The Red Rose of Anjou

THE FATEFUL DECISION

‘This,’ said Margaret, ‘should be the beginning of the end. We have trounced the great Warwick. What is the victory at Mortimer Cross now? It is for us to march to London to show the people the King and to tell them the war is over. The enemy is defeated.’

It was the answer. But the Earls of Pembroke and Wiltshire were thoughtful. Margaret’s army consisted of the roughest men; a great many of them were mercenaries; they were fighting this war not for a cause but because of the booty. They were dreaded and hated throughout the country.

The troops of York and Warwick were of a different caliber. They were fighting because they believed they needed a strong King and Henry was not suited to the role. They had merely wanted him to reign with strong men to guide him and after his death for York to take the throne. York had convinced many of them that he had the greater claim in any case.

The people of London would never open their gates to Margaret’s army. One did not have to think very deeply to imagine the pillage that would take place if the richest city in the kingdom was thrown open to the marauders. London had its own troops. It would never allow Margaret’s rabble to enter.

There was discussion and argument. Margaret began to see the point. There would be opposition and London had decided the fate of several kings.

Perhaps she was not strong enough. Perhaps now that she had shown she could win battles she would lure different kinds of men to her banner. Perhaps she would not have to rely on these mercenaries collected for her by her very good friends.

When Jasper added his voice to the others she was inclined to sway towards their view. In the meantime she remained at St. Albans.

Warwick rode at the head of his defeated army. The debacle at St. Albans had been a humiliating experience. Looking back he could see where it had gone wrong. There had been too much preparation and it had all been of no avail—frustrated by the simplest of strategy. The battle had not taken place facing the direction he had intended it should. It all depended on that— and the defection of Lovelace. Who would have believed it of the man? Whom could one trust? Men changed sides as easily as they changed their boots.

And now? Well, he had been in worse trouble. All was not lost. He must join up with Edward. The young man would be in good spirits flushed with the success of Mortimer’s Cross. Together they would form a considerable army; and his men would merge with the victorious and forget their defeat.

He sent scouts ahead to make contact with Edward and as he marched he made his plans.

He had lost his figurehead. He no longer had the King. He could not say that he was the King’s servant when the King now marched with the enemy. Of what use was the King when he was not a figurehead? Poor Henry, he was too supine to be anything else.

‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ said Warwick, imitating the King’s own oath, ‘since I do not hold him, I must needs do without him.’

He was in good spirits when in the town of Burford he made contact with Edward and his army.

They embraced. Then Edward looked about him.

‘Where is the King?’ he asked.

‘Right before me,’ answered Warwick.

Edward looked bewildered.

‘You are now the King,’ said Warwick.

Edward stared at him; and then his face was illumined by z, smile. He began to laugh.

‘There is little time to be lost. We will rest here and I will tell you what happens next.’

So they rested, for that night only. There must be no delay.

‘It is imperative that we reach London before Margaret,’ said Warwick. ‘The people of London will not let her in. They do not trust her armies. They will welcome us to protect the city and that is what we will promise to do and then my friend...and then...we will present them with their new king Edward—the fourth of that name. I know it will succeed.’

‘I will make it succeed,’ said Edward.

And Warwick glowed with satisfaction. This would be the cleverest move of his life. Out of defeat he would snatch victory.

London was in turmoil. News of the Yorkist defeat had reached it and the citizens feared that now Margaret’s army would descend upon them. Councils were hastily called to discuss the best move.

Proud Cis was terrified for her two sons George and Richard. She was full of foreboding. The death of her husband and son had filled her with melancholy. She had been so certain that she was almost Queen of England. She worried constantly about Edward’s safety. If she lost him all her hopes would be centred in George and Richard.

She said a fond farewell to them and sent them off to the Low Countries and settled down in Southwark to await the worst. Meanwhile the magistrates had decided that they would be unable to keep out the Queen’s army and must try to make terms, perhaps placate them; in any case keep them from the looting they had previously indulged in. Houses and shops were hastily boarded up and people began to arm themselves.

There were messages from Margaret; she needed food and money for her army and demanded that London supply them. The mayor and the aldermen set about collecting this. When news came that many of the rough Northerners had tired of waiting at St. Albans and had deserted, wandering back to the North and looking for loot as they went, the Londoners were delighted.

They decided to do a little looting themselves and took the food and money which the Mayor and the aldermen had collected for the Queen.

It was a great day when scouts from Warwick rode into the city. He, with the Duke of York, was on his way and they asked nothing of the Londoners but to be allowed to protect the city from the rough mercenaries many of whom comprised the Lancastrian army. If the city would open its gates, the Earl of

Warwick, with the Duke of York, would march in and drive out all those who came to destroy it.

There was rejoicing through the city and when the united armies of Warwick and York appeared the gates were thrown open and the people came out to greet them. An orderly army rode in. Though half the size of Margaret’s it had won the most important battle of all without fighting.

When, still at St. Albans, Margaret heard the news of York’s and Warwick’s arrival in London, she realized she had lost the great opportunity of a lifetime. She should have dismissed her rabble army and marched into the capital with the King and her faithful knights. There were enough of them and they were gallant men who believed in the cause. But Warwick had forestalled her and London looked upon him and the handsome Edward as their saviours.

The time was ripe. Warwick saw that and he believed that in all affairs time was the important factor. Margaret had been victorious at St. Albans but she had succeeded with a band of ruffians, foreigners most of them, and she had made the fatal mistake of not coming with the King to London. Now the loss of the battle of St. Albans did not matter. Margaret had played into their hands and Warwick was not the man to lose such an opportunity.

He summoned the Yorkist peers to Barnard Castle, one of the homes of the House of York, and there he set out before them what they must do. It was fortunate that among those present was George Neville, Warwick’s younger brother and loyal adherent. Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England.

‘There is no time to lose,’ said Warwick. ‘London is ready to receive Edward and what London does today the rest of the country will do tomorrow. I’ll swear that if Edward were proclaimed King at Paul’s Cross the people would cheer themselves hoarse and be ready to uphold him,’

‘I believe it would be so,’ said George Neville.

Edward’s eyes were shining. This was success now. He had believed he would eventually attain the crown but he had not conceived that it could be so suddenly, particularly after Warwick’s defeat at St. Albans.

But Warwick was a wizard. He was one of those sorcerers who could turn defeat into victory.

The first step, said Warwick, would be for George to preach a sermon in some popular place...say St. George’s Fields. There he would tell the people that Edward was their true King by descent. He was closer to Edward the Third than Henry was. He would remind the people that the son of John of Gaunt had usurped the throne from the son of the Black Prince but there was a line closer than that of John of Gaunt.

Then he could tell them that Henry, saint though he was, was unfit to rule. Let them go into new fields where the white rose flourished. George knew how to play on their feelings, how to rouse them to a frenzied desire to see the handsome young scion of the house of York in the position which was his by right.

T would not have the people believe that it is merely the Nevilles who would take the crown from Henry and pass it to Edward,’ said Warwick. ‘The people of London must be with us. You can win them, George, with your tongue which can be as mighty as our swords, I trow, and more persuasive.’

George Neville was determined to prove his worth. He preached the sermon of his lifetime and from the first he had the people with him.

‘My lords and ladies. You have seen what happens when we have a weak King ruling over us. The country is at the mercy of war. Instead of revelling in the simple joys of our firesides we are the victims of despair. Our homes are destroyed, our women ravaged. Englishmen are fighting Englishmen. This is no way to live, my friends. But what can we do to put an end to it? What could we do to find ourselves walking in a new vineyard? We could do it. In this very month of March we could make a gay garden with this fair white rose and herb the Earl of March. Think of him. Is he not every inch a king? Is he not the living image of his great ancestor, that one whom, in the excess of affection, was known as Edward Longshanks. He even bears the same name—the same long shanks, the same fair looks, the same devotion to his country and his subjects. King Henry is a good man, none deny it. But you know, my friends, that he is not strong in the head. You know that in the past he has been hid away for his weakness. Friends, do you want a King of feeble mind to rule over you? Do you want a King who is a captive to his foreign wife? Do you want Queen Margaret to rule over you?’

‘Nay,’ cried the crowd with fervour. ‘Never.’

‘I hear you. I hear you well and my friends I know your good sense. Then if you will not have Queen Margaret will you take King Edward?’

The shouts filled the air. There was not a nay among them.

‘Edward,’ they chanted. ‘Edward for King.’

Warwick was gleeful. It was more successful than he had thought possible. George had preached the sermon of his life and they would be talking of it in the city for weeks to come...years to come mayhap. Because there was going to be change. Edward was to be crowned King.

Warwick went with all speed to Barnard Castle where Edward was waiting to hear the result of the meeting in the Fields.

‘We will strike now,’ cried Warwick. ‘We must get this matter settled immediately before anything can happen to stop it, I shall issue a proclamation for Wednesday. I shall summon the people to Paul’s Cross and there you shall be proclaimed the King.’

To his great joy everything went as he had planned it. Edward was proclaimed at Paul’s Cross and went immediately to Westminster Hall. He seated himself on the marble chair. He had become Edward the Fourth.

How the people loved him—particularly the women. They leaned from their windows to throw spring flowers down at him as he passed by. He had a smile for all and especially warm ones for the women. Even at such a time he could show his appreciation of them. They had heard tales of his amorous adventures which made them giggle indulgently. Very different from Pious Henry, they commented.

‘Ah, but Edward is a man.’

That was it. They loved him. It was great Plantagenet again. A return to the blond giants who had figured in the stories their mothers had heard from their mothers.

There would be no more wars; peace for ever; and a strong King to keep law and order while he supplied them with tales of his romantic adventures.

London loved Edward. London made him the King; and the rest of the country must needs accept him.

Warwick looked on with satisfaction. He was now the power behind the throne, the King-Maker.

He called a council at Barnard Castle.

‘We must not allow this success to blind us to reality,’ he said. ‘There is a large Lancastrian army in the North to be dealt with. The King is with it and that means we cannot sit back and enjoy

this situation in which by skill and diplomacy we have placed ourselves.’

Warwick paused and looked at Edward. He hoped the young King realized that when he said we have placed ourselves he really meant I have placed us.

With that easy grace which was almost as much a part of his charm as his outstanding good looks, Edward said: ‘Richard, my dear friend, may I lose my crown if I ever forget one part of your efforts in placing it on my head.’

Warwick was satisfied.

‘You are worthy to wear it,’ he said. ‘Worthier than even your father would have been. I doubt not that if you and I stand together we shall remain firm until every one of our enemies is defeated.’

‘So be it,’ said Edward.

It was like a bond between them which could only be broken by death.

‘Now,’ said Warwick, ‘there is work to be done. The people are with us. We have to rout the Lancastrians. I shall not rest happy until Henry is in our hands...Margaret too. That woman is the source of all our troubles.’

‘Then,’ said Edward, ‘we shall gather together an army and march in pursuit of Margaret.’

It was not difficult. Men rallied to Edward’s banner. It was understood that the end of the war was in sight. They had a new King. He was the sort who would bring victory first and then prosperity.

Edward was exultant. The role of King suited him; but he was not more satisfied than Warwick. Warwick saw in Edward the perfect figurehead, the beautiful young man with the right appearance, the right manners, all that people looked for in a king; self-indulgent, yes, but that was all to the good because it would leave the actual ruling of the country to Warwick. Warwick would be the power behind the throne; Warwick the ruler of England; they would call Edward King but it was the King-Maker who would govern.

It was very satisfactory—the more so because of the defeat at St. Albans. If he could snatch victory from that debacle, he was capable of anything.

He had strengthened his position. In all important places were his men. Brother George was the Chancellor; he would see that the Parliament did what Warwick wanted it to; his brother John, Lord Montague, would go with him to control the armies when they travelled north. Hastings, Herbert, Stafford, Wenlock...they all recognized the genius of Warwick and wanted to be reckoned as his friends.

It was a happy day when he had brought the new King to London and Margaret had decided that she would be too unwelcome there to attempt to enter.

Fortune favoured the bold—indeed it did. And here he was in that position on which he had set his sights from the very first battle of St. Albans.

He had power in his grasp. He must hold tightly to it; and he could not be sure of it until Henry was again a prisoner and Margaret was with him.

Therefore there was no time for rejoicing. They must set out for the North and not rest until they had vanquished Margaret’s army.

Bitterly Margaret considered what had happened. What folly to have allowed Warwick and Edward to go to London. She had always hated the Londoners because they had hated her. And they had cheered for Edward and Warwick. They had dared call Edward their King.

Henry was with her. He was praying all the time. He was so weary of the wars, he told her. Would they never stop? He would do anything...anything to make them...give them what they wanted, anything.

‘Forsooth and forsooth, what life is this for us!’

‘We have our son to think of,’ Margaret told him fiercely. ‘Have you forgotten that?’

‘He will be happier in some quiet place,’ said the King, ‘far away from conflict ‘

‘He is not like you,’ retorted Margaret. ‘My son was born to be King.’

Henry sighed. He was so weary. Margaret could not sit quietly; she would find such comfort in prayer, he told her.

She paced up and down—over to the window, straining to see if a messenger was coming, then back to the fire, standing there staring into the embers, seeing Edward proclaimed by the treacherous Londoners...Edward in battle...the battle which was now taking place.

She was kept informed. No sooner had Edward declared himself King than he prepared for the march to the North. He was determined to destroy her and her armies,

‘Nay, my lord,’ she thought fiercely, ‘it is I who will destroy you.’

It was Palm Sunday. Henry would not go with the army. ‘This is a time for prayer,’ he said. ‘We should be kneeling together, those men of York and those of Lancaster. They should ask for God’s help to solve their differences.’

Margaret was contemptuous. ‘Meanwhile they should rely on their archers. If prayers were effective surely you would be the greatest king on earth.’

Henry shook his head sadly. Margaret spoke vehemently. He would never be able to make her understand his feelings.

‘It may be,’ she went on, ‘that God will be with us this day. He was at St. Albans. Then the snow worked to our advantage...not theirs. It blew in their faces and sent their wicked wildfire back into their ranks. The elements were with us then. Pray God they will be now.’ She walked up and down the room. ‘How dare they! We defeated them at St. Albans. We brought you back to us. It was a great victory. How could they have marched into London and proclaimed Edward King!’

‘They did it,’ said Henry.

‘And they shall pay for it,’ replied Margaret. ‘How I wish I were with the army now. I should love to see the enemy destroyed. Nothing will satisfy me until I have Warwick’s head on London Bridge...yes, London Bridge where they are so fond of him. As for Edward...King Edward. I wonder how he would fancy a paper crown like his father’s.’

‘I beg you do not talk so,’ said the King. ‘How happy I should be if we could settle this grievous matter in a friendly way.’

Oh, he was useless. She thanked God for her son. Without him life would be meaningless. Edward, dear Edward, he possessed the same name as the usurper. Edward, a King’s name, she had thought. And now that Edward dared call himself King.

Her rage threatened to choke her. Oh God, she prayed, send me news of victory quickly.

The snow was falling. It was bitterly cold. The snow had helped them at St. Albans. She could laugh aloud to think of how Warwick had so cleverly—as he thought—placed himself and then found that he had his men in the face of the wind.

What was happening now? The armies would be meeting...

Messengers at last. She hurried down to meet them.

‘What news? What news?’

The battle rages, my lady. They are at Towton. There was a skirmish at Ferrybridge. The enemy was at Pontefract and tried to secure passage across the Aire at Ferrybridge. Your army under Lord Clifford defeated them and slew their leader, Lord Fitzwalter.’

‘Oh God be praised.’

‘But they crossed farther down the river at Castleford, my lady.’

‘God curse them.’

‘And now they do battle at Towton.’

‘How goes the battle?’

The messenger paused and Margaret felt cold fear grip her.

‘It is early to say, my lady. The weather is bad. The snow is falling.’

‘Pray God he sends it in the traitors’ faces as he did at St. Albans.’

The messenger was silent.

‘If you have nothing more to tell me you may go to the kitchens for refreshment.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said the messenger. He was glad to escape. He would not envy the one who must bring bad news to the Queen.

The suspense continued. It was unbearable. She sent for her son that he might share her vigil. She could not bear to see the King on his knees in prayer. He looked so frail, so ineffectual. He should have been there with his troops. His presence would have had its effect on them. What a King who could not fight because it was Holy Week!

The hours were passing. Still no news. The wind was howling about the castle walls. Margaret could not tear herself away from the window.

And at last news came.

That it was bad news was clear to her. She listened in horror to the tale the messenger had to tell.

The two armies had met at Towton which was a village not far from Tadcaster and the battle had been going on for ten hours. Lord Clifford after his brave defence at Ferrybridge had been slain. Many of the Lancastrian nobles who had not fallen in battle had been taken prisoner, Devonshire and Wiltshire among them.

The battle of Towton had been fought and won by the Yorkists; and the King and the Queen were in imminent danger.

Margaret was stunned with grief. What could she do? One thing was certain: she could not remain here to let herself be taken with the King and their son.

She must fly with all speed.

She went to the King. He was on his knees still.

‘Rise,’ she said imperiously. ‘There is no time for dallying. We must prepare to leave at once. There has been disaster at Towton. We have to get away before they come for us.’

‘The battle is over then...’

‘Over and lost. We are leaving at once. Delay could be the end of us. That is not yet.’

Her spirits were reviving. This was not the end of Margaret of Anjou. There had been disasters before, and always she had come out of them. She would win through yet. Was she going to be beaten by one single battle?

What of St. Albans? The glory of that had still not died.

She would win through yet. But she must live to do so. She must keep the King with her. And while she had her dear son Edward to fight for, she would go on. She would win in time. Not all of Warwick’s skill, nor all of Edward of York’s charm would prevent her from putting the rightful king on the throne.

‘Where can we go?’ said Henry.

She hesitated only for a moment.

‘We have good friends in the North,’ she said. ‘The North has always been with us. It is those perfidious Londoners who are against us. Never mind. They shall pay for their treachery. We will go to our good friends. We will go to Scotland.’

Edward rode into York with Warwick beside him. As he looked up at the walls he saw the heads of his father, his brother and his uncle and sadness overcame his triumph, but it was soon replaced by fury. His first act would be to remove those heads and give them a decent burial. Others should replace them. They would not be difficult to find.

Into York in triumph—King of England. It was what his father would have wished.

Margaret in flight; her armies in disorder. A new reign had begun.