The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III (48 page)

"Oxford's Streaming Star! Jesus wept!" Edward raised his visor; Matt had a brief glimpse of blazing blue eyes, white teeth. He didn't yet understand what was happening, but Edward apparently did, and he felt a throb of excitement as Edward laughed with savage elation, swore exultantly.
Edward was turning to Howard, clasping him on the shoulders. "Now, Jack! Now I do call upon my reserves! Now it be York's turn!"
THE fog still clung, still hid the sun, but Richard was drenched in sweat. He felt feverish, his voice nearly gone. His left arm no longer bled, but throbbed so incessantly that he'd begun to fear it might be broken.
His right arm ached with pain only a little less intense; his sword was a leaden weight, to be swung solely by sheer force of will. His men were as exhausted as he, desperately aware of the gully at their backs.
He'd had no further word from Edward, knew nothing of what was happening on the rest of the field.
Time had lost its meaning; he had no idea how many hours had passed since they'd first struggled out of the grey wet marsh to confront Exeter.
A man was bearing down upon him, swinging the deadly chained mace known as a "holy water sprinkler." He gave ground, took a glancing blow on the shoulder that staggered him, and drove his sword through the man's mailed brigandine, under his ribs. The force of his thrust numbed his arm. His grip weakened; the sword dipped dangerously.
Ahead of him, one of his men fell, reeling with fatigue. Richard stopped, and the soldier gazed up dully, recognized him.
"My lord. . . I cannot. . ."
"Don't talk." Richard's own voice cracked; he coughed and the muscles of his throat constricted painfully.
"Stay . . . catch your breath. Join us then. ..."
Somehow, the man regained his feet, managed a ghostly smile. "I don't. . . don't want to have ..."
Richard never knew what he meant to say. He gasped, both hands going up to his throat, to the protruding shaft of a sheaf arrow. Blood gushed from the dying man, over them both. Richard recoiled, fought back a queasy wave of sickness. He'd bitten down on his lower lip, now tasted blood in his mouth and nearly gagged. The man slid to the ground at his feet, twitching convulsively. Richard shuddered, backed away.
IN the third hour, Exeter's line began to give way before them. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, they were falling back. Richard's men found

a last surge of strength, flung themselves forward, shouting for York. The
Lancastrians were in confusion, no longer giving resistance. The thought now was of flight, and men broke ranks, began to scatter.
The fog was thinning at last. Men were becoming visible on Richard's left, men who wore the colors of
York. He understood then; the van had joined with the center. Ned had smashed through Johnny's wing.
The Sunne banner of York gleamed white-and-gold. Edward's white polished armor was dulled with dirt, dented and scratched, dark with the blood of other men. He moved forward; men parted to let him pass.
Reaching Richard, he raised his visor. Richard saw he was smiling.
Richard felt no elation, neither triumph nor relief . . not yet. Only numbness, a weariness of body and mind unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Slowly he lowered his sword to the ground, let the bloodied blade touch the grass.
RICHARD'S shattered vambrace lay on the floor of the surgeon's tent. Francis and Rob were leaning over him unfastening the straps and buckles that closed his cuirass on the right side, fumbling with the straps across his shoulders. They were no longer used to acting as squires and managed to get in each other's way, jerking with awkward roughness as they removed Richard's breastplate, stripped away the battered rerebraces that sheathed his upper arms. Too tired for complaint, he suffered their ministrations in silence, and gave a sigh of relief when he could at last draw a breath without constraint.
Francis brought forward a tabard that had been fetched from Richard's tent, helped Richard to pull it over his padded arming doublet. The surgeon was kneeling beside him to examine his wound, by now stiff with congealed blood. Richard flinched at his touch and gratefully accepted the wine flask Rob was offering.
"Have men been sent out to recover their bodies?"
Rob nodded. "They've found Parr, but not Huddleston . . . not yet." He paused, said softly, "It was quick, Dickon, and clean. That's something."
Richard opened his eyes at that; his mouth twisted. "Not much, Rob. Not bloody much."
He drank too deeply, choked. The surgeon was pouring honey into the wound to cleanse it; under his probing, the bleeding had begun anew. Richard sagged back, closed his eyes again.
A shadow fell across him. He looked up as Will Hastings ducked under the tent flap, said tensely, "Has there been word of Warwick or Johnny Neville, Will?"
Will shook his head. "We know Oxford fled the field when

Montagu's men fired on him, and I've heard Exeter is dead, though that's but rumor so far. But there's been no word as yet of either Warwick or Montagu."
He leaned closer, dropped his voice for Richard alone.
"Anthony Woodville took a sword thrust across the greave. He'll have a limp for a while, but no more than that. . . more's the pity."
Richard summoned up a shadowy smile, and then gasped as the surgeon's scalpel slipped yet again.
"Jesus, man, take care!" he snapped, and the surgeon mumbled an apology, thrust a cup into his hand.
"Agrimony ... if Your Grace would drink that down?"
Will was watching Richard, now said, "You know I did argue against giving you the van. I thought you too young, too green. Your brother disagreed with me. He was right and I was wrong."
Richard was not yet ready for compliments; the past three hours were still too close, too raw.
"What of the casualties?" he asked. "Have we any idea yet as to our losses?"
"No . . . But I'd not be surprised if the deaths do number fully fifteen hundred."
The tent flap was pulled back. Edward entered, waved Richard back as he attempted to get to his feet.
His eyes shifted to the surgeon.
"How does my brother of Gloucester?"
Richard drained the cup with distaste, answered before the surgeon could reply. "I'm sure I'll survive the wound, but I'm not so sure as to the treatment."
Edward grinned. "I see you're coming around to yourself, Little Brother." He leaned over the surgeon's shoulder so he could see Richard's wound for himself, grimaced, and then said, "There's a report that
Warwick was seen near Wrotham Wood. I've dispatched a man from my own household with orders that he's not to be harmed. As for Johnny, nothing so far. . . ." He stopped, turning as the tent flap was ripped away to admit a herald clad in the battle-stained livery of York.
He knelt before Edward.
"Your Grace . . . they've found the Earl of Warwick."
MORE than a dozen men were standing in a semicircle in the clearing, gesturing and laughing among themselves. They drew back expectantly as several horsemen galloped up, recognizing the King.
Edward flung himself from the saddle, strode toward them. He came to an abrupt halt, staring down at the body sprawled in their midst.

The men shifted uncertainly, made uneasy by his silence. One bolder than the rest sidled closer, grinned.
"He'll be after making no more Kings now, my liege!" Edward turned to look at the man and then backhanded him across the mouth, a blow that would have been inconsequential from another man, but coming from Edward, drove the man to his knees, spitting blood, No one moved; none dared to aid their fallen comrade. Edward was kneeling before Warwick, turning the body over. Looters had already been at work. Parts of Warwick's armor had been pried loose and both gauntlets were gone; gone, too, were the jeweled rings he'd worn with such pride. Edward raised the visor and gasped. Until then, he'd not realized how Warwick had been killed, held down while daggers were driven deep into his brain. Richard was beside him now. He slammed the visor shut, caught
Richard's wrist as he leaned forward. "You don't want to see, Dickon."
One glance at Edward's face was enough for Richard; he took him at his word, nodded. After a moment, Edward rose, but Richard remained where he was, gazing down at the body of his cousin. He looked up sharply, though, as he heard his brother turn his rage upon the frightened soldiers.
"I did give orders that he was to be spared, God damn your worthless souls!"
They stammered denials, swore they'd had no part in Warwick's death, that they'd found him as he was now, God's truth; he'd been trying to reach the horse park with men in pursuit; they'd seen them enter the woods and followed, but he was dead ere they reached the scene.
Other riders were coming up, Will Hastings and John Howard among them. Howard dismounted, came to stand beside Richard.
"A pity," he said quietly. Richard nodded, said nothing. He wondered if Howard knew about his son, opened his mouth to speak, but somehow the words wouldn't come. Something must have showed in his face, though, for John Howard then did something totally unexpected, thoroughly out of character. He reached out and, for a moment, let his arm encircle the boy's shoulders.
There was sudden activity across the clearing, where Edward stood. Richard raised his head, stared at the agitated, gesturing men. Even before he saw his brother's face, he knew.
He didn't move, stood very still. He was no longer aware of John Howard, or of the encircling men who'd drawn near to view with curiosity the body of the Kingmaker. It was some moments before he could nerve himself to cross the clearing, to hear Ned tell him that Johnny, too, was dead.

They stood apart from the others. Edward was staring down at the ground, at the trampled uprooted grass that spoke for the extreme violence of Warwick's end. After a time, he crossed himself, but
Richard knew these minutes of silence had been given over to Johnny, not prayer.
"You've the right to know, Dickon," he said at last, said in a voice that was thick, scratchy with emotion.
"Johnny wore our colors under his armor. He went into battle against us wearing the blue and murrey of
York."
"Jesus pity him," Richard whispered. Tears had filled his eyes but they clung tenaciously to his lashes, wouldn't fall. He felt frozen; not even for Johnny could he cry.
Other men were riding up. Richard recognized George and managed to pull himself together, said in an almost inaudible undertone, "Ned, I don't want George to see ..." His voice trailed off and Edward nodded, watched as Richard moved to intercept George, to keep him from too close a scrutiny of his father-in-law's body.
One of the new arrivals approached Edward, said with a smile, "Your Grace has had a great victory this day."
Edward nodded.
Above him, the sun at last broke through the fog. Flashes of bright blue were widening overhead, and the men within the clearing now found themselves standing in soft morning light. It was not yet ten o'clock.
2 8
C E N E ABBEY
April 1471
LJ aster Sunday. A High Mass was in progress at
St Paul's Cathedral. The service was abruptly halted by the triumphant return of the Yorkist lords, and as the congregation watched in awe, Edward strode up the aisle and laid a bloodied banner on the altar.
The Archbishop of Canterbury, who had himself lost two kinsmen that day on

Barnet Heath, then resumed the Easter Mass, offering grateful Yorkist prayers for God's favor.
EASTER Sunday. The Countess of Warwick landed at Portsmouth. From there she took ship for
Weymouth, where she was to await the arrival of Marguerite d'Anjou, Prince Edward, and her daughters. Her ship put briefly at Southampton, and there she was told of the battle that had been fought that dawn at Barnet Heath. She at once abandoned her plan to journey on to Weymouth, and instead rode to Beaulieu Abbey in nearby New Forest. There within the walls of the Cistercian monastery she sought and was granted right of sanctuary.
EASTER Sunday. After a storm-delayed Channel crossing, Marguerite d'Anjou reached Weymouth, ending seven years of French exile. With her were her son Edward, her daughter-in-law Anne Neville, and Anne s sister Isabel. .
With her, too, were three men sharing a common Christian name and little else. Dr John Morton, shrewdest and most trusted of her political councilors, a man who, like George Neville, wore the vestments of a priest and nurtured ambitions thoroughly secular in nature; both he and Marguerite intended that he should be named as Lord Chancellor of England upon the defeat of York. John
Beaufort, younger brother of Edmund, Duke of Somerset, a youth still in his twenties who'd never wavered in his allegiance to Lancaster. And John, Lord Wenlock, soldier, diplomat, whose loyalties had been pledged, at one time or another, to Lancaster, York, and the Earl of Warwick.
The next day, Monday the 15, they moved inland to the Benedictine Abbey of Cerne. In midafternoon, the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Devon rode into the confines of the abbey, and from Edmund
Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, Marguerite learned of Barnet.
MARGUERITE was shaken by Warwick's death as none could have foreseen. She'd stared speechlessly at Somerset, black eyes suddenly enormous in a face blanched of all color, and when the
Countess of Vaux pressed an ivory rosary into her hand, she clutched it so tightly that the beads broke apart, spilled onto the flagstone floor. To her uneasy audience, it was an ill-omened occurrence.
Marguerite herself was oblivious of the scattered rosary. Warwick had been her sworn enemy, her mortal foe. She had hated him, mistrusted him, and needed him. For it was through Warwick alone that she

was at last able to get from the King of France the aid he'd so long denied her. And so she'd been driven to accept Warwick as ally, driven by her own desperation, the ambitions of her son, and the unrelenting persuasions of the French monarch. She'd come to terms with the one man she hated above all others, allowed herself to be seduced into sharing his belief that destiny was his for the taking. All his life, had he not done what other men would never dare? The mightiest of the mighty Nevilles, the maker of Kings.
She'd not let herself believe he might fail.
They were all watching her, Somerset and Devon, the Countess of Vaux, Dr Morton, Abbot Bemyster.
Somerset spoke her name, but she ignored him; what more had he to say after telling her of Barnet
Heath? She'd begun to pace, found herself before the prie-dieu. In years gone by, she'd knelt on prayer seats cushioned in white satin, studded with jewels. This was a rude monk's seat, little more than a bench.
She lowered herself onto it, rested her forehead on her clasped hands, but she did not pray.
She could not say with certainty how long she knelt before the priedieu. After a timeless interval, she heard another step approach her, this one springy with the sureness of youth, heard the voice she loved above all others.
"Maman?"
She turned to her son at once. He took her hand, helped her to rise. She leaned against him, within the circle of his arms.
"Edouard ... do you know?"
"Oui, Maman." He glanced over her head, across the room where Somerset and Devon stood.
"Somerset told me."
When agitated, her heavily accented English tended to fragment, to slur into Gallic incomprehensibility.
Such was the case now, and she switched abruptly to her native tongue, began to speak rapidly, scarcely pausing for breath. Somerset and Devon found the swift colloquial French hard to follow, but they caught enough of her meaning to exchange looks of dismay.
John Morton, who was polished courtier as well as cleric, was sufficiently alarmed to commit a serious breach of etiquette. He stepped forward, blurted out, "Madame, surely you cannot mean to return to
France! I implore you, assure us we did misunderstand you. ..."
Her surprise was evident, as was her displeasure. "You did not mistake me."
Somerset was appalled, Devon no less so. They were quick to add their voices to that of Morton. They protested, argued, entreated ... to no avail. Marguerite turned a deaf ear to their pleas, gave them the most reluctant of monosyllabic responses. Her mind was made up. She would return to France with the next tide. She'd not risk her son's life now that