The Red Rose of Anjou

AT ST. ALBANS

The Duke of York was angry. Everything had been changing; events had been falling into place; he had been achieving success; he had shown the people that he had the gifts of a ruler and then…the King recovered.

‘And how far has he recovered?’ he demanded of Cecily.

‘He’s likely to go toppling over into idiocy again.’

‘Not that we wish him ill,’ added the Duke.

Cecily pressed her lips tightly together. She wished him ill. She wished he would go back to his madness.

‘But,’ went on the Duke, ‘when I had a comparatively free hand I felt I was getting things in order.’

‘You were, and if the people had any sense they would make you King.’

‘They always have such a respect for a crowned King,’ said York.

Cecily was silent seeing herself and Richard being crowned in Westminster Abbey. That was how it should be. They both had royal blood and Richard had more right to the crown than Henry.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Salisbury and Warwick will be with us shortly. We shall decide then.’

He was right. It was not long before Salisbury and Warwick arrived.

They were as resentful as York himself.

‘What will happen now?’ they cried.

‘Disaster for the country,’ answered York.

They were silent. The Great Seal had been taken from Salisbury and given to Bourchier, the Archbishop of Canter-, bury. The Governorship of Calais had been taken from York and given to Somerset. It was the last straw when Somerset had called a Council at Westminster which neither York, Warwick nor Salisbury were invited to attend.

‘Somerset is at the root of all the trouble,’ declared York. ‘But for him, I should have remained at my post.’

‘Do not forget that the Queen stands beside him.’

‘The Queen and Somerset are our enemies, true,’ agreed York. ‘Aye, and the enemies of England.’

‘They must be curbed,’ said Warwick.

‘How?’ asked Salisbury.

The Duke of York was thoughtful. Then he said slowly: ‘Everything we have worked for in the last year is wasted. It might never have happened. We cannot blame the King. He never wanted to take a hand in State affairs before his illness and now...it is clear that he wants to be guided. He is the figurehead but he wants a strong man to decide for him.’

‘And Somerset has taken the role,’ said Salisbury.

‘My lords,’ cried York, ‘Somerset is our enemy. We must rid ourselves of Somerset. That is all I ask. The King is King...the crowned King. I do not want to displace him. But he is unfit to rule and if we are going to save this country from its enemies and bring it prosperity we must have strong rule.’

The others were in agreement with that.

‘And how shall we enforce it?’ asked Warwick.

‘We must prepare ourselves for conflict.’

‘You mean fight? Civil war?’

‘We shall not be fighting against the King. I want to make that understood. We shall march. Show our strength and demand the removal of Somerset.’

Warwick was watching York steadily. ‘It is the only way,’ he said. ‘This has been brewing since that scene in Temple Gardens. It had to come to a head. It could be war.’

‘It must not come to that,’ insisted York.

‘A war of the red and white roses,’ said Salisbury.

‘I want no war,’ went on York. ‘I want Somerset removed from power, the Queen to realize that she cannot rule us, and a good strong government to take over until the King recovers full sanity or the Prince of Wales is old enough to rule.’

‘It shall be our task to bring about that happy state,’ said Salisbury.

At Westminster the King and Margaret heard that York had gathered together an army, that he had been joined by Warwick and Salisbury, and was preparing to march south.

Somerset had hurried to them to tell them the news. The light of battle was in his eyes. He was thinking that perhaps here was the opportunity to settle for ever with his enemy of York.

The King was distressed. ‘Marching!’ he cried. ‘What does he want to march for?’

The Queen tried to hide her exasperation. When would Henry realize that everyone was not kind and gentle like himself?

She burst out: ‘Because he sees himself as King. He wants to put you from the throne and take it for himself.’

‘No, no, my dear lady, York does not mean that. He is angry because he was not asked to the Council. Perhaps, my dear Edmund, we should have included him.’

‘Nay, nay, my lord,’ soothed Somerset. ‘The Queen knows that we have to be watchful of your enemies.’

‘So he is marching south,’ said Margaret.

‘I daresay he hopes to reach London.’

Margaret understood. York was popular in London. During his Protectorate trade had flourished. Trade was all these merchants thought about. London would be for York and she knew what the Londoners could be like when aroused. They were an army in themselves.

‘What we shall have to do,’ said Somerset, ‘is march north to meet them.’

Henry frowned but he was too tired to raise objections, and readily Margaret agreed with Somerset.

‘My lord,’ said Somerset, ‘you should march with your army.’

Henry was very sorrowful but he made no protests.

‘Oh God,’ thought Margaret, ‘I would I were a man. I would be there at the head of my army. I would bring this traitor York to justice.’

She realized she could not march with the army.

She said quietly: ‘I will take the Prince to Greenwich.’ She turned to Somerset. ‘There I shall eagerly await the news. I must know at once when the traitor York is in your hands.’

‘You shall hear with all speed, my lady,’ Somerset promised.

‘I trust it may be soon.’

Her mouth had hardened, and she clenched her hands as she thought what punishment she would inflict on this man who had dared to challenge the crown.

Beside the Duke of York rode his eldest son Edward. The boy was thirteen, young perhaps to ride out in what could well become a battle, but Edward was a precocious boy and had been from his early childhood. A son to be proud of, thought York—with a great deal of his mother in him. And best of all he had those fair, handsome Plantagenet looks. He was a Little wild, but only as boys should be, even at his age casting a speculative eye on the women and his father had heard that he had already indulged in a few adventures. Over young, perhaps. But in such times a boy must grow up quickly.

He was proud of young Edward. He wanted him to understand the position. He talked to him as they rode along.

He trusted there would be no conflict, he said. What they really wanted to do was show strength and by so doing remind their enemies that they could be a force to be reckoned with. ‘If we can drive that home without bloodshed, so much the better,’ he said.

Edward listened. He believed his father should be King. His mother had said so often enough. Edward admired his father almost to idolatry, and to be riding beside him on an occasion like this filled him with pride. Secretly he hoped there would be a battle. He wanted to distinguish himself, to make his father proud of him.

‘The King is ill advised,’ went on York. ‘The Queen is against us and she works with the Duke of Somerset who has done great harm to this country.’

Edward listened avidly. He hoped he would come face to face with the Duke of Somerset. He would cut off his head with his sword and present that head to his father.

‘Always remember,’ said the Duke, ‘never to indulge in battle unless it is the last resort.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Edward, still dreaming of Somerset’s head.

The Duke was dismayed when he heard that the King was marching north at the head of an army to meet him. This was the doing of Somerset and the Queen. Henry would never willingly have ridden out to battle.

The Duke discussed with Warwick and Salisbury what should be done.

‘There will be bloodshed if the armies clash,’ said York. ‘This will be the opening battle of a civil war. The King does not want that any more than we do.’

‘Somerset wants it. The Queen wants it.’

‘Somerset knows that we are going to ask the King to hand him over to us. He must be impeached. We have to save the country. That is all we ask. Then we shall form a Council and rule under the King.’

‘The Queen won’t give up her favourite and Somerset will certainly do everything to prevent himself falling into our hands.’

‘I want to let the King know that this is no battle against him. It is no fight for the crown. I want him to know that we are loyal subjects, devoted to the welfare of our country and because of this we cannot stand aside and allow it to be ruined.’

By the time they had reached the Hertfordshire town of Ware Richard had made up his mind that he must let the King know his true intentions. When a subject—and such a subject—set himself at the head of what could be called a small army it might well seem that he was intent on making war.

The King must understand.

He wrote to Henry. He explained clearly that he had not wavered in his loyalty to him. His grievance was that he had been excluded from the government by the Duke of Somerset who had charges to answer for. Every man who rode with him was loyal to the King.

He called one of his trusted messengers to him and gave him a letter.

‘Ride with all speed,’ he said. ‘It is imperative that the King reads this before another day has passed.’

York was confident that Henry would be only too delighted to call off any confrontation.

The messenger rode off and very shortly came to the royal camp.

He immediately disclosed the fact that he came on an urgent message from the Duke of York and he had a letter which he wished to deliver into the King’s hands.

He was immediately conducted to the royal tent. The King was sleeping but a man who was clearly a very noble lord came to ask his business.

‘I come with an important letter for the King from my master the Duke of York. It is to be delivered into the King’s hands.’

‘Give me the letter and I will make sure that it is given to the King as soon as he awakes.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘And I will give orders that you are given safe conduct back to Ware.’

The messenger was grateful and retired, his duty as he thought accomplished.

He did not know that the man who had intercepted the letter was Somerset himself

A stroke of luck, thought the Duke. Who knew what the King would do on receipt of a letter like this? But perhaps one did know. He would say, ‘Welcome, my dear cousin of York. Let us forget our grievances...’ and before long York would have a place on the Council.

‘Never, while I have a say in matters!’ murmured Somerset.

He broke the seals and read the letter. So York had no quarrel with the King! He was a loyal subject! He did not want to usurp the throne. He wanted to serve under the King. But there was a note of warning however. A happy state of peace could only be achieved if certain people were delivered up for judgment.

‘Indeed I see your game, master York. You will be a good subject if the King will hand me over to you and your friends. And what for, eh? No, thank you. My head is too useful to me for me to wish to be parted from it.’

He held York’s letter in the flame of a flare.

The King should never know it had been sent.

So the King had ignored his letter. Very well, there was nothing more to be done but try to settle this matter by force of arms.

News came that the King had set out with an army and had halted at Watford.

‘We will try once more,’ said York. ‘If we fight we have started a war. It is worth another effort. But Henry must understand that Somerset must be delivered up to face the judgment of his peers.’

‘Deliver up those whom we accuse, my lord,’ wrote York.

‘When you have done this you will be served as our most rightful King. We cannot give way now until we have them. We shall fight and either get them or die in the attempt.’

Somerset was with the King when he received the letter for he had been unable to intercept it this time. The King grew pale.

‘What do they mean, Edmund’ They want you, of course. What can we say to them?’

‘My lord will not be dictated to by rebel subjects.’

‘I must not be. I think I had better see York. It would be easier to talk.’

‘My lord, it would be useless. Let me draft a reply for you. I will say that you resent York’s overbearing tones and perhaps that will bring him to his senses.’

‘Yes, we must bring him to his senses. Do that, Edmund.’

Edmund’s reply to York was not quite what the King had intended.

‘I shall know what traitors dare be so bold as to array my people in my own land. I shall destroy them...every mother’s son, for they are traitors to me and to England. Rather than give up any lord that is here with me, I shall this day myself live or die.’

When York read this he was astounded. It was so unlike the King who had always shuddered at the thought ol bloodshed and had once made his servants remove the decaying quarters of a traitor which were being displayed in the city of London. He was telling them that they were traitors and what their fate would be if they fell into his hands.

He showed the reply to Warwick.

‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Warwick. ‘We must fight.’

‘Then let us give our thoughts to the battle since the King has decided it must be. First we will show the King’s letter to every captain. He will fight the better for it since he will know what his fate will be if he is captured.’

The letter was duly shown and the whole army knew what fate would await them if they did not achieve victory. There was not a man among them who was not prepared to fight for he was not only fighting for a cause but for his own life.

York surveyed his army philosophically. It was five thousand strong, larger than that of the King, but the King had trained men among his. Victory would not come easily.

News came that the royalist army was making for the town of St. Albans so the Yorkists must get there with all speed.

Whoever was first would be able to choose the position and position was all important.

York had divided his army into three sections—one led by himself, one by Salisbury and the other by Warwick. Warwick was in the centre with Captain Robert Ogle and six hundred men.

About the town was a ditch and this was surmounted by a fence of stakes. The Lancastrians, having arrived first, had immediately taken up the best position behind these palisades and it was clear they had the advantage. Salisbury and York rushed into the attack but despite continued assaults they could not break through the fences.

The hopes of the Lancastrians were high. They were trained men of the King’s army and York’s followers were merely men with more desire to right what they considered wrongs than skill in military matters.

Seeing that his allies were in difficulties Warwick came forward to their defence but in doing so he perceived that there was one section of the palisades which was not defended. His task had been to wait and come to the aid of either York or Salisbury but he decided to ignore that. He saw an opportunity and he seized it.

He gave the order for his men to make for the undefended palisade while his archers protected them with a stream of arrows. Sir Robert Ogle led them over the ditch and the palisades and then on into the town while cries of ‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’ filled the air.

Within a short time Warwick’s standard, planted over the town, struck terror into the Lancastrians. York saw it and exulted.

He shouted to his men. They were going to join the brave Warwick.

Now Warwick could attack the Lancastrians from the rear and by this time York and Salisbury were attacking in front. Through Warwick’s prompt action the Lancastrians had lost their advantage and were sandwiched disastrously between the enemy forces.

In the streets of the city the fighting was fierce. Through Shropshire and Cock Lanes to St. Peter’s and Holwell Street the battle cries rang out.

‘Attack the lords,’ shouted Warwick. ‘Spare the commoners.’

Perhaps the warning was not necessary. It was the lords who could not elude their pursuers so encumbered were they by their armour. The foot soldiers and archers in their leather jerkins were far more mobile.

Warwick paused by the Castle Inn in St. Peter’s Street and stared at the figure there on the ground.

‘By God,’ he cried. ‘I believe it is.’

The battle was well-nigh done. A resounding victory for York. And there dead beneath the sign of the Castle Inn lay Somerset...

The matter is resolved, thought Warwick.

Henry was most distressed. He hated bloodshed. It was tragic that these matters could not be solved in a peaceful manner.

He knew that Somerset hated York. York had shown himself so clearly to be his enemy. York was determined to end Somerset’s rule and Somerset was determined to do the same for York. Henry was very fond of Somerset and so was Margaret. He quite liked York, too. Oh dear, why would they not resolve their differences in peace?

And here they were in St. Albans. It was most uncomfortable and his forces were all at their posts under Somerset and he was with them...leading them, he supposed. He had no heart for battles.

And upon the opposite side was York with Salisbury and Warwick. They should all be friends.

The fighting had started. York had not a chance of success, Somerset had told him.

‘I know, I know,’ said Henry, ‘but no more bloodshed than is necessary.’

‘It shall be so, my lord,’ said Somerset, the light of battle shining in his eyes.

Henry closed his. Buckingham was beside him. There was noise and shouting all about him. He hated to hear men and horses in distress. They were shouting for Warwick.

‘God help us,’ said Buckingham. ‘Warwick has broken into the town.’

An arrow struck Buckingham at that moment and he fell to the ground. The King turned to him in consternation and as he did so an arrow caught him in the neck. He fell from his horse and lay on the ground bleeding profusely.

He saw that Buckingham’s face was covered in blood.

‘My poor friend,’ he murmured; and then realized that his garments were soaked in his own blood.

Someone was standing over him.

‘My lord...’

‘York. Is it York?’

‘You are wounded, my lord.’ There was real consternation in his voice.

‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ said Henry.

York knelt down beside him.

‘We are your loyal servants,’ he said.

‘Then stop this slaughter of my subjects.’

‘It shall be done,’ said York. ‘The battle is over. Victory to the King’s loyal subjects. This affray was necessary. My lord, we crave your forgiveness for any inconvenience caused to you.’

‘War is senseless,’ said the King.

‘ ‘Tis so, my lord; we would have preferred to have settled in peaceful talk.’

‘I bear you no ill will,’ said the King. ‘But stop this fighting. Attend to the wounded. Let us have done with war.’

Henry was aware of others surrounding him and he allowed himself to be lifted into a litter. He was escorted to the Abbey by York, Salisbury and Warwick and there his wound was dressed. It was an ugly one but not likely to be fatal.

When he learned of Somerset’s death he was overcome by grief He was further grieved when he heard how many of his friends had died. Lord Clifford, Lord Northumberland, and Buckingham’s son. The Earl of Dorset, son and heir of Somerset, was so badly wounded that he had to be carried away in a cart.

‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ muttered the King.

It was necessary for him to ride with them to London, York told him, that the people might see that there was no rift between them.

What could Henry do?

The victory was York’s.

In great suspense Margaret waited at Greenwich for news of the Battle of St. Albans.

When she saw messengers approaching she hurried down to meet them demanding: ‘What news?’

She did not have to wait to be told. She could see it in their faces.

Somerset slain. The King wounded!

That frightened her. How? Where? How badly?

An arrow in his neck! Oh, the traitors. What she would do to them if ever they came into her hands!

But the King. How ill? This was enough to send him into a stupor again.

They were marching to London. The King with York, Salisbury and Warwick, that trio of traitors. He came as their prisoner, did he? No. They treated him as their King. They were most insistent. They had no quarrel with the King. Somerset was dead. Their mission was achieved.

How sad it was to lose friends. She thought of good Suffolk and poor Alice’s suffering. And now Edmund was slain too. And his son taken away, that beautiful young man nothing but a wreck now to be carried away in a cart. She could not have borne it but for the burning anger within her. It was only the thought that one day she would take such fearful revenge that they would wish they had never been born.

Hatred superseded grief. She would fight them. She would turn their victories into bitter humiliating defeat.

She went to the royal nursery. Little Edward was sleeping peacefully, but she picked him up and held him tightly to her.

One day, my love, you will be a King. Pray God you are a stronger one than your father.

The child began to whimper, angry at being disturbed in his sleep. But she would not let him go. She sat on a stool and rocked him to and fro.

He was her hope. She was going to fight for him, and one day...one day she would have York’s head on a pike.

She put the baby into his cradle. Then she went to her apartments. She would eat nothing. She sat staring straight ahead; and thus she remained for several hours during which none of her women dared approach her.

There was a Parliament of course, attended by the King with York in command.

Margaret considered she was publicly insulted, for it was stated that the government as managed by the Queen, the Duke of Somerset and their party had been an oppression and injustice to the country.

At Greenwich Margaret gave vent to her fury, but to what avail? The King was petitioned to appoint the Duke of York as Protector of the Realm and Henry agreed.

He could do nothing else, Margaret knew. York had him in his power. Oh, but one day...one day...

At least they had not made a prisoner of him. They continued to pay lip-service to him. They declared that he was the true t I King and that they had no wish but to serve him and the ^ I country.

Fools, to believe them, thought Margaret. There is one thing York wants and that is the crown.

Then she heard that she, with the Prince, was to go to Hertford where the King would join her. There were signs that his distressing malady was returning.

So he came to her to be nursed back to health. The arrow wound was not serious and was healing now. But he was ill, there was no doubt of that. He did not sink into a complete torpor as he had before. He would talk a little and read a good deal. But there was no doubt that his mind was failing.

‘There is nowhere he would rather be than in the Queen’s loving hands,’ said York.

So they were together; and she was touched by the sight of him. He was delighted to be with her and his son.

‘This is peace,’ he said.