The Red Rose of Anjou

THE QUEEN’S GRIEF

There were important visitors at the castle of St. Michiel. Prince Edward came in excitedly to tell his mother of their arrival. Life was so quiet in St. Michiel. The Prince had longed for something to happen. His mother often said that one day they would go back to England and claim what was rightfully theirs and Sir John Fortescue was always keeping him to his lessons and impressing on him that a Prince born to be King must be skilled in book learning as well as martial arts.

But nothing happened. The years passed. He had been a child when he came here and now he was sixteen. It seemed he had spent all his life in this quiet castle where every day was exactly like the one which had gone before.

And now…messengers.

He was with his mother when the messengers were brought to her. He stood by her while she received the letters.

There were several of them. One bore the royal seal. There was another from his grandfather and one from his aunt as well.

How slowly his mother opened them. She was pretending she was not excited for she must be since that letter was from the King of France.

She read it through.

‘What does he say, dear lady?’ begged the Prince.

Margaret smiled at her son’s eagerness.

‘The King commands us to go to Tours.’

“’The King. To Tours! Oh, dear mother, when?’

‘Very, very soon. And now here is a letter from your grandfather.’

He looked over her shoulder and read that Margaret and the Prince should lose no time in coming to Tours. The King was eager to discuss the prospects of the House of Lancaster which it seemed were growing a little brighter.

Margaret stared ahead of her. What did this mean? What could have happened? It had seemed so long now since Edward had usurped the throne and sent her into exile and Henry to the Tower.

But since the King of France was involved this must be of some significance. Not that she dared hope for too much. Perhaps she had hoped too deeply in the past; when hope turned to disaster the bitterness was hard to bear.

There was a letter from her sister Yolande. She reiterated what her father had said. There were hopeful signs and they were excited, for certain things it seemed had happened in England which had changed the outlook. Yolande’s husband Ferri—the Count of Vaudémont—joined his wishes with hers that Margaret would lose no time in coming to Tours.

It was indeed exciting. She had to admit it. Something important was about to happen.

‘My dear mother, you have become young again,’ said the Prince.

She put her arms about him and held him close to her, suffocatingly so. She was very demonstrative and sometimes her absolute devotion was an embarrassment to the Prince. He was devoted to her. He knew that he owed her a great deal and all her vehemence was for his sake. He had been brought up to realize that he was the rightful heir to the crown of England and that it was his mother’s dearest hope that he should have it. Yes, she was wonderful, but he wished that she would not be quite so fierce in her displays of emotion.

He withdrew himself, smiling at her and kissing her cheek to show that he loved her even though he did not want to be suffocated.

‘We will prepare to leave for Tours at once,’ she said.

It was with great emotion that she was reunited with her family.

René was there with his pretty young wife and he and Margaret openly wept as they embraced.

‘I am so happy at this change,’ he said. ‘I am sure, my dear daughter, that soon all is going to be well for you.’

Then she was embraced by Yolande and Ferri and when they were all presented to the Prince they remarked how grown he was, how tall, how good-looking.

‘A King in very truth,’ said René.

The King of France arrived and expressed himself deeply moved by the emotion he saw in this family reunion although no one believed that the Spider King of France could be moved for one instant for sentimental reasons.

Margaret was all eagerness to learn what this change in England was all about and when she was told of the quarrel between Edward of York and the Earl of Warwick she could only express the utmost delight. She was less happy when she learned that Warwick was on his way to France and was planning to visit her.

‘I will never see that man,’ she cried. ‘He is responsible for all my troubles.’

‘You must see him,’ said her father. ‘You must forget all that has gone before. In him could lie your salvation.’

‘In that case I shall remain unsaved. I will not see a man who has called my son a bastard and thrown cruel slander on my honour.’

‘My dear daughter, you must be reasonable.’

Margaret said there was no need of them to continue the conversation for she had made up her mind.

A few days passed during which René, Yolande and Ferri did all they could to persuade her. She was adamant.

‘It is too much to ask. Moreover if he is ready to betray his friend Edward, whom he made King in name, how could I trust him?’

‘Edward deceived him. You must take advantage of this quarrel between them.’

‘I will have nothing to do with Warwick.’

René was a little impatient. The King of France was anxious for a rapprochement between Warwick and Margaret for it was very much to his advantage to make life uncomfortable for Edward.

‘I will see that an understanding is brought about between these two,’ said Louis. ‘When Warwick arrives he shall be presented to me in Margaret’s presence.’

And this was what happened.

The King of France greeted the Earl with warmth and then presented him to Margaret, who regarded him stonily.

‘Nay, my lord,’ she said ignoring Warwick and looking fixedly at Louis, ‘in all respect to myself and honour to my son I cannot receive the Earl of Warwick.’

Louis was annoyed but could do nothing about it. He drew Warwick on one side.

‘The lady has a violent temper,’ he said. ‘We shall have to find a means of placating it. When she realizes what you can do for her and her son she will be more gracious.’

Yolande came to Margaret’s private apartments to remonstrate with her.

‘You were always stubborn,’ she said. ‘The King will be furious. What you did was tantamount to an insult to him.’

‘In presenting that man to me he was insulting me.’

‘You, my dear Margaret, are not the King of France!’

‘Nay, but I am the Queen of England.’

‘Some would say England has a Queen Elizabeth.’

Margaret had to restrain herself for she could have slapped her sister’s face. Yolande and she had quickly discovered that their temperaments did not blend well together.

‘I shall do what is right according to my own standards,’ she snapped.

‘And lose yourself a throne. You may do that but that you should prevent your son’s taking what he has a right to is nothing but selfish.’

Yolande flounced out of the room but her remark had made more impression on Margaret than all the persuasion had done and very shortly afterwards she agreed to see Warwick.

It was not in her nature to make it easy for him. She intended that he should grovel before her, and Warwick, proud as he might be, was ready to go to great lengths to obtain what he wanted. Friendship with Margaret was essential to his plans. Therefore this reconciliation must be brought about.

He tried to appeal to her common sense.

‘I put Edward on the throne,’ he said. ‘It was a mistake. I should have given my allegiance to Henry. If I had what a different story we should have had to tell.’

‘Indeed you have created much mischief,’ retorted Margaret. ‘You have been a traitor to the anointed King.’

‘I was wrong and am now ready to repair my misdeeds. I shall now be Edward’s foe as vehemently as I have been his friend.

I was misled by what I believed to be his claim to the throne and because of the King’s illness...’

She silenced him. She wanted no reference to Henry’s weakness of mind.

‘I see that what you did is unpardonable.’

‘There is no sin on earth that cannot be pardoned by magnamity and generosity of heart, my lady.’

All the time she was thinking what this man could do. He emanated power and strength. He was not called the King-Maker for nothing.

But she was not going to give way lightly. It was when the King of France appeared and with a certain humble grace begged her to pardon the Earl of Warwick that she at length agreed.

‘It will be necessary for my son to do the same,’ she said. ‘I am not sure that he will agree.’

The King and Warwick exchanged smiles. Of course he would agree. He would do exactly what his mother told him to.

Louis expressed a wish that they should all travel to Angers where the Countess of Warwick and her younger daughter Anne would be waiting to receive them.

Margaret’s spirits were uplifted. She had had to subdue her pride to agree to friendship with Warwick but she knew that she had to catch at anything that might help her regain the throne for her son. Warwick could do that. He was the one man in England who could. It was really a miraculous piece of good fortune that he had quarrelled with Edward. Yolande was right. She would have been a fool to let that pass just because of her stubborn pride.

And how good it was to ride in a procession again like a royal Queen. And Edward beside her. Growing up handsome, brave, a son to be proud of. Nearly eighteen years old now. Old enough to take the crown.

She had heard with some surprise that Warwick’s elder daughter Isabel had married Clarence. Clever Warwick. He had somehow won Clarence to his side and no doubt the bribe of Warwick’s vast wealth had worked with the young Duke. He was a traitor to his brother. It seemed to her the world was full of traitors.

It pointed to one factor. Events were moving. The period of stagnation was clearly coming to an end and no matter what had brought it about that was something for which she must rejoice.

The King of France rode beside her into Angers. She noticed that the people did not cheer vociferously. Louis lacked that appeal which she accepted grudgingly belonged to Edward of York. The Valois were not handsome as the Plantagenets had been. Appearances were important. She herself was still a beautiful woman in spite of the ravages of time and events. She noticed approving eyes on her dear son and that warmed her heart a little.

Louis was aware of it too for he commented on the Prince’s royal appearance.

‘A great joy to you, my lady,’ he said.

‘My only one for a long time,’ replied Margaret.

‘And what a blessing. He will soon be marrying I doubt not and then you will have your grandchildren.’

She was wary. This conversation was leading somewhere. The Spider King was not known to waste words in idle chatter.

‘I believe the young Duke of Clarence is very happy in his marriage. Warwick’s girls are beauties...moreover they are the richest heiresses in England.’

‘That may be so and I wish Clarence joy of his marriage. I’ll swear his brother does not feel the same pleasure in it as my lord Warwick appears to.’

‘Ha!’ Louis gave his short bark which was meant to be a laugh. ‘Edward has been acting with great foolishness. That is not the way to hold a crown...especially when a man has no right to it. Warwick put it on his head and Warwick will take it off when the time comes...and put it where it belongs.’

‘If justice prevails that is assuredly what will take place,’ she said.

‘And princes should marry young. The sooner they begin to produce heirs the better. Warwick has a charming young daughter. What a prize...a beautiful healthy young girl and a half share in the greatest estates in England.’

‘I cannot believe, my lord, that you suggest that the Prince of Wales should marry Warwick’s daughter.’

‘It seems to me...and to others...an admirable solution to the problem of the Prince’s marriage.’

‘My lord, it is quite out of the question.’

‘Oh surely not.’

‘I have forgiven the Earl of Warwick his treatment of me and the King. It has cost me a great deal to do that. To allow my son to marry his daughter is something I will not consider...not for one moment...’

Louis bowed his head and was silent. Indeed he was not one to waste words.

At Angers the Countess of Warwick was waiting with her young daughter. Anne Beauchamp was a pleasant creature. Poor woman, thought Margaret, married to a man like Warwick. What life had she had! But her real interest was for the girl. Comely, yes, rather delicately formed and dainty, of good manners and some beauty. If she had been the daughter of the King of France or the Duke of Burgundy instead of a mere Earl—and an old enemy at that—Margaret would have considered the girl a possible match.

There were fetes and entertainments at Angers. Warwick submitted with as much patience as he could muster. So did Margaret. The Earl had a promise of help from Louis but he did not want to move until the time was ripe. His friends were amassing forces in England; his most important scheme was to land when Edward was in the North for Warwick had arranged with his brother-in-law Lord Fitzhugh to send out rumours of a rising in the North which would take Edward up there with an army. If he could land in the South, free Henry from the Tower and set him up as King, he would have an immediate advantage; Warwick’s brother John had deliberately not joined with him for the reason that he could be more useful seeming to remain loyal to Edward, and when Edward was lured to the North John would at the right moment desert him and declare for Henry and Warwick would then be in a position to defeat Edward.

It was a clever plan and Warwick’s strategy had always been more successful than his actual physical warfare.

He needed everything to fall into place. Margaret was a stubborn woman; he wished he could do without her. When he looked back he could see that had Henry had a different Queen he might not be in the Tower today.

But Margaret would not agree to a union between Edward and Anne. Meanwhile the two young people had met and clearly liked each other. Edward said he thought she was a delightful girl, not in the least bit like her father. There was no trace of arrogance about her.

‘Nor should there be,’ snapped Margaret. ‘Who is she but the daughter of an upstart Earl who got his titles through his wife?’

‘And became so powerful that he decided who should sit on the throne of England,’ Edward reminded her.

Edward was beginning to have ideas of his own; and she could see that he liked the idea of marrying Anne Neville rather than having some foreign princess foisted on him.

René urged Margaret to agree to the marriage. She must accept the fact that Warwick was important to her. This was the best opportunity she had ever had. It was like a miracle that Warwick should have changed sides.

Yolande and her stepmother joined their voices to René’s. Perhaps if they had not so earnestly tried to persuade her she might have agreed earlier.

The King of France talked to her too. She told him that there had been a suggestion that Edward marry the daughter of Edward the Fourth. ‘Elizabeth of York is a baby about four or five years old,’ Louis reminded her. ‘She is too young, and would you marry your son to the daughter of your greatest enemy?’

‘You are asking me to do just that.’

‘So you regard Warwick as a greater enemy than the man who took the crown from your husband?’

‘It was Warwick who took it.’

‘All the more reason why you should rejoice that he has become your friend.’

She told herself that it was because her beloved son Edward liked the girl that she gave in. But it was not really that. She knew that her only hope of defeating Edward and putting Henry back on the throne was through Warwick.

So, just as she had agreed to make a pact of friendship with Warwick she now agreed that there should be a betrothal between his daughter and her son.

What intoxication to contemplate the future! Warwick was almost ready to strike. He was succeeding as he had known he would. Louis had promised him forty-six thousand crowns and two thousand French archers. Jasper Tudor had arrived in France; Jasper had never wavered in his loyalty to the Lancastrian cause and now that Warwick was with them his hopes were high. He had men whom he could trust waiting in Wales to fight for King Henry.

There were many conferences in which Warwick laid his plans before Margaret. She would never like him, of course; but she had to admire him. She often thought during those days of how differently everything might have turned out if he had been for them and not against them.

‘The Prince of Wales shall be the Regent,’ he had said. ‘For he is of an age to govern and I doubt very much that the King will be well enough to do so after such a long incarceration.’

That suited Margaret. She would be at his side. She would guide him. Oh how happy she would be to see her darling son preparing to govern his Kingdom!

Clarence would have his reward for turning against his brother. He should have all his brother’s lands. Clarence was not sure that this was enough reward. He had had his eyes on the crown. But there was time. Who knew what the outcome of this would be and there might be a few battles to be fought.

As for Margaret she should have the care of the Prince’s betrothed. She should teach Anne her ways and what would be expected of her as wife to the Prince of Wales. Margaret was delighted. She could not help but like the gentle Anne, and every day she was less against the match than she had previously been. She had made it clear that the marriage should not take place until Henry was on the throne, and to this Warwick had agreed.

Warwick left and sailed for Devonshire with Clarence, Jasper Tudor and the Earl of Oxford while Margaret settled down to wait. That was mid-September and it was not until October that the news came.

She could scarcely believe it. It had happened. She called the Prince to her; she embraced him with fervour.

‘He has done it,’ she said. ‘God be thanked, Warwick has put Henry back on the throne.’

It had all gone according to plan. Edward had foolishly allowed himself to be lured to the North to quell the rising in answer to the call for help from John Neville.

No sooner was he there when Warwick landed. John Neville then called to his men and told them that they were now going to bring back the true King. In fact his brother was already engaged in doing this. They were tired of the growing arrogance of the Woodvilles and the new nobility which the Queen was creating. All those who agreed with him could follow him south to join the armies of the great Warwick. Warwick’s name acted like magic.

‘In the morning.’ said Neville, ‘we will take the King.’

Edward had some faithful servants and one of them immediately hurried to tell him what had happened. Edward was sitting at dinner when the servant arrived and realizing his position decided that there was only one course open to him and that was flight.

‘If we stay we shall be captured...and murdered I doubt not,’ he said. ‘Warwick will know better than to try to make a captive of me. We must get away...but only for a while.’

There were some eight hundred of them including Hastings and his young brother Richard. They rode to the coast and reached Lynn where they found ships to take them to Holland.

‘Better to live to fight another day,’ said Edward. ‘I would never have believed this of Warwick.’

‘A curse on him,’ cried Richard. ‘The traitor.’

‘Nay, brother,’ said Edward. ‘He was a good friend to me. That is why I know he will be a good enemy. Our ways parted. He wanted to go on leading me and I am out of leading strings. I always liked Warwick. Methinks I always will.’

Henry blinked at the men who stood before him. He thought he recognized them from the past. Was one Archbishop George Neville and the other Bishop Waynflete?

The two men stared at him in shocked silence. His hair was unkempt, his face and hands dirty. His clothes hung on him. ‘He looked,’ said the Archbishop afterwards to his brother the Earl, ‘like a sack of wool...a shadow...and he was as mute as a crowned calf. He had no notion of why we had come. He was bemused and after a while we heard him murmuring "Forsooth and forsooth."‘

‘My lord,’ said the Archbishop, ‘we have come to take you from this place. Your loyal subject the Earl of Warwick...’

Henry looked more bewildered. There was so much explaining to do. They must take him from the Tower, wash him, clothe him in garments suited to his rank and feed him.

They brought him quietly from the Tower and took him away by barge so that none of his subjects might see the wreck he had become.

When Warwick saw him he was horrified.

‘How dared they treat a King so!’ he cried.

He had forgotten that until recently he had been one of those responsible for Henry’s captivity.

That was over now. Henry was going to be King. Edward had flown. His wife would be joining him and so would his son. He would be amazed to see the Prince—as handsome and fine an heir as ever was seen.

It took Henry a long time to grasp what was happening. He murmured prayers most of the time. There was no sign of rejoicing. It almost seemed that he would have preferred to stay where he was.

Margaret was jubilant. Edward in flight; Henry restored. It was a miracle. And Warwick had done it. She had to admit that. He was not called King-Maker for nothing. And if he would be loyal the future could be bright. She had been right to suppress her pride. And now nothing should stand in the way of Edward’s marriage to Anne Neville. She owed that to Warwick for she had promised that when Henry was restored to the throne the marriage should take place.

Now that promise must be kept.

It was a grand wedding. August had just come in and that was the best time for a wedding. So many of the festivities took place out of doors. The King of France was present. The wedding was almost as much of his making as it was Warwick’s. He was delighted. He saw an end to his enemy, Edward of England. It was always comforting when other people fought one’s battles and Warwick had done that for him. Therefore he was delighted to grace Warwick’s daughter’s wedding with his presence.

It was a joyful occasion and Margaret was happy. There was no friction even between her and Yolande. It was a most felicitous occasion and perhaps the most happy part of it was the obvious affection which was growing up between the handsome Prince and his charming bride.

And now to Paris with a guard of honour to escort them and in the capital city they must be given royal treatment because that was the King’s express order. The streets were hung with tapestry and there was music everywhere.

Only one thing could delight Margaret more and that was to return to England and find a similar welcome awaiting her there.

So much time had to be spent at the various towns on her journey through France that it was February before she reached Barfleur and was ready to sail. Then the weather had turned rough, the wind was fierce and the waves pounded the shore, so that she was advised it would be folly to set sail. Impatiently she glowered at the sea. It was all important that she reach England. She wanted to see Henry; she wanted to show their son to him and the country. For days she waited and when the seas abated a little, in spite of warnings she insisted on setting out. Within a short time the ships were back in port. To go on, declared the captains, would mean to lose them.

Angry and frustrated, she raged against the elements and as soon as she felt the wind was subsiding a little, she set sail again only to be driven back by fresh gales.

People were superstitious and they began to say she was not meant to return to England. This infuriated her and once more she set out and had to come back.

Now everyone was getting nervous except Margaret. She was going to brave the weather and had it not been that she feared to put her son’s life in jeopardy she would have insisted on starting out again.

Then suddenly the wind dropped. Immediately they set sail and with much rejoicing and prayers of thanksgiving they arrived safely in Weymouth.

It was hardly to be expected that Edward would meekly give up the crown; he realized however that Warwick was a strong enemy and had no doubt decided, knowing him so well, what action he would take and be prepared for it.

However, he could not delay in Holland and accordingly embarked at Flushing on the second day of March in the company of his young brother Richard of Gloucester and Earl Rivers. The rough winds which had tormented Margaret were a source of annoyance to him also and his crossing was delayed for a few days and some time was lost before he came in sight of Cromer. Even then he knew it would be folly to land before he had discovered what sort of welcome he was going to meet so he sent a party ashore to test the political climate. They came back to say it was frigid and that they should not land so they went higher up the coast to Ravenspur. The people of that neighbourhood were no more pleased to see him than they had been at Cromer. They wanted no fighting on their land. They had the rightful King on the throne now and they were for Henry.

They must be told that he came only to claim his dukedom, he declared, and he went so far as to cause his men to wear the ostrich feather badge of the Prince of Wales.

Because they did this his army was allowed to land and the army reached York where their reception was a little more friendly being on Yorkist territory. He then proceeded to Wakefield where he was joined by friends and when he arrived in Oxford his ranks were considerably swelled and his spirits rose accordingly. In the town of Warwick Edward was greeted as King and was proclaimed in the square. Here he delivered a speech to the people and promised that if the Earl of Warwick would disband his army he should have a free pardon.

It was while he was in Warwick that messengers arrived in secret from his brother Clarence.

Clarence craved Edward’s pardon and wanted to rejoin him. He was filled with remorse to think that he had gone over to Edward’s enemy; and if only he could come back he would bring a considerable number of men with him.

Edward rejoiced. He would forgive his brother; and although he would not trust him again, he bore no rancour for he had never trusted Clarence as he had Richard, and had always known Clarence for what he was—feckless, avaricious, self-seeking. Still he was his brother.

Indeed, yes, Clarence should be forgiven.

Near Banbury his men came to a halt. The enemy was in the near vicinity. A party of soldiers came riding towards Edward’s forces and Edward saw that their leader was Clarence who in truth had changed sides and brought his men, whom Warwick thought were with him, to fight for Edward.

This was good progress, thought Edward as he embraced his brother without a reproach. He merely told him that all was forgiven and he was glad to have him back on the side to which he belonged.

Clarence told him that Warwick would not listen to any terms. He had gone too far to turn back. Moreover he thought he was going to defeat Edward and continue in his role of King-Maker. He had decided that Henry was to be his puppet now since Edward had shown that he was not to be jerked into suitable action by Warwick.

And so they met at Barnet. Warwick had drawn his forces at Hadley Green just to the north of the city. He had chosen his position where the ground sloped and had so placed himself that he commanded a narrow bottleneck from which he calculated the enemy would have to emerge. Edward was not going to fall into such a trap and under cover of darkness moved his forces so that they were parallel and very close to those of Warwick. Warwick was soon to realize that his well-laid plan had failed and he was reminded of the disastrous defeat at the second battle of St. Albans. A heavy mist enveloped the battlefield and it was difficult to see where the forces lay. This was equally frustrating to both sides and at first it seemed as though Warwick would be triumphant. On one side of Edward was his brother Richard and on the other Hastings; Clarence was fighting where they could keep an eye on him, for Edward knew that if the battle went against him Clarence would attempt to change sides again and such changes in the heat of battle often made the difference between victory and defeat.

The battle had started as soon as it was light at between four and five in the morning and because of the heavy mist at one time Warwick’s followers were sending arrows into their own ranks. The battle swayed one way and another. Here were two men whose whole future hung in the balance and each was as determined as the other on victory.

‘Curse the fog,’ cried Warwick. He could not know what was happening in his flanks. Out of the mists he perceived the Yorkist banner perilously close and one of his men came riding up panting, to cry out that Exeter was being sorely pressed. Warwick sent reinforcements to the Duke and then the cry went up that Edward of York was in flight.

Triumph surged over Warwick. He was invincible. He was the maker of Kings. He could not fail.

But it appeared that Edward was merely retreating to prepare for the attack. Through the mist he swung in, forcing the Lancastrians backwards, and Montague’s men were falling to the right and left as Edward hacked his way through their forces.

The fighting was fierce, the carnage terrible, and the cries of the wounded and dying horses filled the air. Where the mist had lifted a little, Warwick saw that his forces had dwindled and that the Yorkists were advancing on them.

He knew then that the battle of Barnet was lost to him. He did not despair. He was thinking of the second battle of St. Albans. He had lost that battle and turned it into a victory.

But he must make good his retreat. He must live to fight another day. One battle did not win or lose a war.

He had his horse and while he had a horse he was safe. He saw that his men – those who could and were of the same opinion as himself—were preparing to escape. The enemy would be after him, he knew. Was it not he who had taught Edward to let the common soldiers go and attack the leaders?

Now was the time. He would make for the forest. It was not the end. Just another battle lost.

He would snatch victory out of defeat. Escape...get to London. An arrow whined past him. Another came and struck his horse. He stumbled to the ground; he was heavily encumbered by his armour.

He was staggering and trying to run when someone shouted: ‘That’s Warwick.’

They were after him. The enemy. They had surrounded him. Someone threw him to the ground. They lifted his visor.

"Tis true. ‘Tis Warwick.’

No mercy for the leader. They were Yorkists—all of them, intoxicated with victory. They were all of them fighting for the honour of slaying the great Earl.

He saw the flash of the knife as it descended. Darkness was heralding the end.

Richard Neville would make no more Kings.

Edward refreshed himself and his men in the town of Barnet. They were weary, for the battle had lasted for three hours. Then he ordered that the wounded should be attended to.

So Warwick was dead. That saddened him. He had admired Warwick, had idolized him. He did not want him to die. It had grieved him that they were on opposing sides and if Warwick had lived he would have freely pardoned him.

He gave orders that Warwick’s body must be exposed for the public to see so that none should say afterwards that the King-Maker still lived. Then after a few days he should be taken to Bisham Abbey and buried there with his family.

Margaret was awaiting news of the battle. She was certain that this was going to set Henry firmly on the throne. Edward would be Regent and she would be at his elbow.

It was a long time since she had been so happy.

Then she saw the messengers. They came slowly—not as bearers of good news should.

She hurried to meet them.

‘God help me,’ she cried, ‘what has happened?’

The messengers could not speak for a few moments. They just stood there looking blankly at her.

Nor did she reprimand them. She knew.

‘The Earl of Warwick has been killed,’ they told her. ‘His armies are in retreat. Edward of York has won the battle of Barnet.’

She swayed a little and sought to steady herself. She saw her son coming towards her.

‘News?’ he cried. ‘Oh dear lady, what news?’

She turned to look at him and he saw the bleak despair in her white face.

He ran to her and put his arms about her. She said quietly: ‘I think I am going to swoon. Let...me...Let me for a brief while shut this away from me.’

Then he knew.

He stared at her blankly and then he caught her before she fell.

Her mood of desperation did not last long. It was not the end. One battle did not make a war. They had been defeated before. Warwick was dead, it was true, but the Prince of Wales thank God had not been at Barnet. They would win through yet.

‘Is this not how it has always been?’ she demanded. ‘Ever since the white rose started to fight against the red there have been victories and defeats. One battle cannot decide the war. We have lost Warwick but Warwick did not always win. We are here in England...The King is free. We are free. We shall go into battle again and win.’

Jasper Tudor came to her. They were not beaten yet, he said. The mist had beaten them at Barnet. They would win through yet. She must not despair. If she and her gallant son marched through the country they would bring the people rallying to their banner.

The Prince said that Jasper was right: they would go into action; and as she looked at her son a terrible fear came to her. What did she want most, this son of hers alive, vital, beautiful, the whole meaning of life to her, safe and well, or the possibility of a crown?

I dare not risk him, she thought. Warwick had died. Such a short time ago he had been so sure of success. He had not been young it was true, but death and he had seemed far apart and then suddenly on that bloody field it had claimed him.

‘Edward,’ she said, ‘perhaps the time is not ripe. Let us go back to France. Let us wait there until we have such a mighty force that none can come against us.’

Edward looked at her in astonishment. ‘Do I hear alright? Is this my warlike mother?’

For a moment she was no longer the battling Queen, she was just a woman vulnerable because of her fears for her son.

He understood; he took her into his arms. ‘Dearest mother,’ he said, ‘I am going to put a crown on this head of yours ere long. You are going to be the recognized Queen of England. I promise you that.’

‘I want only you...safe beside me.’

He stroked her hair and soothed her. ‘Dear mother, remember you are the Queen. For years you have taught me where my duty lies. I shall go into battle, win my father’s crown and we shall live together, you, he and I happily all through our days.’

‘I am a foolish woman,’ she said.

‘Nay,’ he answered. ‘You are a great one. Never shall I forget what I owe you...I shall remember while there is life in my body.’

She knew that it would be folly to give up just because Warwick had died at Barnet. They had put too much faith in Warwick. They could succeed without him.

So they marched, and so they came to Tewkesbury where Edward of York was waiting for them.

The ranks of the army were weary. They had marched seventy-three miles; they should turn away. They were in no fit state to fight. But Edward of York was there...waiting for them.

Margaret was uneasy. How many men in that field now would turn to the enemy if they thought the fight was lost? How many could she trust?

‘Ride with me,’ she said to Edward. ‘I want them to see us...to know how determined we are. I am going to tell them what rewards shall be there when this battle is won.’

So they rode together she and her noble son and because of the young man’s belief in victory and the indomitable courage of the Queen, the spirits of the soldiers revived and they ceased to complain of their exhaustion and prepared themselves to do battle next day.

She was there when the battle started, and she quickly knew that her men were no match for the enemy. She greatly feared for her son and cursed herself for not insisting that they fly to France instead of engaging in such an unequal struggle.

‘It must stop...stop...’ she cried hysterically. ‘Where is the Prince? Bring the Prince to me.’

She was half demented not only with exhaustion but with fear. Some of her bodyguard said that it would be better for her to leave the field. She would be needed after the battle was over.

‘My son...’ she murmured.

She was half fainting. These fainting fits were new to her. They were due to an excess of emotion she supposed, but when they were on her she was limp and helpless, so she allowed them to put her into her chariot and take her from the field.

Close by was a small convent and it was to this place that she was taken. Anne, her daughter-in-law, was already there and they sought to comfort each other.

Edward of York was certain of victory. Warwick was dead and he felt freed from a bondage from which previously he had been unable to esc ape. Warwick had meant so much to him; he had been his friend and mentor. He had loved him and in his heart continued to do so; but Edward was not a man who could be on leading strings forever. He had had to break away. He had hoped – and believed – that in due course he and Warwick would overcome their differences, reach a new understanding and be friends again.

Now that was too late. He did not wish the young Prince of Wales to be killed on the field. Too many deaths were bad for a man; he did not want blood on his hands; and although he had not personally killed Warwick his death would be laid at his door.

He sent out an order. ‘If Edward who calls himself Prince of Wales be captured, do not kill him. I promise a hundred pounds a year for life to the man who brings him to me: and the: Prince’s life shall be spared.’

He could afford to be magnanimous. The battle was almost over and was an undoubted victory and Edward believed that after this there would be no more. He would be safe on the throne.

He saw a party of men coming towards him. They had a prisoner with them.

Edward stared in amazement for the prisoner was Prince Edward.

One of the captains, Sir Richard Crofts, was close, proud ol having captured the Prince, and came to claim his reward.

Several were crowding round as the two Edwards faced each other.

The young Prince was arrogant, good-looking in a somewhat effeminate way. Edward of York towered above Edward of Lancaster.

Edward of York said: ‘How dare you so presumptuously enter the field with your banners displayed against me, your King?’

The young Prince held his head high and retorted: ‘I am here to recover my father’s crown and my own inheritance to which you have no right.’

Edward was incensed by those words. He had convinced himself that he had the greater claim, but this captive boy was telling him that he was the son of Henry the Sixth who had to be held captive because the man who had usurped his throne knew that the people were with him.

In a sudden rage he struck the young Prince in the face with his gauntlet.

Those about him saw in this a signal.

The Prince had insulted the King and the King wanted vengeance.

Six or seven of them moved in on him, their daggers raised.

Prince Edward gasped and as he fell to the ground his last thoughts were of his mother.

So there was nothing now to live for. She was in a state of daze. She did not hear what was said to her. She had only one wish and that was for death.

Her gentle daughter-in-law tried to comfort her; but she too was plunged into deepest melancholy. It had been a brief marriage but she and her Prince had begun to love each other.

‘We must fly from here,’ Margaret’s friends had said. ‘Edward will not rest until you are his prisoner.’

‘I care not,’ she answered.

‘It is important. There is the King to think of.’

But she could think of nothing but her dead son.

They left—she and Anne and it was inevitable that they should be captured sooner or later. They had no heart for the flight, no desire to survive.

They were taken at Coventry.

Edward had decided that she and Anne should travel together in the same chariot and take part in his triumphant procession through London. The people would see that they were his prisoners and that the war was over. Right had prevailed and the strong King was on the throne. The Londoners would welcome that. They had always been for Edward.

It might have been humiliating but she no longer cared. She could see nothing but Edward her son...Edward as a boy...growing up and Edward during those last meetings... How right she had been to suggest they go to France. It must have been some premonition.

And she had lost him...lost him. Why should she care that Edward of York sought to humiliate her before the people of London? She had never cared for them before.

So they were at the Tower. Henry was there in that one they called the Wakefield. Would she see him? She doubted it. They would not let them be together.

They separated her and Anne and sent them to different prisons in the Tower.

‘Oh God,’ she thought. ‘You have deserted me. ‘Why did you not let me persuade him to go to France? If only my son could be restored to me I would ask nothing more. Crowns...kingdoms...what do they matter to me now? If I could but live in peace with my dear son I would ask nothing more.’

The door was shut on her. There were guards outside.

Alone! A prisoner!

If I could but have my son back alive and well I would ask nothing more, she mourned.

Edward of York was flushed with triumph. The people of London welcomed his victory. This would mean peace and peace meant trade. The hated Margaret was in the Tower; the so-called Prince of Wales had been slain in battle; this was the end of the Lancastrian cause. The red rose was trampled in the mire and the white one was victorious.

‘Let us have an end of wars,’ said Edward. ‘Let us seek to make our country great through peaceful means.’

His brother Richard listened to him, his admiration shining in his eyes.

Edward laid his hand on his arm. If only he could trust George as he could Richard.

As they sat at the table with their most trusted friends Edward talked of the future. ‘The country is being crippled by wars. We have enough enemies overseas. They rejoice in the conflicts which torture our realm. There must be an end to them.’

There was agreement all around the table.

‘Margaret is subdued at last. The death of her son has done more to bring her to reason than any battle could.’

‘It is time she realized she has no chance of ousting you from the throne,’ said Richard.

‘She will never realize that...while Henry lives.’

There was a hushed silence round the table.

Henry rose from his knees. His long hair fell about his face and he pulled his tattered coat closer about him.

It was cold in the cell at night. The thick stone walls shut out the warmth of the day. Not that he noticed much. As long as he could pray and meditate and take comfort from the spiritual experience he could live.

The food they brought him was often inedible. He did not care very much. Occasionally he ate and that was enough to give him the strength to pray.

He went to his bed and lay down.

He found comfort in thinking of his beautiful colleges at Cambridge and Eton. He hoped the boys were managing to live in some comfort there. If he were stronger, if he were free he would like to build more colleges. That was the happiest time of his life when he had first married Margaret and they had had those meetings with the architects...Perhaps it would come again.

He did not want all the tribulations of kingship. He wanted peace. That time when he had been in the monastery in hiding...that had been a happy time. How he had loved to mingle with the monks, to sit at their table...to meditate and pray.

Someone was in the cell.

They did not usually come at this hour. There were several of them.

They were standing round the bed.

He knew suddenly that they were going to kill him.

He was murmuring something. One man leaned forward and heard him mutter: ‘May God give you time for repentance whoever you are who lay your sacrilegious hands on your Lord’s anointed.’

Then he thought: Into Heaven, O Lord, receive your servant.

Life was flowing out of him. It was not very difficult. He was so weak and fragile. He did not fight. Pillows over his face...and so drifting into eternity.

So King Henry was dead.

He had died of a broken heart, said Edward and his friends. It was reasonable. It was the end of hope for him. The battle of Tewkesbury lost. His son slain in battle. There had been nothing left for him to live for.

‘Let his body be exposed and lie in St. Paul’s where all may see it,’ commanded Edward. ‘There will be people to say that he met his death by foul means. That is something we must avoid at all costs.’

He was right. People did say it. It was so strange that he should die on the very night when Edward entered London, when Margaret and Anne Neville should have been sent to the Tower.

Others—Yorkist supporters—said that it was precisely due to the shock of all that had happened that he had died.

The King, however—firm on the throne now—insisted that all honour should be done to Henry.

His body was taken by barge to Chertsey and with great respect buried in the lady chapel in the abbey there.