The Sunne in Splendour: A Novel of Richard III by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

soldiers, had forced himself to shrug off the lack of holiday festivities with what he fancied to be adult indifference. But secretly he'd grieved for the Christmas celebrations of years past, thought with longing of the seasonal merrymaking he was missing in London.
His cousin Warwick had remained in the capital to safeguard custody of the Lancastrian King, and
Edmund knew Warwick would keep a princely Christmas at the Herber, his palatial London manor house. From Warwick Castle would come his Countess and Isabel and Anne, his
    young daughters. Edmund knew his own mother would be sure to join them there, too, with his little brothers, George and Dickon, and Meg, who, at fourteen, was the only one of Edmund's sisters still unmarried. There'd be eggnog and evergreen and the minstrel gallery above the great hall would be echoing from dawn till dusk with music and mirth.
Edmund sighed, staring out at the drifting snow. For ten endless days now, they'd been sequestered at
Sandal Castle, with only one brief excursion into the little village of Wakefield two miles to the north to break the monotony. He sighed again, hearing Thomas call for still more bread. The traditional Christmas truce was drawing to an end; by the time it expired, Ned should have ridden up from the Welsh Marches with enough men to give the Yorkists unchallenged military supremacy. Edmund would be very glad to see his brother, for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that he could talk to Ned as he could not talk to Thomas. He decided he'd write to Ned tonight. He felt better at that, swung off the window seat.
"I've some dice in my chamber, Tom. If I have them fetched, will you forsake your capon for a game of
'hazard'?"
Thomas was predictably and pleasantly agreeable, and Edmund's spirits lifted. He turned, intending to send a servant for the dice, when the door was flung open and Sir Robert Apsall, the young knight who was both his friend and his tutor, entered the chamber. It was a large room, half the size of the great hall, was filled with bored young men, but it was to Edmund and Thomas that he hastened.
Stamping snow from his boots, he said without preamble, "I've been sent to summon you both to the great hall."
"What is it, Rob?" Edmund queried, suddenly tense and, as usual, anticipating disaster, while Thomas shoved his chair back from the trestle table, came unhurriedly to his feet.
"Trouble, I fear. That foraging party we sent out at dawn is long overdue. They should've reported back hours ago. His Grace the Duke fears Lancaster may have broken the truce, that they may have been ambushed."
"Why do we tarry, then?" Edmund demanded and had reached the door before the other two could respond.
"Wait, Edmund, get your cloak." Thomas was reaching for the garment crumpled on the window seat, saw that Edmund was already out the door, and with a shrug, followed his young cousin from the chamber.
the Duke of York's suspicions soon proved to have been justified. Ambushed at Wakefield Bridge by a large Lancastrian force, the foraging party had died almost to a man. A few survivors fought their way free,
    however, and with the Lancastrians in close pursuit, raced for the refuge of Sandal Castle. Between the castle and the banks of the River Calder stretched a wide expanse of marshland, known locally as
Wakefield Green. This was the only open ground between Sandal Castle and the village of Wakefield, and the fleeing Yorkists knew their one chance of escape lay across this meadow, knew that to enter the thick wooded areas to their left and right would be to mire their mounts down in belly-deep snowdrifts, to flounder helplessly until caught and killed.
Across Wakefield Green they galloped, scant yards before their pursuers. Just when it seemed that capture was inevitable, arrows pierced the sky over their heads. The Lancastrians fell back under this aerial onslaught and the outer drawbridge was hastily lowered onto the stone platform that jutted out