The Red Rose of Anjou

MARGARET’S TRIUMPH

Edward was at Gloucester when he heard the news of his father’s defeat and death. He was completely stunned. He could not believe this was possible. He stared blankly at the messenger and then a terrible grief overcame him.

He wanted to be alone, to think of his father. He had always admired him so much, always looked up to him, seen him as a King, invincible. And now…defeated…dead, and his head on the walls of York surmounted by a paper crown. The ultimate mockery.

A great rage overtook him then. Those who had jeered at his father should pay dearly for their mirth.

‘What are we doing waiting here?’ he cried. ‘We must march…march against them. We must inflict such slaughter upon them that they scream for mercy.’

He thought of Warwick, his hero. Where was he now? Still in London. Warwick would say: Be calm. Do not scream Revenge! just for the sake of revenge. Let it be revenge tempered with reason. They shall pay, yes, but in a manner best suited to our cause.

He thought of his mother, proud Cis, who was certain that before long she would be Queen of England and the boys too…the Princes. And what of Rutland?...dead with his father. Father and brother slain on one field. He could almost hear the quiet tones of Warwick: ‘Alas, my lord, that is war.’

Then the understanding came to him in a blinding realization of what this would mean to him. When he contemplated it he could for a few moments, in spite of his grief, think of nothing else.

He, Edward, no longer merely Earl of March but Duke of York, could be King of England.

That was something to fight for...to live for. My God, he thought, they will not long be laughing at my father’s head. King Edward! It would come. Something within himself assured him of that.

Even as he mourned several of his friends came to him to tell him that they could no longer stay in Gloucester. They were Humphrey Stafford, Walter Devereux and Devereux’ son-in-law Herbert of Raglan.

They knew he was staggering under the terrible blow the revelation of his father’s death had been; they were aware that the defeat at Wakefield was the most significant setback the Yorkists had suffered as yet—but the result of it was to place a heavy burden on Edward’s young shoulders and into their manner there had crept a certain respect which had not been there before.

Even through his grief Edward was aware of it and exulted in it.

‘Friends have come in with news from the Marches,’ said Devereux. ‘Jasper Tudor is in England and has brought with him French Bretons and Irish, enemies all. He is preparing to march against us. And Margaret when she hears of what has happened at Wakefield will be marching south.’

‘Let them come,’ cried Edward. ‘The .sooner the better. Praise God we have an army of stalwart men. I yearn for battle. I swear by God it will not be long before the blood of my father and my brother are avenged.’

‘Amen,’ murmured the others.

‘Then why do we wait? Let us prepare now to march.’

Edward’s mood communicated itself to all those about him. Men looked at him and saw in him the leader which his father had never somehow managed to be. Edward was so tall, so handsome, so Plantagenet, that men said it was as though Edward Longshanks walked again. He looked invincible. The determination to avenge his father was clear to all who beheld him.

He halted his army at Wigmore where he had his own castle. Here he saw that the men were adequately lodged and fed. They

would go into battle fighting fit; and the memory of Wakefield was with them every inch of the way.

Between the valleys of Brecon and Hay came Jasper Tudor, with his father, Owen Tudor, riding beside him. This was a great day for the House of Lancaster. The Duke of York was dead. What better news could there be? The throne had been saved for Owen Tudor’s half-brother Henry. Owen was confident that now the Yorkists would accept defeat.

‘There is still Edward of York,’ Jasper reminded him.

‘A braggart boy.’

Jasper was not so sanguinary. He had seen Edward. There was a certain regality about him. ‘He has the look of a King.’ he said.

‘Oh, you are bemused by the height of him, by those golden good looks. I’ve heard they’ll be the death of him. He is too fond of good living.’

‘Kings often are,’ said Jasper.

‘Jasper, my son, what has possessed you this day? I tell you we are riding high. Imagine that head on the walls of York. A paper crown, ha ha.’

‘I am imagining it,’ said Jasper. ‘I doubt not Edward is too.’

‘It will unnerve the boy,’ said Owen.

Jasper did not answer. He marvelled at his father. He was a man of great charm and good looks, a man who walked through life without seeing the dangers. Perhaps that was what had brought him through a dangerous marriage with a Queen, which had endured for several years, escape from the Tower, and living a dangerous life in the Welsh mountains to serve his half-brother. Sometimes it seemed to Jasper that Owen Tudor did not see the realities of life. Fortune had favoured him, had brought him through danger time and time again so that he believed she always would.

The two armies were close now. Edward had the advantage because he knew the ground so well and he was impelled by such an urgent desire for revenge that he knew he could not fail.

He was going to avenge his father or die in the attempt; and he was as certain in his own heart that he was going to live to be King of England.

He had decided that the battle should take place at Mortimer’s Cross and there he camped his army round about the village of Kingsland.

It was Candlemas Day and about ten o’clock in the morning when there was a sudden shout from one of the soldiers. He was standing as though struck dumb, staring up at the sky. Everyone looked up and there was a shocked and terrible silence. Above them was not one sun but three. None of them had ever seen such a rare phenomenon as a parhelion before, and they did not know that it was caused by the formation of ice or snow crystals in the atmosphere and being hexagonal in shape produced a double refraction which took the form of a halo.

More and more men came out to gaze up at the sky and when Edward came out and looked he was filled with dismay but even more so to see the effect it was having on his men. He looked up defiantly to the sky.

‘Yes,’ he cried, ‘it is an omen. It indicates that the Trinity is with us, God the Father, God the Son and the Holy Ghost will be beside us this day.’

It was amazing how words spoken by a strong man in such tones of authority could have such an effect on an army. They now looked up at the sky and they marvelled. Edward had convinced them that there would be victory this day.

Jasper’s troops had arrived and the battle began. Edward was in the thick of it, remembering all that he had learned from his father and particularly from Warwick. ‘The Trinity is with us,’ he cried. ‘Revenge for Wakefield.’

He had taken on a new stature. He was the King already. It was as though Edward Longshanks had come back to earth. The result seemed inevitable. They were gaining ascendancy over the enemy.

‘Spare the commoners, kill the leaders,’ he cried. Warwick had taught him that. It was the leaders they must rout out.

Jasper was dismayed. He could see defeat staring them in the face. This Edward was a new leader to conjure with. He had ceased to be a boy when his father died.

The Earl of Wiltshire was beside Jasper. ‘It is time to get away...’ cried the Earl. ‘It is either flight or death. Come...if you want to live to fight another day. There’ll be no mercy for us if we are captured.’

It was true. All hope was gone. The battle of Mortimer Cross had been fought and won by Edward and the Yorkists.

‘Where is my father?’ said Jasper.

‘He will defend himself. He always had the luck.’

‘I would like to know that he is safe.’

‘You cannot turn back. Come, Jasper, is it to be retreat and fight another day for us or certain death?’

Jasper saw the wisdom of flight. His father would take care of himself.

At that moment when Jasper with Wiltshire was riding with all speed into the Welsh mountains, Owen Tudor was surrounded by soldiers. His horse had been wounded and was lying beside him, and Owen knew that this time his luck had failed him.

He was brought to Edward, who studied him sardonically.

‘Well, Owen Tudor, you have not been so fortunate this time!’

Owen smiled that smile which was still attractive enough to charm. ‘My lord, the fortunes of war are unpredictable.’

‘Perhaps your fate is far from unpredictable.’

Owen felt a tremor of dismay. Was Edward telling him that he would have his head?

‘You took up arms against my father,’ said Edward.

‘My lord, I took up arms for my brother, the King.’

‘Ah, Tudor, you are very proud of the connection.’

‘My lord, are you not proud of your connections with Kings? Is that not what this war is all about?’

‘It is to set the rightful King on the throne and to put an end to bad government.’

‘And to uphold the rights of the true King.’

Owen was too sure of himself.

‘Take him away,’ said Edward.

They marched to Hereford where the people gave a welcome to the victorious army. People came out of their houses to see Edward of whom they had heard so much. How the women loved him! He exulted in their admiration. They wanted a King Like him—a virile adventurer, a handsome charmer; they might admire Henry for a saint but he was not the man to enchant them.

They would give up Henry tomorrow—these people of Hereford—for the sake of this tall, handsome Plantagenet King.

The prisoners marched with them. He noticed the looks which Owen Tudor attracted. He had an indefinable charm which was there even though he had left his youth behind him. He must have been an extremely handsome man for Queen Katherine to forget her royalty for him.

But it must be the end of him. There should be no mercy shown to any of those who had stood against the White Rose of York.

He himself would witness the execution and when it was done

there should be fresh heads to set on the walls of York and those already there should be taken down and most reverently buried.

Owen did not believe that he was going to die. He knew that the people were gathering in the market square. He knew that they had been promised a spectacle. But he believed something would happen at the last moment to save him. It always had. He had lived a charmed life ever since Queen Katherine had noticed him in her household and had fallen in love with him. The memory of those days would live with him forever. Sometimes he believed that Katherine watched over him from Heaven...him and their children. Those long days of secret happiness now seemed as real as they ever had.

He had never ceased to love her. He had worshipped her, revered her and had taught their children to do the same. Edmund was dead now, but how proud she would have been of little Henry, her grandson! Owen had taught the child to love her too.

Oh Katherine, he thought, I cannot die yet. There is much to be done. Something will happen at the last moment. I shall go out there to my execution but there will be some miracle. I know it.

The crowds were filling the square. So it had got as far as that. Something will happen, he thought. My time has not yet come.

He was led out into the square with others. There was a hush in the crowd when they saw him. They knew him well. He was the romantic Owen Tudor who had married Queen Katherine, who had loved her and sired her children and in the end she had been snatched from him and died of a broken heart, they said, for love of him.

The women were sad. He was a romantic figure even now that he had lost his youth.

One came forward and cried in a shrill voice: ‘Save Owen Tudor. He is too beautiful to die.’

She was dragged away—poor mad creature, they said.

Even now he could not believe it. Even though he saw the block and the axe and the executioner standing there.

Something will happen. There will be a sign from Heaven. Edward is just allowing this to happen to show me how near I came to losing my head.

There would be a messenger. Stop the execution of Owen Tudor. It would be romantic, dramatic as his life had been since he loved Katherine the Queen.

They were urging him forward. He was now stepping up to the block.

Hurry, hurry or they would be too late.

But no one was coming. There was no one to save Owen Tudor now. He must accept his fate. At last it had come then. Someone had put up a hand and torn off the collar of his red velvet doublet. Now there was no help for it. He must lay his head on the block.

He smiled whimsically at the crowd on whom a great silence had fallen.

‘Ah, my friends,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘This head which you will now see placed on this block at one time was wont to lie in the lap of Queen Katherine.’

The silence was deep. He was urged forward. Then quietly, realizing that this was indeed the end, he laid his head on the block.

‘So he is dead,’ said Edward. ‘So perish all traitors. Though he was a man who supported what he believed to be right. No matter. He fought on the wrong side and at Mortimer’s Cross he met his deserts. Let his head be placed on the Market Cross that all may see it.’

So that head which he had in his last breath boasted had rested in Queen Katherine’s lap was placed on the Market Cross. In the morning people were surprised for they found the mad woman they had seen on the previous day seated at the foot of the cross. She had combed Owen’s hair and washed the blood from his face and about the Cross she had set up a hundred lighted candles while she chanted prayers for his soul.

‘There was a man who attracted women to him,’ said Edward musingly. He did himself, but perhaps differently. He wondered fleetingly who would light candles to his memory. But he had his whole life before him and it would be glorious.

He ordered that the woman should not be turned away and the candles should be left burning.

Let Owen go out as he had lived...romantically. He could rejoice in the end of the Tudor but there was still Jasper and he was a man to reckon with.

He was sorry Jasper had escaped. Never mind, one day he would have Jasper’s head where it belonged and that would be the end of these upstart Tudors.

He remembered fleetingly that there was another—a child somewhere. Yes, he had heard of a young Henry Tudor. A baby...nothing more.

He must get Jasper and when he had he could forget that there was a little Henry Tudor somewhere in Wales.

Margaret was marching down from the North. She had a mighty army with her. It was true they were undisciplined and that they followed her not so much because they believed in her cause but because she had promised them they would be allowed to loot the towns through which they passed; to march with Margaret meant for Scotsmen that with luck they could carry off a good deal of English valuables over the Border when the fighting was over.

It was the only way that Margaret could amass an army and she had never been very scrupulous about the means.

With her was her little son, Edward—eight years old now and on whom all her hope rested. She was going to bring him up to be a man; he must not be weak and vacillating like his father, but able to win his rights and hold them.

There might be some who criticized her for taking a child with her at such times. But he was going to learn how to fight from childhood; he was going to be a great and ruthless King, for Margaret was sure that ruthlessness was necessary to rule well.

She kept him with her. She taught him herself He was the whole meaning of life to her; she had long ago decided that Henry could never be made into the man she wanted. Therefore it would have to be Edward. Henry was now in the hands of her enemies. That was not such a tragedy as it would have been but for Edward. Edward was the important one; he was her future King; and he was also her very own child. Dearly she loved him; everything she did was for his sake.

So began her march south.

‘Sooner or later,’ she told the little Prince, ‘we shall come face to face with the armies of the Duke of York or the Earl of Warwick and when we do we shall give battle and we shall win...win...win...’

‘Win,’ cried the young Prince firmly as she had taught him.

She caught him to her and held him fast. She was a demonstrative mother. ‘And one day there will be a crown on this little head, I promise you. Even though the wicked Duke of York will try to snatch it from you.’

Little Edward cried: ‘He never shall!’ just as she had taught him, and he touched the silk red rose which was sewn into his tunic.

He rode beside her at the head of the army and he looked all the time for the spies of the wicked Duke of York and those of the equally wicked Earl of Warwick.

The people in the towns were hostile as they came south. How-dared the foreign woman bring with her this band of ruffians who looked on the spoils they could collect from the towns and the villages as fair game. The trouble was that when the looting started beggars and vagabonds came in from all over the country to join in.

Margaret had never lost the talent for turning the people against her.

Meanwhile as far south as London there was anxiety and when Warwick set out with an army many joined him. Warwick took the King with him; he was anxious to show that he was still Henry’s loyal servant. It had always been his cry that it was not the crown he wanted to take; he merely wanted to make sure that the country was well governed. He accepted Henry as the rightful King but on his death the Duke of York should be the King. That seemed to him reasonable and there were a great many who were ready to agree with him.

The weather was bitter. It was not the time of year for fighting. Alas, that was something Warwick could not choose; but if the weather was bad for him it would be equally so for his enemies and this was time for a decisive battle.

It was the twelfth day of February when he rode out of London. He had a worthy army behind him and the good will of the people of the capital. Rumours had reached London as they had other cities of the conduct of hordes of looters and spoilers who made up Margaret’s army and the merchants were terrified that they might invade the city. Their goodwill went with Warwick’s disciplined men and Warwick knew it.

He was full of confidence as he rode north. With him were the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Arundel, Lords Montague and Bonvile, Sir Thomas Kyriell and Captain Lovelace, a gentleman from Kent who had been captured at Wakefield and had managed to escape. This last was an excellent soldier and Warwick put him in charge of some of his best troops.

He had new weapons with which he hoped to strike terror into his enemies. There were firearms which could shoot lead bullets, and something called wildfire which was calculated to strike terror into all who beheld it. It was cloth dipped into an inflammable mixture which was lighted and attached to arrows; when the arrows with the wildfire attached to them were shot into the enemy’s ranks they should cause the worst kind of panic for they would ignite anything they touched.

At St. Albans Warwick called a halt. He had chosen this for the site of the battle. It was at St. Albans that he had on a previous occasion won great success. Looking back he realized that before that famous battle he had been of little account. It was at St. Albans he had proved his worth. St. Albans had brought him good fortune once. It would do so again.

It was always an advantage to choose the battleground, and he was sure he knew which way Margaret was coming and he spread his forces out so that both roads from Luton might be blocked.

She was some way off’ and he had several days’ grace; he would spend them in constructing defences. He was superbly equipped. His bowmen had shields of a kind which had never been used before; they opened while the archers shot their arrows and then closed again; these shields were studded with nails so that if the enemy rushed forward to attack they could be thrown down to trip up men and horses and break their legs. Traps were set across the ground.

Warwick congratulated himself and his friends on their magnificent preparations and assured them that the battle would be over before it had begun.

‘Look to the King,’ he said. ‘He will not wish to be in the thick of the battle but it would be well to guard him. I do not think he will attempt to escape but you, Bonvile, will keep close to him and someone else must join you.’

Sir Thomas Kyriell volunteered to do so and Warwick said that there could not be a better choice.

‘Lovelace, I am putting you in charge of the right flank.’

Lovelace nodded. He hoped he did not show how uneasy he was. He was in a dilemma. His position was not a very happy one. He had not escaped from Wakefield as he had said he had. It was rather different. He had been released on a condition. He had no wish to be a spy. It was not his role at all. He was a soldier. But when faced with torture and horrible death he had had to make a choice.

‘You may return to Warwick’s army,’ he was told. ‘You will

lead his men; but in truth you will be working for us. You will send messages to us as to where his strength and weakness he; you will let us know his plans...’

He wished he had not agreed. He wished he had accepted death and honour. But it was hard on a man.

So here he was in Warwick’s army, enjoying Warwick’s trust. Well hardly enjoying it...wishing with all his might that he had never been captured at Wakefield.

But perhaps he was unduly worried. Warwick was going to win this battle; and if he did, why should he worry about what Margaret and her captains could do to him? After the resounding victory that Warwick would surely achieve there would be nothing to worry about.

Warwick would succeed. He must succeed. He must so completely rout the enemy that Lovelace would never have to worry because he had failed to play a double game.

Henry’s tent had been pitched under a tree and Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas Kyriell were with him.

‘Never fear,’ Lord Bonvile promised him, ‘we shall not leave you. We shall be beside you while the battle rages.’

‘Battles,’ murmured Henry, ‘I would there need never be more battles. Of what use is this bloodshed? Have I not promised that York shall have the crown on my death? Oh shame on them, shame on them, so to treat the Lord’s anointed.’

‘It is the Queen, my lord, who will not agree to the people’s wishes. She will take the crown for her son.’

The King shook his head and mumbled. Bonvile and Kyriell exchanged glances. It was strange that the King should be ready to pass over his son. Could it really be that Edward was not his child and he knew it? Or was it simply that Henry was ready to make any sacrifice for the sake of peace?

One thing was clear. It was only necessary to look at the King to understand why this war had to be. He was unfit to rule; and when there was a claimant who looked like Edward Longshanks and who acted like him—then clearly that claimant was meant to be King.

Almost as soon as the battle began Warwick realized his mistake. His defences on which he had spent so much time and on which victory depended were useless. Margaret was not coming in by either of the roads he had imagined. She was going to strike his army on the undefended north-west front. This meant that his men would be facing the bitter wind while the enemy would have it at their backs.

Another point which he had overlooked was the size of Margaret’s army; it was not quite double his own but nearly so; not a decisive factor certainly, but in view of the layout of the land and the position which had been forced upon him it could prove disastrous.

It began to snow and the wind blew the snow into his men’s faces; the wildfire, to which they were not accustomed was worse than a failure; it reacted against them. When they shot it forward the wind cruelly blew it back; and they were the ones who suffered from the deadly weapon.

The nets and traps which he had set up were useless; and the Lancastrians were smashing into his defences. It was becoming clear that all his skill and all his ingenuity could not save him. The men were quick to see that they were losing the day.

Lovelace saw it. He had his own life to save and there was only one way he could do so.

He shouted an order to the troop of men under his command and they galloped after him right into the Lancastrian forces shouting: ‘A Henry. Margaret the Queen forever.’

Margaret was exultant. The battle had been all but won, but Lovelace had added the final touch.

Warwick was in retreat. The first battle of St. Albans had been a disaster for her; the second was triumph.

In his tent, guarded by Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas Kyriell, Henry sat praying silently. All about him were the sounds of war. He was deeply distressed. He prayed for death—his own death for it seemed to him that there was nothing in life but continual conflict. If he were dead Edward of York would be King and perhaps there would be peace. But no, Margaret would never stand aside and let them take the crown from their son. That was what this was all about.

Sir Thomas was whispering to Lord Bonvile: ‘We should go now. Our friends are leaving the field.’

Lord Bonvile hesitated. ‘Who will guard the King?’

‘None will harm him. Margaret would not want that.’

‘Who will know that he is the King?’

Henry heard them whispering. ‘You are planning to leave me,’ he said.

‘My lord, our army is all but defeated. If we stay here we shall assuredly be killed.’

‘Nay. I will protect you. You have protected me and I will protect you.’

The two men exchanged glances. It was their duty to stay with the King. Warwick had commanded them so that he would be protected from any of the soldiers from either side who might seek to murder and rob him. When the looting began it was not easy to restrain them. If the King were left alone in his tent and discovered there he would very likely be murdered.

‘Then, my lord,’ said Bonvile, ‘we will stay.’

The battle was won. The enemy was in flight. Margaret was triumphant. She embraced her son and cried out: ‘We have defeated them. We will drive them from this land. This is the end of York and Warwick. Perhaps they will see this now. Let us thank God for this victory. But we shall not rest on it, my son. No, no, now we should go to London. We shall proclaim you heir to the crown. I shall be Regent until you are old enough.’

‘My lady,’ said the Prince, ‘what of my father?’

‘They have your father with them. Pray God he is safe. Everything is changed now. This is victory, my son.’

Lord Clifford came into the tent. He was clearly excited.

‘My lady, we have found the King. His servant Howe is without. He has been sent here by Lord Bonvile.’

‘Bring Howe to me without delay.’

The King’s servant was on his knees before the Queen.

‘My lady, I can take you to his tent. He is guarded by Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas Kyriell.’

‘Traitors,’ she cried. ‘They have always been my enemies.’

‘They have guarded the King and saved him from the soldiers who might have harmed him, my lady. The King has promised them mercy for their services.’

‘Take me to him...at once,’ commanded the Queen.

Henry staggered to his feet.

‘Margaret,’ he cried.

She ran to him and embraced him. ‘Thank God you are alive. Oh, Henry...it has been so many months...But it is over now.’

‘Margaret, to see you like this...’

‘Victorious,’ she cried. ‘Our enemies in flight!’

‘Now there must be peace.’

‘Peace when we have what we want. See here is your son. Edward, your father.’

Henry embraced his son and there were tears in his eyes as he contemplated the boy.

Margaret was surveying Sir Thomas Kyriell and Lord Bonvile who had stood back while the reunion was going on. Her expression hardened. These men were the enemy. They had fought with Yorkists against their King.

‘My lord Clifford,’ she said, ‘call guards and put these men under arrest.’

Lord Bonvile said: ‘The King has promised us free pardon.’

She ignored him.

‘My lord,’ began Bonvile, appealing to Henry.

Henry said: ‘Yes, these men were my good friends. They stayed with me when they might have escaped. I have promised them their freedom.’

The Queen nodded. ‘Even so, we must put them under restraint.’

The guards came in and took Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas away.

‘Now,’ said Margaret smiling, ‘you should reward those who have served you well. First your son. You must bestow a knighthood on him; and there are others who have served our cause with extreme gallantry. Will you, my lord, at this very moment honour those whom I shall have brought to you?’

‘Willingly,’ said the King.

Henry was resting in his tent. He was very feeble still and he needed rest if he was to endure the journey to London which it seemed necessary to endure. Margaret knew that what she must do was march to London, take the capital and set up the King in his rightful place so that he could rule and all should know-that he had a strong heir to follow him. The proclamation which had decreed that Henry should rule as long as he lived and then be followed by the Duke of York must be overruled and declared null and void.

She was glad of the King’s weakness for that gave her the chance to do what she had intended to do, and from the moment she had set foot in his tent she had known that if the King had been aware of that he would have tried to prevent her.

She had set up a court room and in it was the block and the executioner with his axe; beside her on a dais sat her son.

Sir Thomas Kyriell and Lord Bonvile were brought in. They had fought with the enemy; they had brought their men to serve against the King. They were traitors to the anointed. And what was the fate of traitors? Death was the answer.

‘The King promised us pardon if we stayed to guard him,’ said Lord Bonvile.

‘There is no pardon for traitors,’ said the Queen coldly. ‘You shall reap your rewards, my lord. Justice shall be done.’

She turned to her son. ‘What punishment shall be meted out to these two traitors, my son?’

Well primed and eager to show he had learned his lessons well, the Prince cried out: ‘They should lose their heads.’

The Queen smiled. ‘Judgment has been given,’ she said. ‘Let the sentence be carried out without delay.’

The Prince looked on wide-eyed as the two dignified men were led to the executioner’s block. He saw the blood gush forth as their heads rolled away from their bodies.

Margaret saw that he neither shuddered nor turned away. She was pleased with him. She was sure he would not grow up to be like his father.