This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  Raising his voice so that it carried to all nearby, he said, “I want these poor relics of brave and faithful men taken down and given Christian burial in that same church. See to it.” And the quiet crowd murmured its approval.

  As the procession turned west onto Thames Street, the bishop said, “I thought you might wish to give thanks at St. Paul’s. The mayor and aldermen, as well as Archbishop Bourchier and many of the clergy, await you there.”

  “That will be fine,” Warwick replied, knowing there was no help for it, yet deploring the hours that would be wasted in speeches and prayers. He had a great deal to do and didn’t intend to tarry long in London and give his enemies the chance to organise a stiff resistance. “By the way, where are Lords Scales and Hungerford now?”

  “They’ve taken refuge in the Tower along with others of their persuasion, including, I regret, our cousin Anne. Rather an embarrassment, wouldn’t you say?”

  Warwick shrugged. Cousin or no, Exeter’s wife was no concern of his. “What of Wiltshire?”

  “Ah, he appears to have vanished,” the bishop said in amusement. “You heard about Newbury, I suppose?” Newbury was a small town in Berkshire, belonging to York. When Henry had attempted to give it to his half-brother, the Earl of Pembroke, the townsfolk had revolted. Armed with Henry’s commission, Wiltshire, Scales and Hungerford and been sent there to set up an inquest and look into cases of treason. Throughout the town, property was seized, prominent men hanged, drawn and quartered, and many others thrown into prison, on suspicion of harbouring Yorkist sympathies. Such extreme measures were barbaric when enacted against the weak and vulnerable and only reaped a greater measure of fear and hatred toward the perpetrators.

  “After Newbury, Wiltshire was given a commission to hear cases in the south-east counties, but when he showed his face in Kent, he met such a storm of wrath that he fled to Southampton in fear for his life. There he seized five Genoese galleys and had them armed on the pretext of giving battle when you should emerge from Calais. And in fact he was seen sailing about for a while but then he disappeared, presumably to some safe and distant port.”

  “A pity,” said Warwick feelingly. “I would have liked to get my hands on that little whoreson. Of all the King’s officers, he’s the one I most despise.”

  In St. Paul’s churchyard another huge crowd was waiting and cheered so lustily that the Archbishop of Canterbury’s greeting could hardly be heard by those it was intended for and the mayor’s pitifully thin voice was entirely drowned out so that he was forced to cut his speech of welcome blessedly short. The three earls and their followers, along with the dignitaries of church and city squeezed into St. Paul’s Cathedral to participate in a service of thanksgiving. By the time they emerged, the sun was a muted orange ball hanging over the squat bulk of Newgate Gaol.

  Next morning, from their headquarters at Warwick’s Grey Friars house, the earls rode to St. Paul’s through a warm rain and there addressed the crowd that had braved the weather to see them, explaining, as they had in their manifesto, the reasons for their actions. They dwelt upon the government’s mismanagement and contended they had been driven from the King’s presence so that their enemies could have a free hand to rob and oppress the people at will. They had returned to England with the firm resolve to lay their grievances before the King or die in the attempt. Then, in front of all the people, they swore on the cross of St. Thomas of Canterbury, calling on God, the Virgin and all the saints to witness that they intended nothing contrary to their allegiance to the King.

  The citizens cheered mightily. It was what they wanted to hear. The earls then entered the chapter-house and presented themselves before convocation, where they received an undertaking that when they marched they would be accompanied by a bevy of churchmen, who would attempt to act as peacemakers when the opportunity arose. Warwick and his brother had a different view. The presence of so many churchmen in their ranks would lend credibility to their oath that they intended no disloyalty to the King, as well as giving a strong impression that their cause had the support of the church. It didn’t hurt also that they had a papal legate accompanying them. Proud, pompous, and garrulous, the little Italian was certain that, once the two factions came together, he could resolve all the differences between them.

  Later the earls heard cases at the Guildhall, which resulted in fresh heads appearing on London Bridge. They received several delegations, and spoke to the common council, making it clear that they expected the city to remain loyal to them and to give no aid or comfort to those holding the Tower. The common council responded with a gratifying loan of one thousand pounds and a grant of certain ordinance for use in the reduction of the Tower.

  Back in his Grey Friars house, Warwick held a council of war. It had been a busy two days, and he had accomplished as much as possible. It was time to move on. That morning he had set the bulk of his army on the march under his uncle, Lord Fauconberg, and Sir John Wenlock. He and Edward would set out with the rest of the army in the morning, leaving Salisbury to hold the city and, if possible, take the Tower. Somewhere, Warwick had found the time to write a letter to his ever-anxious wife.

  Now that the last minute details had been attended to, he was in the small room he used as a study with Edward, his brother, the debris of a hasty meal and a clutter of half empty cups and flagons. A map was spread on his desk, held at each corner by some paraphernalia.

  Warwick turned to his young cousin with a grin. “Edward, didn’t you say something earlier about seeing the sights – with a rather odd emphasis on the last word? Go on, then, enjoy yourself. But remember, we march in the morning. Try not to stay up all night.”

  Edward was on his feet and making for the door before Warwick had quite finished speaking. “No fear of that. I intend to be in bed within the hour.” He paused at the door to give his cousins a cheeky grin and went out.

  “If you wanted to get rid of him you couldn’t have been less subtle,” the bishop observed.

  “No matter. What do you think of him, George?”

  “Oh, he’s bright and personable, easy to like. I suspect he gets his way without much effort and without anyone noticing. He’s very self-contained and yet open, direct in his speech. That’s something of a paradox. But why ask me? You know him better than I do.”

  He held up his hand to study the effects of the fading daylight on the ruby and ornate gold of his Episcopal ring. His hands were long and slender, the fingers tapered and the nails always perfectly manicured – an ideal setting for the huge ruby. His face was large, smooth and round, without crease or care, as if a layer of sleek fat lay just under the skin. The distinctive Neville nose was hardly noticeable.

  “I’m right fond of the lad. Sometimes affection can blind a man or distort his view. Look at York. I know he loves the boy and is proud of him in a way, but he only sees his wildness, the follies of youth. He can’t see past that to the emerging man. We’ve shared much these past months, and I tell you, George, I’ve never known anyone so self-possessed, so free of doubts, so utterly fearless. For all his youth, I’d rather have him at my side in a crisis than anyone else I could think of.”

  “Well, the feeling appears to be mutual. He obviously admires you. You’ve an apt pupil there,” the bishop said, then added piously, “From all I’ve heard, he does have a rather woeful tendency toward sins of the flesh.”

  “Oh, come now! He’s eighteen and comely. Women all but throw themselves at his head.” He laughed. “Pardon the pun! And you have no cause to point the finger.”

  The bishop bridled. “What do you mean? My lapses have been comparatively few. I don’t keep a mistress or brothels!”

  Warwick laughed again at that. Everyone knew the Bishop of Hereford kept a mistress, while the Bishop of Winchester kept ‘geese’.

  There was a small silence. Putting his palms together, Warwick gazed at his brother over the steeple of his fingers. “George, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said very solemnly
. “For reasons which will become obvious, it must be between you and I. Understood?”

  “Very well,” said his brother, unconsciously bracing himself.

  “When I was in Calais, I received friendly overtures from Louis, the Dauphin of France, and Philip, Duke of Burgundy, and I responded in kind. I even met Charles of Charolais, although, as you may have heard, we did not get along. I entertained Philip’s envoys and succeeded in reaching an agreement with them – a pact of amity, let’s call it. But the point is that it opens the door for further negotiations. So I can now say, without being boastful, that I am a friend of princes. In short, I have ascended the first rung on the ladder to pre-eminence.

  “I also, as you undoubtedly heard, collected a few prizes. Not to take anything away from John Dyneham, who did an excellent job of leading the raids on Sandwich, but the imagination was mine, the strategy was mine, and the daring was mine! I, who knew nothing of ships, made myself into a seafaring man and seized many enemy vessels. And how the people love me for it! Me! I alone put the pride back into English hearts! It was I who assembled the ships, the men, horses and arms and begged the money to get us all back here. Now here I sit, with London in the palm of my hand, about to embark for the north and deal the final blow to our enemies. And I have done it all within nine months.” The hands came down to rest quietly in his lap, and the brown eyes drifted far away as if looking inward at a wonderful vision.

  “Yes?” said the bishop, when his brother said no more.

  “Does it not seem to you, George,” he asked softly, “that I am becoming a great man?”

  “Humility is a cardinal virtue,” the bishop said pontifically.

  Warwick snorted contemptuously. “Only in a churchman. Spare me your homilies, Brother. It’s your advice I want.”

  “Concerning?”

  “York. I am fed up to the teeth with him.”

  The bishop’s slender brows rose. “It’s serious then. What has happened?” He settled himself in his seat prepared to listen attentively.

  “While I was in Calais piling up all these accomplishments, what was he doing in Ireland, aside from manipulating the Irish parliament to protect himself and his people? What has he accomplished to further his cause, George? Can you tell me that?”

  “Nothing, I suppose,” said his brother, but felt compelled in fairness to add, “But Ireland isn’t Calais. Is it because he hasn’t had your opportunities?”

  Warwick launched himself from his chair like a bolt shot from a crossbow and began to pace up and down the small room like a wild beast measuring the confines of its cage. “No, it’s because he’s a spent force. He’s got nothing left in him. He’s given his best, and it was never good enough. Twice I’ve seen him grasp power, with my help and Father’s – it was because of me that he won at St. Albans, by the way; even his soldiering leaves a great deal to be desired – and twice I’ve seen him let it dribble away. Not this time, George. Not this time. I’ve worked too hard, been through too much, to see that happen. For eight years now I’ve acted as his lieutenant, worked in his shadow, suborned myself to him. Well, no more. I’ve emerged from his shadow. I’ve proved my worth. Can you deny it?”

  “You have indeed,” George said slowly. It’s true that your name is on everyone’s lips; your exploits told and retold in the taverns and markets. Poor old York, banished to the swirling mists of Ireland, seems to be half-forgotten even among his supporters. Even Queen Margaret is known to have admitted that she fears you more than York because, she says, you possess a ruthlessness that York does not.” Warwick grunted in pleasure at that. “But, brother, where is all this leading?”

  “When I rode away from Ludlow last year, I realised that I was at the lowest point in my life. A fugitive – me! Can you imagine what it was like, George? Riding at night, sleeping during the day, resting only to spare our horses, hiding in the woods whenever we saw other travellers and having to depend on the good will of a humble family for our salvation, for our very survival. My pride was in the dust. I never want to find myself in that position again. If I do, let it be through my own folly, not someone else’s.”

  The bishop blinked in surprise. Obviously, Warwick had forgotten about the defection of the Calais men. But for that error in judgment, the story might have had a very different ending. However, he knew better than to point that out and only said encouragingly, “But you redeemed yourself.”

  “Aye, I did, and right handsomely, if I say so myself,” Warwick said, looking pleased with himself again. “Assuming victory over our enemies, it will be my victory, and when our uncle of York returns I don’t intend to hand it over for him to fritter away as he did after St. Albans. He’s had his day and failed. He’s too cautious, too constrained by the ambivalence of his relationship with Henry to be an effective leader in a conflict that is escalating into outright war.”

  A frown gathered on the bishop’s smooth brow. “Caution in a leader is not necessarily a bad thing,” he pointed out.

  “It is when it binds him hand and foot and traps him in a net of hesitancy and equivocation. The Angevin bitch has all but the balls of a man. He’s no match for her. Might as well set a sheep to fight off the wolf.” His pacing had brought Warwick face to face with a blank wall. Unexpectedly, he raised a doubled fist and punched it into the wall. He didn’t even flinch. His brother flinched.

  “What am I to do when he returns, George?” he asked, resuming his pacing as if nothing had happened. “In Calais I was supreme. I made all the decisions and answered to no man. And now I cannot stomach the idea of having to revert to my former status as York’s lieutenant because I know – I know – I am a better man than he is, that I can succeed where he has failed! I was born to lead, not follow. And he, damn him, is in my way!”

  “Stop!” George shouted, holding up his hands, palms forward as if to push away something colossal. “Do not go on in this vein, Brother, I beg you. You will ruin everything! You will create a schism that will only be to the advantage of our enemies.”

  Warwick paused in his pacing to gaze down at him with glittering eyes. While he appreciated the many qualities of his brothers, he wasn’t blind to their faults, or weaknesses. George wasn’t a risk-taker. In fact, he was somewhat timid in that respect. He would always take the safe way.

  “There’s no other choice. York can’t be allowed to keep doing what he’s been doing.”

  “Listen to me, please,” the bishop pleaded. “Everything you say may be true. Perhaps you are the better man. Perhaps you were born to lead, but it doesn’t matter! Perhaps you will be a great man, but while York is alive you will always be subordinate to him, and he will always be the greater man. Because you don’t have the blood and you don’t have the birth! Surely you can see that! I understand your ambition, none better. You and I are alike in our determination to climb to the top of our respective trees.” He paused for a moment to look pensively at his Episcopal ring before continuing. “I’ll tell you a little secret. My ambition flies higher than yours. One day I hope to be pope.”

  Warwick nodded slowly. “You could do it, too. The first English pope since Adrian three hundred years ago… a Neville.”

  George shrugged, smiled deprecatingly. “But I’m only twenty-seven. I have a lot of climbing to do before I get there. You’re thirty-one. Was York so great a man when he was your age, I wonder? No! Will you be a greater man than he when you’re fifty? I don’t doubt it for a moment.” He began to smooth the fabric over his thighs. “We are young yet, Brother. We must be patient. Before I can ascend any further, I must wait for Canterbury or York to become vacant, and if that event occurs anytime soon I may well be passed over because of my youth, but in the meantime, I wouldn’t think of doing anything to incur the enmity of Canterbury or York. It is in my interests to remain on good terms with those who can help me rise.”

  Warwick had now come to a halt by the window. He was looking a little deflated as if seeing the wondrous vision that had captivated him earli
er dissolve before his eyes. “Your case is different than mine, George. I can rise no further while York is in my way. And I repeat – he is in my way!”

  Servants entered the room to clear away the debris of the meal and to set a multi-branched candelabrum in the centre of the table to ward off the gloom. Warwick pushed the window open as far as it would go. The July day had been hot and humid, with rain falling intermittently, and the small chamber was unbearably stuffy. Watching the clear sky turn to amethyst, he reflected that it would be a terrible thing if all the gains he had made were to be squandered by York. And yet he knew his brother was right. As angry and frustrated as it made him, he was doomed by rank, by the vagaries of birth, to play a lesser role.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a servant appeared to remind him that a deputy from the common council was still waiting to see him. The man had arrived while he had been in conference and he had entirely forgotten about him.

  “Very well. Show him in.”

  Warwick knew Bartholomew James, the alderman for the ward of Farringdon Without. He was not a particularly timid man, at least not in council, but now, out of his element, he edged forward cautiously, his eyes darting about the room at if searching out lurking enemies.

  “My lord of Warwick, my lord bishop,” he said, bowing to each, “I bring you greetings and felicitations from my colleagues. Today we received Brother John Davy, a worthy monk from St. Katherine’s by the Tower, with a request from the unfortunates lodged within the Tower that they be supplied with food and other necessities, or, failing that, be granted safe-conduct to emerge and buy the supplies they require.”

  “And what answer did the esteemed magistrates make?” Warwick asked mildly.

  “None. They sent me to beseech your good lordship’s permission to grant the request.”

  Warwick sent his brother such a look of incredulous anger that the bishop had to clear his throat of the chuckle that was rising in it. To the alderman, Warwick snapped, “Request denied. I see no merit in making my enemies comfortable while they defy me. Scales and Hungerford are the very same lords who butchered the townsfolk of Newbury. Do you expect me to pity their hunger pangs?”