“He did choke to death on his own blood,” he added, gratuitously and with so conspicuous a lack of regret that Marguerite stared at him. Remembering the name Clifford had won for himself after word spread of the stabbing on Wakefield Bridge. He’d been nearly deranged with fury once he knew; had gone to Marguerite, his only sympathetic ear, to blister the air with his oaths and his outrage that he, Lord Clifford of Skipton-Craven, should now be branded, even among his own men, as the “Butcher.”
Marguerite was suddenly conscious of the cold again; snow had seeped into her pattens until she could no longer feel her feet. Her skirt and underkirtle were damp, too, clung about her ankles and tripped her in clammy folds as she struggled to rise.
She was already up before the Abbot could offer assistance, but as he shifted the lantern, he inadvertently brought it up to her eyes. Night-blinded, she was caught in its glare, just long enough to step back onto a treacherous icy glaze. She had no hope of aborting her fall, landed with jarring impact upon the base of her spine. The Abbot cried out, dropped the lantern as he reached for her, and when his own balance went, almost tumbled down on top of her. The soldier wisely stayed where he was, and coughed to cover the startled laugh that was as involuntary as a sneeze and as devoid of amusement.
Weighed down by her sodden skirts, unable to catch her breath, watching as the Abbot floundered beside her in the snow, while her servant struggled to maintain his own footing and gingerly extended his hand toward her, Marguerite suddenly began to laugh, jagged bursts of strangled mirth, the sound of which nightmares are made.
“Madame, you mustn’t give way!” The Abbot, less timid than her servant at laying hands upon royalty, grabbed her shoulders, shook her vigorously.
“But it is so very amusing; surely you see that? I’ve a little boy and a sweet helpless fool asleep in your lodging and no money and I’ve just been told I no longer have an army and look at us, my lord Abbot, Sacré Dieu, look at us! If I do not laugh,” she gasped, “I might believe all this were truly happening, and happening to me!”
“Madame…” The Abbot hesitated, and then plunged ahead courageously. “You need not flee, you know. York would not harm a woman, still less a child. Your lives would be safe with him, I do believe that. Stay here, Madame. Entreat York’s mercy, accept him as King. Even if you reach Scotland, what then? Ah, Madame, can you not let it lie?”
The lantern light no longer fell on her face; he could not discern her expression. But he heard her intake of breath, a sibilant hiss of feline intensity. Her hand jerked from his.
“Oui, Monseigneur,” she spat. “On my deathbed!”
Somehow, she’d scrambled to her feet, so swiftly that he sat gaping up at her.
“If I were you, my lord Abbot,” she said venomously, “I’d be too concerned for my abbey to offer unwanted and unwise political counsel. St Mary’s is one of the richest houses of your very rich order, is it not? You’d be better advised to spend some hours on your knees, praying that Edward of York does leave you with two groats to call your own. What do you think will befall this city once he does turn it over to his men for their sport?”
“Madame?” The soldier had regained his feet. “In truth, I’ve little interest in what York does or does not do to this city. But I’ve an overriding interest in your safety, and that of the King. I’m the Duke of Somerset’s sworn man; he himself did send me to you. It is my thinking that we’ve no time to tarry. My lord Abbot may be correct in his surmise that York would not do violence to a woman or child. That is not, however, a belief I’d care to put to the test.”
She stared at him and then nodded. “Come with me,” she said, linking her arm through his before he could move. “You must lean on me should you feel weak. Do you think you can ride? Good. Now…” She paused, and then concluded, in tautly controlled tones, “Now I think it time to awaken my son.”
Another pause. “And Henri.” Said so softly that he barely heard her, with an emotional inflection he could not identify.
“Yes,” she said, still softly. “We must not forget my husband, the King.”
He gave her a quick look, saw only the beautiful profile, the wealth of glossy dark hair, freed from constraint by her tumble in the snow, saw only what she wanted him to see.
The Abbot came painfully to his feet, brushing snow from his habit, shaking it from the folds of the cowled hood that lay across his shoulders, a stark solitary figure clad in the black of the Benedictines, surrounded by drifts of unrelenting white. His lips were moving. He’d taken Marguerite d’Anjou’s sardonic suggestion to heart, was praying for the city he loved, and the magnificent Abbey of St Mary’s that was his life.
The citizens of York awoke to fear on Monday morning. Word swiftly spread throughout the city. Towton, the most savage battle ever fought on English soil; Towton was Edward of York’s bloody coronation. There were none now to challenge his sovereignty. England was his, and the people of York had given him no reason to look with favor upon their city.
A pallid sun made hesitant advances and hasty retreats, and windswept snow and debris gave the city streets a look of utter desolation. Occasional apprentices appeared, scouring about for firewood with which to board up their masters’ shops. The overhanging upper stories of the timber frame houses were tightly shuttered. The major market sites of the city, Thursday Market and Pavement, were virtually deserted; stalls that should have been heavily laden with Lenten fish, apple butter, and herbs were barren, or had not been set up at all. There were reports of crowds forming on the river quays just below Ouse Bridge where all sea-going ships docked upon arrival in York.
Generally, however, the city was quiet, the mood one of apprehension rather than panic. Mention might be made of flight, but only by the very foolish and the very frightened. York was England’s second largest city, with a population of fifteen thousand. Fifteen thousand people could not stream off into the frozen countryside, leaving the elderly and infirm to their fate. Theirs was the cardinal sin of backing the wrong side in a civil war, and now they braced courageously for the consequences of their judgmental lapse. There was an unusually high turnout for Morrow Mass in the forty-one parish churches in and about the city. And then, the waiting began.
William Stockton, the Lord Mayor of York, stood with John Kent and Richard Claybruke, sheriffs of York, before Micklegate Bar. Behind them were gathered the city chamberlains, aldermen, and most of the members of the common council. All wore their ceremonial robes of scarlet mantled with fur, to honor the Yorkist King. All looked markedly ill at ease.
A small crowd had collected as the morning wore on, those who’d always held for the House of York and those hoping to curry favor with their new sovereign, the intrepid, the young, the morbidly curious. Little was happening yet, though; they passed the time by fabricating outlandish rumors and staring at the man by the Lord Mayor’s side.
John Neville was thirty, looked much older, with the weathered face of a soldier and deep-set brown eyes that missed little. Upon learning of the Lancastrian loss at Towton, the city leaders had hastened at once to York Castle to free the man who was brother to the powerful Earl of Warwick, cousin to the King. He’d listened impassively as they implored him to speak on the city’s behalf, gave them courtesy but little else, so that they had no solid clue as to either his emotions or his intentions.
Now John Kent, the younger of the sheriffs, edged closer to him, said politely, “My lord? Be it true that the King’s Grace did forbid his men to commit robbery, rape, or sacrilege, upon pain of death?”
This was the most comforting rumor circulating at the moment, and had a certain plausibility in that it had existed before the Yorkist victory at Towton.
John Neville shrugged. “As to that, Master Kent, I’m not the one to ask. I’ve been a prisoner of Lancaster for these six weeks past. I fear I’m rather out of touch with the activities of the King’s Grace.”
“Do you…do you think it likely he would?” Kent persisted, but John N
eville had raised his hand against the uneven glare of winter sunlight upon the surrounding sea of snow.
“Riders approach,” he said, just as sentries up on the city walls shouted, turning all heads toward the road south.
At sight of his brother, the Earl of Warwick broke into a grin, reined in his stallion. John Neville’s somber face was transformed; shedding years with his smile, he came forward as Warwick dismounted. Their hands clasped, held.
“I never thought you could look so good to me, Johnny!”
“I was lucky,” John said simply, and Warwick laughed.
“Ned and I did hope they’d fear to send you to the block, but it was no hope to hold a man’s weight. Thank God Jesus that Somerset saw himself as his brother’s keeper!”
“She’s gone, of course, Dick. Sometime last night.”
Warwick nodded, said matter-of-factly, “We did expect as much.”
“Was the win as great as that, then? What were our losses?”
“Ah, yes, Johnny, it was as great as that! But the losses…were unbelievable, like nothing I’ve ever seen. We’ll be digging grave pits for days to come. I’d not be surprised if the dead do number twice ten thousand when all is said and done.”
“My God!”
“I’ve not seen you for fully six weeks, and you’ve not seen Ned since last December, have you? There’s too much to tell, Johnny; I’d not know where to begin.”
“I think it would be a kindness if you’d begin by greeting the Lord Mayor and those doleful-looking souls waiting like sheep for the slaughter,” John suggested with a smile, and his brother laughed, moved forward to be welcomed into York by its troubled Mayor.
Warwick was more receptive than the Mayor dared hope, listened with encouraging attentiveness as they avowed their fealty to the King’s Grace, offered congratulations upon his splendid victory at Towton, and expressed the heartfelt hope that His Grace the King would look with charity upon past loyalties pledged to Lancaster.
Warwick’s response was noncommittal, but so amiable that they took heart, and it was with renewed confidence that they turned now to watch the approach of their young King.
The Yorkists in the crowd set up a spontaneous cheer, and it was prudently taken up by the others. Edward saw smiles upon every face, an impressive flurry of Yorkist white roses, and his own Sunne in Splendour badge, Neville scarlet and the blue and murrey of York, the Lord Mayor, the aldermen, and with a surge of pleasure, his cousin John. John was grinning, raised his hand in a singular salute. His palm cut the air sideways; it was a gesture from Edward’s boyhood, sign language he and Edmund had shared with their Neville cousins, expressing the approval they reserved for only the most audacious of exploits. Edward laughed, touched his spurs lightly to his mount’s flanks.
It was then that he saw the heads above him on Micklegate Bar.
He yanked upon his reins, so savagely that his startled stallion reared up wildly, and to the appalled audience, it seemed likely that Edward would lose his seat and the stallion its balance. There were sudden screams. The crowd was small enough so that all could see what had happened, and the usual shoving and pushing didn’t materialize, but several people moved into the road, as if intending to grab for the plunging stallion. Cooler heads prevailed, and several soldiers waved them back. Edward now had the horse under control, but as he soothed the frightened animal, it was evident to all that he was acting from instinct, that he had no awareness of what he did. He was still staring up at Micklegate Bar.
The crowd was silent. The Yorkist soldiers were no less silent. Even the horses seemed to have been frozen in place. The moment of petrified immobility did not shatter, seemed to drag on and on, seemed as if it would never end.
Warwick followed Edward’s upward gaze. He’d seen the heads, too, as he first drew rein before the gateway; had looked up and then away. The sight was hardly pleasant, but recognition was an utter impossibility, not after three months’ exposure to the elements of a Yorkshire winter. He’d not expected this reaction. Edward was not easily rattled, from his mid-teens had shown a self-possession rather remarkable for his years. Warwick had occasionally been irked by the boy’s easy assurance, but he realized now how much he’d come to rely upon it, upon the certainty that Edward could be counted upon to keep calm under pressure, to keep his emotions conveniently curbed. It made him an invaluable ally, an agreeable companion.
Now Warwick might have been staring at a stranger. Edward had gone very white; the blood had so suddenly drained from his face that he looked ill. He’d not taken his eyes from the grisly spectacle above his head, but Warwick noticed that he’d knotted the reins, had wrapped a length around his fist, was methodically pulling it taut and then letting it go slack. Warwick knew Edward’s strength, found himself staring expectantly at those jerking reins, saw the leather give way under the pressure, snap off in his cousin’s hand.
The stallion shied. Edward seemed equally startled, stared down at his hands as if they’d been engaging in an activity independent of his control. The broken strip of leather flew through the air, landed at the feet of the nearest of the spectators. He flinched as if struck, but a youngster darted forward, scooped it up, and then raised it high so others could see, bestowing upon Edward the admiring glance due one able to manage so impressive a feat and with so little effort.
People could move again; no longer were they stricken dumb. There was stirring in the crowd and uneasy murmurs became audible. Until Edward turned upon the Lord Mayor and the aldermen, demanded to know why the heads of his father and brother had not been taken from Micklegate Bar, in a voice raw with rage, unrecognizable as his own even to those who knew him best.
They were unable to speak, seeing York in flames, reduced to ashes and cinders and charred bodies. A few did look despairingly at Warwick, but it was John Neville who moved, coming forward to stand at Edward’s stirrup.
“There wasn’t time, Ned,” he said, very quietly. “The Frenchwoman fled the city only hours ago and nothing could be done while she held York. And then…Well, fear does not lend itself to clear thinking. In the little time left, I doubt if it occurred to them, so fearful were they that you might exact from York the price paid by Ludlow. And in fairness, you could as well blame me. I could have given the order; I didn’t. I fear I haven’t been thinking all that clearly myself this morning.” He smiled slightly. “I did reckon today would mark the end of my confinement, one way or the other. But it was that ‘other’ which did give me pause!”
Edward stared down at him. A muscle jerked in his cheek. He raised a hand to still it. None spoke. All waited.
“I want them taken down now,” Edward said at last, very low. “See to it for me, Johnny.”
John nodded. For a moment their eyes held, and then Edward turned in the saddle, gazed up at Micklegate Bar, before saying in a hard, carrying voice, “My lord of Warwick!”
“Your Grace?” Warwick had been mesmerized by this unexpected exposure of an unhealed grief, had been startled to see he did not know his Yorkist cousin as well as he thought he did. Moving toward Edward, he said composedly, “What is Your Grace’s pleasure?”
“The prisoners taken…” Edward turned fathomless blue eyes upon Warwick, eyes that now had a brilliant and frightening glitter.
“I see no reason to delay the executions. Have them carried out. Now.”
Warwick nodded. “The Lord Mayor tells me the Earl of Devon did not flee with Marguerite. He was bed-ridden with fever, is being held now within the castle, awaiting your pleasure. Shall we,” he jested grimly, “rid him of his fever?”
Warwick’s gallows humor did not sit well with his brother; John had too recently been a captive himself not to have a qualm or two at executing a sick prisoner. He opened his mouth to speak, saw that his young cousin was looking up again at the heads upon Micklegate Bar. There was little in Edward’s face of youth and nothing of mercy. All watching knew what he would say.
“Take Devon to the marketplace.
The one called Pavement. Have him beheaded before the pillory.”
“It shall be done forthwith,” Warwick said agreeably. “And then?” he prompted, accurately anticipating Edward’s next command.
“Then I would see his head where my brother and father now are.”
Warwick nodded again. “As Your Grace wills it, so shall it be,” he said loudly, and then dropped his voice for Edward’s hearing alone.
“Ned? Be you all right? You did look greensick for a moment there….”
“Did I?” Edward said tonelessly, and at that moment, Warwick had no idea what the boy might be thinking; nothing showed on his face, nothing at all.
For an unexpectedly awkward moment, nothing was said, and then Edward moved his stallion forward, said over his shoulder, “Tell me when it has been done. But no prisoners below the rank of knight. I’d not charge a man for a full loaf of bread if he’s had but crumbs. See to it, Cousin.”
He reined in his mount before Lord Mayor Stockton and the aldermen. The Mayor rallied, began a courageous if doomed appeal on behalf of his city, but Edward cut him off in midsentence.
“My Lord Mayor, I’m bone-weary. I want nothing so much now as a hot bath, a soft bed, and a strong drink. To be very candid, I’m in no mood to hear you explain away your allegiance to Lancaster. So, if I may spare us both a plea that need not be made…or heard?”
The Mayor nodded numbly, so bewildered by this off-center response that he found himself assenting as if Edward had actually posed a question that wanted answering.
Edward almost smiled at that, and then said very deliberately, “I’ve no intention of sacking the city of York. Your fears are groundless, do me no credit. My quarrel is with the House of Lancaster, not the good people of York.”
He looked around at the intent faces upturned to him, saw the dawning joy, and found a smile for them, said, “You’ve shown you can give great loyalty to your sovereign. As your sovereign, that can scarcely displease me, can it?”
The Sunne In Splendour: A Novel of Richard III Page 11
