The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (32 page)

Three daughters she'd given him, Bessie, Mary, and Cecily, the last- named to placate his unyielding lady mother, who'd never accepted Lisbet, never forgiven him for that Maytime marriage at Grafton Manor.
Three fair little girls. He'd never shared Lisbet's disappointment in their daughters never doubted that she'd give him the sons a King must have(
and he was sure the child she now carried would be a boy. He'd been sure even as far back as the first time she'd felt the babe quicken within her womb. Four had always been a lucky number for him.'
He sat up abruptly, for the night's quiet had suddenly been torn )| asunder. Loud voices were echoing in the antechamber, followed by muffled sounds, much like grappling bodies. Edward flung himself from the bed, groping for his sword. His squire was already up, kicking the pallet aside as the door was shoved back with such force that the unlatched bolt tore loose, clattered to the floor.
All at once the room was full of men, shouting, swearing, stumbling against each other, swords drawn.
But their quarry was already on his knees before Edward.
"Your Grace . . ."he panted, sobbing for breath, shoulders heaving like one convulsed.
By now the room was ablaze with torches, and as the light fell upon the florid begrimed face, Edward recognized him as Alexander Carlisle, the sergeant of his minstrels. As Edward lowered his sword, Carlisle found his voice.
"Save yourself, Your Grace. . . . Your enemies are coming to take you. . . ."
"You're raving," Edward said tersely.
The night was chill, yet sweat ran like rain down Carlisle's face; his doublet, torn from shoulder to elbow, was stained with dark wet splotches.
"The enemy . . ." he repeated, like one who knew no other words.
"Who, man?" Edward demanded impatiently. "Warwick is more than two days' march from Doncaster.
What phantom foes did you conjure-"
Carlisle actually dared to interrupt. "I don't know, my liege . . . but I saw them," he insisted stubbornly.
"Men at arms, not more than six miles away . . . and they are not for York."
Edward reached for a torch, held it close to the man's face. Carlisle flinched, but kept his eyes on his
King, and Edward handed the torch back to his squire. The man might be mad, but his fear was real enough.
His gaze raked the circle of suddenly silent men, found a face he could trust.
"See to this. If his tale be true, there'll be fugitives aplenty making for Doncaster. Find them, and report back to me."

The man nodded, knelt before him, and backed from the room. If possible, the quiet was even more absolute, marred only by Carlisle's labored breathing.
He was wiping away bibod with his sleeve; his cheek had been gashed in the struggle to block his precipitous entry into Edward's bedchamber.
"I swear before Almighty God . . . I've told you true, Your Grace."
Edward believed him. Instinct stronger than reason told him Carlisle spoke the truth. Glancing about him, he saw his belief reflected in the frightened faces of his attendants. The fear in the room was a tangible thing, would take flame like sun-dried straw, blaze into a panic that might engulf his entire army.
A man sank to his knees, began to babble, "Oh, Lord, my God, You Who take away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. . . ."
The others stirred, fearful eyes flicking in contagious communication of this unknown dread, and Edward profaned the prayer with a virulent oath.
Asserting command, he waited until they lapsed into submissive silence. One of his squires was hovering nearby, clutching an armful of clothing; a boot slipped from his uneasy grasp, nearly landed on Edward's bare foot. He grimaced, aware of the incongruous image he presented, stark naked with sword in hand.
But for once, his sense of humor failed him.
"Get me Gloucester," he snapped. "And Hastings. . . . Awaken the others."
EDWARD looked about him at the three men who stood closest to him: his brother Richard, his brother-in-law Anthony Woodville, his Lord Chamberlain, Will Hastings. Three more unlike men he could not imagine, though they now shared a common expression, one of stunned apprehension. Three pairs of eyes, dark blue, pale green, and brown, were focused unwaveringly on him . . . waiting.
Anthony kept running his tongue over dry lips. He was blanched with fear, but Edward didn't fault him for that. Only a madman like Harry of Lancaster faced the sword with equanimity. But the fear must be ridden with a curb bit; slacken the reins and all control would be forfeit. He gave Anthony a hard appraising look, concluded that as long as the others kept their heads, Anthony would bear up.
Turning his gaze upon Will and Richard, he found reason for reassurance in their tense expectant faces.
Will was too jaded, at thirty-nine, to be truly surprised by any act of man or God; he'd take defeat in stride if it came to that. And Dickon had the blessed adaptability of the very young,

too caught up in the action of the moment to dwell upon the risk of defeat and death within the hour.
"Have you confirmed the man's story, Ned?" Will asked sensibly.
"We wait upon him now." Taking a step toward the antechamber, he said, "We'd best give orders to have the horses saddled, just in case. . . ."
Richard, tugging at the undersleeve of his hastily donned doublet, looked up at that. "I did," he said briefly, and Edward gave him a grimly approving nod.
"Good lad. I needn't tell you . . ." He paused, suddenly alert.
Richard reached the door first, jerking it open as Edward's courier stumbled into the chamber. And when he brushed past Richard, Duke of Gloucester and a Plantagenet Prince, without so much as a nod, Edward knew what he would say.
"You are in mortal peril, my liege."
Edward swallowed, finding his mouth too dry for speech. "From whom?"
"Montagu," the man blurted. "He's declared for his brother, for Warwick. . . and his army is less than two leagues distant, Your Grace."
It should have come as no surprise. From the moment he'd accepted Carlisle's tale as true, Edward had known there could be but one army within reach of Doncaster. But he'd refused to let himself believe it.
There were truths too devastating to be accepted. Johnny. Jesus God, what had he done?
No one spoke. He doubted they even breathed. He compelled himself to turn his head, to look at his companions. Saw that Richard and Will had guessed the truth too; Anthony alone looked startled.
"Montagu?" he echoed incredulously. "How could he, Ned? After all you've done for him!"
No one heeded him. Will was watching Edward. Richard, too, watched his brother. Edward swung around so he'd not have to meet their eyes, bumped blindly into the bed. Johnny. Johnny, of all men. That accursed earldom. God forgive him, he should have seen . . . should have realized . . . Lisbet. What would become of her? And his little girls? The men who'd trusted him? Will. Dickon. Dickon, who was seventeen . . . like Edmund. And it was his doing. He'd brought them to this, brought them here to die in
Doncaster.
He'd never come this close to panic in his life. Never before lost faith in himself, seen himself as beaten, seen them all as dead men.
He lost track of time. The silence seemed to endure forever, had neither beginning nor end to it. In reality, only seconds passed. He felt now a light touch on his arm. His brother had come to stand beside him. He

turned to face the boy. Dickon was afraid. It showed in the rigidness of his posture, the way he hunched his shoulders forward, his sudden pallor. Too stunned for pain; that would come later ... if he lived long enough. But the eyes didn't waver, looked back at him steadily. Edmund's eyes, full of trust.
Edward drew an uneven breath, found it hurt to breathe, as if he'd taken a jarring blow to the midsection.
When he spoke, however, his voice was very much his own, held no hint of panic.
"It's a well-timed trap he's sprung on us. I always said Johnny was the soldier in the Neville family." And saw he alone was surprised that he could sound so controlled, detached even. To the others, it was no more than they expected of him.
"What do we do, Ned?" The question came from Richard, had in it much of that same sobering faith he'd seen in the boy's eyes.
Will, too, was awaiting his response. Anthony, however, had begun to pace, as if movement could somehow forestall the coming catastrophe; unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out with an agitated, "What can we do but fight? If we rally our men ..."
Edward turned to stare at his brother-in-law. "They have us outnumbered by damned near two to one,"
he said, not troubling to conceal his scorn. "More importantly, they're ready to fight and we're not. Long before we could gather our forces, they'd be upon us. You did hear the man say they're less than six miles distant?"
Anthony flushed scarlet. There was another brief silence as they took in the awesome implications of
Edward's words.
"Have we time to withdraw, Ned?" Will was watching him intently and looked pained but not surprised when Edward shook his head.
"We'd be butchered," he said succinctly. "Whether we try to make a stand here or pull our men back.
We haven't the time, we're greatly outmanned, and Warwick's army is doubtlessly on the move at this very moment to cut off escape to the south."
He paused, his eyes moving from face to face. "My father and brother were slain at Sandal Castle because they engaged a far superior force. It was daring, heroic, foolhardy . . . and fatal. I'll not make the same mistake.
"Give the order to disperse. Tell our men to scatter as they will. Now ... get me Will Hatteclyffe."
Within moments, his secretary-physician was standing before him, anticipating his need, numbly offering pen and paper. With a sweep of his arm, Edward cleared the table. The others watched; there was no sound but the rapid scratching of his pen. Straightening, he handed the message, unread, to Hatteclyffe.

"Pick a man you can trust. Have him convey this to the Queen. Tell her to seek sanctuary at St Martin's or Westminster. Better yet, take it yourself, Will."
"Don't ask that of me, Your Grace." Hatteclyffe's voice cracked, thickened with emotion. "I would go with you . . . be it into the very pits of Hell."
Edward almost smiled at that . . . almost. "Not as far as that, Will ... at least, not yet. For now, it's to be
Burgundy."
Burgundy. Saying it aloud suddenly made it real. He knew time was of the essence, knew Johnny would reach Doncaster within the hour. Yet for a moment he stood immobile. And then, with an effort, he roused himself, looked to see the impact upon his companions. Anthony seemed dazed. Will was pale, but composed; thank God for Will . . . and for Dickon.
"Christ keep you, lad," he said abruptly, "this will be the second time you've had to seek refuge in
Burgundy."
Richard had moved to the window. Now that the worst was known, he was finding this delay to be intolerable. His nerves were raw, taut with the need for action, to be gone from here. He'd felt as if those few moments Ned had taken to write to Elizabeth had lasted the whole of his lifetime, and with each passing minute he expected to hear the sounds of the approaching enemy force echoing in the courtyard.
That the enemy was Johnny and that flight meant foreign exile . . . He was too numbed truly to take that in. Now he wanted only to escape this room, escape this waking nightmare into which he had so suddenly been thrust. The shutters were securely latched, resisting his probing fingers; all at once, it was crucial to him that the window be open, and he jerked the bolt until the aged wood splintered, gave way grudgingly.
At Edward's surprising words, he swung around to regard his brother searchingly. After hesitating, he managed a moderately passable grin and a self-conscious shrug.
"Old habits die hard, Ned."
The reply was unexpected. Edward stared and then he grinned, too, more convincingly than Richard but still leaving much to be desired.
"So do men, Little Brother," he said grimly. "Therefore, I suggest we ride as if our lives depend upon it.
... For they do."
THE fortified manor house occupied by England's King still flew the Yorkist banner as John Neville entered Doncaster. But the man he sought was miles away, racing east through the night as the sky ahead paled and turned a soft misty grey.
Reaching the northern shore of the Wash, the Yorkist fugitives corn

mandeered what craft they could and headed for Lynn, a fishing village on the Norfolk coast. Edward's legendary luck seemed to have deserted him; their small ships were battered mercilessly in an unseasonal gale and a number of their men drowned, Edwaid himself barely escaping a like fate.
On September 30, they landed in Lynn, and, with several hundred of their more steadfast followers crammed into small fishing vessels, they abandoned England and sailed for Burgundy. It was a Tuesday, October 2, the Feast Day of the Guardian Angels, just twenty days since Warwick had landed at
Dartmouth. It was also Richard's eighteenth birthday.
I 7
LONDON
October 1470
No
/OT
until Monday, October 1, did word reach London of John Neville's defection and Edward's midnight flight from the northern village of Doncaster. Sir Geoffrey Gate, a man sworn to the Earl of Warwick, immediately seized his opportunity and led a successful assault upon the Southwark prisons. Scores of political prisoners, men loyal to Lancaster or Warwick, were freed. Freed, too, however, were countless convicted felons, and they surged through the streets of Southwark, looting shops and alehouses, terrorizing the sizable community of Flemish merchants, and creating panic even in the eighteen bankside bordellos of that area of Southwark commonly known as "the stews."
London's Mayor ordered the city gates closed to the mob, but throughout the day the air was acrid with the smoke of Southwark fires. At dark, Elizabeth Woodville, in her eighth month of pregnancy, gathered her three small daughters and her two young sons, and sought refuge at Westminster in the abbey of St
Peter. Robert Stillington, Edward's Chancellor, fled to sanctuary at St Martin le Grand, and by dawn, the churches were crowded with those Yorkists unwilling or unable to recant their support for the White
Rose.

On Friday, October 5, George Neville, Archbishop of York, rode boldly into London, took command of the Tower of London, and released Harry of Lancaster from his long confinement. A bewildered Harry, clutching his prayer missals and the companions of his captivity, a small grey spaniel and a caged starling, was taken from the spartan chamber he'd liked to call his monk's cell. After courtesies that evoked dim memories deep within the troubled brain, he found himself a reluctant resident of the lavishly furnished apartment still fragrant with the perfume of Edward's Queen.
On Saturday afternoon, October 6, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick entered the city through Newgate. Greeted by his brother, the Archbishop, he proceeded in state to the
Tower of London, where he knelt and swore fealty to the man who neither comprehended nor cared that he was once more His Sovereign Grace, Henry VI. '|
The men, women, and children of London turned out to watch as the Lancastrian King and the
Kingmaker rode slowly through the city streets toward St Paul's Cathedral. Brightly colored banners fluttered from upper windows. The open-fronted shops and market stalls were closed. Silk streamers painted with the Bear and Ragged Staff were strung the width of cobbled streets. The conduits ran with wine as if it were a Coronation Day, and it seemed as if the entire citizenry was waving or wearing
Neville crimson.
The Earl of Warwick was mounted on a magnificent destrier, an Arabian warhorse as creamy-white as frothed milk; it drew many an admiring glance as it swept by, chafing under its rider's restraining hand.
George, Duke of Clarence, had chosen, too, to ride a white stallion. Unlike Warwick, however, he wore no armor, and a cloak of crimson velvet caught the breeze and the attention of the crowd. But the more discerning observer noted the thinned line of his mouth, the wary eyes, and found cause for conjecture.
John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, rode beside his ordained brother, as somber of visage as the
Archbishop was exultant. The spectators nudged each other and murmured as he passed by, this reserved taciturn man who had brought down a King and looked not at all as if he gloried in his victory.
Lord Stanley, brother-in-law to Warwick, rode in their wake. Next came the Earl of Oxford and Lord
Fitz-Hugh, handsomely mounted and well attended. But only Warwick himself drew more stares than the middle-aged man clad in a long gown of blue velvet, a gown that draped him as shapelessly as a shroud, having been made for a much larger man, the deposed Yorkist King.
Warwick had prudently seen that Harry of Lancaster was astride a docile grey gelding, and the animal moved obediently along even though