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.”17 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.”18
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:”19 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!
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 Psalter20 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.
“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 £2800 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 £3 3*s*. 4*d*. The Queen does not appear to have required any new clothes, since provisions and wood are alone bought for her.21
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,22 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.”
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.23 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.
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.”24
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 René 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.”25
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?
Notes
17 Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.
18 Patent Roll, 49 Hen. VI.
19 Ib., 9 Edw. IV. and many others.
20 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.
21 Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.
22 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.
23 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.
24 Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.
25 Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.