learned everything there was to know about marine matters from the very basics like how to rig a sail and plug a hole to how to fight at sea. Did you hear about my ship?” Without waiting for an answer he went on, “I had her built at Sandwich. She is the biggest ship in England, bigger than the King’s Grace Dieu, with a fore and aft castle. I named her the Trinity.

  “The sea-lanes were no safer than the paths of an English forest after dark. Although the war with France had come to an end on land in ’53, it continued at sea whenever English and French ships encountered one another, and the loser was usually sent to the bottom after being thoroughly plundered. There were also sea battles between ships from rival ports, or ev
en from rival mercantile families. But the greatest hazard was the pirates who infested Mont St. Michel and that entire coast of Brittany.

  “Some six months after being given my commission, I was informed that a large fleet of Spanish vessels had appeared. They were ships of Castile, and it was the Castilians who had destroyed Robert Sturmy’s expedition in the Mediterranean the previous year. At least half of them had forecastles, which meant they were capable of fighting. And they were sailing close to Calais. That was all the incentive I needed. Anyway, Castile is an ally of France. I gave orders. Every fighting ship in the port followed my flagship as she raced to intercept the Castilians. The Spanish ships were superior both in number and size, but we darted about like flies on a dead carcass. We rammed two and put holes in several more. Two of ours were damaged, but at the end of a six-hour battle we sailed back to Calais intact and with six prizes.”

  While his body servant washed away the sweat and grime of his long ride across England, he held his arms wide, and his eyes were far away. “I tell you, it was glorious. You know how it is when you have a powerful horse between your thighs, and you rowel him into a gallop, and he surges forward.”

  “You are one with the horse and his power is your power because you control it.”

  “Yes! It’s like that on the deck of a ship when the oarsmen find their rhythm, and she surges forward, sweet as the wind, or when the cannons fire and you can feel their deadly discharge through the soles of your feet. It’s power harnessed. Power at my fingertips.”

  “England was wild with joy. It was all anyone ever talked about.”

  “It was a small triumph,” Warwick said with uncharacteristic modesty.”

  “But the first we had had in many years. You are a hero without peer. Except, of course, to the Queen and her supporters, who regard you as a pirate.”

  “I suppose, if I must be honest, my seizure of the salt fleet was an act of piracy. It belonged to the town of Lubeck, which is a member of the Hanseatic League.”

  “I heard about your seizure of the fleet, but not how you resolved it.”

  “Well, the Hansards, who enjoy friendly relations with our government and have a trading house in London, howled in outrage. So a commission of enquiry was set up to look into the matter, chaired by Lord Rivers and – would you believe it –” He slapped his knee and laughed. “I was found at fault! All right, you can go,” he said to his body servant. “I was ordered to release the fleet, which I was disinclined to do. No one could make me do anything I didn’t want to do. I am now master of my own little kingdom, and my influence on the world about me is growing. Only at the behest of your father did I agree to release the fleet on payment of what the Hansards were pleased to call a ransom but which was, in fact, a fine for failing to dip their colours in deference to the King’s flag.”

  He joined Edward on the bed, bringing him a cup of ale. “Men of the ports have told me that they will sail with me without wage, only for the fame, for the sheer pride of one day being able to say to their children and grandchildren, ‘I once sailed with the great Earl of Warwick.’”

  They knocked their tankards together. “To the lunacy of piracy,” Edward said.

  Chapter 29

  October 1459 – Ludlow Castle, Shropshire

  On the night of the twelfth of October, an informal gathering was held in a large chamber adjacent to the state apartment, which the ducal family used when at their leisure. Edward divided his attention between the game of chess he was playing with Edmund, his uncle of Salisbury’s wartime reminiscences and watching their younger brothers, George and Richard, who sat at his feet. George was playing with lead soldiers, his favourite toys, with which he had refought the battle of St. Albans many a time. Richard had survived the perils of infancy in spite of the physicians’ dire prognostication and had celebrated his seventh birthday ten days earlier. He was watching the chess game and occasionally cast covetous glances at George’s soldiers. As there was plenty of torch- and candle- light, the duchess and her ladies sat around the fire sewing and making small talk. Among them was twelve-year-old Meg, sedate and solemn, with a pool of crimson velvet on her lap. Looking closely, Edward saw what he believed to be the head of a tortoise poking out from under the hem of her gown. Meg was the only one of his sisters not yet married – Elizabeth had already gone to her buffoon of a husband, the Duke of Suffolk.

  It occurred to him that if a stranger were to walk in, he would have found it hard to believe there was a hostile army within striking distance. Those inside the castle knew that tomorrow would be decisive. And yet there was no panic, no sense of impending doom. Everyone was doing whatever they liked to do in their leisure hours. I should be doing what I like to do, he thought. He caught the eye of a young woman sat near his mother, and made her blush and look away. Under her veil was red hair; she blushed easily. If he watched her for a while, he would see her eyes stray back to him.

  His uncle of Salisbury stabbed a finger toward him. “It was like that game, chess,” he said. “Except that the objectives were different of course. By this time the French had learned to avoid open battle with us. We would have been happy enough to bring them to battle but couldn’t afford to spend much time forcing one on them if they were reluctant, as our armies had other priorities. Pontoise was in English hands. It stood on the east bank of the River Oise, and we held the west side of the only bridge across the river. Along came the French with their – by now much improved – field artillery, drove us off the bridge and destroyed it. They then built a bridge of boats below the town, which allowed them access to friendly territory to the east. Shortly afterwards Lord Talbot appeared and offered to give battle, but the French declined. Using their bridge of boats, they just disappeared into the surrounding countryside. Talbot soon marched off, as he had more pressing business elsewhere, and the French returned. When Talbot came back, the French disappeared again.” He paused to take a drink until the laughter subsided.

  “When the siege was about three months old, along came my Lord of York with a substantial relief army. He made a feint against Beaumont-sur-Oise, where there was a bridge, to divert the French from his real objective which was the building of a bridge of boats of his own above Pontoise. That accomplished, he crossed without opposition and put his troops in battle array. Seeing the English on the east bank, the French then retreated down the Oise, past its junction with the River Seine, crossed the Seine at Poissy and thus found themselves on the west bank of that river while my lord of York was looking for them on the east bank. When he located them it was to discover another river between the two forces, so he marched off to find a crossing, and as soon as he was out of sight, the French returned to their original position on the east bank of the Oise. Talbot appeared once more on the west bank but he could do little to relieve the town, and in the end, my lord of York returned to Rouen to watch the situation from there. As I’m sure you already know, the French took Pontoise three months later.”

  “But why were they so reluctant to do battle with us?” asked Richard Herbert. “Weren’t they afraid of being shown up as cowards – running off like that whenever we appeared.”

  “The tide of the war was turning by that time, but the French still didn’t trust themselves in open battle with us. The thumping we’d given them at Agincourt was too fresh in their memories. And they were right. There were a number of times when we could have destroyed them if only we’d been able to bring them to open battle. But I never thought of them as cowardly for running away, not at the time, and now, looking back at their tactics with the wisdom of hindsight I am full of admiration. A commander who preserves his force to fight another day is a wise commander. Only the man who deserts his comrades in battle is a true coward.”

  “Enough!” cried the duchess. “War stories belong in the great hall. Not in my solar.”

  George tugged on Edward’s arm to ask an important question about military formations. Seeing his brother thus distracted, Richard picked up
one of his mounted knights and moved it to what was in his considered judgment a better position. Then he moved another. Seeing what he was about, George let out a squeal.

  “Leave off, Dickon!” George moved his soldiers back into their original position and, to curb any further attempts to interfere with his army, gave Richard a smack on the head with an open palm.

  Richard looked at him in pained surprise but knew better than to retaliate. He had inherited their father’s colouring, and his expressive grey eyes faithfully mirrored his emotions. Although he was still thin and weak, he was beginning to show signs of increasing vigour and his family hoped that he would, after all, survive to adulthood.

  “Don’t hit your little brother, George,” Edward said mildly.

  “Well, I don’t like him.” He stuck out his tongue. “I don’t like you, Dickon!”

  George was a mischievous and rambunctious youth, at times sullen, at times sweet and sunny-natured and there was no accounting for his mercurial mood swings. He could be downright nasty to those younger than himself or endearingly protective, as the mood took him. He was the nursery tyrant.

  “I don’t suppose he’s overly fond of you at the moment. Are you, Dickon?” The dark head shook vigorously, and it was Richard’s turn to stick out his tongue when Edward leant forward to study the battle formation and said judiciously, “Anyway, he’s right. Why would you put mounted knights at the rear of your columns, George?”

  “So they can urge the foot soldiers on.”

  “So they can make a quick escape if the battle goes against them, more like. That’s what the foot would think. Mounted men should lead not follow, or take up a position on the flanks where they won’t mow down the foot when they charge.”

  “It’s your move,” Edmund said impatiently.

  “You always take his side!” George shouted, before glaring at Richard and subsiding in sulky silence.