poured into the City. The Sanctuary was visited, and the Countess of
March and her infant son, now suddenly become the Queen and the Prince,
were installed in Westminster Palace with fitting ceremony. The reign
of Henry VI. was over, and the eleventh year of Edward IV. had begun.
The restored monarch was grace and graciousness to all around him.
While he took care to propitiate and make friends of those who had
hitherto been enemies, Edward did not, like his descendant Charles II.,
commit the fatal mistake of overlooking and neglecting to reward his
friends. He gave away twenty tuns of wine (not forgetting to spend some
L2800 on himself), replaced his old officers in their respective state
positions, and made up for the forced abstinence and shabbiness of his
recent life by buying a new service of plate, ordering twenty-one gold
collars (doubtless for presents to his friends who had proved faithful
in adversity), purchasing horses, and providing six new and gorgeous
garments--a robe of tawny satin, a doublet of purple satin, two jackets
of cloth of gold, and two "habits" of black damask and crimson
velvet--for his wardrobe. He further expended in alms the munificent
sum of L3 3*s*. 4*d*. The Queen does not appear to have required any
new clothes, since provisions and wood are alone bought for her.[#]
[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.
So quietly had this mighty reversion of state affairs been effected,
that the citizens of London were unconscious that any thing was
happening until they saw the army of Edward IV. marching along their
streets. Then, of course, it was too late to express an adverse
opinion, had they wished to do so.
The necessary imprisonment of that honourable man, Archbishop Neville,
extended only to a few days. He was received into favour on the day to
which his pardon reached, but was not released from the Tower until a
little later.
And then, when it was too late, the wind changed. Three times had Queen
Marguerite set forth from Harfleur, and three times was she driven back
on the French coast. Now, just when all was over which her coming might
have prevented, on the 24th of March, she was able to embark, and she
landed at Weymouth on Saturday night, the 13th of April, which was
Easter Eve. Can we come to any conclusion but that of the contemporary
letter-writer, that "God hath showed Himself marvellously like Him that
made us all, and can undo again when Him list?" It was not immediately
upon landing that the mournful news of her husband's capture and
deposition met her. The news was to be far worse before it should reach
her. She proceeded inland about thirteen miles, as far as the Abbey of
Cerne, and there awaited the ceremonies of Easter. The Prince was with
her--unconscious of his proclamation as Viceroy of England, as well as
of the downfall of all his hopes--the Princess, and their respective
suites.
While Marguerite and her companions knelt at mass that Easter morning in
the chancel of Cerne Abbey, with the last hope springing in their hearts
which they were ever to know, scenes very unbefitting Easter-tide were
taking place in and near the metropolis.
No sooner had Warwick heard of the return of Edward than he came dashing
down from the north, and with Exeter,[#] Somerset, Montague, Oxford, and
forty thousand men, marched to take the field at Barnet. Exeter and
Somerset wished to wait until the Prince should come up, as they had
heard of his landing: but this Warwick refused to do. He was doubtful
of the good faith of Somerset, who had ere this shown himself remarkably
devoid of that quality; to which motive on Warwick's part Comines adds
another--"the hatred he bore to Queen Marguerite."
[#] Where and when Exeter had joined Warwick we have no information. It
is only known that he was in London on the 14th of February, and that he
came with Warwick from the north on the 13th of April.
As soon as Edward heard of Warwick's approach, he and his brother of
Gloucester went out to meet him. They took with them carefully one
person whom they might have been expected to leave behind. This was King
Henry. Was there in the minds of the royal brothers of York any
sinister intention of exposing their rival to the fate of Uriah the
Hittite? Had Henry fallen, perchance by a stray shot from his own side,
would the pair have mournfully and hypocritically condoled with each
other on the fact that "the sword devoureth one as well as another?"
The little town of Barnet was occupied by Edward, Warwick remaining on
the plain without.
Late on that Saturday night, without any previous despatch of a herald,
as was usual, to request an interview, the Duke of Clarence, encamped on
Gladmore Heath, received a visit from his brother of Gloucester. They
held a long conversation; after which Clarence returned with Gloucester
to the town, and humbly implored pardon from his brother Edward. He was
likely to be welcomed and forgiven, for he brought with him twelve
thousand men. This little business arranged, Clarence sent a message to
Warwick, informing him of the very interesting occurrence which had just
taken place, and offering to make peace for him also. The envoy
returned with an answer from Warwick which breathed scorn in every
syllable.
"I choose rather," said the King-Maker, "to be consistent with myself
than to follow the example of thy perfidy!"
The night was now wearing towards morning--the morning of Easter Sunday.
But no sun danced, nor even shone, upon that awful Easter Day. At four
o'clock in the morning the armies met, but in so thick a mist that no
man could see the banner of his feudal lord. Since the battle of
Mortimer's Cross, where three mock suns had been considered a happy
augury, Edward had borne as his badge a sun with rays: and the Earl of
Oxford's men, mistaking this sun for the star of the Veres, made the
blunder of the Midianites, and turned their arms against each other.
They engaged with Warwick's men, and a cry of "Treachery!" was raised by
both sides. Oxford fled, carrying with him eight hundred men. At this
juncture Montague (another "honourable man"), who had been in private
correspondence with Edward ever since he landed, thought it time to turn
coat, and did so literally, donning Edward's livery under cover of the
mist. But some of Warwick's men caught a glimpse of the hated blue and
murrey, and falling upon Montague, exacted the penalty of his treachery
in his life. Warwick saw that the field was lost. Montague was dead;
Exeter was not to be found; Oxford had fled the field. He mounted his
horse, and tried to make his own escape through the intricacies of a
neighbouring wood. Even here fate met him in the persons of two of
Edward's men, who after a short sharp struggle, unhorsed and slew the
foremost man of their age--the man who, more or less, for twenty years
had had all England at his bidding.
It was now four o'clock in the afternoon. King Edward--king in a sense
he had never been till then,--as the first regal act of his restoration,
took his revenge upon the commons of England for their Lancastrian
proclivities. Hitherto, following the ancient humane custom peculiar to
this country (a source of considerable astonishment to French generals),
after a battle, Edward had been accustomed to mount his horse, and cry
loudly over the field, "Quarter for the commons!" The nobles and gentry
of the defeated side were of course put to the sword. But at Barnet
Edward forsook his usual custom. He mounted, indeed, but he left the
commons quarterless to the fury of his soldiers, and he spurred fast to
London.
That evening, after Edward had entered his metropolis in triumph, King
Henry was brought, attired in a long gown of blue velvet, from the fatal
field of Gladmore Heath, to that silent dungeon in the Tower which he
had occupied so long that it must have borne almost a homelike look to
him, and which he was never to leave again, except for the better Home
above.
When the military grave-diggers came to bury the dead, they found lying
on Gladmore Heath the body of the Duke of Exeter. He had fought
manfully, and had fallen at seven o'clock, since which time he had lain
insensible on the field. They took him at first for dead: but on
careful consideration they came to the conclusion that life was not
quite extinct. The party of workers were either Lancastrians, or they
were for their time inexplicably tolerant and humane. Instead of
stamping out the little spark of life, they respected it, and carried
the Duke to the house of one Ruthland, an old servant of his own, who
nursed his master back to that life which was worth so little to him.
He was then, on the 26th of May, carried a prisoner to Westminster,
where he was allowed the service of a chaplain, cook, page, and varlet,
with three servants to wait on them. He was detained in this captivity
until the fifteenth of September.[#] Six shillings and eightpence per
week were allowed for the Duke's board, two shillings for the chaplain,
twenty pence each for the cook, page, and varlet, and sixteen pence each
for the inferior domestics.
[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.--Rymer is apparently under a
mistake in stating that Exeter fled to Westminster Sanctuary, about two
months after Barnet. The language of the Roll is decisive that Exeter
was a prisoner, and not in sanctuary, between the dates named.
King Henry was rather better treated. Dispute his title as he might,
Edward provided for him as for a captive prince. About half-a-crown per
day was allowed for his "diet;" but a strong guard of thirty-six
persons, afterwards gradually reduced to eleven, was thought necessary
for his safe keeping.
The corpses of Warwick and Montague were exposed to popular view, with
uncovered faces, in St. Paul's Cathedral, for four days: and on the
eighteenth of April they were laid with their Montacute fathers in the
church at Bisham. The day after their funeral, the royal pardon was
renewed to their brother the Archbishop. His offence was that of
"taking oath to Harry our great adversary, as to his Sovereign Lord, and
to Margaret, calling her Queen, which if a French woman born, and
daughter to him that is extreme adversary and mortal enemy to all this
our land and people," and "assembling unto him numbers of French men
beside other traitors and rebels."[#]
[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.
Considering that Edward himself had married the daughter of a French
lady, had negotiated previously for his marriage with an Italian
Princess, and had reconquered England with the assistance of Flemings,
this taunt upon Queen Marguerite's foreign extraction and alien troops
is rather amusing, and marked with as much consistency as usually
characterised his actions. What poor King Rene of Naples had done, to
be singled out beyond all other persons as the special adversary to the
English land and people, may reasonably be questioned, particularly by
those who know his quiet, rather lazy, artistic disposition. But people
in a passion, and people trying to impress others with a conviction, are
not in all cases consistent and truthful.
On the 27th of April a solemn proclamation was issued by name of "the
King's rebels and traitors." The announcement of the names was not made
with particular courtesy. They were "Margaret (with no other
distinctive appellation); Edward, her son; Henry, late Duke of Exeter
(whose wife continued to be styled Duchess); Edmund Beaufort, calling
himself Duke of Somerset; John, Earl of Oxford; John Courtenay, calling
himself Earl of Devon; William late Viscount Beaumont; John Beaufort and
Hugh Courtenay, knights." It was solemnly commanded that none should
"give them help, favour, or succour, on pain of death and forfeiture of
all held of us: we calling Almighty God to record that it shall be
against our will and intent."[#]
[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.
Did it ever strike the man who dictated these words, that God Almighty
had kept a record concerning him, and did he ever think what his
feelings would be, when that record was read out before men and angels?
The Nemesis for the sins of Henry IV. was descending with dire vengeance
on the House of Lancaster. But did he imagine that the House of York
should escape the judgment of God--that the Jehu who had been raised up
to destroy the innocent sons of Ahab, should be permitted to walk with
impunity in the sins of Jeroboam?
*CHAPTER VII.*
*THE LAST BATTLE OF THE RIVAL ROSES.*
"May this be borne? How much of agony
Hath the heart room for?"
--FELICIA HEMANS.
One enemy remained for Edward IV. to vanquish, and it was a woman: a
woman whose hand he had kissed upon the knee, and whom his Queen had
served in her chamber. So long as husband and son were left to fight
for, so long Marguerite of Anjou was irrepressible and invincible. When
they were not, the complete indifference of despair with which she let
the sceptre drop from her hand, proved that it was not it which she had
loved, but them.
Yet the dreadful news which met her at Cerne Abbey for one moment
overwhelmed the eager and resolute spirit. King Henry was once more a
captive, and Warwick--who united the strange characters of her worst
enemy in private, and her sole reliable friend in public--could be
neither enemy nor friend any more for ever. The bright head was bowed
down, and tears, such as Marguerite was rarely seen to shed, came
rushing from her eyes.
"Oh, let us give it up!" she cried. "Edward, let us go back to France,
and give up the struggle!"
"I cry you mercy, Madame my mother!" was the ringing answer of the
Prince. "Never, while another battle may retrieve all! Look, I pray
you--have we not yet the Duke of Somerset"----
"Not to be trusted," said Marguerite, under her breath.
"And my Lord of Oxford"----
"Who fled from us at Barnet."
"And my Lord of Devon"----
"Well, yes--I think _he_ may be."
The Prince dropped on one knee, and clasped his mother's hand in his.
"And, sweet Mother, have you not _me_?"
The Queen clasped her darling in her arms, and bent her fair head low
upon his darker locks.
"_Mon cheri, mon mignon!_" she cried tenderly, in her own language, not
often used now, for English had become almost the mother-tongue to the
woman who had been Queen of England since she was a maiden of sixteen
years. "Aye, my streak of sunlight, I have thee!--and never will I let
thine inheritance calmly fall into the hands of thine enemies! Come,
let us be up and doing. When, on the day of mine espousals, I set the
Rose of England in my bosom, did I not know that I must wear it with all
its thorns?"[#]
[#] The last sentence is in the actual words of the Queen, though not
spoken on this occasion.
The momentary sensation of irresolute hopelessness was passed, and
Marguerite was herself again. She held a council of war, at which it was
decided that they should march on the western provinces, which were more
loyal than the midland wherein Warwick had held sway, or the northern of
which Edward was Duke. The ladies were to be left behind in sanctuary,
except the one or two in personal attendance on the Queen, who knew well
enough that whoever might constitute the body of the Lancastrian party,
she was and had always been its soul: and that however her forces might
acquit themselves with her, they were not likely to do well without her.
The Countess of Warwick, with her daughter of Clarence and their suites,
had crossed the Channel separately from the Queen, and had taken refuge
at Beaulieu Abbey. But nothing would tempt the young Princess of Wales
to join them. Whether in life or in death, where her heart's lord was,
there also would she be.
The Countess of Devon, in attendance on the Queen, and Lady Katherine
Vaux, in waiting on the Princess, were the sole women who accompanied
the army. From Bath they marched on to Bristol, intending to join the
Earl of Pembroke, Jaspar Tudor, who was coming from Gloucester with his
men. But when the Queen's army attempted to pass the Severn, they found
themselves intercepted by the men of Gloucester, who urged their
necessary "obeissance to their Duke." Marguerite turned aside, and went
on to Tewkesbury.
Perhaps few places in England are less changed than Tewkesbury from the
appearance they presented in the fifteenth century. Not only the grand
old Abbey (alas! restored), but the Bell Inn within a stone's throw, the
old winding High Street and its hostelry the Bear, are very little
altered in outward seeming from what they were on that night of the
third of May, when Marguerite of Anjou drew up her troops in "the Bloody
Field" outside the town. Edward was at Tewkesbury in person, awaiting
what either side felt instinctively would be the last and decisive
battle in the Wars of the Roses.
Early the next morning, the Prince of Wales, who was to command the
army, took leave of the royal ladies.
Clasp him close, poor mother! cling to him, young wife! You will do it
never, never any more. It was no act of the Prince, whether of
commission or omission, that lost the day. Victory hung yet in the
balance, when Somerset, traitor to his last breath, fled from his young
gallant master, followed by Hugh Courtenay: and from that moment the
field was King Edward's.
The Prince was taken. The craven Somerset fled to the sanctuary of a
church, and he was followed by Humphrey Audley (who had York blood in
his veins), Henry de Ros, James Gower, the Prince's standard-bearer, and
many more. But Prince Edward, most valuable prisoner of all, was taken
before the conqueror in his royal pavilion. What followed is well
known,--King Edward's contemptuous query--
"How camest thou, young man, to bear sword against me?"
It was met by Prince Edward's defiant reply--
"I came to recover my father's kingdom, and mine own inheritance, out of
the hands of them that had no right to hold it."[#]
[#] Only the opening words of this speech are commonly quoted.
Some chroniclers say that Edward dashed his gauntleted hand in the face
of his young cousin. Others assert that he merely flung a sign to those
around him. Either action was well understood. Hastings, the King's
faithful servant, and Thomas Grey, his step-son, the affianced of Anne
of Exeter, hurried Prince Edward out of his presence to the next tent,
where the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester were standing. There they
flung him down. One cry of pitiful appeal rang through the evening
air--"Clarence! _Brother!_" but Clarence stood deaf and motionless.
Gloucester was equally still, but from a very different motive. Then
came a second and a lower moan--"_Jesu, Doming!_" That was heard.
Another instant, and they had no more that they could do. Edward
Plantagenet was with God.
Not that night did Marguerite of Anjou learn all the awful news in store
for her. She heard--from the gentle lips of John Combe--that her army
was routed, and the day lost: heard it, with the young Princess by her
side, seated in that charette in which it had been so difficult to keep
her, for she suspected already that fate was going against her, and she
was scarcely restrained from mounting her horse, and taking the command
of her troops. The one worst item--the loss of her boy--did not reach
her then. But what she did hear made her sink down in the charette,
"half-dead."
Those about the Queen--very few they were--felt the necessity of doing
for her what she was not in a position to do for herself. They hurried
the royal ladies away from their dangerous place to a little religious
house outside Tewkesbury, where they entered them in sanctuary. Alas
for their innocence, if they expected Edward of York to keep promises or
reverence sanctuary! At that moment he was presenting himself with
drawn sword at the door of the church where so many of the Lancastrian
nobles had taken refuge. All honour be to the brave priest who, pix in
hand, resolutely barred the victor's entrance, until he had given a
solemn promise of pardon to the fugitives. Alas for the fugitives, that
they trusted it! All might have escaped, but trusting to that honour of
which Edward knew so little, they remained in their asylum until the
Monday, when they were marched out and beheaded before the door.
Somerset richly deserved his fate: but this cannot be said of many
others. Even Humphrey Audley was not spared, though King Edward and he
were second cousins.[#]
[#] He was the younger son of Alianora de Holand, Lady Audley, daughter
of Constance of York, King Edward's grand-aunt.
Notwithstanding all his specious words, ties of blood, no less than
those of gratitude, weighed as nothing with Edward of York when a man
stood in his way.
There was a long funeral procession that day in Tewkesbury Abbey. The
Duke of Somerset, as we are told by his herald, who was present, was
buried "before the image of Saint Jame at an autar in ye said monastery
churche on the northe parte."[#] But it was in the very midst of the
church, just under the tower, that they laid the flower of the Red Rose,
"the gallant-springing young Plantagenet," who in the endeavour to
recover his father's kingdom had sacrificed himself. The rest were
buried in one great grave, dug close to that of the Prince in the nave
of the Abbey.
[#] Harl. MS. 545.--This tomb was removed at a later date, and is now on
the south side of the chancel.
The next step on the part of Edward was to capture the two hapless
ladies who had taken refuge in the little nunnery. Sir William
Stanley--an old enemy of the Queen--was sent to do this; and he is said
to have behaved as brutally as he well could, and in particular to have
broken to the bereaved mother the news of her boy's death in the most
inhuman manner. Driven almost to frenzy by the suddenness and anguish
of the blow, Marguerite broke forth into passionate execrations upon
Edward and all his posterity, which Stanley had the cruelty to repeat to
the conqueror, when, on the 11th of May, he brought his prisoners to
Coventry. The royal mourners were conveyed southwards together, captives
in the victorious train of the Rose of Rouen.
One more attempt, however, was to be made in the Lancastrian cause, like
the last expiring gleam of a candle ere it dies out. The Governors of
Calais, Sir Walter Wretill and Sir Geoffrey Gates, despatched the brave,
if somewhat rash, Thomas Fauconbridge "to raise Kent, and deliver King
Henry from the Tower." It was only a dying flash, but it roused the
Yorkists to instant action. Lord Rivers was sent down to Kent and Lord
Bourchier to Essex by the Council; Lord Dudley, with a hundred soldiers,
was put in charge of the Tower, where defensive works were cast up in
haste in less than a week; Lord Hastings was despatched to supersede the
Governor of Calais, and Lord Pembroke sent to South Wales "to capture
rebels, and reduce the King's castles to his obedience." The citizens
of London, that unknown and difficult quantity, were complimented by the
gift of two tuns of red wine, "expended on them after the conflict at
Mile-end against the rebels."[#] For the safe custody of Rochester
Castle, a squire of the body was sent down, by name Thomas St. Leger, of
whom we shall hear again.
[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV. This Roll is one of the most
interesting state papers ever penned.
The insurrection was quashed. But how many more might arise? It was no
doubt extremely inconvenient to be perpetually in risk of another; and
Henry VI. had still friends enough to make Edward's throne a very uneasy
seat. So long as the Lancaster King lived, the York King would have a
thorny time of it. There was only one way to end the difficulty: and
there was one man who was ready to take it.
On the twenty-first of May, King Edward, accompanied by his brother of
Gloucester, and carrying his captives in his victorious train, made his
triumphal entry into the City of London. The Queen and Princess were
lodged in the Tower. They were now under the same roof as King Henry. If
any ray of hope ever entered Marguerite's heart after Tewkesbury, it
must have been that night, at the thought of a possible meeting with the
husband from whom she had been parted for six weary years. She may well
have imagined that fate had done its worst, and no further sorrows could
yet be in reserve for her. But the worst had only begun to come.
Whether it were that night or a few days later,--within one week from
her imprisonment in the Tower, Marguerite of Anjou was a widow.