The White Rose

by Jan Westcott

 

Part I — The Crown
Chapter 1

It was January first, 1461. The big hall at Grafton where she sat that night was decorated for Christmas. Mistletoe hung from the balcony, ivy twined about the heavy stair rail, the ancient suit of armor was crowned with holly and the antlers on the wall, symbols of her father's and brothers' prowess at the hunt, were festooned with ribbon. Logs burned in the fireplace and gay pennons with her father's and mother's badges fluttered along the paneled walls.

The packages of gifts had been opened; her two-year-old son and her baby boy had been put to bed, along with her four youngest sisters. Her mother was in London, tonight an embattled city with its gates barred and its shops closed; her father and her brother Richard and her husband were near York with the army of the Queen, England's beautiful French Queen. In the hall at Grafton now, besides herself, Elizabeth Woodville Grey, were her brothers Lionel and young Edward, solemnly playing chess, and four teenage sisters. John, who was fifteen and fretting because his father had not permitted him to join the deadly struggle of Lancaster and York, was playing cards with his sister. She was inattentive.

He said, "At least we know where everyone is, Bess. At least there is no fighting tonight."

A Christmas truce had been declared, so Elizabeth Woodville nodded.

Her hazel eyes regarded her brother fondly but worriedly. "We don't know where Anthony is," she reminded him. Anthony was twenty, she about eleven months older; the two oldest of the Woodville tribe, they had been very close.

John started to play a card; his hand stopped midway, holding high the big colored knave. He tossed it to the table and jumped to his feet.

"Horses!" he shouted.

Was it their mother? Was it their father? Pell-mell, exuberant with John first, they rushed to the huge doors, throwing them open wide, not feeling the bitter-cold January air; light poured out from behind them into the courtyard as the horse beats slowed and became sedate; as the men ahead running from the lodge gates carried torches high they could see who it was, and all gathered together at the edge of the court they raised their voices.

"Happy New Year. Anthony!"

Astride his big horse Anthony held his hand up, his face under the red cap handsome and smiling. "Happy New Year!" he shouted back, and the men with him took up the greeting till the court was filled with laughter and noise the way it usually was when the Woodvilles were at home.

They rushed down into the court now, crowding around him while he hugged Elizabeth and shook hands with John and Lionel and Edward, clapping them on the back, kissing his three sisters, and finally picking up the youngest, Kate, and carrying her back into the house at a run.

"By God, it's cold," he said, setting Kate on her feet.

Light came on in the kitchens. The manor servants came in to greet the oldest son, to shake hands and wish him well. "Hot spiced ale," they promised him.

Anthony had a kiss for his former nurse; food was being produced — cold beef, chickens and wedges of cheese, and apples from the storerooms — and the hall at Grafton was so filled with sudden happiness and laughter and talk that Anthony didn't realize that it was his coming that had released it, for it seemed just the same as always to him.

"Your gifts, Anthony, Anthony!" Lionel, trying to make himself heard, was carrying Anthony's New Year's gifts on a pewter platter.

Anthony opened them one by one, in turn giving a bright coin from his purse. "I had no way of buying presents," he explained, which they knew.

And even though he was carrying very important news he said not a word of it until he had thanked each one of his brothers and sisters and hung the gold chain Elizabeth had given him around his neck. Suddenly there was silence. Eight pairs of eyes regarded him.

"I guess you missed Mother and Father," he said suddenly. "And Richard and John Grey."

At the mention of her husband's name Elizabeth looked at him sharply. "Anthony," she said, and stopped. She was sitting next to him on the bench before the fire; the younger Woodvilles had dragged cushions to the hearth and were sitting in a circle on the floor around their oldest brother and sister.

She knows, he thought; she senses. They were startlingly similar for all his height and breadth and her slender figure and astonishing beauty. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold, studied him. Her gilt hair was drawn severely back from her oval face. "Anthony," she prodded.

"Yes, I have news," he said. "But first, Father and Richard and John Grey are safe."

There was a sigh; Elizabeth bit her lip. "But there was a truce."

He nodded. "The Queen broke it. There has been a terrible battle in front of Sandal Castle where the Duke of York was keeping Christmas. The Duke was so angry with the Queen's breaking the solemn truce that he rushed out with his men and his son Edmund, and they were all killed just like fish in a net. They were slaughtered like deer in a buck stall, Bess. The Duke of York is dead."

The younger Woodvilles' eyes were fastened on Anthony. Good Lancastrians that they were they weren't sure whether their brother approved of this.

"I don't approve of the Queen breaking the truce, Lionel," Anthony said. "But the Duke of York and the Earl of Warwick are our principal enemies. And now the Duke is dead."

"Maybe Warwick will run away," John offered. "He did once before."

"Perhaps," Anthony said. He glanced at Elizabeth. "You see, John, Warwick is already gathering men to come north to fight our Queen. At least so the rumor goes, and I am going too, north to join Father and Richard."

"There will be another battle," Elizabeth whispered.

He shook his head at her. "If we can confront Warwick with enough troops, he may retreat and flee. That is what I hope, Bess. Tomorrow morning I am going to the village to see if there are some who want to ride north with me."

John leaned forward but before he could speak Anthony said, "You can't come. Father forbade it three months ago. Mother would never forgive me if I took you. Wait till next year when you're sixteen."

Elizabeth thought suddenly, Next year. Next year and the year after that.

John Woodville raised a blond eyebrow. "I wasn't going to ask to come. Personally, Anthony, I am beginning to think that all this rushing about with swords in defense of a French Queen is silly."

Lionel cleared his throat; his voice squeaked with earnestness. "You see, Anthony," he said, "we learned in school that a ruler must be forceful. Our King cannot be forceful because he is sick. A man who doesn't speak for six months is hardly a fit ruler."

"The old King himself appointed the Duke of York his successor and the protector of the throne," John said.

Lionel cleared his throat again. "Well, obviously, John, the Duke was no match for the Queen since she has vanquished him and he lies dead."

Anthony said, "Will you stop arguing for a minute? I know I should be used to it, but for better or worse we have a saintly, sick King." Henry's face rose before Anthony, ascetic, withdrawn, the eyes sad in a thin face. "But he has a son and a Queen and his son does not deserve to be disinherited. That is what the Queen is fighting for, her son. And that is why we fight. And we love our King. We are sorry for him. We want to protect him."

"It is a crusade," John said, "and crusades are out-of-date, Anthony."

Anthony was curious. "Why did you ask Father before then? He said you wanted to go with him."

"I wanted to be with him in order to protect him and I'd still like to do that."

"I see. Well, I'll protect him, Richard and I."

John shrugged. "You may be sorry you don't have my good right hand at your side. I hope to God you're not. But if you're going in the morning you should get to bed. I'll help you, Anthony. I'll go get some hot water too."

He raised Anthony's saddlebag to his shoulder. Elizabeth thought, A servant could have been called but John wants to do it; we should be thankful that we love one another. John wants to go to help, not because he wants to fight for the Queen. Would it be best? Should she persuade Anthony to let him go? If there were more of them would they be safer?

"Anthony," she said.

"No, Bess. He's too young."

That was his last word. And when she went to bed later, troubled, worried, she thought of her father and Richard and her husband. And now Anthony. What were the odds that all of them would return? All night long she tossed in a nightmarish sleep.

 

Edward, Earl of March, oldest son of the Duke of York, slept peacefully, sprawled in his big curtained bed. He had spent Christmas at Shrewsbury and he was there on January second when the news of his father's and brother's death was brought to him. With him were a few young men, Walter Devereaux, Richard and William Herbert, Humphrey Stafford and William Hastings. Hastings could not keep the whole story from pouring out, although he tried. The betrayal of the truce, the father's anger and the injudicious rush from the castle, the death of the Duke and the death of Edward's younger brother as he knelt before Lord Clifford. Then the Queen had set the severed head of the Duke of York up on the Micklebar Gate in York and crowned it with a paper crown and bits of straw.

Hastings watched Edward's face. Edward was standing. He towered over most men, six feet, four inches of young man, for he would not be nineteen until April. Thoughts were whirling around in Hastings' head. His lord Edward Plantagenet then was heir to the throne. Henry VI, the ill King, had named Edward's father his heir. Now the Duke was dead. Hastings, emotional, went down on one knee.

"Your Grace," he said. "My liege lord."

Edward looked down at his bent head and he touched him on the shoulder, pulling at his jacket. Edward wanted nothing but to be alone and in the chapel. Edward turned and left the room; he was sick and sore and burning with rage and hatred. But he was the kind of man whom adversity made twice his size, and his quick mind was already seizing on the problems facing him; he was going to pray not only for the souls of his father and brother but that Almighty God would help him, Edward, judge aright and wise. Hastings stood at the back of the small chapel and watched him cross himself before the host and go down on his knees.

Edward had parted from his father in December. With the Queen on the march, seeking forcible custody of her sick husband, Edward's services had been called on and he had been sent to Wales to raise men for the Yorkist cause. So as he knelt the first fact that presented itself was that he had an army. He was young, he was strong, he was surrounded with young, strong men. Slowly Edward got to his feet. Yet caution inserted itself. Already the lesson of hasty action had been learned. As he came out of the chapel he studied openly the faces of his cohorts; his dark eyes thoughtful, without a trace of the usual merry wit, the darting humor. A different task was now thrust upon him, very different, and a different task upon them.

He set his companions about a table. At the head of it he lounged in his chair, and his outward indolence was deceiving; it would deceive many men during the years ahead. In the first place, there was never enough room for his frame in any chair; his big booted feet stuck out and lay crossed at an angle. He was rarely armed and as elegantly dressed as his slender purse would allow. He looked like a Renaissance Prince, brownhaired and brown-eyed, and indeed there was no man he admired more than Francesco Sforza, the Duke of Milan. Around the table they talked earnestly; there was no smiling. They advised the sending out of messengers and dispatches, for they must know what was happening in London and in the rest of the realm. They must set spies on the Queen and outriders to smell out any movement of Lancaster forces. And finally they would ride and fight with him to death if need be!

"Scarcely," said Edward. "We'll have as little dying as possible."

They didn't notice that he himself had actually said little. Whatever plans he had made he had kept within his big chest. The only plans that were vouchsafed to them was that the army was to be made ready to march. Without haste Edward moved his men so as to keep himself between London and the Queen's forces. He knew better than to attempt a fight with a weary fellowship of men; more than that, he wanted time for these men to realize he was their commander.

He spent hours with the common archer; he supervised a number of contests after they bivouacked for the night. Sometimes at night around a big fire, they — someone — would notice his tall figure standing just outside the light of the flames; he was listening to their talk or their songs. Meanwhile messengers rode daily into the camp.

The Queen was hesitating. The King was still in London under the care of the great Earl of Warwick, who was going to set forth with him and challenge the Queen once and for all. Edward read the letter from Warwick and burned it. But the rumor spread among his men. "The Earl is on the march. Shouldn't we join him?"

Even his young inner group posed that question. And Edward procrastinated. He looked thoughtful and yawned.

"We'll wait and see, we'll have an archery contest. I always like them." His smile flashed out. All afternoon he watched the contest, and at the end distributed prizes, clapping each winner on the shoulder, consoling the loser. Hastings watched him among the men; he was friendly, truly friendly; he thought nothing of flinging an arm about another man casually.

The next day the dispatches arrived for which he had been waiting, and he ordered his men to swing around and to march toward Herefordshire. The dispatches had disclosed with certainty that the Earls of Wiltshire and Pembroke had landed on the coast with an army of Bretons and Irish. Now there was need for haste, now the time had come; now he must intercept the Earls before they made contact with the Queen's forces. When Edward's orders were given William Herbert nodded.

"I see," he said. "You were right."

He had wanted not only to intercept the Lancaster forces and to prevent them from reaching the Queen; he wanted to come upon them with fresh, eager, rested troops. Carefully he laid out the route on the maps, moving his men just as he moved his pawns on a chessboard. Carefully each day's march was calculated; carefully scourers were sent ahead; Edward was now doing what he already had a genius for — being a soldier. He disliked fighting, but once embarked on a campaign he thought sometimes that another personality had engulfed him; almost as though the light chain mail exchanged for his usual elegant dress had exchanged him for another man. But he was used to it. As he would say later, he had been in the saddle since he was thirteen, in the saddle with a sword in hand.

Edward caught up to the Lancastrian forces as he neared Wigmore, at a place called Mortimer's Cross. They reached there in adequate time the night before for a good night's sleep. It was February first and cold; January had just died. From a slight eminence Edward surveyed his camp, the cheerful fires, the restless horses, and he worried about the cold keeping his men awake. He himself felt no need for sleep; he'd been careful to provide himself with plenty in the past two weeks. Now he felt calm and confident and he moved among the fires, content to let the other men take over, the soldier who had no problems but the winning of tomorrow's battle; they were little enough compared to the other cares life thrust upon one. He moved among the men, sometimes joining their talk. He told them, "Spare the common man. It is his leader that is bringing him to fight against you."

He had already listed in his mind the Lancaster leaders who must either be destroyed or won over. In all of England there were no noble names fighting with Edward Plantagenet save the Nevilles and their chief, the Earl of Warwick; all the other nobility were ranged against him but not the common man. "Spare the commons," Edward repeated. "Spare the commons."

The next day dawned. Edward had slept lightly for a few hours preceding the dawn. It was still cold; he washed and ate some bread and ale. The Lancastrian forces were very near and the enemy was not too anxious for battle, his outriders and spies had reported. They were trying to avoid him but that was impossible now; by noon he should be facing them at Mortimer's Cross.

He had the time well calculated; an easy morning march should accomplish his task, and he would be face-to-face with the Earls of Pembroke and Wiltshire. So he set his men to breaking camp and feeding the horses and he figured at ten o'clock it would be time to march.

So exactly at ten, with the reins of his horse in one hand, at the head of his men, preparing to mount, he looked up at the sky.

The peculiar light had made Edward look up. Every man did the same. There were three suns shining. In the cold February morning a murmur and mutter ran through the massed men and Edward felt a shiver of horror and wonder as he stared, and the light hurt his eyes. Then he glanced at Hastings near him and at William Herbert. What he saw forced him into an involuntary movement of which he was seldom guilty, and his big hands clenched as he thought he saw victory slipping from them because his men were afraid, afraid of a curious phenomenon of light — up in the sky were shining three suns.

Edward commanded his trumpeter to sound the horns. They rang forth and Edward gained the saddle of his horse; he swung around to face his men.

His voice rang out. "Be of good comfort and dread not!"

From his mounted vantage point he surveyed them, holding one hand high. A sigh rippled from the throats of his listeners; as they fixed their eyes on him, the light shone like gold around his head. "Do not fear, for this is a good sign! For three suns in the firmament, shining full clear, betoken the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost." He let his voice stop and he smiled. "Therefore, let us have good heart and in the name of the Almighty God go against our enemies!"

Edward saw Hastings' face; he looked as though he were about to shout and cheer, and Edward heard the beginnings of swelling sound from the lips of his men, and he held his hands high to stop them. They quieted. Carefully he divested himself of his helmet and handed it to the nearest man. Then he dismounted.

"We shall pray."

He knelt on the ground, his dark head bent. His men followed suit. After a long two minutes Edward rose and spoke to the kneeling men. "I have thanked God," he said, "for this omen for our cause." His voice was somber. The plumed helmet was placed on his head and he mounted; the trumpets and horns blew bravely, their clarion call to arms sounding through the morning, mingling with the wild cheering. Edward thought, Was it an omen for good? Anyway the Lord had helped him, and for that he offered his devout thanks. He spurred his horse; he was going forward to his first venture, alone. In the skies there was just one sun now, as lonely as he was.

 

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