Текст книги "The Red Rose of Anjou"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
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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.
FINALE
The years were slipping past – the long, meaningless years. Life had been harsh to her, or was it as her sister Yolande had said, that she had never understood how to live. Yolande was happy with Ferri and her children, never seeking to extend her ambitions. Yolande had never had any patience with her. Perhaps she should have listened to her sister.
It was all too late now, although they could have lived together. No, they would never live in harmony. Better to be lonely and at peace.
She supposed she could not complain of Edward’s treatments. He was now securely on the throne, popular with the people, still possessed of that charm even though he had grown obese and was as lecherous in his maturity as he had been in his youth.
She recognized now that there was a kingliness about him which Henry had lacked. Poor ineffectual Henry! How ironical of fate to give her such a husband.
She had stayed in the Tower only a short time and she believed it was Queen Elizabeth Woodville who had prevailed on the King to make life easier for her so that she passed from the care of one great lady to another and spent her captivity as a guest in their stately homes. Then the King of France paid Edward a ransom for her and after five years of wandering captivity she sailed from Sandwich.
How strange it had been to say farewell to the land to which she had come full of hope and ambition all those years ago—it must have been thirty; and stranger still and sad to return to her native country.
Freedom. That was a wonderful feeling. For a brief period she had wondered whether she could start again; whether she could snatch something from the tumbled ruin of her life. She would go to Paris to thank Louis for helping her to return to her country and buying her freedom. When his reply came that he would not be in Paris and she would do well to go to her father, she understood.
She was of no importance now. Her husband was dead...murdered, she thought fiercely, and the name of Richard Duke of Gloucester had been mentioned in that connection. But it was Edward of course, Edward who had asked for his death...as Henry the Second had asked for that of Thomas à Becket.
But what did it all matter, now that her beautiful son was dead?
René had provided her with the Château de Reculée near Angers and here she lived in utter melancholy.
Yolande had said she must make a new life but she quarrelled continually with her sister, who did not understand what it meant to know that her husband had been murdered and the greatest tragedy possible had befallen her—she had lost her beloved son.
Nothing could comfort her. Even her beauty was lost, for continual weeping and the violence of her passions which she seemed to find some satisfaction in letting loose had made her hollow-eyed and worse still her skin had grown dry and so scaly that those about her believed she was suffering from a form of leprosy.
She would see no one. This was the final affliction for one who had been beautiful and accepted her beauty as a natural right.
Her father died and she felt then that she had lost everything she cared about.
She herself was only waiting for death.
Just after René had died she decided to make a pilgrimage to Dampierre and, heavily veiled to hide her disability, she set out.
She reached Dampierre and rested at the château there and while she was there she was overcome by such a lassitude that she could not rise from her bed.
‘Praise God,’ she said, I think I am done with my troubles.’
Her premonition proved correct. In the fifty-first year of her life, eleven years after the death of her son and husband, Margaret of Anjou closed her eyes for the last time.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Aubrey, William Hickman, National and Domestic History of England
Smith Bagley, J. J., Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England
Clive, Mary, This Sun of York: A Biography of Edward IV
Costain, Thomas B., The Last Plantagenets: The Pageant of England 1377-1483
Green, John Richard, History of England
Guizot, M. (Trans, by Robert Black), History of France
Haswell, Jock, The Ardent Queen: Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrian Heritage
Hume, David, History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution
