A murder on Wakefield Bridge

May 17th, 1443 was the birthdate of Edmund, Earl of Rutland, younger brother of Edward IV and older brother of Richard III, who was tragically murdered after the battle at Wakefield, at only seventeen. Here are a few passages from that chapter in Sunne. Edmund, injured and in a state of shock, has been captured on Wakefield Bridge by soldiers who cannot not believe their good luck, for they’ll be able to collect a huge ransom. But then Lord Clifford arrives on the scene and recognizes Edmund. He tells the soldiers to get the boy on his feet. Pages 43-44.
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Fear made the man clumsy and Edmund was no help to him at all, his muscles cramped with cold, constricted with pain and fright. The soldier managed to help him rise, but in so doing, knocked them both into the railing. Pain radiated upward from Edmund’s torn knee, racked his body with agony. The darkness was shot through with a blood-red haze, swirling colors of hot, hurtful brightness that faded then into blackness.
When he came back to the bridge, he was assailed by sound, rushing at him in waves and then retreating. The soldiers were shouting. Rob was shouting. He heard words but they meant nothing to him. He reeled back against the railing, and the soldier who’d been holding him upright hastily withdrew, so that he stood alone. There was something wrong with his eyesight; the men seemed to be wavering, out of focus. He saw contorted faces, twisted mouths, saw Clifford, and then, saw the dagger drawn, held in Clifford’s hand.
“No,” he said, with the calm of utter disbelief. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Not to him. Prisoners were not put to death. Hadn’t Tom said so? Tom, who’d been taken prisoner, too. Tom, who was dead. He began to tremble. This was madness, a delusion of his pain-clouded mind. Less than one hour ago, he’d been standing beside his father in the great hall of Sandal Castle. That was real, but not this. Not this.
(Omission)
Rob’s anguished sobbing was all that echoed on the bridge. (omission)
“York bore the blame for the death of my father,” Clifford said loudly. “I had the right to kill the son!”
No one spoke. Rob held Edmund and wept. He looked up at last, to turn upon Clifford so burning a stare that one of the Lancastrian soldiers was moved to lay a restraining hand upon his shoulder.
“Easy, man,” he cautioned softly. “It was a bloody piece of work, I grant you. But it’s done, and you’ll not be changing that by throwing your own life away.”
“Done?” Rob echoed, his voice raw, incredulous. “Done, you say? Jesus God! After today, it is just beginning.
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And Rania reminded me that another murder occurred on May 17th, this one a judicial murder in 1536 when George Boleyn, Anne’s brother, was executed.