This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  By the time Devereaux returned Edward was dressed in shirt, hose and boots and seated in a chair beside the table. He picked up a cup of wine but set it down untasted, certain that he would never get it to his lips without spilling it. The quaking that had begun on the inside would soon reach his limbs.

  The man who entered behind Sir Walter was known to him, one of his father’s retainers, a beefy, red-haired fellow, who had been at the mustering at Ludlow the year before and distinguished himself by lifting one side of a wagon when the wheel fell off and trapped a child beneath it. Edward had a phenomenal memory and remembered that the man’s name was Simon Hull. He wore the White Rose on his shoulder and a rag tied across his brow, from which blood had seeped down the right side of his face. Blood clogged both nostrils. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he had a haggard look. He must have ridden hard from Yorkshire, Edward thought.

  “Your news?” he said tersely.

  Time slipped by, agonising for Edward who was prey to both fears and hopes in equal measure, while the man’s mouth worked, trying to form words and get them out. The cartilage in his throat moved up and down and his eyes filled with helpless tears, but he was unable to speak until Hastings ground out, “For pity’s sake, man!”

  Then he blurted in a rush, “God forgive me, I know no other way to say it except to spit it out. They’re dead, my lord! All dead!” Having got the worst over, he crumpled to the floor sobbing uncontrollably.

  “My brother?” Edward asked, leaning forward in his chair, but there was no coherent reply.

  Devereaux fastened a hand in Simon Hull’s collar, hauled him to his feet and slapped his face. “Pull yourself together, man. You came to give your news, so give it.”

  “Leave him alone,” Edward said tonelessly. “He’s all but done in. Give him a seat and a cup of wine.”

  Hastings hooked a stool with his foot and thrust it behind Simon’s knees so that he collapsed onto it. Stafford handed him a cup of wine. It clattered against his teeth as he drank, but when he had drained it and wiped the spillage from his stubble, he seemed more composed.

  “Forgive me if I’m clumsy, my lord,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d be the first here. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. What I say is true: They’re all dead.”

  “My brother?” It was barely a whisper. Simon Hull dipped his head once. His chin dimpled childishly as he made a valiant effort to hold back more tears.

  It can’t be true, Edward thought numbly. Oh, Edmund. Edmund…

  “Tell it from the beginning,” Hastings said.

  Simon wiped his nose on his sleeve and began, calmer now that the worst was over. “There was a Christmas truce in effect, supposed to last until Epiphany, and the whoresons broke it! The day before New Year’s Eve it was. We were running out of supplies, so foraging parties were sent out. The tocsin sounded, and we rushed onto the walls to see what was happening. Down below, in a clearing, there was fighting. One of our foraging parties had returned and been ambushed, cut off. We could see it plain. They were being butchered before our eyes!”

  “Damn those whoresons to hell!” Stafford shouted, thumping a fist against the wall.

  Simon Hull lowered his voice. “But at first my lord the Duke didn’t believe it. Perhaps he didn’t believe anyone capable of such perfidy,” he said as if in extenuation of the Duke’s poor judgement. “He ordered us to arm, and my lord of Salisbury asked him where were the rest. We’d been told they had upward of fifteen thousand men. There was nowhere near that number out there. My lord the Duke said they were so few because it was a foraging party and would draw off when we appeared.”

  He paused to wipe his nose again.

  “We marched out intending to drive the attackers back and save the remnant of our party. That’s when the rest of them bloody whoresons came out of hiding. They charged out of the trees and got behind us to cut us off from the castle. We were trapped and badly outnumbered. We didn’t stand a chance, and we knew it. Then it was our turn to be butchered.”

  “It seems such an obvious ploy,” Tom Herbert murmured.

  “It’s no easy thing to watch your comrades cut to pieces before your eyes,” Simon said defensively. “God’s mercy, we could hear their screams, see their blood staining the snow. In truth, we were eager to get out there, eager to avenge them.” He paused to take a sip of wine and then went on, “The word spread that my lord of York had fallen. That took the heart right out of us, but my lord of Salisbury urged us to keep on fighting, and we did. Soon after that, I took a blow to the head. I don’t know what happened, didn’t see it coming. When I came to, it was almost over. I crawled off toward the nearest trees, playing dead whenever anyone came near, and when I reached cover, I retched and retched. I decided my best hope was to go to Wakefield and get help from my cousin there. Since I knew the area well I reckoned I could make it without being caught, but there were men on the bridge, looked like Exeter men. I couldn’t reach my cousin’s house without crossing the river. As I crept closer, I saw that my lord of Rutland was on the bridge among some other prisoners.”

  Edward tensed. “He survived the battle?”

  “Aye, my lord, he did. I saw him as clear as I see you. He was sat down, injured – there was something wrong with his leg. His hands were bound behind his back. I reckoned they were holding him for ransom. And that might have been the case, but the devil was passing by on Wakefield Bridge: Lord Clifford.”

  “Clifford!” It was a groan of unadulterated anguish. Edward slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.

  Simon glanced at Sir Walter who urged him on with a nod. “Clifford recognised him right away and dismounted. Him and the Exeter men exchanged hot words. I think they all knew what was on his mind. The young earl said nothing. He tried to get to his feet to face Clifford but couldn’t make it. The soldiers were shouting. They wanted to preserve him for ransom, but they didn’t dare interfere. Clifford drew his dagger, forced the boy’s head back and stabbed him in the throat. Helpless, he was. Bound and injured and that rabid cur butchered him like a hog.”

  “Oh, Edmund!” Edward murmured into his cupped hands. He was trembling violently all over. It was as if he was there on Wakefield Bridge, watching Edmund’s life blood spreading over the dirty, churned up snow, the final flicker of cognizance before the blue eyes were sealed forever in eternal rest; hearing the shouts of the other prisoners and the soldiers who had been cheated of wealth for the sake of Clifford’s terrible vengeance.

  After a while, Simon said, “The river was swift and deep, but I plunged in. It carried me off but I struggled to the other side and then I made my way to my cousin’s house. There I learned some more things: that Sir Thomas Neville was slain on the field – Lord Warwick’s brother, that is. Poor lad, only just released from captivity to meet his death at Wakefield. My lord of Salisbury survived, but what became of him I know not. I borrowed the fastest horse in Wakefield and damn near killed it getting here.”

  Stafford picked up a half-empty wine cup, studied its contents for some moments and then hurled it at the opposite wall. It narrowly missed Hastings’ head, splashed its bright contents down the wall, sprayed the disordered sheets with ruby droplets and rolled across the floorboards to come to a halt at the feet of Tom Herbert, who looked at it vacantly. “God on the Cross!” Stafford shouted. “The saints in heaven must be weeping after that litany of shame, of dishonour!”

  “I didn’t think it would come to this,” Richard Herbert said, stroking his own youthful throat absently. “I truly didn’t.”

  Simon looked uncertainly at Sir Walter Devereaux, who dropped a heavy hand onto his shoulder. “You are a good man to bring us these tidings at such risk. Go below and eat, then get some rest. But stay close. We’ll want to talk to you again later.”

  When he had gone, there was another anguished silence. Eventually, awkward with pity, Devereaux said, “My lord.”

  Edward’s gaze passed over them all, em
pty as the gaze of a blind man. Then he put his hands on his knees, thrust himself to his feet, grabbed his cloak and went out.

  Head down, pushing through the deep drifts, he remembered the scene outside the Castle Inn at St. Albans: Somerset backed up against the door by Warwick’s men, fighting desperately for his life and finally killed on the earl’s orders. Killed, not in battle but after, just as Edmund had been. Murdered. Heaven imposed its own brand of justice.

  He let his feet take him where they would. The snow had slackened, but the wind still had a keen edge. He had forgotten that he wasn’t wearing his doublet. He drew his cloak tightly about him but the wind bit into his flesh under the thin cambric shirt. Even in his grief, he was fair-minded enough to see the similarities between Somerset’s death and Edmund’s. But there were differences too, major ones. Somerset had been his father’s chief enemy; Edmund hadn’t played a significant role at all. Somerset’s death was politically motivated; Edmund’s was motivated purely by revenge. And, perhaps most telling of all, Somerset hadn’t been injured, helpless, his hands bound behind his back; he still had his sword. Something that Simon Hull said had struck Edward a particularly painful blow. ‘The young earl… tried to get to his feet…” Of course, he did. In the end, all he could do was to die with dignity, on his feet, facing his killer, and even that was denied him.

  There was no moon or stars, and the sky was as black as a witch’s heart, but the snow gave off its own luminosity, so Edward could see perfectly well as he turned up the hill. He passed a few houses all in darkness and came to St. Michael’s church, its tall steeple lost in the swirling snow. St. Michael was a soldier-saint, a particular favourite of his and eminently suitable for his purpose. All church doors were traditionally left open at night, and this one was no exception. The church was empty of course, and dark but for a pool of light where the votive candles flickered at the foot of a statue of Our Lady in a side chapel. It was cold, too, and draughty. The windows were without glazing except for the stained glass window in the chancel – probably paid for by an endowment from some local merchant or baron. Blown snow lined the side aisles.

  He had never been alone in a church before – he had seldom been alone anywhere. Without people, without noise and light and an officiating priest, the atmosphere was very different, awesome and oppressive rather than hallowed.

  His spurs rang against the stone-flagged floor as he strode down the side aisle, a jarring sound. Genuflecting, he knelt before the Virgin and lit three candles of his own, setting them apart from the rest, like three new souls in the great unknown of the hereafter. Crushing his hands together, he began to pray, “Dearest Father in heaven, take into your care the souls of Richard Plantagenet, Edmund Plantagenet and Thomas Neville. Forgive them their sins and give them life everlasting in the name of Our Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  The words emerged from between his lips in raspy little wisps of sound, like dry leaves stirring in the wind, and they were utterly meaningless. They didn’t touch him, couldn’t penetrate that inner core of certainty that such a grievous disaster could not overtake his family – not his family, so charmed, so blessed. He couldn’t be on his knees in a cold church praying for the souls of his father, cousin and dearly beloved brother when just a short time ago he had been in the joyful embrace of a lively, lusty whore and all had been well with the world. That was real, those passions, those familiar experiences. This was… Oh, this was like plummeting from a feast of sensual indulgence into a dank and wormy crypt. There would have to be a monumental adjustment before he could accept with every fibre of his being that his world had changed forever and that he must go to the end of his days without the solace of his dearest companion. There were eighteen years of memories that he would never be able to recall with the one person who had shared them all; and for him, those memories, once bright, funny, and precious, would forever be shadowed with sorrow.

  A gust of wind blew the candle flames flat, and for a moment he felt the kiss of snow on his face. He had forgotten his gloves, too, and his hands felt as if they were locked in a frozen clasp. The chill crept through bone and muscle, adding to his numbness. He had no idea how long he stayed on his knees, forming prayers without meaning, but sometime later he heard the ring of spurs in the aisle. Anger flared and quickly died, like a spark without tinder. Someone was beside him, genuflecting on one knee.

  “Do I intrude, my lord?” Hastings said softly and rubbed his hands together.

  Edward rose stiffly, like an old man, and sank onto the nearest pew. “Come and sit with me for a while, Will.”

  They sat in silence for a long time and then Edward murmured, “I can’t believe he’s dead. Oh, some part of me accepts it, but it hasn’t yet penetrated here,” and he tapped his chest.

  He looked up at the statue of Our Lady. It was more than life-sized. The candles illuminated a blue gown in a fashion popular in the earlier part of the century. It was crudely made and somewhat dilapidated. The tip of its nose was broken off, and the paint was chipped in several places. For some reason, it reminded him of his mother. He must write to her soon. She would be desolate. Who would want to be a woman, left behind while their men marched off to wars not of their making, left behind to worry, to agonise, and to grieve? It was a terrible thing to lose a father and a brother in one foul blow. How much worse to lose a husband, and a son? What could he possibly find to say that would give her some consolation?

  He must write to the children too. They would be frightened and confused. He must make them understand that although they had lost their father, they still had a protector.

  “You have a brother, don’t you, Will?”

  “Aye, two. I had three but one was carried off by a fever at the age of eighteen. Death is all around us, my lord, not only on the battlefield.”

  “I know that I have lost something very rare and precious. Not only a brother but also someone who knew all my sins and vices, my nasty little secrets, and accepted me as I am and loved me anyway. I have a feeling I’ll never know his like again.”

  “I have a feeling you will. Perhaps more than one,” Hastings said gruffly and swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Edward smiled briefly to show he appreciated the sentiment. That was one of the things that made Will Hastings so likeable: he always managed to find the right thing to say in any circumstances.

  They lapsed into silence again, which Edward broke with a cry that was wrenched from him, “I should have been there!”

  “Don’t, Edward.”

  He burned with a grief-fuelled rage and had nowhere to unleash it but upon himself. “I should have been there, Will! If I had been, perhaps I could have stopped my father from making that terrible blunder! But what was I doing when Edmund was being murdered on Wakefield Bridge? Tumbling a whore? Getting drunk? God forgive me!”

  “You might have been killed too. And where would the rest of us be? Waiting for George to grow up and assume the mantle of York. As you said, your father made a terrible blunder. He should never have risked his person in such a skirmish. He should have provided a rearguard – standard tactics. You know it, and I know it. Do you suppose that no one at Sandal told him so? He didn’t listen, and he wouldn’t have listened to you.”

  No, I am the last person he would have listened to. Oh, Father, what a fool you were.

  “Listen, lad,” Hastings said gently. “Guilt is an inevitable part of grief. The closer you are to the dead, the more likely you’ve transgressed, or imagine you have. Sons disappoint fathers, brothers quarrel – hence the guilt. Perhaps you have reason to feel guilty where your father is concerned, I don’t know, but don’t reproach yourself on account of Sandal. You obeyed your father’s orders like a good son.”

  Edward felt his throat tighten. He squeezed his eyes shut but the tears would not stop, and he began to shake with the effort of choking down sobs. He felt it unmanned him, exposing his deepest emotions in front of another, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. And whe
n Hastings’ arms went around him, with a sense of deep relief he let his head fall forward onto that broad chest and submitted to the waves of sorrow. Holding him as tenderly as a mother might her child, while he poured out his grief, his rage, Hastings murmured, “There, that’s better. Let it all come, my lord.”

  After a while, the tears began to ebb, and Edward lifted his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to wipe away the last traces. Searching about his person, Hastings produced a handkerchief and handed it to him. When the silence had lengthened, become heavy, he said, “You must be frozen to the bone. I know I am. Why don’t we go back to the inn?"

  “No, I must keep vigil.”

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  “There is no need.”

  “I stay,” Hastings said firmly.

  “No, Will. You’ve done all for me a man could do. I thank you for that. But now I need to be alone.”

  Seeing that he meant it, Hastings rose and pressed his shoulder. Edward rose too, embraced him quickly and then sank again to his knees before the statue of the Virgin. A moment later he heard the sound of Hastings’ spurs fading down the nave, then the thud of the wooden door closing. He was still there when the priest arrived to prepare for Mass. The priest was so startled when the tall, cloaked figure emerged out of the gloom that he almost dropped the Host.

  “Do you know me, Father?” Edward asked.

  The priest peered at him. His face was in shadow, but there were few men as tall as the young lord who had set the tongues of Shrewsbury wagging so busily during the past weeks. “My lord of March?” he said in surprise.

  “Father, I want masses said today for the souls of my father, brother and cousin,” Edward said resolutely. “Will you do that?”

  The request came as no surprise to the priest, from which Edward gathered that the news had already spread; and he said only, “Of course. God has sent you a great burden to carry, my son.”