This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  John had seen livestock butchered, laughed at chickens running around the yard after their heads had been cut off, but now he discovered that the ritual slaughter of human beings was a far, far different thing. When the first head was struck off, he felt his gorge rising and resolved to watch no more. The buckles on his shoes received his ardent attention but he couldn’t stop his horrifying thoughts. Now that I’ve thrown in my lot with these rebellious lords, will I end like that? Will Edward, Warwick, and Salisbury? How many of us here today will one day feel the axe bite through our necks?

  His shoes were unable to hold his attention. For some inexplicable reason, his eyes were drawn inexorably up to the blood-bathed block and he found himself unable to look away, held by a fearful and sick revulsion. Another head fell into the straw, the eyelids drooping, the mouth stretching in a horrible rictus, as if attempting a belated howl of protest. Gouts of blood sprayed from the severed neck, and the body twitched. Oh, how it twitched, jerking spasmodically, as it was dragged away. Another doomed man went forward, as docile as a sheep to the slaughter and John’s belly heaved. Bitter bile rose in his throat.

  Edward looked round at him. Nothing showed in that fair young face but mild concern. “Are you all right, John?”

  He nodded, afraid to speak.

  Beheading might be swift and honourable, but it was horribly gory. Hanging, though gruesome enough, was bloodless and would not have caused the same turmoil in John’s innards. The lords and knights were polite enough to ignore the wretched sounds that came from behind them – there were always some sissies at executions – but the townsfolk who had come to watch tittered and sniggered behind their hands.

  By the time it was over, John was shaking as if with an ague, clammy sweat bathed his brow, armpits and groin and his heart was racing as if he had just swum the Narrow Sea. There was a pool of bilious matter on the cobbles at his feet. Edward led him away to a rain barrel under the eave of a warehouse.

  “It was awful,” he muttered, “awful…”

  “It’s something you must get used to.” Edward broke the layer of ice on the surface and John splashed the frigid water over his face. He felt better, but he suspected that for a long time to come those gruesome heads would visit him in unguarded moments.

  “Sorry, my lord, I shamed you…”

  “No, you didn’t shame me and you didn’t shame yourself. You’re not the first man to lose the contents of his stomach at an execution and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last. Next time it will be easier.”

  “How did you...?”

  “I remembered the men hanged at Ludlow, and that these men bore a measure of responsibility for that.”

  “Do you suppose they feel anything?”

  “A blow to the back of the neck is all. If the executioner does his job right – which this one did – they can’t feel anything once the spinal column is severed.”

  John gave a great shudder. “Do you have that on good authority?” he asked with a commendable attempt at humour, and Edward rewarded the effort with a laugh.

  Once John had sufficiently recovered, they walked their horses up the street. Edward said wickedly, “Did you ever hear about my lord of Suffolk’s death? His head hacked off by a blunt and rusty axe. It took several blows, they say.”

  “Mercy, Lord!”

  “Our executioner knew his business and the Calais men died well.”

  What did that mean? John wondered. That they went to their deaths without plea or protest, without a struggle, laying their heads on the block with the same stoicism as those who watched? All except me, that is. No stoicism here!

  “Would you have condemned them if the choice had been yours? After all, they had merely obeyed their commander which they are bound to do.”

  John was aware that he was skating on thin ice. His question could be interpreted as criticism of Warwick, and criticism of Warwick was very nearly blasphemy. But Edward was not angry and after a thoughtful pause replied, “That’s a good question, John. I should have no scruples about executing Andrew Trollope, for his was the basest kind of treachery and cost the lives of some good men. As for these six, it is tempting to believe that I would take your view: that soldiers are expected to obey their commander, and we would all be in a sorry state if they failed to do so whenever the fancy took them. But Ludlow touched me too personally and the truth is I very likely would have taken their lives in reprisal.” After another thoughtful pause, he added, “Loyalty is a harsh master, is it not?”

  John nodded absently, and then saw that he was not going to be let off so lightly. Edward was looking at him in a way that demanded a considered answer. “Not for me, my lord,” he said stoutly.

  Chapter 34

  December 1459 – Calais

  Fast ships carried messages between Calais and Ireland. Edward received a not very cheerful letter from his brother informing him that after crossing the Irish Sea without mishap, they were accorded a jubilant welcome by the Irish and were now installed in Trim Castle. It was with vast amusement that he learned his sixteen-year-old brother had become Chancellor of Ireland! With heavy sarcasm dripping from every pen stroke, Edmund wrote:

  You must not be concerned that my duties are too onerous for a man of my years to bear. I have a secretary to help me. He heats and applies the wax under my supervision, and then I impress the seal at the appropriate moment and in the proper place. This is not as simple as it sounds. I have to be very careful not to blur the impression. A tremor of the hand can ruin my work. I dare swear the Great Seal of Ireland has never been applied by a firmer or surer hand. Isn’t it good of Father to give me a new toy with which to play? Also, because of my important post, I can sit in on council meetings. These are very tedious unless they deal with matters concerning England when they tend to get quite lively. Of course, I may not speak, for I must learn “not to lesson your betters”. If it wasn’t for my new plaything, I swear I should go mad!

  How is Calais? Do you have the same problems with Warwick that I have with Father? No, probably not. That’s why you chose Calais, isn’t it? I wonder why I chose Ireland. The countryside is very much like in England, but it’s infernally dull here.

  Father is treated like royalty – no, better than royalty in fact. Would you believe that shortly after we arrived the Irish Parliament met to enact a statute declaring that Ireland isn’t bound to accept any law passed in England, nor honour any writ that has not been accepted and ratified by the Irish Parliament? And furthermore, any accusations of treason must be heard and judged in Ireland, and any who falsely accuses another of treason would himself be declared treasonous and put to death.

  Obviously, these measures were designed to protect Father from English justice and are an indication of the esteem in which he is held. Lest anyone doubt it, another statute was passed declaring that while Father is in Ireland anyone who sought his death or incited rebellion against him would be guilty of treason, just as if he had acted against the King himself. Isn’t that amazing? It wasn’t long before this statute was put to the test.

  While you have Somerset to enliven your days, we have Wiltshire. The Coventry Parliament created him lieutenant of Ireland. As you know, he’s also Earl of Ormond and head of the Butler clan, which has much clout and is always at odds with the Geraldines in the persons of the Earls of Desmond and Kildare. When he held the post of lieutenant at an earlier time, he showed himself to be fiercely partisan, naturally, and did nothing to endear himself to rest of the Irish. So when Wiltshire sent an officer with a writ for Father’s arrest, the Irish parliament showed its teeth. The fellow was arrested, tried before father himself and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. I’m not ashamed to admit that while this barbaric ritual was being carried out, I hid in my chamber, even though Father broadly hinted that I should be present and the sooner I got over this womanly squeamishness, the better.

  In case you haven’t heard, Mother is well. After Ludlow, she was put in the ward of the Buckinghams,
which I don’t suppose she enjoys very much. She wrote that Aunt Anne was full of recriminations. Otherwise, she and our siblings fare well.

  I miss you, Edward.

  “When I write back,” Edward said to John, after sharing some of the letter’s contents, “I shall have to make an effort not to make my life sound too exciting. That will be difficult.”

  Warwick was right when he said Edward wouldn’t be bored. Calais was a fascinating and heady place for one with an avid, open mind, a love of life and a hunger for new experiences.

  In Calais were sophisticated, worldly women as different from the coy maidens of Ludlow as the coy maidens of Ludlow were from the practised harlots of Southwark. And Edward could not have said which type he preferred, so vast was his appreciation of women of all natures and degrees. He had a Spanish lover so fiery and passionate their encounters were closer to war than love. ‘If you so much as look at another woman I’ll tear your eyes out,’ she warned him. And he believed her. She certainly had the tools for it, and often dug them into his back or chest, leaving bloody tracks, while she shrieked her ecstasy aloud. While she lasted his favourite oath was ‘Madre de Dios’. But fierce, ferocious sex was not much to his taste, so he introduced the Spaniard to Will Hastings who had come over from England after payment of his fine, and turned to a ravishing Provencal with black hair and blue eyes and a soft plump body while continuing to see the Spaniard only occasionally. Then there was a statuesque Englishwoman with children older than Edward, who had inherited her late husband’s cloth business in defiance of the male relatives who tried to wrest it from her. She was a member of the Company of Merchant Adventurers, which was constantly at odds with the Staplers.

  “They do not like us because we use large quantities of raw wool at the source,” she told him. “The customs duty on cloth is only two or three percent, as compared to twenty-five percent on wool. It stands to reason that as the cloth exports increase, the wool trade declines and so do the duties. Which is precisely what is happening. So the Staplers try to restrict our business by fair means or foul. I hear they are actively trying to persuade Philip of Burgundy to ban the sale of English cloth in his domains.”

  “Philip won’t listen. It would start a trade war.”

  Shaking back her masses of mahogany hair, she laughed throatily. “There already is a trade war, my darling boy. Only it goes on below the surface and does not as yet involve the great ones. It is dirty, too, and sometimes gets violent. However, if Philip were to take it into his head to ban English cloth, what could the English government do about it?”

  “Ban the export of English wool to Burgundy. That would teach him.”

  “What, and give up that twenty-five percent subsidy? Because you couldn’t sell your wool elsewhere. Your King Henry is not interested in opening up new markets. Ban wool exports to Flanders and England is cutting its own throat.”

  “Why must there be a Staple at all?”

  “Many reasons. It is easier for the government to regulate trade if it is distributed through a single centre set up as a commune or corporation. For example, the Fellowship of the Staple pay the subsidies and duties directly to the exchequer and it then falls to them to collect from individual members, relieving the officers of the exchequer of an enormous inconvenience. Also, as I’m sure your lordship knows, a body of men working for a single purpose means more power, more clout, and the more men, the better. If the merchants had to deal with the Flemings as individuals, the Flemings could dictate their own terms on every transaction. It would always be a case of how badly you wanted to be rid of your goods, how badly the Flemings wanted to buy them, and don’t forget that wool is extremely degradable. Without regulation, prices would fluctuate wildly, and that would be very bad for business.”

  Reaching for a wine cup, she took several small sips and licked the wine from her lips with a darting tongue. “The Staple has been fixed in Calais for almost forty years now. One of the reasons is because transportation is cheap and easy from here to Flanders, which is the best market. It takes almost all England’s export. The rest goes to other parts of Burgundy, a very little to Spain and Italy.” Dipping an index finger in the cup, she rubbed it over one nipple, watching him with a lascivious smile. “Will you have a little wine, my lord, or would you rather talk commerce?”

  “On balance I think I’d rather drink wine with you and talk commerce with the Staplers,” he said, bending his head.

  “Insatiable boy,” she cooed.

  From the Englishwoman, Edward learned a great deal about the Flemish cloth trade and commerce in general, and they spent many a happy hour debating the rights of women and their ability to manage property. She engaged his mind as well as satisfying his body, but it was to be a brief affair. When she had concluded her business in Calais, she returned to Flanders where she lived, and Edward consoled himself with the fiery Spaniard and the little Provencal.

  Apart from these, there was any number of tavern wenches and even matronly housewives who employed various means to let the young and handsome English lord know they were willing and available. He was like a flame around which the women of Calais, both maids and matrons, flitted and fluttered like moths, drawn by no more than a chance look, a casual smile. Women made absolute fools of themselves over him, and even John received a little residual adoration. Although blessed with neither rank nor good looks, he found himself the recipient of much ardent attention from those who wished to make the acquaintance of his noble friend. Word quickly spread that the Earl of March had a mighty weapon and knew how to use it.

  Edward wrote none of this to his brother, for he doubted Edmund was enjoying such spectacular success among the staid Irish.

  Nor could he say in truth that Warwick treated him like a child. It was difficult for anyone to think of him as anything but a grown man, for at six feet three inches he towered over most others, had always been intelligent beyond his years – if not always wise – and was remarkably self-possessed. Warwick had appointed himself Edward’s mentor, included him in councils, made sure he always knew what was happening and why, took him along to important meetings, frequently sought his opinion and, to his credit, managed to do all this without the slightest hint of condescension.

  Calais was a vast learning experience for Edward. His world had been one of land and estate management and the disciplines of knighthood, and now he was able to observe a world where cash, credit and the movement of merchandise were what mattered. From the burghers and the merchants of the Staple, who entertained the earls frequently, he learned a great deal about foreign and domestic trade, imports and exports, the importance of English wool and the structure of the Staple. The seed was planted in his mind that a nation’s prosperity resided in trade and, in England’s case, trade with Burgundy. The merchants, in their turn, were as flattered by his curiosity as their wives were enthralled by his good looks and charming manner, for it was not every great lord who showed such genuine interest in the mundane world of commerce.

  All this Edward could write about to Edmund because it sounded dull enough on paper, though he found it all fascinating.

  Calais was not actually in France but was a small bite taken out of surrounding Burgundian territory, with which it maintained close and friendly ties. It was all that remained of English continental possessions. For that reason alone it was invaluable to the English, a symbol, perhaps, of all that had been and could be again. That was why the captaincy was such an important post. The man who held Calais in the event of an attack would cover himself in glory; the man who lost it would live forever in ignominy. But its real importance lay in the fact that the Staple had its headquarters there. The Staple had a monopoly on English wool, as well as other products such as tin, lead and cheese. But it was because of wool that the Staplers were rich and powerful, and it was because of wool that the ties between England and Burgundy had survived the political upheavals of the last half-century; the two markets depended on each other.

  Once
it learned that Warwick was there, the English government placed an embargo on the port until its lawfully appointed captain was installed. This had a very limited success. Foreign trading vessels had more respect for Warwick’s safe-conduct than the writ of an ineffectual government, so the earl had no difficulty keeping the town supplied with commodities. It could not even be said that prices rose noticeably during this time.

  The embargo included English wool and woolfells. The Staplers were dismayed, but it was a measure impossible to enforce. English wool was of the very best quality, and it found a ready market in Flanders where the cloth trade was booming. Many people depended on wool for their livelihood: the owners of the sheep and the shepherds who tended and sheared them, the inspectors, the merchants who bought the wool, the carters who carried it to the ports, the sailors, ship masters and owners who transported it to Calais, the Staplers, of course, and the Flemings. Not to mention the English exchequer; a subsidy was added to every woolsack or woolfell that passed through Calais and paid to the exchequer along with a customs duty. Had the embargo been successful it would have crippled the economy in England, which was already teetering and forced the Flemings to scramble for other more reliable sources. For the wool merchants, faced with either ignoring the embargo or allowing their trade to come to a standstill and lose a very lucrative market, it was no choice at all. Most seafaring men regarded Warwick as a hero and readily entered into collusion with him and the port authorities to get the ships through. So the wool trade continued, albeit slowly.

  While Edward was enjoying himself, Warwick wasn’t idle. Edward was surprised to learn that as soon as he became Captain of Calais, he entered into correspondence with two very interesting princes – Louis, Dauphin of France and his host, Philip, Duke of Burgundy. There might have been a third, Philip’s son, Charles, Count of Charolais, but it happened that when Charolais was in the neighbourhood, Warwick invited him to be his guest in Calais. The Duke duly arrived, and the two dined together, but his arrogance, pride and boastfulness were so outrageous that Warwick found him hard to stomach. Charolais cut his visit short, and the brief acquaintance developed no further. This being the case, the Duke of Somerset pursued Charolais’ acquaintance, and the two very quickly became good friends. It was too bad, Edward thought. The fathers were already old; it was Louis and Charles who were the future and who mattered. Especially Louis.