This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  On Sunday, the day of Warwick’s arrival at Blackheath the magistrates took the unprecedented step of forbidding all males capable of bearing arms from attending church services, for fear of what might happen if they assembled. It was a very tense city.

  On the following day about mid afternoon, Anne received an unexpected visitor, a bulky, imposing man she vaguely remembered from early childhood as being a close friend of her father: Thomas, Lord Scales. He wore a gambeson, a suit of boiled leather, often worn under armour or to give a man added protection when he was without armour.

  “My lord, what a pleasure!” she said when he had bowed over her hand. “Can I offer you some refreshment?”

  “Forgive me, your Grace, but I have little time for amenities. I must ask you to gather your belongings and accompany me to the Tower.”

  “The Tower! But why?” asked Anne, startled.

  “Because the magistrates of London are not to be trusted,” he said, and ground his teeth; she heard the sound distinctly. “Yesterday they passed a resolution that if the Earl of Warwick sent a messenger to the city to communicate with them, he would be refused entry. Today, if you can believe it, they not only received his messenger and read his letter out, but agreed to receive the earls. If they should gain entrance to the city, which now seems likely, those of us who are loyal to the King stand in fear of our lives. Our best chance is to take refuge in the Tower.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Anne and shrugged. “But what has that to do with me? I have nothing to fear from Warwick. He is my cousin. My brother is with him.”

  “I am aware of that, your Grace,” Scales said stiffly. “However, before he left for Coventry, his Grace of Exeter obtained my undertaking that if Warwick were to enter London, I would see to your safety as my own.”

  Coldness flooded through her. Oh, of course. It was not a matter of safety so much as appearances. It would reflect badly on Edward and his friends if his sister were forced to flee into the Tower as if her life was in danger. On the other hand, it would look bad for the Duke of Exeter if it was learned that his wife was visiting and receiving the rebel earls in London while he was with the King and Queen preparing to resist them.

  “And if I refuse?” she asked, knowing it was futile.

  “I would advise against it.” With a smirk, he glanced around the hall where everyone in attendance had stopped what they were doing. “I’m sure your household will see that this is the best recourse in the circumstances.”

  In other words, they would side with him. And she knew they would. Even when he was far away, fear of Exeter kept them obedient.

  “You may bring your women, of course, a small guard, and whatever belongings you deem necessary for your comfort and estate. Please, no more than ten persons in total. We shall all have to get used to living in reduced circumstances,” he said tonelessly. “I shall be leaving Sir Edmund Hampden here to help you with the necessary arrangements. I know the distance is only short, but I advise you to go by barge and after dark. I’ll have someone waiting at the water gate to conduct you to an apartment. The Wakefield Tower is spacious and fully furnished, with its own oratory and a room for your household on the lower floor. I’m sure it will be to your liking.” With a jerk of his head, he added: “Until later, Madam,” and strode out of the hall, leaving Anne dumbfounded.

  Aware that everyone was listening and watching, sudden fury gripped her and she snapped at the hall in general: “Oh, get about your business, the lot of you!”

  It was not yet dark when Anne and her party made their way through the dew-laden gardens at the rear of the house. The sun had gone down leaving a reddish orange stain over Westminster in a sky that was darkening to amethyst in the east. It was quite breathtaking. But Sir Edmund Hampden was running at her heels, stressing the need for secrecy. Anne ignored him. She might have to obey her husband by taking refuge in the Tower, but she would preserve a modicum of independent thought by going when and in what circumstances she chose. And she chose not to steal away like a thief in the night.

  Leaving that brilliant sunset behind, the boat slid through the water gate into a dark and dripping tunnel built beneath St. Thomas’s Tower. Alighting at the stairs, Hampden led her through another toothed arch under the Garden Tower, an older water gate, and into the inner bailey, thence to the adjacent fat, round Wakefield Tower. It was the largest of the fortress’s many towers except for the White Tower, the great central keep which housed a comfortable apartment. The lower floor of the Wakefield Tower was rather bare and utilitarian, suitable as a guardroom. Outside this chamber, a spiral stair went up to the next floor, which was a far more sumptuous chamber than anything to which Anne was accustomed. It had once been the preferred abode of Henry III when his strained relations with the people of London sent him scuttling for refuge in the Tower, which was quite often. The fireplace hood still bore the royal arms. Between painting, panelling and gilt work there was little to be seen of bare walls. The ceiling had been painted the blue of the night sky and dotted with many stars.

  Anne sighed as she tested the softness of the bed. “Very nice,” she said. “I hope we don’t have to stay long.”

  Chapter 39

  July 1460 – London

  The Yorkist army, now numbering some twenty thousand, made camp at Blackheath and the following day decamped when word arrived that the common council had changed its mind upon receiving a letter from Warwick and was now willing to admit the earls.

  At Southwark, the sprawling, seedy suburb on the south bank of the Thames, the earls were met and welcomed by the Bishops of Exeter and Ely, with an armed escort and a large throng of well-wishers to conduct them into the city. The army camped again in the fields around Southwark, for the city fathers’ invitation didn’t include the common soldiers. Before they had finished pitching their tents, whores were strolling among them, taking full advantage of a heaven-sent opportunity.

  After greetings were exchanged, the procession reformed and Warwick took his place beside the Bishop of Exeter, who happened to be in the city to attend convocation, the annual meeting of the high clergy. It was a fortunate circumstance for Warwick because the Bishop of Exeter was Salisbury’s third son and Warwick had no doubt that his eloquent brother had been instrumental in bringing about the council’s change of heart. Warwick rejoiced in his brothers. John, still a captive after Blore Heath, was the tough, dependable one, blunt of speech and not given to excess verbiage. Thomas, also still captive, was headstrong, mercurial, impetuous, a born fighter; and George, the subtle, clever one, blessed with a tongue that could be honey-sweet or acerbic as the mood took him.

  George was as ambitious to rise in the church as Warwick was in political life. There were only two archbishoprics in England, Canterbury and York. Unfortunately, Thomas Bourchier, the Archbishop of Canterbury was only on the near side of middle age. George had to pin his hopes on York, whose archbishop was elderly but enjoyed vigorous health. George had become chancellor of the University of Oxford at the age of twenty, partly because of his undoubted scholarship and partly through the political machinations of his father. He had obtained his bishopric at the tender age of twenty-two. Now twenty-seven, he could afford to wait for further advancement. In the meantime, his objective was clear: to ingratiate himself with those in power – no matter who they happened to be – so that when the time came for one of the archbishops to go to his heavenly reward, there would be only one choice for successor. In this, he tried to emulate his political mentor, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had said of his role as chancellor both to the King and in York’s last government that he served the state, not the man.

  Warwick was entirely in agreement with this philosophy. All his brothers were going to be valuable assets, but particularly George, and the higher he rose and the more influence he acquired, the better for all.

  “You look well. I take it your little sojourn on the continent was a pleasant one,” the bishop remarked, having been the recipient of an unusually
effusive greeting.

  “Most pleasant and most… enlightening. Calais opened my eyes to certain realities. I have much to discuss with you, George, but later when we can be private.”

  “I can hardly believe that strapping lad behind us is our cousin, Edward. I’m acquainted with Anne, of course. I’ve confessed her occasionally. Not much of their father in either of them, is there?”

  “They have their mother’s fairness and height. Beyond that, Edward is unlike either parent and unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I think you’ll find him interesting. But this too can wait. Tell me how matters stand in London.”

  “You can see that for yourself,” George replied smugly, waving a hand at the crowd that lined their route.

  Only one bridge spanned the broad river, and it was a bridge unlike any other in England. Built of stone, it spanned nineteen arches. The buttresses were angled on the upstream side to break the force of the tidal river. There were shops on each side and dwellings above, with a narrow thoroughfare along its length. A crowd had spilt over the bridge and surrounded the procession so that the riders were forced to slow their mounts for fear of trampling people underfoot. Cries of “Make way,” went unheeded, or unheard, in the excitement. Ahead, the drawbridge was down, the portcullis lifted, and the sides of the road jammed with clamouring people, making the way even narrower.

  “What made the common council change its collective mind?” Warwick asked, carefully guiding his mount past a group of boisterous apprentices who were jostling both him and his horse in an attempt to get close, even to touch him. “Careful, lads, this is my only finery,” he warned, and the apprentices hooted and roared and fell about laughing. “Why aren’t you at your work? Do you think this is a holiday?” he shouted but smiled to take any hint of rebuke out of his words.

  “You have much to be grateful to the Londoners for,” George Neville said when he again had his brother’s attention. “Exeter and Wiltshire’s commission became a tool of terror, but the citizens failed to learn the lesson intended and did not forsake you. Of course, the merchants and tradesmen have always been for York. They’re astute enough to know that his would be a sensible government, which would be good for trade. Now they are looking to you for protection and justice. How can they do other when Henry set Exeter and Wiltshire loose among them?”

  Warwick barked with laughter. “I tell you truly, brother, that sometimes our worst enemies are our best allies!”

  “Indeed! The magistrates received a letter from Henry himself, ordering them to give you no succour on pain of the loss of liberties and franchises, a threat London takes very seriously. They want to be loyal, and they want to be obedient, but when they refused you entry, I knew their heart wasn’t in it. I spoke in your favour, naturally, as did the citizens in general, but on the other side were Lords Hungerford and Scales, as well as Henry’s order that they hold the city against you. So the council in its blessed wisdom paid lip service to duty and then set about looking for excuses to change its mind. Your letter assuring them of your continued loyalty to the King helped, I’m sure, along with the certainty that they couldn’t hope to keep you out if the bulk of the populace wanted you admitted.”

  In times past Warwick had always made a point of winning the people of London. It didn’t take much effort: a smile as he was passing by, a bit of banter with the merchants and tradesmen he encountered. He fed the poor with the scraps from his table and was always generous with charitable donations to religious institutions and other worthy causes. The rewards were well worth the outlay. It continually amazed him how contemptuous his enemies were of the power of the commons, particularly those of London who were a prideful, independent, vociferously opinionated lot. The friendship of the merchant class alone was worth having, for they were invaluable as a source of ready money.

  “This city is the key to the kingdom. Whoever holds London, holds England. And I hold it.” He curled his hand into a fist and shook it vigorously.

  It did not escape the bishop’s notice that the triumvirate of the Calais earls had been reduced to the singular.

  “You have to get Henry into your possession. Without him, you have no real authority.”

  “Yes, I realise that. Last I heard our sovereign lord and lady were in London,” said Warwick. “Where are they now? Who’s with them?”

  “They are in Coventry with Exeter and Buckingham, Shrewsbury and Viscount Beaumont and sundry petty lords. But they have no army.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true,” said the bishop serenely. “They have no army.”

  Warwick could only shake his head at the stupidity of their enemies. They must have known he was coming. Leaving aside the simple fact that anyone who knew him at all would know it was only a matter of time before he returned, his trip to Ireland, Fauconberg holding Sandwich, were clarion calls not even the most dim-witted could fail to hear that his return was imminent. If he had been in such a position, he would have had an army in readiness, if not actually in the field, weeks ago.

  George leant over to grip his arm. “But, brother, hear this. They have sent out a call for men and, to ensure the call doesn’t go unheeded, they have promised any who come to their aid license to wreak havoc and to plunder in the shires of Kent, Essex, Middlesex, Surrey and Sussex, in fact, all the centres favourable to York.”

  “Infamy!” Warwick growled. “I want to say I don’t believe it, but of course I do. Christ on the Cross, how can they be so stupid? Such terror tactics only turn more of the population against them. Don’t they realise that? Or are they too arrogant to care?”

  They were on the drawbridge now, their hoof beats like a roll of thunder echoing back from the surging water below. The crowd was so thick that the bishop’s Episcopal robes were brushing against the unwashed masses. He couldn’t move away because he was riding knee to knee with his brother.

  “The latter, I suspect,” he said imperturbably. “They cling to the myth that they are fighting not to maintain their own power but to protect the King against his enemies. So how can they fail? Some may die in the meantime, but in the end, they must prevail because they are championing the King and he is the Lord’s anointed.”

  Warwick was about to answer when he became aware of a disturbance to their rear, and both men turned in the saddle to look back. The cheering died away a little as a kind of shiver spread through the crowd, and they were able to hear other sounds: a scream, startled shouts, a roar that sounded strangely fearful.

  “Can you see anything, my lord?” Warwick said to his cousin.

  Edward stood in the stirrups and looked back over the heads of those behind. “We’re not under attack. There are some men down, and the crowd back there appears to be panicked. There’s a lot of pushing and shoving going on.” He dropped back into the saddle. “I don’t know what’s happened, but I suggest we get off the bridge, my lord.”

  They rode in silence to the far side of the bridge. One of the soldiers of the bishops’ escort made his way toward them, thrusting through the crowd, bringing silence in his wake. When he reached them, they saw with dismay that he had a bloody nose and tears in his eyes.

  “What has happened?” Warwick demanded.

  “A terrible accident, my lords,” the man said, holding a sleeve to his streaming nose. “The crowd was thick, pressing in behind you. It happened so quickly… There were potholes in the roadway. One of our men stumbled and fell, then another fell on top of him. Others who tried to help were knocked over by the crowd. Once down it was impossible for them to get up and the crowd scrambled over them, pushed on by those coming behind.”

  “And some poor fellow got trampled to death,” Warwick finished, an unfortunate but not uncommon occurrence when crowds gathered. “Make sure his body is –”

  “Not one, my lord, thirteen!”

  Warwick gaped at him. The two bishops crossed themselves.

  Edward murmured: “God in heaven!” He rose in his stirrups again, looking down the length o
f the bridge. The greater part of the crowd had disappeared, flowing back to the southern bank, leaving the crushed and bleeding bodies lying in the roadway. “It’s true. There are several people down.”

  It was a terrible catastrophe. Comrades lost in battle was tragic but to be expected, but to be trampled to death by a happy mob was so grotesquely senseless that Warwick couldn’t find the words to express it. He was as superstitious as his countrymen and wondered if it was an ill omen.

  “An unfortunate accident, as you say.” It was a blight on the triumph of his homecoming, but there was nothing he could do except to minimise it. “Have your men hold the crowd back until the bodies have been removed. Have them returned to their families. I will buy masses for their souls at this little church, St. Magnus, is it not? Let’s go on.”

  He was about to urge his horse forward when Edward said, “We must do something about this immediately, Cousin.”

  He was staring up at the row of severed heads set on spikes above the entrance to the bridge. None was recognisable. The eyes were gone. What little remained of the flesh hung in shreds and tatters from the grimacing skulls. Their hair seemed strangely alive by contrast, stirring in the summer breeze as if the men themselves still walked these same streets. Warwick saw at once what Edward meant. An act of compassion here would somewhat offset the catastrophe that had occurred on the bridge.