earliest and some of our greatest kings and queens? Does that stately
tomb in the centre call to your mind Edward, the dreamer and the
builder, the dramatic ending of his life, the splendid ceremony of his
burial within these walls, when he was honoured not alone as king of
England or founder of the Abbey, but as a saint of the Church? Does the
tomb of Henry III., with its remains of soft coloured marble and gilt
mosaics, tell you of Westminster's second great builder, a lover of
beauty and religious observances, but withal weak and extravagant, and
incapable of rising to his great responsibilities? Does the rugged,
undecorated monument of Edward I. show you the man, strong, stern, and
steadfast, or the tomb of his beloved Eleanor speak to you of his
wonderful love for her and of her sweet goodness? And when you look at
the resting-place of Edward III. and Philippa, does it not call up to
your mind the days of chivalry and the feats of English soldiers, the
victories of Poitiers and Crecy, the siege of Calais and the
compassionate pleading of the kindly queen? You stand by the tomb of
Richard and Anne, united at last, and do not you think, "Oh, the pity of
it," when you remember how Richard might have been strong and brave, had
only he kept true to his best self? And then, do you not turn with a
thrill of pride to the lofty chantry which encircles the grave of Henry
V., the best loved king England ever had, the king who set a glow of
patriotism alight in his realm, who rose above his failings and his
faults, and gave to his people the fine example of a man who was victor
over himself as well as victor over his foreign foes? Worthily I think
does Henry's chantry crown the Confessor's shrine.
If some of these thoughts have come to you, this chapel will have taught
you more history than any number of books or any number of dates.
Because history only grows real to all of us, when the men and women
about whom we read and learn cease to be mere figures and become our
familiar acquaintances, till we fit them in as it were to their proper
places in the story of England--places which are not always bounded by
the years of a reign, which often cannot be bounded even by centuries.
[Illustration: TOMBS IN THE CHAPEL OF THE KINGS.]
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE WARS OF THE ROSES AND THE THIRD
ROYAL BUILDER*
Little Henry VI. was not crowned till he was nine years old, and one old
writer says that "so small was he, he could not wear the crown, and a
bracelet of his mother's was placed on his head." He was a dreamy,
gentle boy, and, far from being excited or happy on his coronation day,
we hear how "very sadly and gravely he beheld all the people round about
him, at the sight of which he showed great humility." His mother,
Katherine, had married a Welshman named Owen Tudor, much to the anger of
those about the court and the nobles, who considered that by so doing
she had demeaned herself, and after this she was allowed to see very
little of her son, who was therefore left entirely to his uncles, the
Duke of Bedford and the Duke of Gloucester. Like Edward the Confessor,
Henry was fit for a cloister but not for a crown, and he was called to
reign in troublous times, when strength of will and purpose were more
needed in a king than saintliness or simplicity of life. His uncles,
who realised his weakness, arranged that he should marry Margaret of
Anjou, a woman who was brave, ambitious, and masterful; but the fact
that she soon got Henry completely under her control only brought about
in the end his destruction and hers. In France the English lose all
that they had won, for a deliverer of France had arisen in the girl Joan
of Arc, who gave fresh courage and hope to her fellow-countrymen and led
them on to victory as though she had been a saint sent by God. Then
back to England came those many thousands of soldiers who had been
fighting abroad all these years, and they were not inclined to settle
down to a peaceful life; they wanted adventure, excitement, and plunder,
and they were ready to flock round any leader who could promise them the
chance of a fight. You will remember how, when you looked at Edward
III.'s tomb, with the figures of his sons kneeling round, I told you
that the descendants of those sons brought civil war upon England; and
it was in the reign of Henry VI. that this terrible war broke out.
Henry, as you know, was descended from John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster,
and his grandfather, Henry IV., had gained the throne by will of
Parliament and by right of conquest, but not by right of inheritance.
Now there was living Richard, Duke of York, who was descended from the
Duke of Clarence, the elder brother of John of Gaunt, and when, owing to
Henry's weakness and the jealousies of the great nobles, two parties
gradually began to form themselves, these parties naturally became
divided into those who supported the king, that is to say, the House of
Lancaster, and those who supported the House of York. At first there
was no thought of civil war; these two parties merely opposed each other
and schemed one against the other; but before long feeling ran so high
that open warfare became inevitable, and each side took as its badge a
rose.
So began the Wars of the Roses, and there followed those terrible
battles of Northampton, Wakefield, St. Albans, Towton, Barnet, and
Tewkesbury, in which thousands of Englishmen were slain (20,000 at
Towton alone), the victory resting first on one side and then on the
other, though finally with the Yorkists. The Duke of York had been
killed early in the campaign, but his place had been filled by his young
son, Edward, and at last, after the battle of Tewkesbury, King Henry and
Queen Margaret were taken prisoners, their son Edward having been killed
in battle or murdered afterwards. Both were taken to the Tower, and one
night, between eleven and twelve, King Henry was put to death, the Duke
of Gloucester and divers of his men being in the Tower that night. So
Edward of York ascended the throne, the fourth king of that name, and
the first stage of the War of the Roses was ended.
Henry was not buried at Westminster; in the darkness of the night his
body was carried from the Tower, put on to a lighted barge, and,
"without singing or saying," conveyed up the dark waters of the Thames
to his silent interment at Chertsey Abbey. And yet this gentle, humble
king had loved the Abbey well, and had greatly longed to lie near to St.
Edward, by his father and his ancestors, having chosen the spot where
the relics had been kept, as a "good place."
Edward IV. reigned for twelve years, but he did not reign in peace; and
once his wife Elizabeth was in such distress and danger that, with her
three little girls, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely, and one faithful
attendant, Lady Scrope, she fled to Westminster for sanctuary, and threw
herself on the mercy of Abbot Mylling. In this gloomy place of refuge
her son was born, she being tended by a certain Mother Cobb, who also
lived in sanctuary, while the Abbot sent her some few things for her
comfort, and a kind butcher named Gould provided "half a beef and two
muttons every week."
It was a strange birthplace for an English prince; but his christening,
which took place in the Abbey, was not without honour, though the
ceremony was carried out as though he were a poor man's son. He was
given the honoured name of Edward, the Abbot was his godfather, and the
Duchess of Bedford with Lady Scrope stood as his godmothers. When peace
was restored, Edward IV. at once came to Westminster to comfort his
queen, and he did not forget to reward those who had helped Elizabeth in
the hour of her distress. To Nurse Cobb he gave L12 a year; from the
butcher he ordered a royal shipful of hides and tallow; while the Abbot,
for "his great civility," was made a Privy Councillor, and afterwards
Bishop of Hereford.
But though Elizabeth left the Sanctuary, she was once more to return to
its kindly shelter. She had always a mistrust of her husband's
favourite brother, the Duke of Gloucester, and when King Edward died in
1473, she at once went back to Westminster with her daughters and her
second son, the Duke of York. Her eldest boy, Edward, was already in his
uncle's power and in the Tower, although the Duke of Gloucester had made
him enter London in state, he riding bare-headed before him, and saying
to the people loudly, "Behold your prince and sovereign." But the queen
was not to be deceived by this. "Woe worth him," she said bitterly; "he
goeth about to destroy me and my blood."
This time Elizabeth and her children were given room in the Abbot's
palace, probably in the dining-hall, and there the Archbishop of York
came to her to deliver up, for the use of her son, the Great Seal,
entrusted to him by Edward IV. He found her sitting on the floor,
"alone on the rushes, desolate and dismayed, and about her was much
rumble, haste, and business with conveyance of her household stuff into
sanctuary. Every man was busy to carry, bear, and convey these stuffs,
chests, and fardels, and no man was unoccupied." In the distance could
be heard the noise of the workmen already beginning the preparations for
the coronation of King Edward, which the Duke of Gloucester was
apparently pushing forward with all haste. But as the Archbishop looked
out of his window on to the Thames, he saw the river covered with boats
full of the Duke of Gloucester's servants, keeping a watch over the
queen's hiding-place.
Richard of Gloucester's next move was to get possession of the little
Duke of York, and as he was now appointed Protector, having altogether
deceived the Council as to his real intent, this was no very difficult
matter. And the poor queen had only a mother's love and a mother's
fears to set against these mighty men and the fair sounding argument
"that the little king was melancholy and desired his brother for a
playmate."
"I deliver him into your keeping, my lord," she said to the Archbishop
of Canterbury, her face white, her voice trembling, "of whom I shall ask
him again before God and the world. And I pray you, for the trust which
his father reposed in you, that as you think I fear too much, so you be
cautious that you fear not too little."
Then she threw her arms round the boy and covered him with kisses.
"Farewell, mine own sweet son," she sobbed; "God send you good keeping.
And God knoweth when we shall kiss together again."
Her worst fears were realised. She never saw her boys again, never knew
how they were murdered in the Tower, or even where they were buried.
And from her dwelling-place within the Sanctuary precincts she could see
and hear all the preparations that were being made for the coronation of
Richard III., while she "sobbed and wept and pulled her fair hair, as
she called by name her two sweet babes, and cried to God to comfort
her."
For nearly a year she remained where she was, then Richard, having taken
an oath before the Lord Mayor and the Council to protect her and her
daughters, she moved out of Sanctuary into some humble lodgings near
Westminster, where her one friend seems to have been a doctor named
Lewis, who was also a priest, and apparently something of a politician
too, for he began to plan with the queen for the marriage of her eldest
daughter, Elizabeth, with Harry of Richmond, who, through his mother,
Margaret Beaufort, was the hope of the Lancastrian party.
Richard III. was already hated in England, and as the story of the way
in which he had caused his little nephews to be murdered became
generally known, the hatred increased tenfold. So the Lancastrian party
thought the moment had come for them to make another effort. Harry
Richmond landed at Milford Haven from France with 3000 men, and soon an
eager, willing army flocked to his standard. At Bosworth field he met
Richard in battle.
"Let courage supply the want of our numbers," he cried. "And as for me,
I propose to live with honour hereafter, or die with honour here."
Evening found him the victor of the day; Richard lay dead on the field,
and his crown, which he had worn into battle, was found hanging on a
bush. There on the scene of his triumph the crown was set on Henry's
head, while the soldiers shouted joyfully, "God save King Henry VII.,"
and then burst into a solemn _Te Deum_.
In October Henry was formally crowned in the Abbey, and in the Abbey,
too, a few months later, he married the Princess Elizabeth, once the
helpless, homeless Sanctuary child. So were the Houses of York and
Lancaster made one; so were the red roses and white roses grafted
together, and the people of London celebrated the happy event with
bonfires, dancing, songs, and banquet. Cardinal Bourchier, himself of
Plantagenet stock, performed the marriage ceremony, and so, as an old
writer prettily puts it, "his hand held the sweet posie wherein the
white and red roses were first tied together."
Not till a year later was Elizabeth crowned, and by then a little son
had been born to her, named Arthur at his father's wish, in memory of
the stainless King Arthur, whom Henry VII. claimed as an ancestor
through his Welsh grandfather, Owen Tudor.
It was about this time that a great change came over the people of
England in regard to their opinion of Henry VI. They had begun by
pitying him for his misfortunes; then they had called to mind his
patience and humility, his kind deeds, his love of learning, and his
pure life, till at last in their eyes he became nothing short of a
saint. Richard III. had caused his body to be removed from Chertsey to
Windsor, much to the anger of the priests at Chertsey, who had spread
abroad stories of wonderful miracles performed at his tomb, which
stories, being readily believed, had drawn many pilgrims to the place.
And pilgrims never came empty-handed.
Henry VII. came under the influence of this feeling, and he resolved
that honour should now be done to this king, whom men had liked and
pitied, but had never honoured in life. He had already decided to build
a new chapel to the Virgin Mary in the Abbey, or rather to entirely
rebuild the Lady Chapel of Henry III., and here he intended Henry VI.
should be reburied under a costly tomb. He went so far as to petition
the Pope to add King Henry's name to the list of saints; but the Pope
would only agree to do so for an extravagant sum of money, and Henry
Tudor thought the money could be more profitably spent in other ways.
So the matter was allowed to drop, and although the council which had
been summoned to decide where Henry should finally be buried--in
Windsor, Chertsey, or Westminster--gave their judgment in favour of
Westminster, it is very doubtful if his body was ever moved to the Abbey
at all. Certainly no monument was raised to his memory. However, the
building of the Lady Chapel went on apace, only its purpose was changed.
It was no longer to be the chantry of Henry VI., but the chapel of Henry
VII., the burying-place of the Tudor kings and queens of his race.
Henry was a curious mixture of a desire to hoard up money, and a desire
to build what he undertook on a very lavish scale. He saved more money
than any other English king, and he certainly spent less, for he was
simple in all his tastes, a silent, gloomy man. But he has left behind
him in Westminster Abbey a piece of work as beautiful as wealth and art
could make it, a building "stately and surprising, which brought this
church to her highest pitch of glory," and though his original ideas as
to its purpose were frustrated, his longings that here "three chantry
monks should say prayers for his soul so long as the world endured,"
being ruthlessly disregarded by his own son, Henry VIII., his chapel
still stands, so that with Edward the Confessor and Henry III. he ranks
among the three great royal builders of the Abbey.
Before you go into this chapel stand for a minute in King Edward's
shrine, with its stately simplicity; then pass under the chantry of
Henry V., simple too, but telling of strength, of life, and vigour; walk
up the steps of Henry's Chapel into the dark entrance, and then stay
still in the doorway to drink in the matchless beauty before your eyes.
Here, simplicity is a word unknown; everywhere, inside and out, is a
wealth of carving; no spot or corner was deemed too hidden away to be
ornamented; roof and walls alike are covered with delicate lacework and
rich embroidery made out of stone.
"They dreamed not of a perishable house who thus could build."
The foundation-stone was laid one afternoon in the January of 1502 by
Islip, "that wise and holy man who was Abbot of the Westminster monks,"
and the building was solemnly dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary by
order of Henry VII., king of England and France and Lord of Ireland.
The work went on quickly, for money was not lacking. Abbot Islip was a
man of action, and Henry was feverishly anxious that the building should
be completed in his lifetime. Here it was that he meant to be buried,
for just because his claim to the throne was not a very good one, he was
doubly anxious to link himself on by many different ways to the kings of
the past. Everywhere in his chapel, round his tomb, on the roof, and on
the doorways, you will find his different badges set up, as if to say,
"Each one of these badges gave me the right to be king of England." You
will see over and over again the York and Lancaster roses; the
portcullis and the greyhound, both of them Beaufort badges, which had
come to him through his mother, Margaret Beaufort, the direct descendant
of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster; the red dragon of Cadwallader of
Wales, the last British king, whom Henry alone of all the English kings
proudly claimed as his ancestor, through Owen Tudor, his father; and the
lion, which always figured in the royal arms of England. These badges,
everywhere carved, were Henry's challenge to any one who might dispute
his claim.
"We will," said Henry, "that this chapel be wholly and perfectlie
fynished with all spede; and the windows glazed with stories, imagies,
badgies, and cognoisants; that the walles, doors, archies, windows,
vaults, and imagies, within and without be painted, garnished, and
adorned in as goodly and rich manner as such a work requireth and as to
a king's work appertaigneth."
But in spite of all the speed the king died before the work was
finished, and never saw his chapel in all its costly beauty. Only a few
days before his death he gave the Abbot L5000 more, "in redy money by
the hande," for the carrying on of the work, and his will showed how
deep his interest lay, for he solemnly charged his executors to advance
whatever money was needful, and to choose for the high altar "the
greatest Image of our Lady we have in our Juel house; a Crosse of plate
of gold upon tymber, chalices, altar suits, vestments, candlesticks, and
ornaments," all of them to bear the royal badges. "And for the price
and value of them," he concluded, "our mynde is, that thei bei of suche
as appertaigneth to the gifte of a prynce; and therefore we wol that our
executours in that partie have a special regarde to the lawe of God, the
weal of our soule and our honour royal."
Queen Elizabeth had died some years before her husband, and had been
impressively laid in some side chapel of the Abbey. Now, on Henry's
death, both were buried together in the tomb which the king had ordered
should be in the middle of the Chapel by the high altar, and about which
he had left minute instructions as to the images of himself and the
queen, the inscription, the tabernacles round the tomb with the images
of saints and angels, and the grating of copper and gilt for its
protection.
Certainly the tomb was made worthy of the exquisite chapel which
enshrined it, and Henry's wishes were faithfully carried out in this
respect. An Italian, Torregiano, made the images of the king and queen
in gilt bronze, and Torregiano was something of a genius, for all his
images have a wonderful life of their own. Yet he must have been
anything but a pleasant visitor to the monastery precincts, for he was a
bold man, with a loud voice, frowning eyebrows, and fierce gestures, who
daily boasted of his feats among the beasts of Englishmen, and told how
he had broken the nose of his rival Michael Angelo; or how he had
shattered to pieces an image of the Virgin, because there was some
dispute about the price to be paid him. However, we must forgive him
his violent temper out of gratitude for his beautiful work.
The grating round the tomb was made by English workmen, and here again
you will see everywhere the king's badges. And I want you to notice,
too, the little angels who stand round the king and queen, for they look
as if they had just flown there for a moment, so lightly are they
poised. Then you must look at the carvings round the tomb, those Saints
whom the king had chosen to be his guardians: the Virgin Mary with
Christ in her arms and St. Michael at her side; St. John the Baptist
pointing to a picture of the Lamb of God; St. John the Evangelist
holding his Gospel in his hand, an eagle standing at his feet; St.
George of England standing on the vanquished Dragon, and with him St.
Anthony dressed as a monk; Mary Magdalene with her box of precious
ointment; St. Barbara holding a three-windowed tower; St. Christopher
bearing on his shoulder the Christ Child, and St. Edward the Confessor
crowned in glory.
Just outside the screen must have stood a beautiful altar, also the work
of Torrigiano, an altar of white marble, gilded with fine gold, enriched
by inlay and carving, the central figure being "an image, erth coloured
of Christ dead;" but this was wrecked by a fanatic named Marlow in the
time of the Commonwealth, whose "ignorant zeal was such that he brake it
into shivers, though it was a raritie not to be matched in any part of
the world."
As you stand in the chapel I want you to gaze up at the vaulted roof,
which seems as though it hung in mid air, so wonderful is the design
with its fairy grace and lightness; for here you see a beautiful example
of that fan-tracery vaulting which was peculiarly English in its style,
and which in this case was probably the work of two English masons, John
Hyharn and William Vertue. Then you must look around at the army of
Saints and Martyrs who guard the walls; king, apostle, saint confessor,
all are here, and the niches in which they stand are delicately carved
and decorated. And you must try to imagine the glory of the windows in
those early days when, filled with "goode, clene, sure, and perfyte
glasse of oryent colours, and the imagery of the story of the olde lawe
and the new lawe," they reflected their rich hues around. Now only one
little part of those many painted windows remains, but that is a figure
of Henry VII., who looks down over the chapel which he raised.
The carved oaken stalls intended for the monks were not all finished at
this time, and as is so often the case with such stalls, there is
nothing sacred about the character of the ornaments carved on them. On
the contrary, they aim at being amusing; and you will find quaint
figures of monkeys winnowing corn; of foxes in armour riding on the
backs of cocks; of fiends seizing a miser; of turkeys chasing a boy; a
bear playing on bagpipes, and so on. In the year 1725 George I.
reconstructed the old order of Knights of the Bath, and as from the days
of Richard II. it had been the custom only to create such knights at a
coronation and when a Prince of Wales was created, the Order had many
associations with Westminster. So this Chapel of Henry VII. was set
apart as the Chapel of the Order, just as the Chapel of St. George's,
Windsor, was set apart for the Order of the Garter; and here for nearly
a hundred years every knight was installed; here was hung his banner;
and here was fastened up over his stall the plate on which was
emblazoned his coat of arms. But gradually the Order became so large
that the many ceremonies connected with it had to cease, and now only
the banners which hang here tell us of bygone days.
[Illustration: GATES OF HENRY VII.'s CHAPEL.]
As you come out, take a last look at the massive gates of oak and metal
serried with badges, and then stand once more in the middle of the
sixteenth century, when that mass of carving was made yet more rich and
beautiful by the colours which blazed everywhere, from the crimson,
blue, and purple of the windows; the gold and silver vessels on the
altar; the gleaming brass of the images; the gorgeous vestments of the
priests; the dazzling whiteness of the marble; the glitter of the tapers
round the tomb. Think of how Abbot Islip must have gloried in this new
gem of dazzling beauty now added to the Abbey, already so rich in
treasure; for Islip was of "a wakeful conscience" and held himself the
steward of the house of God, so that he too did some building to this
place, and evidently won the confidence of the king, who made him
paymaster of the workmen.