Chapter I: The Fledglings Leave the Nest (4)

Jaspar stood looking at his friend with eyes of utter want of comprehension. Exeter "spoke to him who never had a child," and who, moreover, had but little sympathy with human sorrow. It was inconceivable to Jaspar why a man should bring his private sorrows into his political rejoicings, while to Exeter the difficulty would have been to allow the political joy to temper the private sorrow. Nor was Warwick a whit more sympathising. To weep for a woman, or anything that concerned one, was his emblem for masculine weakness of the extremest type. Exeter passed on, and sought refuge in his own chamber, where he lay down, but did not sleep, that night.

But when, the next morning, he presented himself as usual in the presence-chamber, he found that the Palace of Westminster held one Christ-like heart--a heart more at home in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting,--

"A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise."

Through the score of eager, triumphant faces in the presence-chamber, the face upon which grief was written was instantly visible to those eyes which were worth so little for earthly foresight, and were so rich toward God.

"My Lord of Exeter! The King calls for you."

The King himself was that day at his happiest--with the last earthly happiness which he was ever to know. He was at home again--and his was a nature which clung to accustomed things; and he was expecting the daily arrival of his wife and son, when--as he and every body believed--all would again flow smoothly, and they would live happily ever after. But Henry was one of those rare souls who cannot be happy till they have made others so.

"I pray you, come this way, my good Lord," said the King. "There is trouble in your eyes. Is it aught I may remedy?"

"I thank your Highness heartily; but I fear not. There be evils that none save the King of kings may deal withal."

Exeter had not meant to say another word. But in five minutes--he scarcely knew how--he found himself telling the whole story of his sorrow to the tender soul which shone in those royal eyes.

"I need not tell you, my good Lord," said the gentle comforter, "that he were an ill soldier that should lie down to sleep ere the battle were won. It will not be long ere the battle is over. It seems to me at times"--and the dark eyes grew dreamy, as they were very wont to do--"as if it were only such a little while! And then God shall give us back to each other. We have only to wait for Him."

"My Lord, I cry your Highness mercy, but it looks to me this night a very, very long while."

The King smiled on his godson. The spiritual relationship between them made it only natural that the one should offer instruction and comfort to the other. He said, "_Unus dies apud Dominum sicut mille anni, et mille anni sicut dies unus_."[#]

[#] 2 Peter iii. 8.

"Ah, Sire!" said Exeter sadly, "the one day for Him, but for us the thousand years."

The response came quickly. "'_Ego vobiscum sum omnibus dielus_.'"[#]

[#] Matt. xxviii. 20.

"We cannot see our Lord, Sire."

"He can see us."

"True: yet, my gracious Lord"----

"My son," said the King tenderly, "He hath written down a word of set purpose for thee. '_Quomodo miseretur pater jiliorum, misertus est Dominus timentibus se_.' Muse thou thereon, and God lead thee into His peace."[#]

[#] Psalm ciii. 13.

He had said enough, for the Word of God in his lips had reached the heart of the mourner. It was nothing new--it had been sung in Exeter's hearing a hundred times--but it came this time with power. Did God feel for him just as he felt for that one darling child over whom he was yearning and lamenting? It said just that. What right had he to water it down, and make it mean something vague and metaphysical? At last he had found the man who understood him. The King was a father himself, and a very loving one. And had he not at last found the God who understood him?--who was indeed his Father, who loved him as he loved his little Nan?

Yes, it would be only a little while. Ah, how little for him who spoke! Three short months, into which was to be poured an ocean of living agony, and then he should see God, and be at peace for ever. And to him who heard, only a little longer. He had but to wait for God.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*THE MIST ON EASTER DAY.*

"Such a day,
An old man sees but once in all his time."
--EDWIN ARNOLD.

In vain the "King-Maker" waited at Dover for the Queen. The west wind which had fallen a little in London, and thus excited their hopes, set in with more violence than before, and Marguerite, notwithstanding her agony of impatience, was bound hopelessly at Harfleur.

But though winds and waves fought against the coming of her who was so sorely needed, they seemed powerless to deter him against whose return all Lancastrians were praying. Backed by the secret machinations of the Duke of Burgundy, Edward embarked at Ter Veere on the second of March: and after twelve days' tossing, landed at Ravenspur on the fourteenth of that month. Did it strike him as a parallel coincidence that under the same circumstances, and at the same place, seventy years before, Henry of Lancaster had landed, softly announcing to the populace that he had no designs upon the Crown, and came only to recover his own inheritance? Probably it did, for he imitated his predecessor's tactics in every particular. He came only to secure his duchy of York, as he sweetly assured the people of Holderness when they opposed his landing. Surely they would allow him to proceed to his own property--to his own city? He was the truest subject King Henry had, nor would he ever have been otherwise but for the inciting of that wicked Earl of Warwick. He stuck the ostrich feather in his cap--the badge of Prince Edward,--and solemnly swore eternal allegiance to King Henry. The honest folks in Holderness were completely won by this fine-spoken man. They fell back, and let him ride on to York.

But York was held by a Clifford,--sternest of all families adherent to the House of Lancaster. It was the head of that House--the "Bloody Clifford,"--who, just ten years before, had gleefully cut off the head of Edward's father, had crowned it with a paper crown, and set it high on Micklegate Bar. He, too, had stabbed young Rutland--the best of the York brothers--in cold blood after the battle of Wakefield. As Edward came up to York, the ghastly heads upon Micklegate Bar, the foremost of which was his own father's, seemed to be the only friends to welcome him. But though Edward could assume sentiment exquisitely, when he expected it to pay, he was not in reality much under its influence. There was no softening at his heart when he rode up to Micklegate, and sounded his horn for a parley, and proudly desired York to open her gates to her Duke. The old Lord Clifford would have known better than to rest any faith on the fair words of the Rose of Rouen. But his kinsman Mr. Thomas was not so wary. He consented to a parley. And when Edward, at the close of his eloquent and well-studied speech, ended by flinging up the ostrich-feathered cap into the air, with the loyal cry of "A, King Harry! A, King and Prince Edward!" the Governor and citizens of York were won. Beguiled, not conquered, they offered to let him pass southward on condition that he would swear his allegiance. Edward, Jesuit to the core, was ready to swear any thing. Had they promised to escort him to London with an army on condition of his swearing to restore the worship of Jupiter, the probability is that he would have accepted the oath with graceful complacency. Micklegate was thrown open, and Edward with his band passed through, and marched towards London.

The reconquest of England was an easier matter to Edward of York than it had been to Henry of Lancaster. Three months had elapsed between the landing and coronation of the former; one was enough for the latter. There were traitors in the Lancastrian camp, whose hearts were always ready to desert, and who only required to hear that Edward had landed to induce an immediate and public declaration in his behalf. Foremost of these was the heavily perjured Clarence, with whom his sister of Burgundy had been secretly tampering. Edward was now at the head of a very small band, consisting of nine hundred English and three hundred Flemings. With him were his faithful friend Lord Hastings, Lord Say, and a few more distinguished persons. But by the time he came to Nottingham, Sir William Stanley and Sir William Norris had joined him with four hundred more; and with men slowly coming in to him along the line of march, he arrived at Leicester. Here was Warwick waiting for him. A battle was imminent, when letters from Clarence reached Warwick, stating that he was on his way from London to join him, and begging him not to fight until he came. Warwick committed the fatal blunder of compliance. Humanly speaking, had he engaged in battle at once, the probability is that Edward would have been easily driven out of England.

It was not until the 25th of March that the news of Edward's landing reached London. The language of the grant of Tutbury and many other manors to Clarence on the 23rd, intimates that no such information had reached King Henry on that day. But on Lady Day a proclamation was issued appointing Clarence, Warwick, and others, to gather the King's subjects and to defend the kingdom, "against our enemies and adversaries of Flanders, Burgundy, and other parts, by the excitation, procuration, and inducement of our great adversary and rebel, Edward, of late the false, traitorous, and usurping occupant of our crown and dignity."[#] Two days later, the young Prince of Wales was created Viceroy of England against "Edward our rebel, who, with subjects of Burgundy and Flanders, has landed in the north."[#]

[#] Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.

[#] Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.

This is the only occasion on which the language used by, or in the name of, Henry VI. departs from the calm dignity which characterises it on all others in making mention of Edward IV. Edward can never allude to Henry without a spiteful addition of "late in dede and nat of ryght King:"[#] but Henry's allusions to Edward are always content with, "Edward IV., late _de facto_ King of England." There is a kind of feverish spite about Edward's notices of his rival, which is exchanged for quiet matter-of-fact in his rival's notices of him. It is easy to see that Henry had the better title--because he makes so little fuss over it!

[#] Ib., 9 Edw. IV. and many others.

Late on the evening of the 10th of April, George Neville, Archbishop of York, sat writing in the Bishop of London's Palace. To this place the Court had been removed, under the impression that the City would be easier to defend than the less protected town of Westminster. In an adjoining chamber King Henry slept the quiet sleep of the just, with his Latin Psalter[#] lying on the table beside his bed. The Archbishop had paused in his writing, and was thinking deeply, his head resting on his hand; "when a slight sound caused him to lift his eyes, and he looked up into the unexpected face of Master John Shorter, sometime varlet of the chamber to King Edward IV.

[#] This Latin Psalter, originally the property of Richard II., and afterwards of Henry VI., is now in the British Museum (Cott. MS., Domit., A., xvii.), a beautifully illuminated and most interesting volume.

"Whence camest thou?" was the astonished query.

"Out of the street," said Shorter, drily.

"To what end?"

"To tell your Lordship a thing."

"What thing? Prithee, have on with thy matters, and be done. I am busy."

"Your Grace may yet be busier, when King Edward cometh."

"My Lady Saint Mary! What mean you?"

"I left him, my Lord, on the hither side of Herts."

"Gramercy! When?"

"This morrow at day-break."

"Is he on his way to London town?"

"Certes, my Lord."

The Archbishop's face might have furnished, not one, but several studies for a painter, as successive and diverse emotions swept across it. Foremost was the true Neville sentiment--How will this affect _me_? He was silent for a moment, pondering that deeply interesting question.

"Did he send thee to me?"

"He did so, my good Lord."

"What would he have of me?"

Shorter came close to the desk, and quietly laid down before the Archbishop a parchment to which a seal was affixed. It was a document, couched in highly flattering terms, addressed by Edward, by the Grace of God King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, to his dearly beloved and faithful, the Most Reverend Father in God, George, by Divine permission Archbishop of York, conveying his royal pardon to the said Archbishop, for all treasons, felonies, and offences whatsoever, committed before the thirteenth day of April, 1471. In other words, the Archbishop was pardoned beforehand for the sins of the three days next ensuing. Some people might have felt puzzled as to the ulterior meaning of such a document. Not so Archbishop Neville. He comprehended to perfection that he was expected to purchase that parchment, by some tremendous act of service still to be performed, and requiring official forgiveness from the _de facto_ sovereign.

"What would he?"

An expressive pantomime from Shorter pointed first to the door of King Henry's chamber, then to a bunch of keys which lay on the desk, and lastly to the prelate himself. The latter pursed up his lips for a moment.

"Rather ugly work!" he muttered, as if to himself.

"Necessity," shortly suggested the messenger.

"Where?" was the equally short answer.

"Here. There is, of course, one unconvenient matter."

The Archbishop looked up for explanation.

"That all suspiciousness may be diverted from your Grace, it shall be needful to arrest you with the other."

A nod of intelligence from the Archbishop.

"Your captivity shall be matter but of a few days."

The prelate nodded again.

"Go you back to His Highness?"

"I have first to speak with Master Recorder, which hath promised me the key of Aldersgate."

"Ha!--when shall this matter be?"

"Maundy Thursday, in the even. 'The better day, the better deed.'"

The Archbishop received the wicked proverb with a grim smile. "Very good: I undertake it."

"I thank your Grace for my master. God give you good even."

"The peace of Christ be upon you! Amen."

Which benediction really meant the expression of a wish that the diabolical bargain just concluded might not be successful, for surely the last thing likely to come upon its actors was the peace of Christ.

Another sort of peace they had. The City was perfectly calm, and its guardians utterly unsuspicious, when on the following night, Mr. Urswick, the Recorder of London, came down with a few more to Aldersgate, and quietly let in about a dozen men who were waiting outside. They were wrapped in long cloaks, in which they muffled their faces; and, accompanied by Urswick, they took their way to the Bishop's Palace. Behind the postern door the Archbishop's servant was waiting, and they were allowed to enter as silently as possible.

Upstairs, in the royal chamber, King Henry sat with that devout prelate who has been already mentioned. They had been discussing political matters for a short time, and then the King, turning to a subject more congenial to himself, had requested the Archbishop's opinion as to the meaning of a passage in the Psalms. Both by intuition and education, George Neville was about as well fitted to judge of the meaning of King David as a snail to decide the intentions of an eagle. But he was a priest; therefore of course he must be competent to expound Scripture. The prelate began glibly to explain that of which he had not the remotest idea, and the King meekly to receive instruction on a subject with which he was far better acquainted than his instructor. The notion that he could be better than any body in any possible sense, outside the mere fact of social position, never occurred to the mind of King Henry, one of the humblest Christians that ever breathed.

A slight click of the door-lock made the prelate look up. The King was too much interested in his subject, and his head was bent over the Psalter. In the doorway stood the Recorder of London, and several others were dimly visible behind him. The traitor knew that the hour of his treachery had come.

"What is this?" he exclaimed, with well feigned astonishment. "Master Urswick, who be these with you? The blessed saints be about us! Treachery, my gracious Lord, treachery! Here is my Lord of March!"

Aye, treachery enough! Henry lifted his head, rose, and confronted Edward with a steady gaze as he came forward boldly into the room.

They stood fronting each other, the two Kings, the cousins and rivals, each of whom saw in the other an unprincipled usurper. Only, in the one case, the conviction was a calm certainty that the thing was so, and in the other a feverish determination that it must and should be.

"What dost thou here in my place, thou rebel?" was the insolent demand of Edward, who had sworn many an oath of allegiance to the man whom he addressed.

"I am here in mine own, as God wot," was the dignified reply. "What would you with me?"

Edward turned to his followers without deigning a reply. "Take the rebel," said he, "and this priest with him."

The Archbishop, with well counterfeited terror, began to implore mercy. The King asked none, nor did he waste another word on Edward. He lifted his calm dark eyes heavenward, and merely said, to the sole Friend who was with him, "_Fiat voluntas Tua!_"

An hour later, he was once more secured in his old dungeon in the Tower.

The gates of London were thrown open, and the northern army of Edward poured into the City. The Sanctuary was visited, and the Countess of March and her infant son, now suddenly become the Queen and the Prince, were installed in Westminster Palace with fitting ceremony. The reign of Henry VI. was over, and the eleventh year of Edward IV. had begun.

The restored monarch was grace and graciousness to all around him. While he took care to propitiate and make friends of those who had hitherto been enemies, Edward did not, like his descendant Charles II., commit the fatal mistake of overlooking and neglecting to reward his friends. He gave away twenty tuns of wine (not forgetting to spend some L2800 on himself), replaced his old officers in their respective state positions, and made up for the forced abstinence and shabbiness of his recent life by buying a new service of plate, ordering twenty-one gold collars (doubtless for presents to his friends who had proved faithful in adversity), purchasing horses, and providing six new and gorgeous garments--a robe of tawny satin, a doublet of purple satin, two jackets of cloth of gold, and two "habits" of black damask and crimson velvet--for his wardrobe. He further expended in alms the munificent sum of L3 3*s*. 4*d*. The Queen does not appear to have required any new clothes, since provisions and wood are alone bought for her.[#]

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.

So quietly had this mighty reversion of state affairs been effected, that the citizens of London were unconscious that any thing was happening until they saw the army of Edward IV. marching along their streets. Then, of course, it was too late to express an adverse opinion, had they wished to do so.

The necessary imprisonment of that honourable man, Archbishop Neville, extended only to a few days. He was received into favour on the day to which his pardon reached, but was not released from the Tower until a little later.

And then, when it was too late, the wind changed. Three times had Queen Marguerite set forth from Harfleur, and three times was she driven back on the French coast. Now, just when all was over which her coming might have prevented, on the 24th of March, she was able to embark, and she landed at Weymouth on Saturday night, the 13th of April, which was Easter Eve. Can we come to any conclusion but that of the contemporary letter-writer, that "God hath showed Himself marvellously like Him that made us all, and can undo again when Him list?" It was not immediately upon landing that the mournful news of her husband's capture and deposition met her. The news was to be far worse before it should reach her. She proceeded inland about thirteen miles, as far as the Abbey of Cerne, and there awaited the ceremonies of Easter. The Prince was with her--unconscious of his proclamation as Viceroy of England, as well as of the downfall of all his hopes--the Princess, and their respective suites.

While Marguerite and her companions knelt at mass that Easter morning in the chancel of Cerne Abbey, with the last hope springing in their hearts which they were ever to know, scenes very unbefitting Easter-tide were taking place in and near the metropolis.

No sooner had Warwick heard of the return of Edward than he came dashing down from the north, and with Exeter,[#] Somerset, Montague, Oxford, and forty thousand men, marched to take the field at Barnet. Exeter and Somerset wished to wait until the Prince should come up, as they had heard of his landing: but this Warwick refused to do. He was doubtful of the good faith of Somerset, who had ere this shown himself remarkably devoid of that quality; to which motive on Warwick's part Comines adds another--"the hatred he bore to Queen Marguerite."

[#] Where and when Exeter had joined Warwick we have no information. It is only known that he was in London on the 14th of February, and that he came with Warwick from the north on the 13th of April.

As soon as Edward heard of Warwick's approach, he and his brother of Gloucester went out to meet him. They took with them carefully one person whom they might have been expected to leave behind. This was King Henry. Was there in the minds of the royal brothers of York any sinister intention of exposing their rival to the fate of Uriah the Hittite? Had Henry fallen, perchance by a stray shot from his own side, would the pair have mournfully and hypocritically condoled with each other on the fact that "the sword devoureth one as well as another?"

The little town of Barnet was occupied by Edward, Warwick remaining on the plain without.

Late on that Saturday night, without any previous despatch of a herald, as was usual, to request an interview, the Duke of Clarence, encamped on Gladmore Heath, received a visit from his brother of Gloucester. They held a long conversation; after which Clarence returned with Gloucester to the town, and humbly implored pardon from his brother Edward. He was likely to be welcomed and forgiven, for he brought with him twelve thousand men. This little business arranged, Clarence sent a message to Warwick, informing him of the very interesting occurrence which had just taken place, and offering to make peace for him also. The envoy returned with an answer from Warwick which breathed scorn in every syllable.

"I choose rather," said the King-Maker, "to be consistent with myself than to follow the example of thy perfidy!"

The night was now wearing towards morning--the morning of Easter Sunday. But no sun danced, nor even shone, upon that awful Easter Day. At four o'clock in the morning the armies met, but in so thick a mist that no man could see the banner of his feudal lord. Since the battle of Mortimer's Cross, where three mock suns had been considered a happy augury, Edward had borne as his badge a sun with rays: and the Earl of Oxford's men, mistaking this sun for the star of the Veres, made the blunder of the Midianites, and turned their arms against each other. They engaged with Warwick's men, and a cry of "Treachery!" was raised by both sides. Oxford fled, carrying with him eight hundred men. At this juncture Montague (another "honourable man"), who had been in private correspondence with Edward ever since he landed, thought it time to turn coat, and did so literally, donning Edward's livery under cover of the mist. But some of Warwick's men caught a glimpse of the hated blue and murrey, and falling upon Montague, exacted the penalty of his treachery in his life. Warwick saw that the field was lost. Montague was dead; Exeter was not to be found; Oxford had fled the field. He mounted his horse, and tried to make his own escape through the intricacies of a neighbouring wood. Even here fate met him in the persons of two of Edward's men, who after a short sharp struggle, unhorsed and slew the foremost man of their age--the man who, more or less, for twenty years had had all England at his bidding.

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon. King Edward--king in a sense he had never been till then,--as the first regal act of his restoration, took his revenge upon the commons of England for their Lancastrian proclivities. Hitherto, following the ancient humane custom peculiar to this country (a source of considerable astonishment to French generals), after a battle, Edward had been accustomed to mount his horse, and cry loudly over the field, "Quarter for the commons!" The nobles and gentry of the defeated side were of course put to the sword. But at Barnet Edward forsook his usual custom. He mounted, indeed, but he left the commons quarterless to the fury of his soldiers, and he spurred fast to London.

That evening, after Edward had entered his metropolis in triumph, King Henry was brought, attired in a long gown of blue velvet, from the fatal field of Gladmore Heath, to that silent dungeon in the Tower which he had occupied so long that it must have borne almost a homelike look to him, and which he was never to leave again, except for the better Home above.

When the military grave-diggers came to bury the dead, they found lying on Gladmore Heath the body of the Duke of Exeter. He had fought manfully, and had fallen at seven o'clock, since which time he had lain insensible on the field. They took him at first for dead: but on careful consideration they came to the conclusion that life was not quite extinct. The party of workers were either Lancastrians, or they were for their time inexplicably tolerant and humane. Instead of stamping out the little spark of life, they respected it, and carried the Duke to the house of one Ruthland, an old servant of his own, who nursed his master back to that life which was worth so little to him. He was then, on the 26th of May, carried a prisoner to Westminster, where he was allowed the service of a chaplain, cook, page, and varlet, with three servants to wait on them. He was detained in this captivity until the fifteenth of September.[#] Six shillings and eightpence per week were allowed for the Duke's board, two shillings for the chaplain, twenty pence each for the cook, page, and varlet, and sixteen pence each for the inferior domestics.

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.--Rymer is apparently under a mistake in stating that Exeter fled to Westminster Sanctuary, about two months after Barnet. The language of the Roll is decisive that Exeter was a prisoner, and not in sanctuary, between the dates named.

King Henry was rather better treated. Dispute his title as he might, Edward provided for him as for a captive prince. About half-a-crown per day was allowed for his "diet;" but a strong guard of thirty-six persons, afterwards gradually reduced to eleven, was thought necessary for his safe keeping.

The corpses of Warwick and Montague were exposed to popular view, with uncovered faces, in St. Paul's Cathedral, for four days: and on the eighteenth of April they were laid with their Montacute fathers in the church at Bisham. The day after their funeral, the royal pardon was renewed to their brother the Archbishop. His offence was that of "taking oath to Harry our great adversary, as to his Sovereign Lord, and to Margaret, calling her Queen, which if a French woman born, and daughter to him that is extreme adversary and mortal enemy to all this our land and people," and "assembling unto him numbers of French men beside other traitors and rebels."[#]

[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.

Considering that Edward himself had married the daughter of a French lady, had negotiated previously for his marriage with an Italian Princess, and had reconquered England with the assistance of Flemings, this taunt upon Queen Marguerite's foreign extraction and alien troops is rather amusing, and marked with as much consistency as usually characterised his actions. What poor King Rene of Naples had done, to be singled out beyond all other persons as the special adversary to the English land and people, may reasonably be questioned, particularly by those who know his quiet, rather lazy, artistic disposition. But people in a passion, and people trying to impress others with a conviction, are not in all cases consistent and truthful.

On the 27th of April a solemn proclamation was issued by name of "the King's rebels and traitors." The announcement of the names was not made with particular courtesy. They were "Margaret (with no other distinctive appellation); Edward, her son; Henry, late Duke of Exeter (whose wife continued to be styled Duchess); Edmund Beaufort, calling himself Duke of Somerset; John, Earl of Oxford; John Courtenay, calling himself Earl of Devon; William late Viscount Beaumont; John Beaufort and Hugh Courtenay, knights." It was solemnly commanded that none should "give them help, favour, or succour, on pain of death and forfeiture of all held of us: we calling Almighty God to record that it shall be against our will and intent."[#]

[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.

Did it ever strike the man who dictated these words, that God Almighty had kept a record concerning him, and did he ever think what his feelings would be, when that record was read out before men and angels? The Nemesis for the sins of Henry IV. was descending with dire vengeance on the House of Lancaster. But did he imagine that the House of York should escape the judgment of God--that the Jehu who had been raised up to destroy the innocent sons of Ahab, should be permitted to walk with impunity in the sins of Jeroboam?

*CHAPTER VII.*

*THE LAST BATTLE OF THE RIVAL ROSES.*

"May this be borne? How much of agony
Hath the heart room for?"
--FELICIA HEMANS.

One enemy remained for Edward IV. to vanquish, and it was a woman: a woman whose hand he had kissed upon the knee, and whom his Queen had served in her chamber. So long as husband and son were left to fight for, so long Marguerite of Anjou was irrepressible and invincible. When they were not, the complete indifference of despair with which she let the sceptre drop from her hand, proved that it was not it which she had loved, but them.

Yet the dreadful news which met her at Cerne Abbey for one moment overwhelmed the eager and resolute spirit. King Henry was once more a captive, and Warwick--who united the strange characters of her worst enemy in private, and her sole reliable friend in public--could be neither enemy nor friend any more for ever. The bright head was bowed down, and tears, such as Marguerite was rarely seen to shed, came rushing from her eyes.

"Oh, let us give it up!" she cried. "Edward, let us go back to France, and give up the struggle!"

"I cry you mercy, Madame my mother!" was the ringing answer of the Prince. "Never, while another battle may retrieve all! Look, I pray you--have we not yet the Duke of Somerset"----

"Not to be trusted," said Marguerite, under her breath.

"And my Lord of Oxford"----

"Who fled from us at Barnet."

"And my Lord of Devon"----

"Well, yes--I think _he_ may be."

The Prince dropped on one knee, and clasped his mother's hand in his.

"And, sweet Mother, have you not _me_?"

The Queen clasped her darling in her arms, and bent her fair head low upon his darker locks.

"_Mon cheri, mon mignon!_" she cried tenderly, in her own language, not often used now, for English had become almost the mother-tongue to the woman who had been Queen of England since she was a maiden of sixteen years. "Aye, my streak of sunlight, I have thee!--and never will I let thine inheritance calmly fall into the hands of thine enemies! Come, let us be up and doing. When, on the day of mine espousals, I set the Rose of England in my bosom, did I not know that I must wear it with all its thorns?"[#]

[#] The last sentence is in the actual words of the Queen, though not spoken on this occasion.

The momentary sensation of irresolute hopelessness was passed, and Marguerite was herself again. She held a council of war, at which it was decided that they should march on the western provinces, which were more loyal than the midland wherein Warwick had held sway, or the northern of which Edward was Duke. The ladies were to be left behind in sanctuary, except the one or two in personal attendance on the Queen, who knew well enough that whoever might constitute the body of the Lancastrian party, she was and had always been its soul: and that however her forces might acquit themselves with her, they were not likely to do well without her. The Countess of Warwick, with her daughter of Clarence and their suites, had crossed the Channel separately from the Queen, and had taken refuge at Beaulieu Abbey. But nothing would tempt the young Princess of Wales to join them. Whether in life or in death, where her heart's lord was, there also would she be.

The Countess of Devon, in attendance on the Queen, and Lady Katherine Vaux, in waiting on the Princess, were the sole women who accompanied the army. From Bath they marched on to Bristol, intending to join the Earl of Pembroke, Jaspar Tudor, who was coming from Gloucester with his men. But when the Queen's army attempted to pass the Severn, they found themselves intercepted by the men of Gloucester, who urged their necessary "obeissance to their Duke." Marguerite turned aside, and went on to Tewkesbury.

Perhaps few places in England are less changed than Tewkesbury from the appearance they presented in the fifteenth century. Not only the grand old Abbey (alas! restored), but the Bell Inn within a stone's throw, the old winding High Street and its hostelry the Bear, are very little altered in outward seeming from what they were on that night of the third of May, when Marguerite of Anjou drew up her troops in "the Bloody Field" outside the town. Edward was at Tewkesbury in person, awaiting what either side felt instinctively would be the last and decisive battle in the Wars of the Roses.

Early the next morning, the Prince of Wales, who was to command the army, took leave of the royal ladies.

Clasp him close, poor mother! cling to him, young wife! You will do it never, never any more. It was no act of the Prince, whether of commission or omission, that lost the day. Victory hung yet in the balance, when Somerset, traitor to his last breath, fled from his young gallant master, followed by Hugh Courtenay: and from that moment the field was King Edward's.

The Prince was taken. The craven Somerset fled to the sanctuary of a church, and he was followed by Humphrey Audley (who had York blood in his veins), Henry de Ros, James Gower, the Prince's standard-bearer, and many more. But Prince Edward, most valuable prisoner of all, was taken before the conqueror in his royal pavilion. What followed is well known,--King Edward's contemptuous query--

"How camest thou, young man, to bear sword against me?"

It was met by Prince Edward's defiant reply--

"I came to recover my father's kingdom, and mine own inheritance, out of the hands of them that had no right to hold it."[#]

[#] Only the opening words of this speech are commonly quoted.

Some chroniclers say that Edward dashed his gauntleted hand in the face of his young cousin. Others assert that he merely flung a sign to those around him. Either action was well understood. Hastings, the King's faithful servant, and Thomas Grey, his step-son, the affianced of Anne of Exeter, hurried Prince Edward out of his presence to the next tent, where the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester were standing. There they flung him down. One cry of pitiful appeal rang through the evening air--"Clarence! _Brother!_" but Clarence stood deaf and motionless. Gloucester was equally still, but from a very different motive. Then came a second and a lower moan--"_Jesu, Doming!_" That was heard. Another instant, and they had no more that they could do. Edward Plantagenet was with God.

Not that night did Marguerite of Anjou learn all the awful news in store for her. She heard--from the gentle lips of John Combe--that her army was routed, and the day lost: heard it, with the young Princess by her side, seated in that charette in which it had been so difficult to keep her, for she suspected already that fate was going against her, and she was scarcely restrained from mounting her horse, and taking the command of her troops. The one worst item--the loss of her boy--did not reach her then. But what she did hear made her sink down in the charette, "half-dead."

Those about the Queen--very few they were--felt the necessity of doing for her what she was not in a position to do for herself. They hurried the royal ladies away from their dangerous place to a little religious house outside Tewkesbury, where they entered them in sanctuary. Alas for their innocence, if they expected Edward of York to keep promises or reverence sanctuary! At that moment he was presenting himself with drawn sword at the door of the church where so many of the Lancastrian nobles had taken refuge. All honour be to the brave priest who, pix in hand, resolutely barred the victor's entrance, until he had given a solemn promise of pardon to the fugitives. Alas for the fugitives, that they trusted it! All might have escaped, but trusting to that honour of which Edward knew so little, they remained in their asylum until the Monday, when they were marched out and beheaded before the door. Somerset richly deserved his fate: but this cannot be said of many others. Even Humphrey Audley was not spared, though King Edward and he were second cousins.[#]

[#] He was the younger son of Alianora de Holand, Lady Audley, daughter of Constance of York, King Edward's grand-aunt.

Notwithstanding all his specious words, ties of blood, no less than those of gratitude, weighed as nothing with Edward of York when a man stood in his way.

There was a long funeral procession that day in Tewkesbury Abbey. The Duke of Somerset, as we are told by his herald, who was present, was buried "before the image of Saint Jame at an autar in ye said monastery churche on the northe parte."[#] But it was in the very midst of the church, just under the tower, that they laid the flower of the Red Rose, "the gallant-springing young Plantagenet," who in the endeavour to recover his father's kingdom had sacrificed himself. The rest were buried in one great grave, dug close to that of the Prince in the nave of the Abbey.

[#] Harl. MS. 545.--This tomb was removed at a later date, and is now on the south side of the chancel.

The next step on the part of Edward was to capture the two hapless ladies who had taken refuge in the little nunnery. Sir William Stanley--an old enemy of the Queen--was sent to do this; and he is said to have behaved as brutally as he well could, and in particular to have broken to the bereaved mother the news of her boy's death in the most inhuman manner. Driven almost to frenzy by the suddenness and anguish of the blow, Marguerite broke forth into passionate execrations upon Edward and all his posterity, which Stanley had the cruelty to repeat to the conqueror, when, on the 11th of May, he brought his prisoners to Coventry. The royal mourners were conveyed southwards together, captives in the victorious train of the Rose of Rouen.

One more attempt, however, was to be made in the Lancastrian cause, like the last expiring gleam of a candle ere it dies out. The Governors of Calais, Sir Walter Wretill and Sir Geoffrey Gates, despatched the brave, if somewhat rash, Thomas Fauconbridge "to raise Kent, and deliver King Henry from the Tower." It was only a dying flash, but it roused the Yorkists to instant action. Lord Rivers was sent down to Kent and Lord Bourchier to Essex by the Council; Lord Dudley, with a hundred soldiers, was put in charge of the Tower, where defensive works were cast up in haste in less than a week; Lord Hastings was despatched to supersede the Governor of Calais, and Lord Pembroke sent to South Wales "to capture rebels, and reduce the King's castles to his obedience." The citizens of London, that unknown and difficult quantity, were complimented by the gift of two tuns of red wine, "expended on them after the conflict at Mile-end against the rebels."[#] For the safe custody of Rochester Castle, a squire of the body was sent down, by name Thomas St. Leger, of whom we shall hear again.

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV. This Roll is one of the most interesting state papers ever penned.

The insurrection was quashed. But how many more might arise? It was no doubt extremely inconvenient to be perpetually in risk of another; and Henry VI. had still friends enough to make Edward's throne a very uneasy seat. So long as the Lancaster King lived, the York King would have a thorny time of it. There was only one way to end the difficulty: and there was one man who was ready to take it.

On the twenty-first of May, King Edward, accompanied by his brother of Gloucester, and carrying his captives in his victorious train, made his triumphal entry into the City of London. The Queen and Princess were lodged in the Tower. They were now under the same roof as King Henry. If any ray of hope ever entered Marguerite's heart after Tewkesbury, it must have been that night, at the thought of a possible meeting with the husband from whom she had been parted for six weary years. She may well have imagined that fate had done its worst, and no further sorrows could yet be in reserve for her. But the worst had only begun to come. Whether it were that night or a few days later,--within one week from her imprisonment in the Tower, Marguerite of Anjou was a widow.

When and how did Henry VI. die? The how has often been disputed: but the when has generally been considered less doubtful. The popular belief for centuries was that, weary of the continual risk and fear, Gloucester went to the Tower on that same night of his arrival in London, and with one stroke of his dagger ended the Wars of the Roses, and the sorrows of Henry of Lancaster. The courtier Comines writes cautiously: Henry was killed by Gloucester, "if what was told me be true." Had he in his heart believed it untrue, would he have thus mentioned it? One dry old chronicler remarks that Henry died on the twenty-first of May, "the Duke of Gloucester and his men being in the Tower that night." Stow says that his body was carried to St. Paul's in an open coffin on the 22nd. Stow, Sandford, Baker, and Mezeray have no doubt of the murder. It was not until the last century that it was ever questioned, and then by writers who were desirous to whitewash the decidedly black character of Richard III. But so far as I know, no one has ever noticed on either side the singular fact recorded on the Issue Roll, that Henry did not die on the twenty-first at all. There may have been some reason--now perhaps inscrutable--why Edward wished to convince the public that Henry did die on that day: but his own Roll, meant for no eyes but those of safe persons, unquestionably indicates that Henry was living until the 27th of May, six days later. His "diet" is charged until the latter day. There may have been some show of reason, as putting a stop to all future trouble, why the public should believe Henry to be dead when he was not: but what possible cause could there be for entering on the Roll a false statement with the object of showing Henry to be alive when he was really dead? The question of course arises, whose was the body exposed to view in St. Paul's on the twenty-second?--even if we put aside the sensational item that the corpse bled wherever it rested, on account of the presence of the murderer as chief mourner. The Roll above mentioned, which gives the expenses of Henry's funeral, makes no mention of the day of burial. Perhaps the difficulty is best left unsolved, with just one statement--that Gloucester was perfectly capable of the crime laid to his charge: and that the main point of circumstantial evidence in determining the question, is to decide whether Gloucester was or was not at the Tower on the 27th of May.

The strongest evidence known to me in Gloucester's favour is the assertion of Fleetwood, adopted by the usually careful and accurate Carte, that Henry was found dead, probably of apoplexy, on the night of the twenty-first of May. This was of course the York version of facts. But if, as has been shown, the date is conclusively disproved by the testimony of the Issue Roll, may not the circumstances be equally far from true? It was so exceedingly in the interest of Edward that Henry should die just at that moment, that the suspicion of his death having been humanly assisted will never be removed as long as the world lasts.

Very little expense attended the funeral of the dead. Twenty ells of linen cloth, wax, and spices, were provided; two men only carried torches (the number usually corresponding with the years of the deceased); a few soldiers of Calais watched the corpse; and to five orders of friars a pittance was given for masses, wretched indeed when compared with the usual outlay. The whole cost was under L43--just the price that King Edward paid about the same date for a crimson velvet jacket.

There is nothing but pure fancy as the source of the scene imagined by our greatest dramatist, wherein Gloucester makes love to the young Princess of Wales when she officiates as chief mourner at King Henry's funeral. The poor Princess was an outlaw and a prisoner in the Tower at that moment, and assuredly never held any such position, any more than she lent willing ear, whether first or last, to any such words.

The body of King Henry was buried at Chertsey Abbey, where it rested until Gloucester himself was King, when, on the 12th of August, 1484, it was finally removed to his birthplace, Windsor.

Many days had not elapsed after the funeral of the dead King, when London was startled with the news that the Princess of Wales was missing. How she had made good her escape no man knew: that she was no longer a prisoner in the Tower was the one thing certain. Princess, indeed, no one now called her. As her father's daughter, she was still the Lady Anne: and this title now replaced the royal one. The first idea was that she had taken refuge at Beaulieu with her mother; but this was soon found to be a mistake. The Countess of Warwick was still in sanctuary, though her elder daughter, the Duchess of Clarence, had departed at once to take her proper place at Court as King Edward's sister-in-law: and from her honorary imprisonment poor Lady Warwick was inditing pitiful letters to every person whom she thought likely to have any influence with King Edward, in the hope of procuring her pardon. She addressed herself to every member of the royal family in turn; and she notes as a special grievance in the petition she presently offered to the King, that "in the absence of clerkes, she hath wretyn l'res with her owne hand."[#]

[#] Cott. MS. Jul. B. xii., fol. 317.

Bitterly she complains that the King had sent letters to the Abbot of Beaulieu, on account of some "synester informacion to his said Highness made," with orders to keep her in strict prison, which was a deep grief to her. She pleads her sore poverty, being cut off from all enjoyment of her jointure and dower of the earldom of Salisbury, and also from her own Despenser lands and earldom of Warwick: and lastly, she represents that she has no opportunity of putting her case into the hands of any solicitor, nor, if she had, is there one that would dare to undertake it.

Edward paid little attention to this sad appeal. Clarence had his brother's ear: and Clarence had set his mind upon one thing,--to hand down to his children the vast Warwick inheritance, undivided. In order to do this, he grudged his mother-in-law every unnecessary penny: and he determined that so far as in him lay, his sister-in-law, the Princess of Wales, should never marry again. There was much danger of this calamity: not because of any wish to that effect on the part of the girl-widow, whose heart was buried for ever in the nave of Tewkesbury Abbey, and whose sole ambition was to creep out of sight and hearing of the hard, cold world, into some quiet corner, where she could wait undisturbed until God called her to rejoin her dead. The danger arose not from her, but from the Duke of Gloucester. From his early boyhood, Richard of York had loved Anne Neville; or rather, to put it more accurately, he loved himself, and he found in Anne Neville a plaything the possession of which was necessary to his happiness. That he did not love her, he plainly showed by his actions. Had he done so, he would have let her alone, which was all the grace she asked at his hands. But Gloucester, like most human beings, looked upon love and persecution as exchangeable terms. He wanted Anne Neville: whether she wanted him was a point quite unnecessary to take into the account. And Anne did not want him. On the contrary, she intensely disliked him. It was not possible for her to compare to his advantage such a man as this, whose soul was ten times more crooked than his body, with her tender, brave, gallant young Plantagenet, whose death

"had made all earth and heaven
One vaulted grave to her."

It was not his disadvantages of person which made Anne shrink from Gloucester like a bird from a snake. Had the characters been exchanged, matters might have been very different.

These being the circumstances of the case, Anne had lent a willing ear to the overtures of Clarence, who sent her secret messages during her imprisonment, offering to deliver her from the Tower and keep her in hiding from Gloucester. His object was to prevent her from requiring her share of the Warwick lands: hers was to get rid of persecution from a man whom she hated. Both being agreed upon the means, however they might differ in the object, Clarence contrived to steal Anne out of the Tower, and secreted her in a very romantic manner. The Princess of Wales was actually placed in service, as a cook, in "a mean house" in the City of London. So thoroughly was she concealed, that nearly two years elapsed before the indefatigable Gloucester succeeded in discovering the place of her retreat.