THE ANJOUITE'S VENGEANCE.
As the autumn of 1460 was deepening into winter, a rumor reached London
that Margaret of Anjou was raising troops on the borders of England.
The Duke of York, though not seriously alarmed, was apprehensive of
an insurrection in the north; and, marching from the metropolis, with
an army of five thousand men, he, on Christmas-eve, arrived at Sandal
Castle, which stood on an eminence that slopes down toward the town of
Wakefield. Finding that his enemies were so much more numerous than
he had anticipated, the Protector saw the propriety of remaining in
his strong-hold till re-enforced by his son, who was recruiting in the
marches of Wales.
The fact, however, was that Margaret had no intention of allowing Duke
Richard to profit by delay. Marching to Wakefield Green, she challenged
him to the field, and ridiculed the idea of a man having aspired to
a crown who was frightened to encounter an army led by a woman. Well
aware, however, that the battle is not always to the strong, Margaret
did not altogether trust in numerical superiority. Determined to secure
victory, she formed an ambuscade on either side: one under Lord
Clifford, the other under the Earl of Wiltshire; while to Somerset she
intrusted the command of her main army.
Meanwhile York called a council of war: Salisbury and the other chiefs
of the White Rose who were present strongly objected to hazarding a
battle; and David Hall, an old and experienced warrior, implored the
duke to remain within the walls of Sandal. But York considered that his
honor was concerned in fighting; and, addressing himself to Hall in
familiar phrase, he expressed the sentiments by which he was animated.
"Ah! Davy, Davy," said the duke, "hast thou loved me so long, and
wouldst now have me dishonored? No man ever saw me keep fortress when I
was Regent of Normandy, when the dauphin, with his puissance, came to
besiege me; but, like a man, and not like a bird inclosed in a cage,
I issued, and fought with mine enemies; to their loss (I thank GOD),
and ever to my honor. If I have not kept myself within walls for fear
of a great and strong prince, nor hid my face from any living mortal,
wouldst thou that I should incarcerate and shut myself up for dread
of a scolding woman, whose weapons are her tongue and nails? All men
would cry wonder, and report dishonor, that a woman made a dastard of
me, whom no man could ever, to this day, report as a coward. And,
surely, my mind is rather to die with honor than to live with shame.
Their numbers do not appall me. Assuredly I will fight with them, if I
fight alone. Therefore, advance my banners, in the name of GOD and St.
George!"
Seeing the duke determined to hazard a field, Salisbury and the other
captains arrayed their men for battle; and the Yorkists, sallying from
the castle, descended to meet the foe on Wakefield Green. The duke
supposed that the troops under Somerset were all with whom he had to
contend; and the brave warrior, now in his fiftieth year, advanced
fearlessly to the encounter. Never was Plantagenet more completely
deceived. When between Sandal Castle and the town of Wakefield, York
was suddenly assailed, by Clifford on the right hand, and by Wiltshire
on the left; but, though environed on every side, the duke did not
yield to fate without a desperate struggle. On both sides, the soldiers
fought with savage fury; and the Yorkists, conscious of superior
discipline, were for a while hopeful of victory. At a critical moment,
however, Margaret brought up a body of Borderers, and ordered them to
attack the Yorkists in the rear; and the effect was instantaneous. The
northern prickers laid their spears in rest, spurred their lean steeds,
and charged the warriors of the White Rose with a vigor that defied
resistance. The victory was complete; and of five thousand men, whom
York had brought into the field, nearly three thousand were stretched
on the slippery sod. The bold duke was among the first who fell. With
him were slain his faithful squire, David Hall, and many lords and
gentlemen of the south--among whom were Sir Thomas Neville, Salisbury's
son; and William Bonville, Lord Harrington, the husband of Katherine
Neville, Salisbury's daughter.
An incident as melancholy as any connected with the Wars of the Roses
now occurred. York's son, Edmund, Earl of Rutland, being in the castle
of Sandal, had gone with his tutor, Sir Robert Aspall, to witness the
fight. They dreaded no danger, for Aspall was a priest, and Rutland was
a fair boy of twelve, and innocent as a lamb. Seeing, however, that the
fortune of the day was against York, the tutor hurried the young earl
from the field; but as they were crossing the bridge, Lord Clifford
rode up and asked the boy's name. The young earl fell on his knees,
and, being too much agitated to speak, implored mercy by holding up his
hands.
"Spare him," said the tutor; "he is a prince's son, and may hereafter
do you good."
"York's son!" exclaimed Clifford, eying the boy savagely. "By GOD'S
blood, thy father slew mine, and so will I thee and all thy kin."
[Illustration: CLIFFORD STABBING RUTLAND.]
Deaf to the tutor's prayers and entreaties, "the black-faced lord"
plunged his dagger into Rutland's heart; and as the boy expired turned
to the priest, who stood mute with horror. "Go," said the murderer,
"bear to his mother and his brother tidings of what you have heard and
seen."
After thus imbruing his hands in the blood of an innocent boy, Clifford
went in search of the corpse of York. Having severed the duke's head
from the body, and put a crown of paper on the brow of the dead man,
and fixed the head on a pole, he presented the ghastly trophy to the
queen. "Madam," said Clifford, mockingly, "your war is done; here I
bring your king's ransom." Margaret of Anjou laughed; the Lancastrian
lords around her laughed in chorus; there was much jesting on the
occasion. "Many," says Hall, "were glad of other men's deaths, not
knowing that their own was near at hand;" and the chronicler might have
added that others lived through many dreary years to rue the jesting of
that day.
One of the hated "Triumvirate" was now no longer alive to annoy the
queen; and she was yet to have another victim. Thomas Neville, the
son of Salisbury, was, as has been stated, among the slain; but the
old earl, though wounded, had left the field. He was too dangerous a
foe, however, to be allowed by Clifford to escape. Keenly pursued,
he was taken during the night, carried to Pontefract Castle, and
there executed. Margaret ordered Salisbury's head, and those of York
and Rutland, to be set over the gates of York, as a warning to all
Englishmen not to interfere with her sovereign will. "Take care,"
she said to her myrmidons, "to leave room for the head of my Lord of
Warwick, for he will soon come to keep his friends company."
Glowing with victory, and confident that her enterprise would be
crowned with triumph, the queen, taking the great north road, pursued
her march toward the capital. Her progress was for a time unopposed. On
approaching St. Albans, however, she learned that the Earl of Warwick
and the Duke of Norfolk had left London to intercept her; that they had
taken possession of St. Albans; that they had filled the streets of the
town with archers, and posted their army on the hills to the southeast.
Margaret was not dismayed at the intelligence that such formidable
foes were in her way. On the contrary, she intimated her intention
of passing through St. Albans in spite of their opposition; but did
not deem it safe to trust to force alone. One of the ladies of her
court--so runs the story--happened to have, in other days, interested
Warwick, and had not quite lost her influence with "The Stout Earl."
Upon this dame--the daughter of Sir Richard Woodville and the wife
of John Grey of Groby--devolved the duty of playing the spy; and
accordingly she repaired to Warwick under the pretense of asking some
favor. The lady was cunning enough to act her part with discretion; and
she, doubtless, brought her royal mistress intelligence which gave the
Lancastrians courage to proceed.
It was the morning of the 17th of February, 1461, when the van of
the queen's army advanced to force their way through St. Albans. At
first the attempt was unsuccessful; and the Lancastrians were met by
Warwick's bowmen with a flight of arrows that caused them to fall back
from the market-place. Undaunted by this repulse, Margaret persevered;
and, driving the archers before her, she brought her soldiers into
action with the main body of the Yorkists in a field called Bernard's
Heath.
At this point the Lancastrians found their task more easy than they
could have anticipated. For the third time during the wars of the Roses
occurred an instance of desertion in the face of the enemy. At Ludlow,
Andrew Trollope had left the Yorkists; at Northampton, Lord Grey de
Ruthin had abandoned the Lancastrians; and now Lovelace, who at the
head of the Kentish men led Warwick's van, deserted the great earl in
the hour of need. This circumstance placed the victory in Margaret's
power; and a dashing charge made by John Grey of Groby, at the head
of the Lancastrian cavalry, decided the day in favor of the Red Rose.
A running fight was, nevertheless, kept up over the undulating ground
between St. Albans and the little town of Barnet; and, a last stand
having in vain been made on Barnet Common, Warwick was fain to retreat
with the remnants of his army.
So unexpected had been the queen's victory, and so sudden the earl's
discomfiture, that the captive king was left in solitude. However,
Lord Bonville, grandfather of the warrior who fell at Wakefield, and
Sir Thomas Kyriel, renowned in the wars of France, went to the royal
tent, and in courteous language expressed their regret at leaving him
unattended. Henry, entreating them to remain, gave them a distinct
promise that in doing so they should incur no danger; and after
accepting the royal word as a pledge for their personal safety they
consented, and advised the king to intimate to the victors that he
would gladly join them.
A message was accordingly dispatched; and several Lancastrian lords
came to convey Henry of Windsor to the presence of his terrible spouse.
The monk-king found Margaret of Anjou and the Prince of Wales in Lord
Clifford's tent, and, having expressed his gratification at their
meeting, rewarded the fidelity of his adherents by knighting thirty of
them at the village of Colney. Among these were the Prince of Wales,
and John Grey of Groby, the warrior who had broken the Yorkists' ranks,
and who, dying of his wounds a few days later, left a widow destined
to bring countless miseries on the royal race whose chiefs had so long
ruled England. After the ceremony of knighting his partisans, Henry
repaired to the Abbey of St. Albans and returned thanks for the victory.
While Henry was occupied with devotional exercises, the queen was
unfortunately guilty of an outrage which, even if she had been in
other respects faultless, must have for ever associated crime with the
name of Margaret of Anjou. The Lord Bonville and Sir Thomas Kyriel had
consented, as we have seen, from motives of compassion and romantic
honor, to remain with Henry; and the king had on his part given a
distinct promise that no evil should befall them. But by the queen and
her captains no respect was paid to Henry; in fact, much less decorum
was observed toward him by the Lancastrians than by the Yorkists. At
all events Margaret, exhibiting the utmost disregard for her husband's
promise, ordered a scaffold to be erected at St. Albans; and, in
defiance of all faith and honor, Lord Bonville and Sir Thomas Kyriel
died by the hands of the executioner.
Meanwhile, Margaret's adherents were taking a sure way to render her
cause unpopular. Ere marching toward London the men of the north
had, as the price of their allegiance to the Red Rose, covenanted to
have the spoil south of the Trent; and, resolved not to return home
empty-handed, they had forayed with so much energy as to spread terror
wherever they went. At St. Albans their rapacity knew no limits. Not
only did they plunder the town with an utter disregard to the rights of
property, but stripped the abbey with a sacrilegious hardihood which
rapidly converted the head of that great monastic house from a zealous
Lancastrian to a violent partisan of the White Rose.
The report of the lawless scenes enacted at St. Albans was carried
to London, and the citizens, who believed that the queen had marked
them as objects of her vengeance, were impressed with a sense of
danger, and rather eager to win back her favor. When, therefore, the
northern army lay at Barnet, and Margaret sent to demand provisions,
the mayor hastened to forward some cart-loads of "lenten stuff" for
the use of her camp. The populace, however, exhibited a courage which
their wealthier neighbors did not possess, and rising in a mass at
Cripplegate stopped the carts, and forcibly prevented the provisions
leaving the city. The mayor, in alarm, sent the recorder to the
king's council, and moreover interested Lady Scales and the Duchess
of Bedford to intercede with the queen, and represent the impolicy
of exasperating the commons at such a crisis. This led to another
scene of lawless outrage. Some lords of the council, with four hundred
horsemen, headed by Sir Baldwin Fulford, were sent to investigate
matters, and attempted to enter London at Cripplegate. Again, however,
the populace fought for the White Rose; and the Lancastrian horsemen,
being repulsed, plundered the northern suburbs in retaliation, and left
matters infinitely worse than they had previously appeared.
While affairs were in this posture--Margaret's heart beating high with
the pride of victory--a price set on the head of Edward of York--the
Lancastrian lords cherishing the prospect of vengeance--"the wealth
of London looking pale, knowing itself in danger from the northern
army"--and the citizens apprehensive of being given over to the tender
mercies of Grahams and Armstrongs--from Mortimer's Cross there arrived
news of battle and bloodshed. The citizens resumed their feelings
of security; the wealth of London appeared once more safe from huge
Borderers; and Margaret of Anjou, forcibly reminded that Edward
Plantagenet and Richard Neville yet lived to avenge their sires,
prepared to return to "Northumberland, the nursery of her strength."