The Last Plantagenet

  After an abortive effort to arouse the north of England, and another defeat, Margaret left Henry in Scotland and sailed for France. As the Scots, soon after, concluded a fifteen-year truce with Edward, now firmly ensconced on the English throne, the desolate and abandoned king had to betake himself elsewhere. For a full year he stayed in concealment in a rough stretch of hill and dale between Yorkshire and Lancashire. After that he seems to have lived in a monastery, his identity concealed from the monks although the prior without a doubt knew who he was. He probably was happy in this life, his time fully occupied by the regular devotions and periods of contemplation. For some time thereafter he maintained himself in the Furness Fells, attracted no doubt by the proximity of the great Cistercian Abbey. Much of the time he disguised himself in the brown robes of a friar, his head muffled in a cloak to conceal his lack of tonsure, a begging bowl under his arm.

  Here Henry of England must be left for an interval while other aspects of this bitter and seemingly endless struggle are examined. A strange and dismal experience this, for a king, but one which the gentle Henry accepted with his usual patience.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Kingmaker

  1

  THE Wars of the Roses, seemingly, were over. The Lancastrians had been decisively beaten. Queen Margaret and her son were somewhere on the continent, begging frantically for assistance in resuming the conflict. She was willing to give back to the French every inch of their soil still held by the English, including the all-important port of Calais. She offered the English border city of Berwick to the Scots. She had no scruples whatever about the concessions she was willing to make at the expense of the English nation. Henry was known to be wandering, a sad wraith in a friar’s robe, somewhere in the north of England and would inevitably be taken prisoner. Edward IV was firmly enthroned and striving to restore order with the assistance of the powerful man who had done so much to place him there.

  The death of Warwick’s father at Wakefield had made him the richest man in England. He inherited the earldom of Salisbury with extensive landholdings in Yorkshire and the west country; and, of course, he still held his previous honors and the quite tremendous estates which had come to him through his marriage with the Warwick heiress. His income probably exceeded that of the king. He held most of the key posts under Edward and had gradually gathered all the administrative and diplomatic reins into his extremely able hands.

  Edward seems to have been willing at first to let the mighty Warwick take the burden of goverment off his own shoulders. An inconvenient attack of measles made it necessary for the siege of the northern strongholds still in Lancastrian hands, particularly Alnwick and Bamborough, to be conducted by Warwick. These massive and strategic castles passed back and forth from hand to hand but finally came into the Yorkist maw, clearing the country of all Red Rose centers, with the exception of Harlech Castle in Wales. The Earl of Pembroke took an army up into the Welsh hills to see what could be done about Harlech. His own brother, Sir Richard Herbert, a stout Lancastrian adherent, was in command of the garrison. The younger brother scoffed at the demand for the surrender of this castle so famed in story and song. “I held a town in France till all the old women in Wales heard of it,” he declared. “And now all the old women in France shall hear how I defend this castle.” He held out bravely but finally all the old women in England heard that he had been compelled to capitulate.

  Warwick was above everything else a diplomat. His shrewdness and his overpowering personality made him as useful as Cardinal Wolsey would later prove in Henry VIII’s behalf. His chief task was to make it impossible for Margaret to arrange any alliances on the continent. To accomplish this he tried to establish a permanent peace with the French king, the shrewd and miserly Louis XI, in preference to continuing the Burgundian alliance. This was the wiser course of the two, but the people of England preferred the Burgundian bond because of trade advantages. Warwick, knowing himself right, brushed the national prejudice aside and strove with ceaseless energy to improve relations with France. He succeeded certainly in destroying the doubts of the continental neighbors and convincing them that Edward was on the throne to stay. He was soon regarded abroad as the pillar of the English throne.

  Edward, now in his twentieth year, would have to marry. As he was the most prominent and eligible bachelor in Christendom, Warwick used the problem of a wife for him as his most useful diplomatic weapon. Among all the princesses available, some young, some mature, some pretty, some with large noses and bulging frames, Warwick fixed his mind on wedding the handsome young monarch to a sister-in-law of Louis XI, Bona of Savoy. This seemed such a suitable match that the resourceful commoner was on the point of going to France to see the fair Bona and to discuss terms with the devious Louis when Edward himself disrupted the plan. He chose a wife for himself and married her secretly.

  2

  John of Bedford, the most able and trustworthy of the brothers of Henry V, was married twice, his second wife being Jaquetta of Luxembourg. She is described in historical records as being handsome and lively, an understatement as, in reality, she was very handsome and extremely lively. When Bedford died, she was escorted to England by a guard of English knights under the command of Sir Richard Woodville. Now it happened that Woodville was considered the handsomest man in England. After an interval, the lively Jaquetta married the young knight, but the fact was concealed for five years. Parliament was very angry about it when the truth was revealed (the House seems to have been more easily stirred to indignation by such matters than by the needs of the people) and the dowry of the duchess was confiscated. Later it was restored and the duchess and her handsome spouse took up their residence at Grafton Castle. In the meantime a daughter had been born and named Elizabeth. There might be some to dispute the claims to supreme pulchritude of the parents, but there was never any shadow of doubt that the daughter grew up to be the loveliest lady in the whole land. Other children came along and they all had their share of this heritage of good looks. All of them were filled, almost from childhood, with ambition and self-will, their most amiable trait being a readiness to stand together and support one another in their avaricious designs.

  Elizabeth was appointed a maid of honor to Queen Margaret and at the age of twenty-one, a dazzlingly fair creature, was married, quite happily, to John Grey, son of Earl Ferrers of Groby. John Grey took the Lancastrian side and was commander of Queen Margaret’s cavalry. He died of wounds sustained in the second Battle of St. Albans, leaving his widow with two healthy young sons. When the White Rose triumphed and Edward became king, he promptly confiscated the property of Bradgate, the seat of the Grey family, leaving Elizabeth and her two boys in a condition almost of penury.

  The duchess Jaquetta, who was clever and a schemer, patched up her differences with Edward, and the latter sometimes saw her while hunting in the forest of Whittlebury, a royal chase near Grafton. This enabled the new young widow to employ an old and well-tried stratagem to bring her case before the young and highly susceptible king. One day, as he was riding through the forest, he saw a lady, holding two small boys by the hand, under a stately tree which was to stand for many centuries thereafter and to be known as the Queen’s Oak. He reined in his horse (perceiving how lovely she was), and the widow threw herself at his feet. She pleaded with him earnestly to take pity on the sad lot of her small sons.

  To understand what followed it must be believed that, although the king was more ardent in the pursuit of fair ladies than of the deer in the royal forest, he had never seen one to compare with the slender widow kneeling beside his horse. He remained in the saddle in a state of breathless wonder.

  In most descriptions her hair is called “gilt” in color, which meant undoubtedly that it had tints of copper as well as gold. Her eyes were large and blue, her features delicately molded, her figure ravishing. She proceeded to demonstrate, moreover, that she was gifted in the arts of enticement and could stir any masculine heart by the flutter of an eyelash. Certainly sh
e played havoc with the heart beating under the velvet riding jacket of royal Edward.

  His surrender to her was immediate and complete. He not only restored Bradgate to her but continued with great regularity to meet her under the same oak tree. He made every effort to convince the fair Elizabeth that she might reasonably agree to a closer relationship between them but found her adamant in her refusal.

  “My liege,” she is reported to have said, “full well I know I am not good enough to be your queen. But ah, dear liege lord, I am far too good to become your mistress.”

  That irresistible squire of dames, the king, passed through many stages of baffled feelings over this denial of his amorous plans. With great reluctance, it may be assumed, he finally offered her marriage. In the chronicle of Fabyan, the result was recorded as follows:

  In most secret manner, upon the first of May, 1464, king Edward espoused Elizabeth, late being wife of Sir John Gray. Which espousailles was solemnized early in the morning at the town called Grafton near to Stoney-Stratford. At which marriage was none present but the spouse, the spousesse, the duchess of Bedford, her mother, the priest and two gentlemen and a young man who helped the priest to sing.

  The next day the bride’s father, who now held the title of Lord Rivers, received word from the king that he was coming to pay him a visit. Edward remained four days, and the artful Jaquetta arranged matters so skillfully that the king spent each night with Elizabeth and never a word of scandal was raised. Even the father of the bride was kept in the dark.

  Finally, of course, the truth had to come out. On Michaelmas Day of that year, Edward brought together a number of the peers in the palace at Reading and acknowledged Elizabeth openly as his wife. Later in the day the new consort was publicly declared queen in the abbey and received the vows of allegiance of all the peers present, including the Earl of Warwick. The latter was seething with indignation, but apparently he concealed the fact for the time being. Clearly the Kingmaker was disturbed over the inevitable rupture in relations with the King of France because of the rejection of the match arranged with the fair Bona. Nevertheless he knelt before the lovely bride and kissed her hand with proper respect. He was even assiduous in the attentions he paid her.

  Elizabeth was attired on this great occasion in gold brocade of garter blue, with robings of ermine fitted over her slender shoulders. Her golden hair had been left free and hung in shimmering ringlets to her knees. A queen in appearance, most certainly, even though commoner blood flowed in her veins.

  The marriage was deeply resented by the members of the older nobility. They seem to have realized, even at this early date, that the rapacity of the Woodville family would now be openly manifested. At the brilliant tournaments and court functions which followed the announcement, the glowing queen was surrounded by her younger sisters, all nearly as lovely as she and all anxious to acquire noble and wealthy husbands. Not far in the background were her tall and handsome brothers. In October the queen’s sister Margaret was married to Thomas, Lord Maltravers, the heir of the Earl of Arundel. Her sister Mary was awarded a matrimonial plum in the person of William Herbert, who later succeeded his father as Earl of Pembroke. The other sisters all married well. The greatest indignation was aroused when the thrice-married dowager Duchess of Norfolk, a skittish lady of nearly eighty, took the queen’s brother John as her fourth husband. John was twenty years old, but he was agreeable to the match. Everywhere the match was derided as this “diabolical marriage,” but the Woodvilles smiled and shrugged their shoulders. The raddled beldam was rich—very, very rich.

  Finally Elizabeth’s father, handsome sire of these handsome schemers, was promoted to the rank of earl, and at that the wrath of the baronage rose to a fever pitch.

  The Kingmaker was no longer a power in the realm and, like Achilles, he sulked in his tent. Very soon thereafter, things reached a stage of tension which led to the second half of the Wars of the Roses. It seems quite possible that, except for the expert fluttering of a pair of long eyelashes one spring day in the forest of Whittlebury, the country would have remained at peace and many terrible battles would never have been fought.

  3

  For more than four years after the announcement of the king’s marriage, during which the queen’s family became dominant at court, Warwick withdrew largely from active co-operation with Edward. He was furious, of course, at the way his power had been taken from him and he cordially hated the Woodvilles. His character changed noticeably in this brief space of time. In place of the affability and openhandedness which had made him so popular, he became morose and critical. He even changed in appearance. His face no longer wore its customary smile and in its place was a suspicious scowl.

  He still had friends in all parts of the kingdom, however, and throughout these years there were continuous irruptions in various parts of the country. They did not come to the point of open insurrection, but it was apparent that the men behind them were friends of the Kingmaker. Wherever they went they would shout, “A Warwick! A Warwick!” and they posted long statements of their grievances. In one of the engagements which resulted from these disturbances, the queen’s father, Lord Rivers, was captured and beheaded. The same fate befell two descendants of the union of dowager Queen Katherine and Owen Tudor.

  King Edward had good reason to believe that the hand of Warwick could be detected in these continuous breaches of the peace, but he hesitated to bring things to an open rupture. He was too conscious of the great power still wielded by his former chief minister to risk a break.

  Warwick’s ambitions had begun to soar. He was no longer content to stand behind a king, even though the latter might be of his own making. A revealing statement was made to an emissary of the King of France, who crossed into England to see him. This agent, whose name was Manipenny, was quite as devious as his master, but Warwick seems to have spoken quite openly to him. “It is a matter,” he declared, “of being either master or varlet!” And this man of deep purpose had no intention of being a varlet. He wanted to hold the supreme power in his own hands, but he realized that he could never hope (except under extraordinary circumstances) to be crowned himself.

  But there was another way. The oldest brother of the king still alive was Prince George, who had been made Duke of Clarence. That title, it may be explained, was derived from the old family name of Clare, who had had vast landholdings in Ireland and in Gloucestershire. The name George came, of course, from St. George, the patron saint of England. He seems to have been the first member of a royal line to bear the name in England. A very weak man was this George to bear so stout a name—no dragon-killer in any sense of the word. Instead he was vain, envious, and lacking in all fine qualities such as loyalty and courage. As usual with characters of this kind (the pages of history are red with their misdeeds), he believed himself capable of reigning just as well as his brother Edward, if not a little better. It irked him to stand behind the royal shoulder and to bend his knee in obedience.

  Warwick had kept this weakling in his eye for a long time and considered him a perfect tool for the purpose he had in mind. If Edward were deposed, he could put George in his place, being certain that the foolish and fickle prince would be putty in his hands. It would be clear to everyone that he, Warwick, was ruler in all but name. This would suffice his proud spirit. And if George became troublesome? That would open up new vistas.

  To bring the unstable Clarence over to his side, Warwick convinced him he should marry his daughter Isabel. She seems to have been too young and innocent to wed the dissolute prince and, in addition, King Edward had other plans for his brother. The purpose of Warwick became very clear when the news reached Westminster that Clarence had crossed to Calais, where Warwick was now located, and had married Isabel.

  Warwick had a double purpose in mind. To throw Edward off the throne would require aid from the Lancastrian part of the population. He must, therefore, act in concert with them. Clarence was in his net but it might become necessary to cast him overboa
rd. Henry, the deposed king, had not long to live and it might not be too inconvenient to let him sit on the throne for a few years. Warwick had complete belief in his own ability to ride the future with a firm rein, come what may. It might be possible to put a son-in-law on the throne rather than let it pass to Henry’s son.

  So at this stage he sought the assistance of Louis XI of France, and that most artful of monarchs was delighted to do anything in his power to renew the conflict in England. His policy had been to keep the English fighting among themselves, under their absurd rose symbols, because only in that way could they be prevented from swarming over into France to fight for the French throne. His willingness to work with Warwick had been strengthened by an announcement made in the House of Commons by Edward of his determination to regain by arms all the dominions in France formerly held by England.

  The first step toward reopening the civil war was to gain the active support of Queen Margaret. That, it soon became clear, was not going to be easy.

  Margaret, queen of sorrows and enmities, had been in France now for nine years, nursing her grievances and striving to secure help wherever she could. She was temperamentally incapable of forgiving an enemy; and highest of all on the list of those for whom she bore an unending grudge was the name of Warwick. It was through his energy and daring that the house of York had gained the throne. He haunted her dreams, this resourceful man against whom she had striven in vain. And, above everything else, she could not forgive him for standing up openly at St. Paul’s Cross and charging her with adultery at the time of the birth of her son. Make friends with Warwick? Margaret’s first reaction was an emphatic and almost hysterical negative.