READING HALL

THE DOORS OF WISDOM

THE WARS OF THE ROSES

or stories of the struggle of York and Lancaster

FOURTH PART

CHAPTER XXX.

BEFORE TEWKESBURY.

It was Easter Sunday, in the year 1471, and the battle of Barnet had been fought. Exeter lay stretched among the dead and the dying on the bloodstained heath of Gladsmuir; Oxford was spurring towards the north; Somerset was escaping towards the west; Henry of Windsor had been led back to bis prison in the Tower; the bodies of Warwick and Montagu were being conveyed in one coffin to St. Paul’s; and Edward of York was at the metropolitan cathedral, offering his standard up the altar, and returning thanks to God for his victory over the Red Rose of Lancaster and the flower of the ancient nobility, when Margaret of Anjou once more set foot on the shores of England. Nor, in circumstances so inauspicious, did she arrive as a solitary victim. Accompanied by the son of the captive King and the daughter of the fallen Earl, and attended by Lord Wenlock, Sir John Fortescue, and the Prior of St. John’s, came the Lancastrian Queen on that day when the wounded were dying, and the riflers prying, and the ravens flying over the field of Barnet.

At Weymouth, on the coast of Devon, Margaret landed with the Prince and Princess of Wales. From Weymouth, the ill-starred Queen was escorted to the Abbey of Cearne, a religious house in the neighbourhood. While at Cearne, resting from the fatigues of her voyage, she was informed of the defeat of the Lancastrians and the death of Warwick.

Margaret had hitherto, through all perils and perplexities, been sustained by her high spirit. She had won the reputation of being one of the race of steel, who felt her soul brighten in danger, and who never knew fear without such a feeling being succeeded by a blush at having yielded to such weakness. On hearing of the defeat at Barnet, however, she evinced the utmost alarm, raised her hands to heaven, closed her eyes, and, in a state of bewilderment, sunk swooning to the ground. Her first idea, on recovering  consciousness, was to return to France; but, meanwhile, for the sake of personal safety, she hastened to the Abbey of Beaulieu, in Hampshire, and registered herself and her whole party as persons availing themselves of the privilege of sanctuary.

A rumour of the Queen’s arrival reached the chiefs of the Red Rose party; and to Beaulieu, without delay, went Somerset, with his brother, John Beaufort, whom the Lancastrians called Marquis of Dorset, and John, Earl of Devon, head of the great House of Courtenay.

These noblemen found Margaret plunged in grief, and resolved on returning to France till God should send her better fortune. Their presence, however, in some degree, revived the courage which had so often shone forth in adversity; and Somerset strongly urged her to brave fortune and the foe on another field. With the utmost difficulty Margaret was brought to consent to the proposal, and even then she hesitated and grew pale. Indeed, the ill-fated heroine confessed that she feared for her son, and intimated her wish that he should be sent to France, there to remain till a victory had been won. But to this scheme decided opposition was expressed. Somerset and the Lancastrian lords argued that the Prince of Wales should remain in England to lead the adherents of the Red Rose to battle—“he being,” as they said, “the morning sun of the Lancastrian hopes, the rays of which were very resplendent to meet English eyes”; and the royal boy, we can well believe, was prepared rather to die at once on a field of fame, than live through years of exile to expire in inglorious obscurity.

At length Margaret yielded to the general wish, and the Lancastrian chiefs formed their plans for mustering an army. No insuperable difficulties presented themselves. Shortly before Barnet was fought, John Beaufort and the Earl of Devon had gone westward from Coventry to levy forces, and Jasper Tudor had been sent into Wales on a similar errand. The idea of the Lancastrians was to draw together the men enlisted in the west, to join Jasper Tudor, who was still zealously recruiting in Wales, to secure the services of the archers in which Lancashire and Cheshire abounded, and to summon the prickers of the northern counties to that standard under which they had conquered at Wakefield and Bernard’s Heath. The plan of campaign was, as we shall hereafter see, such as to place Edward’s throne in considerable peril; and the imaginations of the Lancastrian chiefs caught fire at the prospect of triumph. Somerset openly boasted that the Red Rose party was rather strengthened than enfeebled by Warwick’s fall; and Oxford, who had recovered from the bewilderment which had lost his friends a victory at Barnet, wrote to his Countess, Warwick’s sister—“Be of good cheer, and take no thought, for I shall bring my purpose about now by the grace of God.”

Unfortunately for the champions of the Red Rose, they had to contend with no ordinary antagonist. Almost ere they had formed their plans, the King was aware that they were in motion; and, somewhat alarmed, he faced the new danger with the energy and spirit that had laid Warwick low. Within a week after his victory at Barnet, Edward having placed Henry of Windsor securely in the Tower, and also committed George Neville, Archbishop of York, to the metropolitan fortress, marched from London with such forces as were at hand; and at Windsor, within the Castle of his regal ancestors, he remained nearly a week to celebrate the feast of St. George, to await the remainder of his troops, and to obtain such intelligence of the enemy’s movements as might enable him to defeat their project. As yet the King was utterly uncertain whether the Red Rose chiefs intended marching towards London or leading their adherents northward. His predicament was, therefore, awkward. If he hastened on to protect the north from being invaded, he left London at their mercy; if he remained to guard the capital, he left the north free to their incursions. The King’s great object, under such circumstances, was to bring the Lancastrians to battle at the earliest possible period. His army, indeed, was small; but, as affairs then were, he had little hope of its being increased; and he appears to have placed much reliance on the artillery, with which he was well provided. But, anxious as Edward might lie to meet his foes face to face, he checked his natural impetuosity, and declined to advance a mile without having calculated the consequences.

Meanwhile the Lancastrian standard was set up at Exeter, and to “the London of the West” the men of Devon, Somerset, and Cornwall were invited to repair. The Red Ross chiefs perfectly comprehended the dilemma in which Edward was placed, and were prepared to act just as circumstances rendered safe and expedient. If they could draw their potent foe from the neighbourhood of London, they would march on the metropolis. If they could keep him in the neighbourhood of London, they would cross the Severn, join Jasper Tudor, march into Lancashire and Cheshire, and raise the men of the north to overturn the Yorkist throne. One thing they did not desire—that was an early meeting with the conqueror of Towton and Barnet.

At Exeter, Margaret of Anjou, with the Prince and Princess of Wales, joined the adherents of the Red Rose, and prepared for those military operations which, she hoped, would hurl Edward of York from the throne. Ere venturing upon the terrible task, however, the Queen, with the Lancastrian chiefs, made a progress throughout the west to collect recruits. From Exeter, she proceeded with this object to Bath, a town which then consisted of a few hundreds of houses, crowded within an old wall, hard by the Avon, and which derived some renown from those springs whose healing qualities Bladud had discovered under the guidance of hogs, and whose virtues had recommended the place to the Romans when they came to Britain as resistless conquerors.

At Bath, Margaret’s friends learned that Edward was watching her movements with a vigilance that rendered an early junction with Jasper Tudor extremely desirable; and, having considerably increased in number, the Lancastrians took their way to Bristol, a town with strong walls, which the Flemings, brought over by Philippa of Hainault, had made the seat of an extensive woollen trade.

The inhabitants of Bristol had manifested much loyalty to Edward, when, during the harvest-time of 1462, the young Yorkist King appeared within their walls, and executed Sir Baldwin Fulford and other Lancastrians. Since that event, celebrated by Chatterton as “The Bristowe Tragedy,” wellnigh nine years had elapsed, and, during that time, their attention had been attracted from the Wars of the Roses to a war nearer home. It is probable that the contentions of York and Lancaster had excited less interest than the feud between the Houses of Berkeley and Lisle; and that the field of Barnet had created loss excitement than that of Nibley Green, where, one March morning in 1470, William Lord Berkeley and Thomas Talbot, Lord Lisle, fought that battle known as “The English Chevy Chase.”

But however loyal the citizens of Bristol might be to Edward of York, they knew that Margaret of Anjou was not a woman to be trifled with; and however little they might relish the spectacle of Lancastrian warriors crowding their streets, they were ready enough to furnish the Red Rose chiefs with money, provisions, and artillery. After receiving these supplies, the Lancastrian Queen, anxious to cross the Severn, relieved Bristol of her presence on the 2nd of May—it was a Thursday—and led her army towards that valley, which, of old, had been depicted by William of Malmesbury as rich in fruit and corn, and abounding in vineyards.

The King’s pursuit of his enemies had, in the meantime, been at once absorbing as a game of chess and exciting as a fox-hunt. For a time, he was unable to comprehend their movements, and forced to act with extreme caution. Indeed Edward was not unaware that the Lancastrian leaders were exercising their utmost energy to outwit him; and he knew full well that one false stop on his part would, in all likelihood, decide the campaign in their favour. At length, becoming aware that they were spreading rumours of their intention to advance to London by Oxford and Reading, the King concluded that their real intention was to march northward; and, leading his army forth from Windsor, he encamped at Abingdon, a town of Berkshire, on the river Thames. Learning, at Abingdon, that Margaret and her captains were still at Wells, he moved a little northward to Cirencester, in Gloucestershire, and was then informed that the Lancastrians were about to leave Bath and given him battle on the 1st of May—the anniversary of his ill-judged and ill-starred marriage.

Eager for a conflict, the King marched his army out of the town of Cirencester, and, encamping in the neighbouring fields, awaited the arrival of his foes. Edward soon found, however, that he had been deceived; and, in hopes of finding them, marched to Malmesbury, in Wiltshire. Learning, at that town, that the Lancastrians had turned aside to Bristol, he went to Sodbury, a place about ten miles distant from the emporium of the west; and, at Sodbury, from the circumstances of his men, while riding into the town to secure quarters, encountering a body of the enemy’s outriders, and the Lancastrians having sent forward men to take their ground on Sodbury Hill, he believed that their army was at no great distance. Eager for intelligence, Edward sent light horsemen to scour the country, and encamped on Sodbury Hill. About midnight on Thursday, scouts came into the camp, and Edward’s suspense was terminated. It appeared, beyond doubt, that the Lancastrians were on full march from Bristol to Gloucester; and the King, awake to the crisis, lost no time in holding a council of war. A decision was rapidly arrived at; and a messenger despatched post-haste to Richard, Lord Beauchamp of Powicke, then Governor of Gloucester, with instructions to refuse the Lancastrians admittance and a promise to relieve the city forthwith in case of its being assailed.

Events now hastened rapidly onwards. The King’s messenger had no time to lose; for the Lancastrian army, having marched all night, was pushing on towards the vale of Gloucester. The vale, as the reader may be aware, is semicircular—the Severn forming the chord, the Cotswold Hills the arc; and Cheltenham, Gloucester, and Tewkesbury making a triangle within its area. Into the second of these towns, Margaret expected to be admitted; and she calculated on being enabled, under the protection of its walls and castle, to pass the Severn without interruption, and to form a junction with Jasper Tudor, who was all bustle and enthusiasm in Wales.

A grievous disappointment awaited the Lancastrian army: a bitter mortification the Lancastrian Queen. On Friday morning, a few hours after sunset, Margaret of Anjou, with the warriors of the Red Rose, appeared before Gloucester. But Beauchamp, having received Edward’s message, positively refused to open the gates; and when Margaret, with a heavy heart, turned aside and proceeded towards Tewkesbury, he still farther displayed his Yorkist zeal by hanging on the rear of the Lancastrians, and doing them all the mischief he could. Even Somerset must have confessed that the aspect of affairs was now the reverse of bright; and after leaving Gloucester behind, everything began to go wrong. The march lay through woods and lanes, and over stony ground; and the soldiery hungry and foot-sore, were oppressed with the heat of the weather. Moreover, the peasantry, inclined, for some reason or other, to oppose the progress of the Lancastrians, secured the fords by which the Severn might have been crossed; and Beauchamp not only harassed the rear of the Queen’s army, but succeeded in capturing some artillery, which she was in no condition to spare. At length, on Friday afternoon, after having marched thirty-six miles, without rest, and almost without food, the Lancastrians, weary and dispirited, reached Tewkesbury, a little town standing on the left bank of the Severn, and deriving some dignity from a Norman abbey, known far and wide as the sepulchre of a mighty race of barons, whose chiefs fought at Evesham and fell at Bannockburn. At this place, which had been inherited from the De Clares, through Beauchamps and Despensers, by the Countess of Warwick, the Lancastrian leaders halted to refresh their men.

Early on that morning, when the Queen and her captains appeared before Gloucester, Edward left Sodbury, and led his army over the Cotswolds, whoso sheep and shepherds old Drayton has celebrated. His soldiers suffered much from heat, and still more for want of water; only meeting, on their way, with one brook, the water of which, as men and horses dashed in, was soon rendered unfit for use. Onwards, however, in spite of heat and thirst, as if prescient of victory, pressed Edward’s Soldiers, sometimes within five miles of their enemies—the Yorkists in a champaign country, and the Lancastrians among woods—but the chiefs of both armies directing their march towards the same point. At length, after having marched more than thirty miles, the Yorkists reached a little village, situated on the river Chelt, secluded in the vale of Gloucester, and consisting of a few thatched cottages forming a straggling street, near a church with an ancient spire, which had been erected in honour of St. Mary, before the Plantagenets came to rule in England. At this Hamlet, which the saline springs, discovered some centuries later by the flight of pigeons, have metamorphosed into a beautiful and luxurious city, Edward halted to recruit the energies and refresh the spirits of his followers. At Cheltenham, the King received intelligence that the foe was at Tewkesbury; and, marching in that direction, he encamped for the night in a field hard by the Lancastrian camp.

Ere the King reached Cheltenham, the Lancastrians bad formed their plans., On arriving at Tewkesbury, Somerset, aware that the Yorkists were fast approaching, intimated his intention to remain and give Edward battle. Margaret, as if with the presentiment of a tragic catastrophe, was all anxiety to cross the Severn; and many of the captains sympathised with their Queen's wish. Somerset, however, carried his point; and, indeed, it is not easy to comprehend how the Lancastrians could, under the circumstances, have attempted a passage without exposing their rear to certain destruction. Somerset’s opinion on any subject may not have been worth much; but he does not appear to have been in the wrong when he decided on encamping at Tewkesbury, and when he declared his intention there to abide such fortune as Gon should send.

So at Tewkesbury, through that summer night, within a short distance of each other, the armies of York and Lancaster, under the sons of those who, years before, had plucked the roses in the Temple Garden, and encountered with mortal hatred in the streets of St. Albans, animated moreover by such vindictive feelings as the memory of friends and kinsmen slain in the field and executed on the scaffold could not fail to inspire, awaited the light of another day, to fight their twelfth battle for the crown of England.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE FIELD OF TEWKESBURY.

On Saturday the 4th of May, 1471, ere the bell of Tewkesbury Abbey tolled the sweet hour of prime, or the monks had assembled to sing the morning hymn, King Edward was astir and making ready to attack the Lancastrians.

Mounted on a brown charger, with his magnificent person clad in Milan steel, a crown of ornament around his helmet, and the arms of France and England quarterly on his shield, the King set his men in order for the assault. The van of the Yorkist army was committed to Richard, Duke of Gloucester, whose skill and courage on the field of Barnet had made him, at nineteen, the hero among those of whom, at thirty, he was to be the headsman. The centre host Edward commanded in person; and by the side of the royal warrior figured the ill-starred Clarence, never again to be fully trusted by his brother. The rear was intrusted to the guidance of Lord Hastings, and to Elizabeth Woodville's eldest son, Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset. Thus arrayed, flushed with recent victory over mighty adversaries, the Yorkist warriors, in all the pride of valour, and all the confidence of victory, prepared to advance upon their fees.

Meanwhile the Red Rose chiefs were not idle. Having encamped south of the town of Tewkesbury, on some rising ground, part of which is still known as “Queen Margaret's Camp”, the Lancastrians appear to have made the most of their advantages. Defended as they were in their rear by the Abbey, and in front and on both sides by hedges, lanes, and ditches, they entrenched their position strongly, in the hope of keeping Edward at bay, till the arrival of Jasper Tudor, who was believed to be rapidly approaching; and, at the same time, they left openings in their intrenchments, through which, should such a course seem expedient, they might sally forth upon the assailing foe.

Their camp thus fortified, the Lancastrian leaders disposed the army of the Red Rose in three divisions. Of the first of these, Somerset, aided by his brother, John Beaufort, took the command; the second was committed to the auspices of Edward, Prince of Wales, the, Prior of St. John, and Lord Wenlock, who, having shared the Lancastrian defeat at St. Albans and the Yorkist triumph at Towton, had once more, in an evil hour, placed Queen Margaret’s badge on his gorget; and the third was confided to the Earl of Devon, the youngest of three brothers, two of whom after wearing the coronet of the Courtenays, had died on the scaffold for their fidelity to the Red Rose.

While the Lancastrians were forming their line of ward gave the order to advance; and, with banners displayed, with clarions and trumpets sounding a march, and with Gloucester leading the van, and perhaps even then dreaming of a crown, the Yorkist army moved forward, gay with knights and nobles in rich armour and broidered vests, their lances gleaming in the merry sunshine, their plumes and pennons dancing in the morning breeze, and their mailed steeds, with chaffrons of steel projecting from barbed frontals, caracoling at the touch of the spur. Within a mile of the Lancastrian camp, Edward halted his men; and his large blue eye, which took in the whole position of his enemies, wandered jealously to the park of Tewkesbury, which was situated to the right of Somerset’s division. Suspicious of an ambuscade, the Yorkist King detached two hundred spearmen from his army to proceed in that direction, and ordered them, in case of their not finding any foe lurking in the wood, to take such part in the battle as circumstances should render expedient. Having satisfied himself with this precaution, the King ordered his banners to advance, and his trumpets to sound an onset.

When the hour of conflict drew nigh, Margaret of Anjou, accompanied by the heir of Lancaster, rode along the lines and addressed the adherents of the Bed Rose. Never, perhaps, had the daughter of King René looked more queenly than on the field of Tewkesbury; never had she enacted her part with more art than she did on the eve of that catastrophe which was to plunge her to the depths of despair. Though sick at heart, and more than doubtful as to the issue of the field, she assumed the aspect of perfect confidence, and spoke as if inspired with the hope of victory. Years of trouble had, of course, destroyed those exquisite charms which in youth had made Margaret famous as the beauty of Christendom, but had not deprived her of the power of subduing men to her purposes, even against their better judgment, though her countenance bore traces of the wear and tear of anxious days and sleepless nights, her presence exercised on the partisans of the House of Lancaster an influence not less potent than it had done in days when she possessed a beauty that dazzled all eyes and fascinated all hearts.

Nor did the heir of Lancaster appear, by any means, unworthy of such a mother, as, armed complete in mail, he accompanied her along the lines, his standard borne by John Gower. Imagine the boy warrior, gifted as he was, with all the graces of rank and royalty, frankness and chivalry; his eye sparkling with the pride and valour of the Plantagenets; the arms of France and England blazoned on his shield, his tabard, and the caparisons of his horse; and it will not be difficult to conceive the influence which, in spite of his foreign accent, such a grandson of the conqueror of Agincourt, uttering sentiments worthy of the pupil of Fortescue in language worthy of the son of Margaret of Anjou, exercised on the Lancastrian host when about to encounter the partisans of the White Rose.

Margaret of Anjou was not unaware of the effect produced by the fair face and graceful figure of the Prince of Wales. Glancing, with maternal pride, at the royal boy, who rode at her right hand, she reined in her palfrey, and having with a gesture obtained an audience, she encouraged her partisans, in a voice promising victory, to do their duty valiantly against Edward of York and prove their courage on the crests of the usurper’s adherents. “It remained for them, the soldiers of the Red Rose,” said the Queen, in accents which quickened the pulse and nerved the arm of the listeners, “to restore an imprisoned king to liberty and his throne, and to secure for themselves, not only safety, but distinctions and rewards. Did the inequalities of number daunt them? She could not doubt that their stout hearts, animated by the justice of their cause, would enable them to overcome in spite of disparity. Did they lack motives to be valiant against the foe? Let them look upon the Prince of Wales, and fight for him, their fellow-soldier, who was now to share their fortune on the field; and who, once in possession of his rights, would not forget those to whose courage he owed the throne. The kingdom of England should be their inheritance, to be divided among them; the wealth of the rebellious cities should be their spoil; they should be rewarded for their devotion with all those titles which their enemies now proudly wore; and, above all, they should enjoy lasting fame and honour throughout the realm.”

An enthusiastic response arose from the ranks of the Lancastrians as their heroic Queen concluded her spirit-stirring address; and the warriors of the Red Rose indicated, by signs not to be mistaken, their alacrity to fight to the death for the rights of such a mother and such a son. Perhaps, at that moment, Margaret infected with the excitement which her own eloquence had created, almost persuaded herself to hope. No hour was that, however, to indulge in day dreams. Ere the enthusiasm of the Lancastrians had time to die away, Richard of Gloucerter had advanced his banner to their camp; and the troops under the young Duke were storming the entrenchments.

Gloucester, as leader of the Yorkist van, found himself opposed to the Lancastrians whom Somerset commanded in person; and, the ferocity of his nature being doubtless inflamed by the hereditary antipathy of the House of York to the House of Beaufort, he made a furious assault. The onslaught of the stripling war-chief, however, proved of no avail. For the nature of the ground was such as to prevent the Yorkists from coming hand to hand with their foes; while the Lancastrians, posted among bushes and trees, galled their assailants with showers of arrows. Gloucester was somewhat cowed, but his guile did not desert him. He assumed the air of a man who was baffled, pretended to be repulsed, and retiring from the assault, contented himself with, ordering the artillery, with which the Yorkists were better provided than their foes, to play upon the Lancastrian ranks.

The aspect of the battle was now decidedly in favour of the Red Rose, and such as to cause the Yorkists some degree of anxiety. What the Lancastrians wanted was a war-chief of courage and experience; and Somerset neither had the talents nor the experience requisite for the occasion. At the head of that host on the banks of the Severn, such a man as the fifth Henry, or John, Duke of Bedford, might by a decisive victory have won back Margaret’s crown. But the grandson of Katherine Swynford had not been intended by Goo and nature to cope with the royal warrior who laid Warwick low.

Somerset had still to learn his incapacity for the part he had undertaken to enact. As yet he was under the influence of such a degree of vanity as prompted him to the rashest courses. Elate at Gloucester’s retreat, and concluding that a determined effort would render the Lancastrians victorious, the shallow Duke led his men through the openings that had been left in their entrenchments. Descending from the elevated ground, he .charged Edward’s centre host with violence, drove that part of the Yorkist army back, and then, with infinitely less prudence than presumption, followed the wily Gloucester into the open meadows.

Once fairly away from his entrenchments, the Lancastrian leader found too late the error he had committed. Gloucester’s stratagem had been attended with a success which even he could hardly have anticipated. Suddenly wheeling round and shouting their battle-cry, the Boy-Duke and the Yorkists turned upon their pursuers with the fury of lions; and, at the same time, the two hundred spearmen, who had been sent to guard against an ambuscade in Tewkesbury Park, came rushing to the conflict and made a vigorous attack upon Somerset’s flank. Taken by surprise, the Lancastrian van fled in disorder. Some made for the park; some ran towards the meadows; others flung themselves into the ditches; and so many were beaten down and slain where they fought, that the greensward was crimsoned with gore.

Gloucester did not pause in the work of destruction. After cheering on his men to the carnage, he pursued Somerset up the hill, availed himself of the Lancastrians’ confusion to force his way through their entrenchments, and carried into their camp that terror with, which his grisly cognisance seldom failed to inspire his enemies.

The plight of the Lancastrians now became desperate. Somerset, having lost his followers, lost his temper, and with it every chance of victory. Indeed, the Duke appears to have acted the part of a madman. On reaching the camp, flushed and furious, he looked around for a victim to sacrifice to his rage, and made a selection which was singularly unfortunate for the Lancastrians. Lord Wenlock, it seems, had not left the camp to support Somerset’s charge; and the Duke, bearing in mind how recently that .nobleman had been converted from the Yorkist cause, rushed to the conclusion that he was playing false. A fearful scene was the result. Riding to the centre division of the Lancastrians, the exasperated Beaufort reviled Lord Wenlock in language too coarse to have been recorded, and, after denouncing the aged warrior as traitor and coward, cleft his skull with a battle-axe.

No incident could have been more unfavourable to the fortunes of the Red Rose than Wenlock’s fall by the hand of Somerset. A panic immediately seized the Lancastrians; and, ere they could recover from their confusion, King Edward perceived his advantage, cheered his men to the onslaught, spurred over hedge and ditch, and dashed, on his brown charger, fiercely into the entrenched camp. Irresistible we can well imagine the onset of that horse and that rider to have been—the strong war-steed, with his frontal of steel, making a way through the enemy’s disordered ranks, and the tall warrior dispersing all around with the sweep of his terrible sword. Vain was then the presence of the Prince of Wales, gallant as the bearing of the royal boy doubtless was. Indeed, all the princes of John of Gaunt’s lineage could not now have turned the tide of fight. After a faint struggle, the Lancastrians recoiled in consternation; and, throwing down their arms, fled before Edward and his knights as deer before the hunters. The rout was rapid and complete. The field presented a fearful scene of panic, confusion, and slaughter. Some of the vanquished ran for refuge into Tewkesbury; others betook themselves for safety to the Abbey Church; and many, hotly pursued, and scarce knowing whither they went, were drowned “at a mill in the meadow fast by the town.”

Somerset, on seeing the ruin his rashness had brought on his friends, fled from the scene of carnage. The Duke ought not, perhaps, to have avoided the destruction to which he had allured so many brave men. The chief of the Beauforts, however, had no ambition to die like the great Earl whom he had deserted at Barnet, nor to fall on the field to which he had challenged his hereditary foe. It is wonderful, indeed, that a man, who had known little of life, save its miseries, should have cared to survive such a defeat; but Somerset, whatever his other qualities, had none of that spirit which, at Bannockburn, prompted Argentine to exdaim, “ ’T is not my wont to fly!”. At Hexham and at Barnet, Somerset’s principal exploits had consisted of availing himself of the speed of his horse to escape the foe; and at Tewkesbury he rushed cravenly from the field, on which, a few hours earlier, he had boastfully declared, that he would abide such fortune as God should send. The Prior of St. John, Sir Gervase Clifton, Sir Thomas Tresham, and a number of knights and esquires, likewise sought safety in flight.

The Prince of Wales had hitherto fought with courage; and there is some reason to believe that he fell fighting manfully on the field where so much blood was shed to vindicate his claims to the crown of England. Poets, novelists, and historians have, however, told a different talc, and produced an impression, that when the heir of Lancaster found himself abandoned by Somerset, and perceived the fortune of the day decidedly adverse to the Red Rose, he followed the multitude, who, shrinking from the charge of Edward, on his berry-brown steed, and of Gloucester, with his boar’s head crest, fled confusedly towards the town.

But however that may have been, all the warriors of the Red Rose did not fly. Destruction, indeed, awaited every man who stood his ground; but even the certainty of death cannot daunt those who are inspired by honour. Knights and nobles, after fighting with courage, fell with disdainful pride; and hundreds upon hundreds of the Lancastrians of inferior rank lost their lives in the cause for which, at the summons of their chiefs, they had taken up arms. There fell the Earl of Devon; and John Beaufort, the brother of Somerset, and, save the Duke, the last male heir of the House of Beaufort; and Sir John Delves, the chief of a family long settled at Doddington, in the County Palatine of Chester; and Sir William Fielding, whose descendants, in the time of the Stuarts, became Earls of Denbigh; and Sir Edmund Hampden, one of that ancient race which had flourished in the eleventh century, and which, in the sixteenth, produced the renowned leader of the Long Parliament.

At length, when three thousand Lancastrians had perished on the field of Tewkesbury, the resistance and carnage came to an end; and Edward, having knighted Warwick’s cousin, George Neville, the heir of Lord Abergavenny, sheathed his bloody sword, and Gloucester laid aside his lance; and the King and the Duke rode to the Abbey Church to render thanks to Goo for giving them another victory over their enemies.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED.

While Edward of York was smiting down his foes on the field of Tewkesbury, and the blood of the Lancastrians was flowing like water, a chariot, guided by attendants whose looks indicated alarm and dread, might have been observed to leave the scene of carnage, and pass hurriedly through the gates of the park. In this chariot was a lady, who appeared almost unconscious of what was passing; though it had not been her wont to faint in hours of difficulty and danger. The lady was Margaret of Anjou; but with a countenance no longer expressing those fierce and terrible emotions which, after Northampton and Towton and Hexham, had urged her to heroic ventures in order to regain for her husband the crown which her son had been born to inherit. Pale, ghastly, and rigid—more like that of a corpse than of a being breathing the breath of life—was now that face in which the friends of the Lancastrian Queen had in such seasons often read, as in a book, resolutions of stem vengeance to be executed on her foes.

Fortune, indeed, had at length subdued the high spirit of Margaret of Anjou, and she made no effort to resist her fate. When witnessing the battle, and becoming aware that her worst anticipations were being realised, the unfortunate Queen appeared reckless of life, and abandoned herself to despair. Alarmed, however, at the dangers which menaced the vanquished, Margaret's attendants placed their royal mistress in a chariot, conveyed her hastily from the field, and made their way to a small religious house, situated near the left bank of the silver Severn; there she found the Princess of Wales and several Lancastrian ladies, who had followed the fortunes of the Red Rose and shared the perils of their kinsmen. No need to announce to them that all was lost. Even if the disastrous intelligence had not preceded her arrival, they would have read in Margaret’s pale face and corpse-like aspect, the ruin of her hopes and of their own.

The religious, house in which the Queen found a temporary resting-place, was not one which could save her from the grasp of the conquering foe. But so sudden had been the rout of due party, and so signal the victory of the other, that the vanquished had no time to think of escaping to a distance. The Abbey Church was the point towards which most of the fugitives directed their course; and within the walls of that edifice Somerset, the Prior of St. John, Sir Henry De Roos, Sir Gervase Clifton, Sir Thomas Tresham, many knights and esquires, and a crowd of humble adherents of the Red Rose, sought refuge from the sword of the conquerors. Unhappily for the Lancastrians, the Church did not possess the privilege of protecting rebels; and Edward was in no humour to spare men who had shown themselves his bitter foes. Without scruple the victor-King, on finding they had taken refuge in the Abbey, attempted to enter, sword in hand; but at this point he found himself face to face with a power before which kings had often trembled. At the porch, a priest, bearing the Host, interposed between the conqueror and his destined victims; and protested, in names which even Edward durst not disregard, against the sacred precincts being made the scene of bloodshed. Battled of his prey, Edward turned bis thoughts to the heir of Lancaster, and issued a proclamation, promising a reward to any who should produce the Prince, dead or alive, and stating that in such a case the life of the royal boy would be spared.

Among the warriors who fought at Tewkesbury was Sir Richard Croft, a Marchman of Wales. This knight was husband of a kinswoman of the Yorkist Princes, and had figured as Governor of Ludlow, when Edward, then Earl of March, was residing during boyhood in that castle with his brother, the ill-fated Rutland. Passing, after the battle of Tewkesbury, between the town and the field, Croft encountered a youthful warrior, whose elegance arrested his attention, and whose manner was like that of one strange to the place. On being accosted, the youth, in an accent which revealed a foreign education, acknowledged that he was the heir of Lancaster; and, on being assured that his life was in no hazard, lie consented to accompany the stalwart Marchman to the King.

Towards the Market Place, a triangular space where met the three streets that gave to Tewkesbury the form of the letter Y, Croft conducted his interesting captive. Tewkesbury has little changed since that time; but the old Town Hall, which then stood in the Market Place, has disappeared. It was to a house in the neighbourhood of this building, however, that the King had repaired after the battle; and there, surrounded by Clarence and Gloucester, Hastings and Dorset, the captains who had led his host to victory, sat Edward of York, when Edward of Lancaster was brought into his presence.

The King had that morning gained a victory which put his enemies under his feet, and had since, perhaps, washed down his cravings for revenge with draughts of that cup to which he was certainly too much addicted. It is not difficult to believe those historians who tell that, under such circumstances, satiated with carnage, and anxious for peace and repose, he was in a frame of mind the reverse of unfavourable to his captive, nor even to credit an assertion that the wish of Edward of York was to treat the heir of the fifth Henry as that King that treated the last chief of the House of Mortimer, to convert the Prince from a dangerous rival into a sure friend, and to secure his gratitude by bestowing upon him the Duchy of Lancaster and the splendid possessions of John of Gaunt. To the vanquished Prince, therefore, the victor-King “at first showed no uncourteous countenance”. A minute’s conversation, however, dissipated the King’s benevolent intentions, and sealed the brave Prince’s fate.

“What brought you to England,” asked Edward, “and how durst you enter into this our realm with banner displayed? ”

“To recover my father’s rights,” fearlessly answered the heir of Lancaster; and then asked, “How darest thou, who art his subject, so presumptuously display thy colours against thy liege lord?”

At this reply, which evinced so little of that discretion, which is the better part of valour, Edward’s blood boiled; and, burning with indignation, he savagely struck the unarmed Prince in the mouth with his gauntlet. Clarence and Gloucester are said to have then rushed upon him with their swords, and the King’s servants to have drawn him into another room and completed the murder. In the house where, according to tradition, this cruel deed was perpetrated, marks of blood were long visible on the oaken floor; and these dark stains were pointed out as memorials of the cruel murder of the fifth Henry’s grandson, by turns the hope, the hero, and the victim of the Lancastrian cause.

Having imbrued his hands in the blood of the only rival whom he could deem formidable, and too fearfully avenged the murder of Rutland, Edward appears to have steeled his heart to feelings of mercy, and to have determined on throwing aside all scruples in dealing with his foes. It was only decent, however, to allow Sunday to elapse ere proceeding with the work of vengeance. That day of devotion and rest over, the Lancastrians were forcibly taken from the Church. Those of meaner rank were pardoned; but Somerset, the Prior of St. John, Sir Henry De Roos, Sir Gervase Clifton, Sir Thomas Tresham, John Gower, and the other knights and esquires were brought to trial. Gloucester and John Mowbray, the last of the great Dukes of Norfolk, presided, one as Constable of England, the other as Earl-Marshal; and the trial being, of course, a mere form, the captives were condemned to be beheaded.

On Tuesday, while the scaffold was being erected in the Market Place of Tewkesburv, for the execution of those who had risked all in her cause, Margaret of Anjou was discovered in the religious house to which she had been conveyed from the field on which her last hopes were wrecked. The Lancastrian Queen was brought to Edward by Sir William Stanley, still zealous on the Yorkist side, and little dreaming of the part he was to take at Bosworth in rendering the Red Rose finally triumphant. Margaret’s life was spared; but her high spirit was gone, and, on been informed of her son’s death, the unfortunate Princess only gave utterance to words of lamentation and woe. Now that he around whom all her hopes had clustered was no more, what could life be to her?—what the rival Roses?—what the contentions of York and Lancaster? Her ambition was buried in the grave of her son who had been her consolation and her hope.

Sir John Fortescue was among the Lancastrians whom the victory of Tewkesbury placed in Edward’s power; and the great lawyer was in some danger of having to seal with his blood his devotion to the Red Rose. Fortescue, however, had no longings for a crown of martyrdom; and Edward, luckily for his memory, perceived that the House of York would lose nothing by sparing a foe so venerable and so learned. It happened that, when in Scotland, Fortescue had produced a treatise vindicating the claims of the House of Lancaster to the English Crown; and the King consented to pardon the ex-Chief-Justice if he would write a similar treatise in favour of the claims of the line of York. The condition was hard; the difficulty was not insuperable. In his argument for Lancaster, he had relied much on the fact of Philippa of Clarence having never been acknowledged by her father. In his argument for York, he showed that Philippa’s legitimacy had been proved beyond all dispute. On the production of the treatise, his pardon was granted; and the venerable Judge retired to spend the remainder of his days at Ebrington—an estate which he possessed in Gloucestershire.

About the time that Fortescue received a pardon, John Morton, who, like the great lawyer, had fought on Towton Field, and since followed the ruined fortunes of Lancaster, expressed his readiness to make peace with the Yorkist King. In this case no difficulty was interposed. Edward perceived that the learning and intellect of the “late parson of Blokesworth” might be of great service to the Government. Morton’s atttainder was, therefore, reversed at the earliest possible period; and he soon after became Bishop of Ely.

Meanwhile, on the scaffold, erected in the Market Place of Tewkesbury, the Lancastrians were beheaded; the Prior of St. John appearing on the mournful occasion in the long black robe and white cross of his order. No Quartering nor dismembering of the bodies, however, was practised; nor were the heads of the vanquished set up in public places, as after Wakefield and Towton. The bodies of those who died, whether on the field or the scaffold, were handed over to their friends or servants, who interred them where seemed best. Most of them, including those of the Prince of Wales, Devon, Somerset, and John Beaufort, were laid in the Abbey Church; but the corpse of Wenlock was removed elsewhere, probably to be buried in the Wenlock Chapel, which he had built at Luton; and that of the Prior was consigned to the care of the great fraternity of religious knights at Clerkenwell, of which he had been the head.

After wreaking his vengeance upon the conquered, Edward moved northward to complete his triumph, and forgot for a while the blood he had shed. Years after, however, when laid on his death-bed, the memory of these executions appears to have lain heavy upon his conscience; and he mournfully expressed the regret which they caused him. “Such things, if I had foreseen,” said he, “as I have with more pain than pleasure proved, by God’s Blessed Lady I would never have won the courtesy of men’s knees with the loss of so many heads.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

WARWICK’S VICE-ADMIRAL.

One day in May, 1471, while Edward of York was at Tewkesbury; while Henry of Windsor was a captive in the Tower; and while Elizabeth Woodville and her family were also lodged for security in the metropolitan fortress—thus at once serving the purposes of a prison and a palace—a sudden commotion took place in the capital of England, and consternation appeared on the face of every citizen. The alarm was, by no means, causeless; for never had the wealth of London looked so pale, since threatened by the Lancastrian army after the battle on Bernard’s Heath.

Among the English patricians who, at the beginning of the struggle between York and Lancaster, attached themselves to the fortunes of the White Rose, was William Neville, son of Ralph, Earl of Westmoreland, brother of Cicely, Duchess of York, and uncle of Richard, Earl of Warwick. This Yorkist warrior derived, from the heiress whom he had married, the Lordship of Falconbridge; and after leading the van at Towton, he Was rewarded by Edward with the Earldom of Kent. Dying soon after, he was laid at rest, with obsequies befitting his rank, in the Priory of Gisborough ; and bis lands were inherited by his three daughters, one of whom was the wife of Sir John Conyers.

The Earl of Kent left no legitimate son to inherit his honours; but he left an illegitimate son, named Thomas Neville, and known after the fashion of the age as The Bastard of Falconbridge.” The misfortune of Falconbridge’s birth, of course, prevented him from becoming his father’s heir; but being “a man of turbulent spirit and formed for action,” he had no idea of passing his life in obscurity. His relationship to Warwick was not distant; and “The Stout Earl” duly appreciating the courage and vigour of his illegitimate kinsman, nominated him Vice-Admiral, and appointed him to prevent Edward receiving any aid from the continent.

While Warwick lived, Falconbridge appears to have executed his commission on the narrow seas with fidelity and decorum. But when Barnet had been fought, and the Vice-Admiral bad no longer the fear of the King-maker before his eyes, the narrow seas saw another sight. Throwing off all restraint, he took openly to piracy; and, joined by some malecontents from, Calais, went so desperately to work, that in a marvellously short space of time he made his name terrible to skippers and traders. Falconbridge was not, however, content with this kind of fame. lie had always believed himself destined to perform some mighty achievement; and he now found his soul swelling with an irresistible ambition to attempt the restoration of Lancaster. The peril attending such an exploit might, indeed, have daunted the boldest spirit; but the courage of the Bastard was superlative: and his audacity was equal to his courage.

The enterprise of Falconbridge was not at first so utterly desperate as subsequent events made it appear. The Lancastrians were not yet quite subdued. Oxford was still free and unsubdued; Pembroke was in arms on the Marches of Wales; and the men of the north, on whom Edward’s hand had been so heavy, were arming to take revenge on their tyrant, and liberate from his grasp the woman who, with her smiles and tears, had in other days tempted them to do battle in her behalf. If, under these circumstances, Falconbridge could take Henry out of prison, proclaim the Monk­Monarch once more In London, and send northward the news of a Lancastrian army being in possession of the capital, he might change the destiny of England and enrol his own name in the annals of fame.

No time was lost in maturing the project. Landing at Sandwich, Falconbridge was admitted into Canterbury, and prepared to march upon the metropolis. His adventure soon began to wear a hopeful aspect. Indeed his success was miraculous; for, as he made his way through Kent, the army which originally consisted of the desperadoes of the Cinque Ports and the riff-raff of Calais, swelled till it numbered some seventeen thousand men. Posting this formidable host on the Surrey side of the Thames, and, at the same time, causing his ships to secure the river above St. Katherine's, Falconbridge demanded access to the city, that he might take Henry out of the Tower, and then pass onward to encounter the usurper.

The Mayor and Aldermen, however, sorely perplexed, determined to stand by the House of York, and sent post-haste to inform the King that London was menaced by land and Water, and to implore him to hasten to the relief of his faithful city. Edward who, to awe the northern insurgents, bad proceeded as far as Coventry, forthwith sent fifteen hundred men to the capital; and, on meeting the Earl of Northumberland, who came to assure him of the peace of the north, the King turned his face southward, and hurried towards London.

Meanwhile the patience of Falconbridge had given way. Enraged at the refusal of the Londoners to admit his army, and anxious to gratify the appetite of his followers for plunder, the Bastard expressed his intention of passing the Thames with his army at Kingston, destroying Westminster, and then taking revenge on the citizens of London for keeping him without their gates. Finding, however, that the wooden bridge at Kingston was broken down, and all the places of passage guarded, he drew his forces into St. George’s Fields, and, from that point, prepared to carry London by assault.

His plan thus formed, Falconbridge commenced operations with characteristic energy. After carrying his ordnance from the ships, he planted guns and stationed archers along the banks of the Thames. At first considerable execution was done. Many houses were battered down by the ordnance, and London experienced much inconvenience from the flight of arrows; but the citizens soon showed that this was a game at which two parties could play. Having brought their artillery to the river side, and planted it over against that of their assailants, they returned the fire with an effect so galling, that the adherents of the Vice-Admiral found their position intolerable, and retreated in confusion from their guns.

Falconbridge was not the man to despair early of the enterprise upon which he had ventured. Seeing his men fall back in dismay, he resolved on prosecuting the assault in a more direct way, and on going closely to work with his antagonists. He resolved, moreover, on making a great attempt at London Bridge, and, at the same time, ordered his Lieutenants—Spicing and Quintine—to embark three thousand men, pass the Thames in ships, and force Aldgate and Bishopgate. The desperadoes crossing the river, acted in obedience to their leader’s orders; and London was at once assailed suddenly at three separate points. But the Londoners continued obstinate. Encouraged by the news of Edward’s victory, and incited to valour by the example of Robert Basset and Ralph Jocelyne, Aldermen of the city, they faced the peril with fortitude, and offered so desperate a defence, that seven hundred of the assailants were slain. Repulsed on all points, and despairing of success, the Bastard was fain to beat a retreat.

Baffled in his efforts to take the capital by storm, Falconbridge led his adherents into Kent, and encamped on Blackheath. His prospects were not now encouraging; and for three days he remained in his camp without any new exploits. At the end of that time, he learned that Edward was approachingm and, doubtless, felt that the idea of trying conclusions, at the head of a mob, with the army that had conquered at Barnet and Tewkesbury was not to be entertained. The undis­ciplined champions of the Red Rose, indeed, dispersed at the news of Edward’s coming, as pigeons do at the approach of a hawk; and their adventurous leader, having taken to his ships, that lay at Black wall, sailed for Sandwich.

On Tuesday the 21st of May, seventeen days after Tewkesbury, Edward of York, at the head of thirty thousand men, entered London as a conqueror, and, in his train, to the capital, came Margaret of Anjou as a captive. The broken-hearted Queen found herself committed to the Tower; and condemned, as a prisoner of state, to brood, without hope and without consolation, over irreparable misfortunes and intolerable woes.

On Wednesday morning—it was that of Ascension Day—the citizens of London, who some hours earlier had been thanked for their loyalty to Edward of York, were informed that Henry of Lancaster had been found dead in the Tower; and, soon after, the corpse was borne bare­faced, on a bier, through Cheapside to St. Paul’s, and there exposed to the public view. Notwithstanding this ceremony, rumours wore current that the dethroned King had met with foul play. People naturally supposed that Falconbridge’s attempt to release Henry precipitated this sad event; and they did not fail to notice that on the morning when the body was conveyed to St. Paul's, the King and Richard of Gloucester left London.

A resting-place beside his hero-sire, in the Chapel of St. Edward, might have been allowed to the only King since the Conquest who had emulated the Confessor’s sanctity. But another edifice than the Abbey of Westminster was selected as the place of sepulture; and on the evening of Ascension Day, the corpse having been placed in a barge guarded by soldiers from Calais, was conveyed up the Thames, and, during the silence of midnight, committed to the dust in the Monastery of Chertsey. It was not at Chertsey, however, that the saintly King was to rest. When years had passed over, and Richard had ascended the throne, the mortal remains of Henry were removed from Chertsey to Windsor, and interred with much pomp in the south side of the choir in St. George’s Chapel, there to rest, it was hoped, till that great day, for the coming of which lie had religiously prepared by the devotion of a life.

After consigning Margaret to the Tower and Henry to the tomb, Edward led his army from London, marched to Canterbury, and prepared to inflict severe punishment on Falconbridge. Meanwhile, as Vice­Admiral, Falconbridge had taken possession of Sandwich, where forty-seven ships obeyed his command. With this naval force, and the town fortified in such a way as to withstand a siege, the Bastard prepared for resistance; but on learning that the royal army had reached, Canterbury, his heart began to fail, and he determined, if possible, to obtain a pardon. With this object, Falconbridge despatched a messenger to Edward; and the King was, doubtless, glad enough to got so bold a rebel quietly into his power. At all events he determined on deluding the turbulent Vice­Admiral with assurances of safety and promises of favour; and Gloucester was empowered to negotiate a treaty.

Matters at first went smoothly. The Duke rode to Sandwich to assure his illegitimate cousin of the King’s full forgiveness, and about the 26th of May, Falconbridge made his submission, and promised to be a faithful subject. Edward then honoured him with knighthood and confirmed him in the post of Vice-Admiral. At the same time the King granted a full pardon to the Bastard’s adherents; and they, relying on the royal word, surrendered the town of Sandwich, with the castle, and the ships that lay in the port. “But how this composition was observed”, says Baker, “may be imagined, when Falconbridge, who was comprised in the pardon, was afterwards taken and executed at Southampton. Spicing and Quintine, the captains that assailed Aldgate and Bishopgate, and were in Sandwich Castle at the surrender thereof, were presently beheaded at Canterbury, and their heads placed on poles in the gates; and, by a commission of Oyer and Terminer, many, both in Essex and Kent, were arraigned and condemned for this rebellion.’’

About Michaelmas, Falconbridge expiated his ill-fated ambition; and the citizens had the satisfaction, in autumn, of seeing his head exposed to warn malcontents to beware of Edward of York. “Thomas Falconbridge, his head,” says Paston, “was yesterday set upon London Bridge, looking Kentward, and men say that his brother was sore-hurt, and escaped to sanctuary to Beverley.” So ended the ambitious attempt of Warwick’s Vice-Admiral to play the part of king­maker.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ESCAPE OF THE TUDORS

When the spirit of the Lancastrians had been broken on the fields of Barnet and Tewkesbury, and the violent deaths—if such they were—of the Monk-Monarch and his gallant son had left the adherents of the Red Rose without a prince to rally round, the House of York seemed to be established for ever.

That branch of the Plantagenets which owed its origin to John of Gaunt was not, indeed, without an heir. The King of Portugal, the grandson of Philippa, eldest daughter of John and Blanche of Lancaster, was the personage with whom that honour rested; but Alphonso, albeit a knight-errant in manhood’s prime, not being yet turned of forty, and rich in gold brought from Guinea, was not so utterly indiscreet as to waste his energy and croisadoes on an enterprise in which Warwick, the flower of English patricians and the favourite of the English people, had so signally failed. Moreover, about this time, Alphonso was all anxiety to wed Joan, the youthful daughter of the last King of Castille, and make a Quixotic attempt, as husband of that princess, to wrest the Spanish crown from Ferdinand and Isabella. Thus occupied, with projects of love and war, the King of Portugal does not appear to have put forward any claims as heir of John of Gaunt: nor, perhaps, did the English nation ever seriously consider his claims.

The extinction of Henry of Bolingbroke’s posterity left the Red Rose party without having at its head a king, whose name might serve as a rallying cry. But the adherents of the Lancastrian cause, however dispirited, were not utterly subdued. They still cherished vague hopes, and pointed to chiefs of high name; for John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, and Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, still lived; and while these noblemen—the first so noble, the second so loyal, and the third so wary—were free, there was still a prospect of revenge on the usurper. The fact, however, was, that the Lancastrian lords were in a situation far from enviable, and might have been forgiven had they cherished no aspiration more lofty than that of getting safely away from the country, and beyond the reach of Edward’s vengeance.

When intelligence reached Jasper Tudor that Margaret of Anjou and her captains had been totally routed, far from cherishing any such delusions as imposed upon the rude intellect of Falconbridge, he forthwith allowed his forces to disperse, and making for the valley of the Wye, took refuge in the stronghold of Chepstow.

Situated at the mouth of the most beautiful of English rivers, Chepstow is still an interesting ruin. At that time it was a magnificent castle, stretching along a precipitous cliff, consisting of four courts and a central building, and covering an area of three acres. To this fortress, Jasper, in the day of perplexity, retired to reflect on the past and prepare for the future.

While at Chepstow, Jasper had a narrow escape. Edward was naturally most anxious to destroy the Lancastrians as a party; and eager, therefore, to get so zealous an adherent of the Red Rose into his power. With a view of entrapping his old adversary, he employed Roger Vaughan, one of a clan who, like the Crofts, were ancient retainers of the House of Mortimer, to repair to Chepstow. The contest between the Celt and the Marchman was brief. Jasper was not to be outwitted. He penetrated the secret of Vaughan’s mission, caused him to be seized, and without formality, had his head struck off.

Having taken this strong measure, and thereby added to his danger in the event of capture, Jasper proceeded to Pembroke. At that town the outlawed Earl was exposed to new dangers. Pursued to Pembroke by a Welsh warrior named Morgan ap Thomas, he was besieged in the town; but relief came from a quarter that could hardly have been expected. David ap Thomas, who was Morgan’s brother, but attached to the Red Rose, rushing to Jasper’s assistance, succeeded in raising the siege; and the Welsh Earl was freed, for the time, from pressing peril. But having lost all feeling of security, and every hope of holding out against Edward, he committed the defence of Pembroke to Sir John Scudamore, took his brother’s son Henry, the young Earl of Richmond, under his wing, embarked with the boy at Tenby; and, once more as an outlaw and fugitive, sailed for the continent.

The intention of Jasper and his nephew was to seek protection at the Court of Louis; and they steered their course towards the coast of France. But fortune proved unfavourable to this design. For ever the elements fought against the Lancastrians. Encountering contrary winds, the Tudors were driven on the coast of Brittany; and, being compelled to put into a port belonging to the Duke, they could not avoid paying their respects to that magnate. The Duke received them with courtesy, and treated them with hospitality; and so far all went pleasantly. But when the Tudors prepared to pursue their way to France, they were given to understand that they were not at liberty to proceed.

The two Earls were somewhat disconcerted on comprehending their actual position. They made the best of circumstances, however; and, indeed, all things considered, had not much reason to complaint. The town of Vannes was assigned them as a residence, and they were treated with the respect deemed due to their rank. Except being narrowly watched, their position was not uncomfortable.

Intelligence of the Tudors being at Vannes was not long confined to Brittany. The news soon reached both Paris and London; and while the French King claimed them as friends, the English King demanded them as rebels and traitors. The Duke, however, firmly adhered to the resolution to keep them to himself; and Edward was fain to appear content, and pay a yearly sum for their support. The Duke, on his part, gave assurances that they should have no opportunity of causing disturbance to the English Government.

When a few years passed over, circumstances had rendered young Henry Tudor a more important personage; and Edward made a great effort to obtain their extradition. To accomplish this object lie sent an embassy to Britanny, to invite Henry to England, promising him the hand of the Princess Elizabeth. The Duke of Brittany was induced to consent; and Henry repaired to St. Malo to embark. But Peter De Landois, the Duke’s chief minister, who at that time pretended a high regard for the Tudors, declared that Edward's offer was a snare, and pointed out the impolicy of crediting Edward’s profession of friendship. The Duke was convinced; and Richmond’s embarkation having been delayed by a fever, the result of anxiety, he returned to Vannes.

And at Vannes, as guest or captive of Brittany—he hardly knew which—Henry Tudor was destined to remain, till one day the Bishop of Ely and the Duke of Buckingham, conspiring in Brecknock Castle, nominated him—a man described by Comines as “without power, without money, without hereditary right, and without any reputation”—as a candidate for the proudest of European thrones.

CHAPTER XXXV.

ADVENTURES OF JOHN DE VERE.

One autumn day, about six months after the fall of Warwick and Montagu, a little fleet approached the coast of Cornwall, and anchored in the green waters of Mount’s Bay. The monks and fighting men who tenanted the fortified monastery that crowned the summit of St. Michael’s Mount, might have deemed the appearance of the ships slightly suspicious; but the aspect and attire of those who landed from their decks forbade uncharitable surmises. Indeed, they were in the garb of pilgrims, and represented themselves as men of rank, who, at the suggestion of their confessors, had come from remote parts of the kingdom to perform vows, make orisons, and offer oblations at the shrine of St. Michael.

It was the last day of September; the festival of St. Keyne, a virgin princess of rare sanctity, who had, in the fifth century, for pious purposes visited the Mount; and, on such an occasion, the monks were not likely to be in any very sceptical mood. Proud, in all probability, of their saint's reputation, and not doubting his power to inspire zeal, they opened their gates and admitted the pilgrims. No sooner were they admitted, however, than the scene changed. Each man, throwing aside his pilgrim’s habits, stood before the astonished monks a warrior in mail, with a dagger at his girdle, a sword by his side, and in his eye the determination to use those weapons in the event of resistance. At the head of this band was a man of thirty or thereabouts, who announced that he was John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, and that he had come to take possession of St. Michael’s Mount in the name of Lancaster.

Between his escape from Barnet and his arrival at St. Michael’s Mount, the chief of the De Veres had passed through some remarkable adventures. When Oxford, bewildered by the consequences of his silver star being mistaken for Edward’s sun, and thrown off his guard by the shouts of “treason” rode through the mist and fled from the field, he directed his course northward with the intention of seeking refuge in Scotland; but after riding some distance, and taking time to reflect, the Earl came to the conclusion that the journey was too long to be accomplished with safety, and, turning aside, he rode, in the company of Lord Beaumont, towards the Welsh Marches, with the hope of joining Jasper Tudor. Whether or not he reached Wales is not quite clear; but it appears from a letter written in April to his Countess, Warwick’s sister, that after Queen Margaret had landed, and her friends had resolved on another campaign, Oxford recovered the spirit he had displayed at Coventry, and indulged in the hope of a Lancastrian triumph.

 “Right reverend and worshipful lady,” writes the Earl to his Countess, “I recommend me to you, letting you what that I am in great heaviness at the making of this letter; but, thanked be God, I am escaped myself, and, suddenly departed from my men; for I understand my chaplain would have betrayed me”.

“Ye shall give credence to the bringer of this letter, and I beseech you to reward him to his costs; for I am not in power at the making of this letter to give him but as I was put in trust by favour of strange people. Also, ye shall send me, in all haste, all the ready money ye can make, and as many of my men as can come well horsed, and that they come in divers parcels. Also, that my best horses be sent with my steel saddles, and bid the yeoman of the horse cover them with leather.

“Also, ye shall send to my mother and let her weet of this letter, and pray her of her blessing, and bid her send me my casket, by this token, that she bath the key thereof, but it is broken. And ye shall send to the Prior of Thetford, and bid him send me the sum of gold that. he said I should have; also, say to him, by this token, that I showed him the first Privy Seal”    

“Also, ye shall be of good cheer, and take no thought; for I shall bring my purpose about now, by the grave of God, who have you in His keeping”

Oxford soon learned the truth of the homely proverb, that there is much between the cup and the lip; and when Tewkesbury extinguished his hopes of victory, the Earl, attended by Lord Beaumont, betook himself to France. His reception to that country not being such as to tempt a prolonged residence, he fitted out a fleet, and for a while made the ocean his home. Indeed it would seem that, when exiled from his kindred and his castles, the heir of the De Veres reverted to the habits of his Scandinavian ancestors, and that, during the summer of 1471, the thirteenth of the proud Earls of Oxford roved the narrow seas as a pirate. About the close of September, however, Oxford having, in the words of Specde, “gotten stores of provisions by the strong hand at sea,” landed in Cornwall; and with a body of men, whom some chroniclers represent as well-nigh four hundred, and others at less than a sixth of that number, appeared suddenly at St. Michael’s Mount.

The monks of St. Michael and the soldiers who garrisoned the Mount, were in no condition to resist a body of men so determined. They, therefore, yielded without a struggle; and Oxford set himself to the task of repairing the fortifications, getting men and ammunition to defend the Mount in the event of a siege, and procuring provisions to subsist them in case of the operations being prolonged. Men and supplies were both forthcoming: for the Earl happened to be grandson of an heiress of Sir Richard Sergeaux of Colquite; and their regard for the memory of that lady made the Cornishmen most eager to prove their devotion to his service. When, therefore, Oxford or his men descended into the villages adjacent to the Mount, they were received with enthusiasm, and, in the words of the chronicler, had good cheer of the inhabitants.”

Oxford’s enterprise seemed to have prospered; but the period was the reverse favouratle for a Lancastrian lord being left in undisturbed possession of a stronghold. No sooner did Edward near of the exploit, than he issued a proclamation branding De Vere and his adherents as traitors; and, at the same time, he ordered Sir John Arundel, Sheriff of Cornwall, to retake St. Michael’s  Mount without delay. Arundel raised an army in the locality, advanced to the Mount, and sent a trumpeter to summon Oxford to surrender to the King’s mercy and thus save the effusion of Christian blood. The Earl was uninfluenced by the ceremony. He resolutely refused to listen to the conditions. “Rather than yield on such terms,” said he, “I and those with me will lose our lives.”

The Sheriff seeing no hope of a capitulation proceeded to storm the Mount. Oxford, however, far from being daunted, defended the stronghold with such energy that, after a struggle, the besiegers were beaten at all points, and repulsed with loss. Nor was this the worst; for the garrison, sallying from the outer gate, pursued the assailants down to the sands. There Arundel was slain with many of his soldiers; and the survivors— most of whom were newly levied—fled in dismay.

Arundel was buried in the Church of the Mount; and Edward, on hearing of the Sheriff’s death, appointed a gentleman named Fortescue as successor in the office. Having been ordered to prosecute the siege, Fortescue commenced operations. But the new Sheriff was little more successful than his predecessor. Moreover, the Mount, which was connected with the mainland by an isthmus, dry at low-water, but at other times overflowed, gained the reputation of being impregnable; and the King, who ascribed the want of success to the want of loyal zeal and described Cornwall as “the back-door of rebellion,” instructed Fortescue to hold a parley with Oxford in order to ascertain the Earl’s desires and expectations.

Fortescue acted according to his instructions, and demanded on what conditions the garrison would surrender.

“If,” said the Earl, “the King will grant myself and my adherents our lives, our liberties, and our estates, then we will yield.”

 “And otherwise?” said the Sheriff.

“Why, in that event,” exclaimed Oxford, with calm desperation, “we will fight it out to the last man.”

The Earl’s answer was conveyed to the King: and on Edward’s assuring the garrison of a free pardon, under the great seal of England, Oxford surrendered St. Michael’s Mount. Indeed, he had been extremely perplexed; for Fortescue, it appears, had already opened communications with the garrison, and conveyed them such promises on the King’s part, that Oxford was under the necessity of surrendering himself to avoid the humiliation of being delivered, by his own men into the hands of the besiegers. This was all the more provoking, that he had sufficient provisions to last till Midsummer; but there was no resisting fate, and, about the middle of February, Fortescue entered the Mount.

Oxford, having been carried to London with two of his brothers and Lord Beaumont, was tried and attainted; and, notwithstanding the promise of pardon, the fate of the chief of the De Veres now appeared to be sealed. Fortunately for the Lancastrian Earl, Edward’s conscience was at that time troubled with some qualms, and his heart daunted by some signs which he regarded as ominous of evil. Not being in a savage humour, he shrunk from having more De Vere blood on his hands, and the Earl escaped execution. However, he was sent captive to Picardy.

When Oxford was sent to a foreign prison, his youthful Countess was left in poverty. As the sister of Warwick and the wife of Oxford, the noble lady was regarded by Edward with peculiar aversion; and, both as sister and wife, she returned the King’s antipathy with interest. Thus it happened that, notwithstanding the near relationship in which she stood to the House of York, no provision out of her husband’s revenues was made for her maintenance during his incarceration. The Countess had all the Neville pride and determination. Cast down from patrician grandeur and expelled from Castle Hedlingham and other feudal scats, where she had maintained state as the wife of England’s proudest Norman Earl, she made a noble effort to earn daily bread and contrived to make a living by the exercise of her skill in needlework. The struggle to keep the wolf from the door was doubtless hard to the daughter of Salisbury and the spouse of Oxford; but, from being compelled to rely on her industry, Margaret Neville escaped the irksome necessity of suppressing the indignation she felt against her husband’s foes, and she retained the privilege of denouncing the King, whom her imagination painted as the falsest of tyrants.

Meanwhile, Oxford was, in defiance of the King’s promise, conveyed to Hammes, and committed as a prisoner to the Castle. The Earl was not a man to relish the idea of incarceration, and he resolved on taking an unceremonious leave of his jailers. With this view, he leaped from the walls into the ditch, and endeavoured to escape. The vigilance of his warders, however, rendered this attempt futile; and John De Vere was conveyed back to the Castle, a prisoner without prospect of release.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A DUKE IN RAGS.

Among the Lancastrian chiefs who survived the two fields on which the Red Rose was trodden under the hoofs of King Edward’s charger, none was destined to a more wretched fate than the conqueror’s own brother­in-law, Henry, Duke of Exeter. The career of this chief of the family of Holland, from his cradle to his grave, forms a most melancholy chapter in the annals of the period.

The Hollands were somewhat inferior in origin to most of the great barons who fought in the Wars of the Roses. The founder of the house was a poor knight who, from being secretary to an Earl of Lancaster, rose to some post of importance. His grandson, happening to hold the office of steward of the household to an Earl of Salisbury, contrived to espouse Joan Plantagenet, daughter of the Earl of Kent; and when that lady, known as “The Fair Maid of’ Kent” after figuring as a widow, became wife of “The Black Prince”, the fortunes of the Hollands rose rapidly. One flourished as Earl of Kent; another was created Duke of Surrey; and a third, having been gifted with the Earldom of Huntingdon, became Duke of Exeter and husband of Elizabeth of Lancaster, John of Gaunt’s second daughter.

Notwithstanding his Lancastrian alliance, the first Duke of Exeter remained faithful to Richard in 1399, and, consequently, lost his head soon after that sovereign’s deposition. The son of the decapitated nobleman, however, being nephew of the new King, was soon received into favour by Henry of Lancaster, and appointed Constable of the Tower and Lord High Admiral of England. At an early age he married a daughter of Edmund, Earl Stafford; and on the 27th of June, 1430, their only eon was born in the Tower of London. On the same day he was carried to Cold Harbour in the arms of the Countess Marshal, who conveyed him in a barge to Westminster, where, in St. Stephen’s Chapel, he was baptised by the name of Henry.

Fortune seemed to smile on the heir of the Hollands. Could the future have been foreseen, however, no young peasant, labouring in the fields and struggling out of serfdom, would have envied the infant destined to a career so miserable and a catastrophe so melancholy.

The life of Henry Holland opened brightly enough. At the age of seventeen he succeeded his father as third Duke of Exeter and Lord High Admiral of England, and espoused Anne Plantagenet, oldest daughter of the Duke of York; and, at the time when the Roses were plucked, he appears to have favoured the Yorkist cause. A change, however, came over his fortunes and his political sentiments.

Exeter had, in fact, chosen his party without due consideration, and, ere long, he saw reason to change sides. Indeed, his place in Parliaments and Councils must have reminded the young Duke that, through his grandmother, he was of the blood of Lancaster; and to a man of his rank, flatterers would hardly be wanting to suggest the probability of the course of events bringing the regal sceptre to his hand. On arriving at years of discretion, Exeter exchanged the pale for the purple rose; and, after the first battle of St. Albans, he was under the necessity of flying to the sanctuary of Westminster. From that place of security he was taken on some pretext, and sent as a prisoner to Pontefract Castle.

When the political wind changed, Exeter recovered his liberty; and, as time passed over, he fought for Margaret of Anjou in the battles of Wakefield and Towton. After the rout of the Rod Rose army on Palm Sunday, 1461, he fled with Henry into Scotland; but in the autumn of that year he was tempting fortune in Wales, and, in company with Jasper Tudor, stood embattled at Tutchill, near Carnarvon, against King Edwards forces. The Yorkists proving victorious, Exeter and his comrade in arms were fain to make for the mountains, leaving the Welsh Lancastrians no resource but to submit.

Exeter’s biography now becomes obscure. The unfortunate Duke can be traced, however, lurking on the Scottish frontier, fighting at Hexham, flying to a Northumbrian village, finding Margaret of Anjou in the outlaw’s cave, accompanying the Lancastrian Queen into exile, and wandering as a broken man on the continent, while his Duchess, in no degree inclined to share such fortunes, enjoyed the estate of her banished lord, lived at her brother’s Court, kept well with Elizabeth Woodville, and ministered to that lady’s maternal ambition by pledging the hand of Exeter’s heiress to the young Marquis of Dorset. When, however, Warwick chased Edward of York from the kingdom, Exeter appeared once more in England, and figured as one of the Lancastrian leaders at Barnet.

The disgrace of abandoning “The Stout Earl” on the field where he was laid low, Exeter did not share. As early as seven in the morning of that Easter Sunday he was struck by an arrow, and left for dead on the field. After remaining for nine hours lie was discovered still alive, and carried to the house of one of his servants, named Ruthland. A surgeon having been found to dregs the Duke's wound, he was in such a degree restored as to be conveyed to the sanctuary of Westminster.

At this point, mystery again settles over Exeter’s history. It appears, however, that the ill-fated Duke escaped to the continent; and that the Duchess seized the opportunity to break the last link that bound her to a husband so unfortunate. In November, 1472, nearly two years after the battle of Barnet, the Plantagenet lady, at her own suit, procured a divorce, and soon after married Sir Thomas St. Leger, Knight of the Body to King Edward. The Duchess survived this event for three years. According to Sandford, she breathed her last in 1475; and “St. Leger surviving her,” says Dugdale, “in 21 Edward IV, founded a perpetual chantry of two priests to celebrate divine service daily within the Chapel of St. George in Windsor Castle.” Exeter’s only daughter, who had been betrothed to the Marquis of Dorset, died before her mother; and Elizabeth Woodville secured the heiress of Bonville as bride for her son.

Meanwhile, the plight of Exeter became deplorable; and, in Flanders, he was reduced to absolute beggary. Comines relates that, on one occasion, he saw the impoverished magnate running after the Duke of Burgundy, and begging bread for God’s sake. In the hapless mendicant, in rags and misery, Burgundy did not recognise the once proud chief of the House of Holland—his cousin by blood and his brother-in-law by marriage. On being afterwards informed, however, that the lagged mendicant was the banished Duke of Exeter, great-grandson of John of Gaunt, the King of Portugal’s kinsman and his own, and formerly Lord High Admiral of England, owner of broad baronies, and husband of Anno Plantagenet, Charles the Rash was touched, and induced to bestow on Exeter a pension to save him from further degradation.

Dugdale presumes that this scene occurred “after Barnet Field”; and, if so, Burgundy’s bounty was not long enjoyed by the unfortunate recipient. Sometime in 1474, Exeter's earthly troubles ended. His body was found floating in the sea between Dover and Calais; but how he came by his death was never ascertained.

“ In this year,” says Fabyan, “ was the Duke of Exeter found dead in the sea between Dover and Calais; but how he was drowned the certainty is not known."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LOUIS DE BRUGES AT WINDSOR.

In the autumn of 1472, while Oxford was being secured in the Castle of Hammes, and Edward was striving to get Pembroke and Richmond into his power, a guest, whom the King delighted to honour, appeared in England. This was Louis de Bruges, who had proved so true a friend in the hour of need; and right glad was Edward of York to welcome the Lord of Grauthuse to the regal castle which still stands, in the nineteenth century, a monument of the Plantagenets' pride in peace and prowess in war.

An account of the visit of the Burgundian nobleman, written at the time, has fortunately been preserved; and, as has been remarked, “far more luxurious and more splendid than might be deemed by those who read but the general histories pf that sanguinary time, or the inventories of furniture in the houses even of the great barons, was the accommodation which Edward afforded to his guests.”

On reaching Windsor, where, by the bye, Margaret of Anjou was then a prisoner of state, Louis de Bruges was received by Lord Hastings, who, as the King’s Chamberlain, led the noble guest to apartments in the far side of the quadrangle of the Castle, which wore richly hung with arras of cloth of gold. Edward received Louis with every demonstration of affection, and presented him to his spouse; and Elizabeth Woodville was, of course, all courtesy to her husband’s preserver. After the ceremony of reception was over, the King signified that Hastings should conduct the Lord of Grauthuse to his chamber, where supper was ready; and Louis found that every preparation had been made for entertaining him luxuriously.

The apartments appropriated to the Burgundian are described as having been fitted up in a way which must have impressed the eye even of a man accustomed to the magnificence of Dijon. The walls were hung with white silk and linen cloth, and the floor covered with rich carpets. The bed was of down, the sheets were of Rennes cloth, and the counterpane, the tester, and the ceiler were of cloth of gold and furred with ermine. In the second chamber was another state bed, and a couch, with hangings like a tent. In the third, covered with white cloth, was a bath, which in that age was in daily use.

After partaking of supper in the apartments dedicated to his service, Louis was conducted to the Queen’s withdrawing room, where he found Elizabeth and her ladies amusing themselves with different games; some playing at marteaux, with balls like marbles, and others at closheys, or nine-pins, made of ivory.

Next day, after matins, Edward took his guest to the Chapel of St. George, where they heard mass most melodiously sung. When mass had been performed, the King presented his guest with a cup of gold, garnished with pearl, in the middle of which was a large piece of unicorn’s horn, and on the cover a great sapphire. Then the King led Louis to the quadrangle of the Castle, and there the Prince of Wales, still in hi9ssecond year, appeared, to bid the Lord of Grauthuse welcome to England. Having introduced his heir to the Burgundian lord, Edward conducted his guest into the little park, where they had much sport. The King made Louis ride his own horse; and of the animal, which is described as “a right fair hobby,” he graciously made a present to his guest.

That day, the King dined at the lodge in Windsor Park; and, the dinner over, he showed Louis his gardens and vineyard of pleasure. The Queen ordered the evening banquet in her own apartments; and, when supper was over, the Princess Elizabeth danced with the Duke of Buckingham. Never did guest receive more flattering attentions than Louis. The king and courtiers did not take their leave of him for the night till they had escorted him to his apartments; and soon after, when he had been in his bath and was preparing to betake himself to repose, there were sent him by the Queen's orders “green ginger, and (livers syrups, and hippocras.” Next morning, Louis break­fasted with the King, and then leaving Windsor, returned to Westminster.

At Westminster, new honours awaited the Lord of Grauthuse. On St. Edward’s Day—exactly nineteen years after the birth of the ill-fated Edward of Lancaster—the King created the Burgundian nobleman Earl of Winchester, and, with many complimentary phrases, gave him the arms of the family of De Quency, which had enjoyed that Earldom at the time of the Barons’ Wars. After having been granted a more substantial mark of Edward’s gratitude in the shape of a pension, Louis de Bruges took his leave, and returned to his own country.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE TREATY OF PICQUIGNY.

When Edward’s victories on Gladsmuir Heath and the banks of the Severn had rendered the Lancastrians in England utterly incapable of making head against the House of York, the martial King naturally turned his thoughts to continental triumphs, and prepared to avenge himself on Louis of France for the encouragement which that monarch had openly and secretly given to the adherents of the Red Rose.

Apart from the friendship shown by the crafty King to Warwick and Lancaster, Edward had a strong reason for making war on Louis. It was well known that Louis had not only sneered at his royalty, but questioned his legitimacy, calling him “the son of the archer”, and keeping alive a story which some envious Lancastrians had invented about an intrigue of the Duchess of York, the proudest of England’s matrons, with Blackburn of Middleham. Besides, Edward was not insensible to the glory and popularity to be acquired by emulating the martial deeds of his ancestors on continental soil. Accordingly, in the year 1475, after concluding an alliance offensive and defensive with the Duke of Burgundy, and receiving promises of cooperation from the Constable St. Pol, Edward despatched Garter-King-at-Arms to Louis, demanding the immediate surrender of the Kingdom of France.

However startled Louis might be at the message, he did not lose his presence of mind. After reading Edward’s letter and reflecting, he sent for the Garter-King, brought all his statecraft into play, expressed his high respect for the English King, deplored that such a Prince should be deluded by so treacherous an ally as Burgundy, and persuaded the herald to urge his master to settle the matter amicably. Moreover, he promised Garter a thousand crowns, when peace should be concluded; and, meanwhile, presented him with three hundred crowns. Garter-King-at-Arms was touched with the munificence of Louis, and promised his good offices; nay more, significantly advised the King of France to open negotiations with the English ministers, whom he knew to be averse to a war.

Meanwhile, Edward had set himself to the task of providing money and men for the expedition he meditated; and as the project of a war with France was sure to make Parliament open the purse of the nation, a considerable sum was voted. To Edward, however, the amount appeared insufficient for his purpose, and he resolved upon a system of exaction practised in time of Richard the Second, and known as “a benevolence.” But money paid in this way was supposed to be a voluntary gift, and not likely to come in large sums unless asked for. Edward, therefore, sent for the wealthiest citizens of London, talked to them frankly, and pressed them to contribute liberally; and he besides secured the influence of the city dames, who exerted themselves to the utmost on his behalf. A story is told of a widow, who was not fond of parting with money, bringing twenty pounds. “By God’s Blessed Lady,” said Edward, who was present, “you shall have a King’s kiss for that money,” and suited the action to the word. “Sire,” said she, delighted with this familiarity, “the honour is worth more money than I have given”, and the widow doubled her contribution.

Large sums having been obtained, a gallant army was soon raised. In fact, the sons of the men of Agincourt did not relish the idea of beating swords into ploughshares; and the royal standard came nearly twenty thousand men, headed by the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester, the Marquis of Dorset, the Earl of Northumberland, Lord Stanley, Lord Hastings, and other men of rank. With these, and attended by Lord Chancellor Rotheram and the Bishop of Ely, Edward sailed from Sandwich, and, towards the close of June, landed at Calais, which he had last visited under the protection of Warwick, between their flight from Ludlow and their victory at Northampton.

High hopes were at first entertained by the invaders; but it soon became apparent that they were not destined to add a Cressy or an Agincourt to England’s list of victories. At the very beginning, their enterprise was ruined by the Constable’s insincerity and Burgundy’s rashness. The former failed to open the gates as he had promised; and the latter, instead of joining Edward with a large army, exhausted his strength before Neuss in a battle with the Swiss.

Louis began to breathe freely; and while the English army lay inactive at Péronne, French gold circulated freely among the leaders. A general desire for peace was, of course, the result; and, ere long, Edward caught the infection. French ambassadors soon appeared, and offered to pay anything in reason. A sum of seventy-five thousand crowns down, an annuity of fifty thousand crowns, and the Dauphin as a husband for his eldest daughter—such were the terms submitted, on the part of Louis, for the acceptance of the English King. Edward could not resist such offers; and, after negotiations had gone on for some time, the Kings agreed to a conference.

Picquigny, three leagues from Amiens, on the road from Calais to Paris, was selected as the scene, and the 29th of August appointed as the time for this memorable interview. Every precaution was taken to prevent mischief; and on the middle of the bridge winch spanned the Somme, at Picquigny, were erected two sheds. These fronted each other; but were divided from top to bottom by a trellis of woodwork. The space between the gratings was no wider than to admit a man’s arm; and the English King was to occupy one side of the barricade, while the French King occupied the other.

It appears that Richard of Gloucester considered the terms of treaty degrading, and declined to appear at the conference. Nevertheless, on the appointed morning, Edward, attended by Clarence, Northumberland, Hastings, and others, proceeded to the Bridge of Picquigny, and approached the grating. On the other side, Louis had already arrived, with, the Duke of Bourbon, the Cardinal Bourbon, about ten other persons of the highest rank in France, and Philip de Comines, who had recently exchanged the service of Burgundy for that of Louis.

One glance at Edward, as he advanced along the causeway, with his tall graceful form arrayed in cloth of gold, and wearing on his regal head a velvet cap with a large fleur de lis formed of precious stones, must have convinced so acute an observer as Louis, that the story about the archer of Middleham was an invention of the enemy; and as the King of England took off his cap, and bowed with grace, the French monarch, who had been leaning against the barrier, made a respectful obeisance, and exclaimed — “Cousin, you are right, welcome. There is no person living I have been so ambitious of seeing”. Edward, in good French, returned the compliment; and the two Kings proceeded to business.

Notwithstanding a heavy fall of rain, which “came on to the great vexation of the French lords, who had dressed themselves and their horses in their richest habiliments, in honour of King Edward,” the conference proved interesting. The Bishop of Ely, in a set harangue, quoted a prophecy of Merlin foreshadowing the august meeting; and a missal and crucifix having been produced, the Kings, each placing one hand on the book and another on the crucifix, swore to observe religiously the terms of the treaty.

The solemn ceremony of swearing over, Louis became jocose, assured Edward he should be happy to see him in Paris, and promised to assign him, as confessor, the Cardinal Bourbon, who would, doubtless, readily grant absolution for any love affairs. Edward seemed to relish the prospect, and knowing the Cardinal’s morals to be lax as his own, took the opportunity of displaying his wit in reply. After this the lords were sent to a little distance; and the Kings, having spoken some words in private, shook hands through the grating, and parted—Louis riding to Amiens, and Edward to the English camp.

No sooner had Louis left the bridge of Picquigny, than he repented of the invitation he had given Edward to visit the French capital. “Certes,” said the crafty monarch to Comines, as they rode towards Amiens, “our brother of England is a fine King, and a warm admirer of the ladies. At Paris, he might chance to find some dame so much to his taste as to tempt him to return. His predecessors have been too often both in Paris and Normandy already; and I have no great affection for his company on this side of the Channel.”

At Amiens, on the same evening, when Louis was sitting down to supper, an amusing scene occurred. Sir John Howard, now a baron, and Sir John Cheyney, Edward’s Master of the Horse, had been appointed to accompany Louis to Paris; and Howard, whose vanity made him, as usual, ridiculous, whispered to the French King that it would go hard but he would persuade Edward to come to Paris awhile and be merry. Louis allowed this to pass without returning any direct answer; but afterwards he took occasion to say that the war with Burgundy would render his presence absolutely necessary in another part of France.

But, whatever his apprehensions, Louis was not doomed to have his formidable contemporary as a foe or a guest on the banks of the Seine. Edward, doubtless delighted with the prospect of indulging in hunting, carousing, and love-making, at Shene or Windsor, recalled, without delay, his soldiers from Péronne, Abbeville, and other places, and escorted by the Bishop of Evreux, marched back to Calais. Thence he embarked for England, but not without being unpleasantly reminded that he hardly came off with royal honours. In fact, the Constable of St. Pol, apparently enraged that events had taken such a turn as to profit him nothing, wrote Edward a furious letter, calling him a coward, a pitiful and poor sovereign, for having made a treaty with a King who would not keep one of his promises.

The Plantagenet sent St. Pol’s epistle to the King of France, and digested the affront; and while Louis, who had already been suspected of poisoning his brother Charles de Valois, got rid of another enemy by beheading the Constable, Edward returned to England to expend the money he had received as a bribe on those pleasures destined to destroy his health and obscure his intellect. Nor did his nobles come home empty-handed. Dorset, Hastings, and Howard, Sir John Cheyney and Sit Thomas St. Leger, had become pensioners of the French King; and the people were left to complain that the expedition for which they hail paid so dearly had ended in infamy. Perhaps, under such circumstances, they did drop a tear over the grave of “The Stout Earl”, who, had he been alive, would not have stood quietly by while a king of England extracted taxes from English subjects to commence an unnecessary war, and took bribes from a French monarch to conclude a humiliating peace.