This Sun of York

by Susan Appleyard

  “Yes, I do. In fact, I’m very nearly certain. I know you’re a gambling man, Edward. I’ve seen you play dice, stake all your winnings on one final throw. I’ve watched you play chess, too, and noticed that you have a favourite trick of hazarding your queen to win the game. I need hardly tell you that we are in shit up to our noses. Pardon my language, but it’s true that this war is getting dirtier and dirtier. If we don’t do something incredibly heroic, we’re going to be in shit above our noses! Now that Henry is once more in Margaret’s possession, we cannot govern in his name; we have lost all authority. After a great deal of thought, I have come to the conclusion that our only option in these circumstances is to do away with Henry and choose a new king, one who is strong, capable and, above all, right in his head.”

  “You?”

  “Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to take the crown myself and I’d do it in a heartbeat if I had the blood. But I don’t. The only royal blood I have is tainted with bastardy from our mutual Beaufort grandmother, more’s the pity. If I took the crown, it would be an unjustified usurpation, and I doubt very much I’d be permitted to live long enough to wear it. You, however, have the blood, the birthright and furthermore, you have been confirmed by an act of parliament as Henry’s heir.”

  Though he managed not to topple off the wall, Edward’s head spun dizzily, and his thoughts were in such a chaotic whirl that all he could think to say was, “But I’m too young!”

  Warwick dismissed this inanity with a wave of the hand. “Nonsense! How old do you have to be? Henry ruled from the cradle. Damn! All right, not the best example. But think about it, Cousin. You’re not too young to make difficult decisions, win battles and keep your head in the midst of a crisis that has older men flying in a panic for distant shores. You’ve proved your worth. Being young is an asset. It means you’ll have the years and the energy to accomplish what needs to be done to make England great again. And I’ll be with you. Whether you need advice or a strong right arm, my brothers and I will be there to help you.”

  Edward was still stunned by Warwick’s suggestion. His thoughts refused to settle into any coherent order. Upon his father’s death, he had realised that he was heir to the throne, but the prospect was so ephemeral. One thing was clear already. “It’s true that I’d make a better king than Henry.”

  “Of course you would.”

  Edward pointed to the nearby woods. “But so would that fellow relieving his bowels under that oak.”

  “Perhaps, but that fellow doesn’t have royal blood, and no one would accept him as king. Nor would he be capable of finishing off Margaret. Because you and I know that plucking the crown from Henry’s daft head is one thing – I don’t see that it will be difficult. The difficulty will be in beating Margaret once and for all. Sure as Christ suffered on the cross, she will fight to the bitter end.”

  “I’m curious to know why you think Henry can be deposed now when less than six months ago you opposed my father so strongly when he wanted to do the same thing? In fact, you told him, as I recall, that the people still loved Henry and wanted him for their king. How can things have changed so much in so short a time?”

  “Has it really been less than six months? Yes, I suppose it has. Amazing,” Warwick mused, then shook himself. “What’s changed? The Queen has led an army of foreigners into England to sack and despoil as if it was some foreign territory. Her cruelty, as I hear, has shocked even her closest adherents, so imagine how those who have always loathed her must feel. Our fathers are dead, our brothers are dead; you and I are certainly destined for the same end unless we can do something to save ourselves. Speaking for myself, I like my head right where it is.” His hand went out, almost imploring. “Edward, Edward, our backs are against the wall. We have nowhere else to go. We have no other choice. We cannot continue to fight for a place in the government as your father did for so long; the very idea is absurd. For what are we fighting? I ask you – what?”

  Clearly, it was not a rhetorical question. He paused waiting for an answer, but Edward didn’t have one, so he went on, “We can surrender ourselves to certain death, or we can take the only option open to us that affords any real hope.” He paused again. “But what really got me thinking that we might succeed now when your father failed such a short time ago, was those doughty fellows in London – God bless and preserve them! By their actions, they showed that they would rather do without their King than accept their Queen again. As I said before, they rejected their King! Perhaps they didn’t see it that way. Perhaps they weren’t aware they were doing it, but that’s what they did. They rejected their King, which made me think that they might be ready to accept another.”

  “And what makes you think they’ll accept me? I’m hardly known, as you are.”

  “True, but give a man his due. Whether merchant, baker, barber, chimney-sweep, smith, or beggar, your average Londoner is a pretty sharp political animal. He knows you’re our only choice. So it’s either you or Henry.”

  “Either me or the reigning King.”

  “Well, Henry may be the reigning King, but you look like a king. He looks like a woolfell that’s been dragged through brambles. Your good looks will prove to be an invaluable asset, Cousin, I promise you. Did you know that when we were in Calais and applied to the Staplers for a loan, we got it because of the wives? Apparently, Alice Cely was so taken with you that she not only persuaded her husband to agree to the loan but persuaded many of the other wives to coerce their husbands into agreeing also.”

  “Alice Cely is a lovely little trollop.”

  “Did you bed her?”

  “It would be correct to say she bedded me. I had very little choice in the matter.”

  “Oh, I see. She overpowered you and had her way with you.” Warwick laughed. “I shall try to remember that should my lady wife ever learn of my little lapses. I will tell her: ‘I had very little choice in the matter, my dear!’”

  Dusk was falling as they began to walk back toward the camp in silence, Edward in turmoil.

  “I am surprised you haven’t jumped at the chance. Had it been me…” Warwick sighed. “I know I’ve hit you between the eyes with this and your poor head is probably reeling. I’ll give you some time to think it over, but not too much, I’m afraid. I’ll want your answer tomorrow. In the meantime consider what I said earlier about the Queen: that if she had marched on London right away, they would have let her in. In which case, I wouldn’t be here now urging you to seize the crown. I’d be saying: Flee, Cousin, to the far corners of the world for we are finished! But she didn’t. She missed her chance, and it will never come again. Sometimes timing is everything, and this is our time, Edward. I feel it in my bones. We have to seize this chance because if we don’t, it will never come again.”

  Edward nodded. “I know.”

  “We have to do this, Cousin. For you, for me, for our families, and for the sake of all those who have supported York throughout the years.”

  They parted at Edward’s tent. He went inside, stood looking vaguely around, and then went outside again to join some of the men around a campfire. Someone passed him a wineskin; he drank without tasting, smiled at a joke he hadn’t heard. One moment he was excited at the prospect of becoming king, of having the power to set things right, and the next moment he was shuddering at the thought of all that responsibility. Could he do it? Was he ready to take on such a burden? The trouble was, he had an unblinkered view of himself. He knew his limitations.

  He went back to his tent, poured himself some of the ale and sat on a stool with the cup dangling between his knees. Do I want to be king? By God in heaven, by our Blessed Lady, by Christ and all the saints, who wouldn’t want to? Yes! To ride through the land and see the villages flourishing, roads and bridges in good repair, the forests cleansed of outlaws, a people enjoying peace, prosperity, plenty, and to know that it was his doing – for that alone he wanted to be king. But there were other things too, complex problems that a young man with a good mi
nd could get his teeth into. He wanted to know that a lowborn man could take his case to court and get the same kind of justice as a highborn man. He wanted to see the country’s finances improved, a healthy Exchequer, commerce and trade booming. Was there anything else? Yes, an England strong and secure, never again to suffer the shame of foreign incursions. Each of these was a monumental task.

  But could he do it? If he was to snatch the crown from Henry’s uncaring head, he wanted to be a good king.

  When he had told Warwick that he was too young, it had been an instinctive reaction, but in fact, youth had as many drawbacks as advantages. He would have to deal with men who were far older and more experienced in government than he; men who were his supporters, but would always put self-interest first, would view him as a neophyte in need of schooling. He’d had a taste of that when he sat on the council last year, among the wizened old heads of politics. ‘You’re going to find this very boring,’ Warwick had warned him, but in this Warwick was wrong. It was fascinating to watch the manipulations and undercurrents as an observer. For that’s what he was. No one was interested in his opinions.

  And what of those wizened old heads of Europe? How seriously would Charles of France and Philip of Burgundy take an eighteen-year-old newly come into royal power?

  There were those who would see his youth as an invitation to rule through him, just as they had through Henry. In fact, his youth would be seen as much of a debility as Henry’s mental weakness. And foremost of these was his cousin of Warwick. No question but he needed Warwick, relied on him, and would be unable to navigate the treacherous shoals that lay ahead without him. But he had his cousin’s measure now. My brothers and I will be there to help you. Yes, indeed! Warwick wanted to be the power behind the throne, and that was fair enough when the King was young and untried and knew his limitations. But he wouldn’t be eighteen forever. What would happen when he wanted to take the reins of government into his own hands? Would Warwick willingly relinquish them? Not he! So – his best option was not to let Warwick get too firm a grip…

  He caught himself with a start and heaved a great unhappy sigh. Here he was already scheming how to reduce his cousin’s power even before he had decided if he wanted the crown. But this is what it means to be king: no friends, no peers even, and scheming every day to keep others in their place so that none may aspire to mine.

  Yes, it would be a burden and a grave responsibility and a challenge both daunting and exhilarating, and a monumental sacrifice. But how could he refuse? To turn down the crown was surely an act of base cowardice. Didn’t he owe it to those who had supported the house of York throughout the years, and particularly to Warwick, his mother, his siblings? And what about his father and brother and all those who had given all so that he might sit here now debating with himself whether to accept the burden for which they had fought and died? How could he refuse?

  Setting down his cup of ale untouched, he went to the tent flap and looked out. Seeing Will Hastings nearby, he called him in. Returning to his stool, he placed another directly opposite and when Hastings entered he pointed to it. “Sit, Will.”

  Edward looked him directly in the eye without smiling. “You’re probably the last man I should share a secret with, but I have to unburden myself to someone. However, if you spill a word of what I’m about to tell you before I’m ready, I’ll personally take my knife to your balls.”

  “Oho, an important secret!” Hastings said, rubbing his hands together like a moneylender calculating interest. His highly developed olfactory sense had smelled something in the wind when he’d seen Edward and Warwick walking together, talking together, so very seriously.

  Edward said baldly, “Warwick wants me to be king.”

  The words drove the air from Hastings' lungs as if an iron fist had slammed into his gut. “What answer did you give?” he asked when he was once more capable of speech.

  “I didn’t. I wanted to think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?” asked Hastings, genuinely perplexed.

  “Oh, Will, don’t be dense! I’m eighteen. I’ve never even had the running of my own earldom, let alone an entire country. Until three months ago I was always under the wing of an older man. I haven’t had the advantage of being Prince of Wales and educated to the kingship. I don’t know how to be king!”

  “Oh, I see,” said Hastings, and he did. Flicking his cloak aside to facilitate movement, he slipped from the stool onto one knee, took Edward’s hand in his and reverently placed a kiss on it. Lifting his head, he said, “Don’t hesitate, my lord. You’ll make a fine king.”

  Chapter 58

  February 1461 – London

  The day was chilly, but the sun was shining in a bright blue sky, a false promise of an early spring. It was the twenty-seventh day of February, two months after the disastrous defeat at Wakefield, and just ten days after the battle of St. Albans had seemed to put an end to Yorkist hopes. The gates of London, which had been locked fast against the King and Queen, stood open to receive the Earls of March and Warwick. The mayor and aldermen were there, grateful that the immediate danger was over and ready to lead the earls into the city. The walls were lined with smiling faces, waving hands; cheers rose to a thunderous crescendo. More smiling faces and waving hands jammed windows and gables. People perched on roofs, overturned barrels, tree branches, anywhere that would give them better elevation to see. The streets were packed on either side by crowds nearly hysterical with excitement, giddy with relief, smiling, waving, the women blowing kisses, everyone shouting blessings on the two earls who had liberated London from the horrors of the northern army. For at their coming, to avoid being trapped between them and the walls of London, Margaret had prudently withdrawn northward.

  Edward had said to his cousin, ‘I accept.’ Two little words. Too simple to be so cataclysmic. I accept. I will be king for good or ill. God has ordained it.

  Warwick, the great earl, went down on his knees and kissed his hand in homage. ‘From this day forth,’ he said solemnly, ‘you are my King, to whom I owe all obedience. May God grant you long life and prosperity.’

  Warwick had carefully staged everything. It was he who decided that Edward must abandon mourning dress and, after ransacking the chest in which he kept his clothes without finding anything to his liking, sent to Baynard’s Castle to ask the duchess to send a costume suitable for a triumphant entry into London. The result was that Edward was decked out in a sky blue velvet doublet, sleeves slashed with silver. ‘It matches your eyes,’ Warwick said, which had Edward and his friends in fits of laughter when he told them about it later, so incongruous were the words coming from Warwick. His legs were encased in pearly hose, his feet and calves in gleaming leather. A cloak had been sent for that probably belonged to his father, as it was lined with ermine, a costly fur that could only be worn by a Duke. Someone had procured a blue feather to wear in his cap, which was held in place by a huge opal brooch dripping pearls from its lower edge.

  As to his comportment, Warwick said, ‘Wave until your arm is numb. Smile until your jaw aches. Look people in the eye; hold as many as you can within your vision. Each one will think you are smiling at him alone.’ But he could have saved his breath. Edward had been charming people since he’d been a toddler straddling his nurse’s hip in Rouen.

  As they rode through the gate, Warwick dropped back a couple of paces, letting Edward ride ahead on his white courser to give him a small taste of how it felt to be a king welcomed into his capital by loving subjects. With his youth and fresh-faced good looks, magnificent physique and smile of genuine pleasure, Edward looked as Warwick had said ‘like a king’. It was said later that some young women fainted clean away when they saw him, but Edward said it was probably due to the crowd pressing too close.

  As it wasn’t the season for flowers, white roses made from paper or fabric were everywhere, pinned to cloaks, adorning men’s hats, clutched in little girls hands, in defiance of the dirty slushy snow that still line
d the sides of the streets. There were even some sun emblems on display to commemorate Edward’s triumph at Mortimer’s Cross.

  “See how they love you, my lord,” Warwick shouted above the roar of the crowd.

  It was true. Above the shouts of ‘York’ and ‘Warwick’ could hear the chant, Edward! Edward! Edward! Until it seemed the whole city was reverberating with the sound of his name. Whenever Warwick entered London word ran ahead faster than he could ride and enthusiastic crowds always gathered to cheer him. He was immensely popular. Unlike his cousin, Edward wasn’t accustomed to the adulation of the crowd; he believed himself still very much unknown. But they knew him now, these Londoners, freed so suddenly from the Scots’ menace that they were quite wild with jubilation. They were on first name terms with him. They wanted to touch him, to festoon him with scarves and flowers. They cheered him, blessed him, wept at his youth and beauty. It did not go to his head. Over his shoulder, he said to Warwick, “I suspect they would cheer a Barbary ape if they had reason to believe the Barbary ape had helped save London from the Scots. But I think maybe you were right, after all, Cousin: that the people – at least the people of London – have already deposed Henry in their hearts, that they would welcome me as their king.”

  “It is going to be easy,” Warwick said smugly.

  The roar rose around them: Edward! Edward! Edward! He swept off his cap and waved it in the air, and the people shouted all the louder.

  The narrow streets widened into a square before St. Paul’s Cathedral, which was also choked with people. Seeing his mother and sister standing in the church porch, and an impenetrable crush between them, he made his way slowly and carefully, unwilling to have the day spoiled by the kind of accident that had marred his and Warwick’s entry into the city from Calais. At last, he was through and dismounted, letting the reins drop. Punctiliously observing the courtesy due to a parent, he went down on one knee and kissed his mother’s hand, and the crowd roared its approval. Marvellous woman, he thought. All alone, she had sustained the double bereavement of husband and son, found the steel to send her two youngest off to safety, and endured the uncertainty of those days while Margaret sat at the gates. Yet here she was to greet him, to make his day complete, not just unbroken but unbowed, a strong and indomitable woman, with just a suspicion of moisture in her eyes.