Текст книги "The Red Rose of Anjou"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

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.

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.