The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (13 page)

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 Neville 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?"
When he could make himself heard again, he set off another demonstration by suggesting that the Lord
Mayor might like to escort them all into the city.
Watching as the crowd thronged forward, squeezing through the barbican, and as church bells began to peal throughout the city, sending men and women out into the streets to verify their reprieve, Warwick glanced at his brother, said softly, "Not the worst of beginnings, Johnny. There are more than enough Lancastrian malcontents to foment disorder here, but there'll be others now, as well, who'll remember the prick of the sword at the throat, and that we chose to withdraw it unbloodied."
John nodded. "He did give me a bad moment there, though. He so desperately needed a target, needed someone to blame that I feared he might lash out at York. God knows, it was the most visible target!"
"I admit the same thought did cross my mind," Warwick conceded, and then grinned. "I should have known better, though. He's a good lad, Johnny. Keeps his head when it does count. His record was well nigh

perfeet until today! Passing strange . . . I've fought beside Ned on the field, shared exile, gotten drunk together, claimed a crown together, and this was the first time I've ever seen him truly shaken. And after all he's seen . . . queer!"
"If you think you can endure two such shocks in one morn, Dick, I'll tell you quite frankly that it was not one of my better days when I rode through that damned gate for the first time, either."
Warwick gave John a quizzical look. "It's merely a question of discipline, Johnny. You only see what you let yourself see; that's the secret. Now, if you look up at that gate and imagine you see Tom, or Ned does the same and sees Edmund, Christ, man, of course it'll turn your stomach! Now, I see only-"
"I don't think I want to know, Dick," John said hastily, and managed a sour smile. "You're most likely right, but if ever my head does end up on Micklegate Bar, I'd rather my loved ones weren't quite so philosophical about it!"
Warwick laughed; of all his kin, he was fondest of this brother. "I'll bear that in mind!"
Looking around, he signaled for his horse. "Well, I'd best see to those executions for our young cousin, the King. And I expect we'll be going to St Peter's to make an offering and hear Mass. ..."
Within moments, he'd given the necessary orders and returned to his brother, confident they'd be carried out with dispatch and without mishap. All in Warwick's service were disciplined, dependable, and most were, as well, personally devoted to him; he paid more lavishly than any lord in England and his badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff conferred an enviable social status upon its wearer. Now he resumed the broken threads of conversation, said, "Ned said he meant to stay with the Franciscans; we'll find quarters for you there, too, Johnny. That wasn't where the French harlot stayed? I'd not put it past her to have poisoned the drinking well or worse, the wine kegs, as a parting gift to our cousin, the King!"
"I think she was lodged at St Mary's," John said absently, and then echoed, "Our cousin, the King.'
"What?"
"Our cousin, the King," John repeated. "Were you aware, Dick, that twice in our conversation you made use of that phrase?"
"So?"
"I'm not all that sure. But I think I'd feel more comfortable in my own mind had you said, "The King, our cousin.'
Warwick stared at him and then he laughed.
"Christ, I did miss you, Johnny, these six weeks past! Shall I tell you