CHAPTER VI
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THERE was clear evidence now that the Plantagenet stock was changing with the passing of the years and becoming diluted through foreign marriages. The uniformity of stature, the strength, the startling good looks were not as apparent as before. Other strains were showing themselves: the flaxen hair of the Netherlands, the Valois nose, the Castilian duskiness, the black hair of the Mortimers. But at this stage there entered on the scene a young man who was completely and perfectly Plantagenet.
Edward, Earl of March, oldest son of Richard of York, stood six foot three in his bare feet. He had the exact shade of blue eyes, the strong but handsome features, the proper share of gold in his hair. The age had many expressions of characteristic vulgarity meaning the same as the later and more polite “squire of dames,” and they fitted Edward as closely as the hose on his splendid legs. It was said that he owed his popularity in London to the secret passion that all housewives entertained for him. Even when he reached middle age and became heavy, even a little bloated as well as careless in his dress, he was still so handsome that women could not resist him.
He had in his heart no scruples, no mercy, no fear. And of supreme importance at this point in history, he had a fighting heart and a gift for generalship which put him head and shoulders above the other leaders of the day. In his mastery of strategy, he inclined to what was sometimes called the modern school, the enlightened methods of warfare introduced by another Englishman a century before, that superlative leader of professional armies, John Hawkwood.
The Wars of the Roses did not end at once with Edward’s appearance on the scene, but the ultimate triumph of the White Rose became inevitable.
Unaware at first of his father’s defeat and death, young Edward moved out of Shrewsbury with a large army to join Richard in the north. At Gloucester he learned of the disaster at Wakefield and realized that the finger of destiny had touched his shoulder. It was now his right, or at least his opportunity, to win the throne of England. Pausing long enough to recruit his army to 30,000 men, he wheeled south and destroyed at Mortimer’s Cross an army of mercenaries from France, Brittany, and Ireland under the Earl of Wiltshire and one of the king’s half brothers, Jasper Tudor. It was here that a miracle of nature was observed. Before the battle began there appeared to be three suns in the sky and this, for some reason, convinced Edward that he was certain to win.
It was not the nature of this nineteen-year-old leader to delay or to temper his designs with devious reasoning. He marched straight to a junction with the defeated army of Warwick and then on to London, while Margaret withdrew into the north. A council was held at Baynard’s Castle and the young victor had no difficulty in convincing the others present that he was now the rightful King of England. The next day, March 4, 1461, he walked into Westminster Hall, a resplendent vision in rich blue velvet with plumes in his cap, seated himself on the throne, and announced himself king.
Parliament was not sitting, but Edward had no intention of waiting for a new House to convene. Thrones had been lost that way. The people of London had filled the hall. Outside, the streets were black with cheering spectators. Trumpets were sounded and then a herald demanded if the people would accept this new king. A mighty shout was the answer.
“Yea! Yea!” cried the trained bands and the wealthy men of the guilds. If the shades of John of Gaunt and his own father, Richard of York, both of whom had coveted the throne but had temporized, lacking the resolution to act in this direct way, were listening and watching, they undoubtedly said to themselves, “This is what I should have done.”
2
Edward, the perfect man of action, did not sit down in London to enjoy the ease and the sweet taste of success in his mouth. He marched immediately to the north and fought a battle at Towton near Tadcaster in Yorkshire. The combined armies were over 100,000 in size, the Lancastrians having a slight advantage in numbers. It proved to be the bloodiest battle ever waged on English soil.
Fought on the converging slopes of a wide division in the hills, it was at first a contest between archers. The Yorkists had the better of it because a snowstorm came up and blew across the depression into the faces of the Lancastrians. The latter troops were under a continuously heavy barrage of arrows but were unable to reach the other line with their own. The lines then converged and for hours they fought desperately, hand to hand, foot to foot, knowing that surrender meant death. The slaughter was terrible to behold and the snow turned red as soon as it touched the ground.
The Yorkist reserves under the Duke of Norfolk arrived late in the afternoon but, as it developed, at the best moment to throw the Lancastrians into a panic. They began to show against the left flank of the Red Roses. Edward, showing rare skill, had them deploy in an ever lengthening line in order to outflank the foe. It was then that a general retreat of the Lancastrians began, in the course of which the losses were even heavier than in the fighting.
The saddened ex-king, poor, gentle Henry, had not been on the battlefield because it was fought on Palm Sunday. He went instead to York and spent the day in prayer and meditation.
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Henry and his wife and son managed to retreat into Scotland, where they remained for the next four years. Margaret, who never conceded that they were beaten, spent the time in never ceasing efforts to enlist assistance from abroad. It may not have occurred to her that by allying herself with England’s most active foes she was alienating all sympathy for herself and her husband in the land over which she was determined her son must reign. If it did, she brushed the consequences aside. With her it had become a fight to the death and no considerations of policy or expediency were allowed to influence her.
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.