Jean Plaidy - The Red Rose of Anjou

It was a happy day when he had brought the new King to London and Margaret had decided that she would be too unwelcome there to attempt to enter.

Fortune favoured the bold—indeed it did. And here he was in that position on which he had set his sights from the very first battle of St. Albans.

He had power in his grasp. He must hold tightly to it; and he could not be sure of it until Henry was again a prisoner and Margaret was with him.

Therefore there was no time for rejoicing. They must set out for the North and not rest until they had vanquished Margaret’s army.

* * *

Bitterly Margaret considered what had happened. What folly to have allowed Warwick and Edward to go to London. She had always hated the Londoners because they had hated her. And they had cheered for Edward and Warwick. They had dared call Edward their King.

Henry was with her. He was praying all the time. He was so weary of the wars, he told her. Would they never stop? He would do anything...anything to make them...give them what they wanted, anything.

‘Forsooth and forsooth, what life is this for us!’

‘We have our son to think of,’ Margaret told him fiercely. ‘Have you forgotten that?’

‘He will be happier in some quiet place,’ said the King, ‘far away from conflict ‘

‘He is not like you,’ retorted Margaret. ‘My son was born to be King.’

Henry sighed. He was so weary. Margaret could not sit quietly; she would find such comfort in prayer, he told her.

She paced up and down—over to the window, straining to see if a messenger was coming, then back to the fire, standing there staring into the embers, seeing Edward proclaimed by the treacherous Londoners...Edward in battle...the battle which was now taking place.

She was kept informed. No sooner had Edward declared himself King than he prepared for the march to the North. He was determined to destroy her and her armies,

‘Nay, my lord,’ she thought fiercely, ‘it is I who will destroy you.’

It was Palm Sunday. Henry would not go with the army. ‘This is a time for prayer,’ he said. ‘We should be kneeling together, those men of York and those of Lancaster. They should ask for God’s help to solve their differences.’

Margaret was contemptuous. ‘Meanwhile they should rely on their archers. If prayers were effective surely you would be the greatest king on earth.’

Henry shook his head sadly. Margaret spoke vehemently. He would never be able to make her understand his feelings.

‘It may be,’ she went on, ‘that God will be with us this day. He was at St. Albans. Then the snow worked to our advantage...not theirs. It blew in their faces and sent their wicked wildfire back into their ranks. The elements were with us then. Pray God they will be now.’ She walked up and down the room. ‘How dare they! We defeated them at St. Albans. We brought you back to us. It was a great victory. How could they have marched into London and proclaimed Edward King!’

‘They did it,’ said Henry.

‘And they shall pay for it,’ replied Margaret. ‘How I wish I were with the army now. I should love to see the enemy destroyed. Nothing will satisfy me until I have Warwick’s head on London Bridge...yes, London Bridge where they are so fond of him. As for Edward...King Edward. I wonder how he would fancy a paper crown like his father’s.’

‘I beg you do not talk so,’ said the King. ‘How happy I should be if we could settle this grievous matter in a friendly way.’

Oh, he was useless. She thanked God for her son. Without him life would be meaningless. Edward, dear Edward, he possessed the same name as the usurper. Edward, a King’s name, she had thought. And now that Edward dared call himself King.

Her rage threatened to choke her. Oh God, she prayed, send me news of victory quickly.

The snow was falling. It was bitterly cold. The snow had helped them at St. Albans. She could laugh aloud to think of how Warwick had so cleverly—as he thought—placed himself and then found that he had his men in the face of the wind.

What was happening now? The armies would be meeting...

Messengers at last. She hurried down to meet them.

‘What news? What news?’

The battle rages, my lady. They are at Towton. There was a skirmish at Ferrybridge. The enemy was at Pontefract and tried to secure passage across the Aire at Ferrybridge. Your army under Lord Clifford defeated them and slew their leader, Lord Fitzwalter.’

‘Oh God be praised.’

‘But they crossed farther down the river at Castleford, my lady.’

‘God curse them.’

‘And now they do battle at Towton.’

‘How goes the battle?’

The messenger paused and Margaret felt cold fear grip her.

‘It is early to say, my lady. The weather is bad. The snow is falling.’

‘Pray God he sends it in the traitors’ faces as he did at St. Albans.’

The messenger was silent.

‘If you have nothing more to tell me you may go to the kitchens for refreshment.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said the messenger. He was glad to escape. He would not envy the one who must bring bad news to the Queen.

The suspense continued. It was unbearable. She sent for her son that he might share her vigil. She could not bear to see the King on his knees in prayer. He looked so frail, so ineffectual. He should have been there with his troops. His presence would have had its effect on them. What a King who could not fight because it was Holy Week!

The hours were passing. Still no news. The wind was howling about the castle walls. Margaret could not tear herself away from the window.

And at last news came.

That it was bad news was clear to her. She listened in horror to the tale the messenger had to tell.

The two armies had met at Towton which was a village not far from Tadcaster and the battle had been going on for ten hours. Lord Clifford after his brave defence at Ferrybridge had been slain. Many of the Lancastrian nobles who had not fallen in battle had been taken prisoner, Devonshire and Wiltshire among them.

The battle of Towton had been fought and won by the Yorkists; and the King and the Queen were in imminent danger.

Margaret was stunned with grief. What could she do? One thing was certain: she could not remain here to let herself be taken with the King and their son.

She must fly with all speed.

She went to the King. He was on his knees still.

‘Rise,’ she said imperiously. ‘There is no time for dallying. We must prepare to leave at once. There has been disaster at Towton. We have to get away before they come for us.’

‘The battle is over then...’

‘Over and lost. We are leaving at once. Delay could be the end of us. That is not yet.’

Her spirits were reviving. This was not the end of Margaret of Anjou. There had been disasters before, and always she had come out of them. She would win through yet. Was she going to be beaten by one single battle?

What of St. Albans? The glory of that had still not died.

She would win through yet. But she must live to do so. She must keep the King with her. And while she had her dear son Edward to fight for, she would go on. She would win in time. Not all of Warwick’s skill, nor all of Edward of York’s charm would prevent her from putting the rightful king on the throne.

‘Where can we go?’ said Henry.

She hesitated only for a moment.

‘We have good friends in the North,’ she said. ‘The North has always been with us. It is those perfidious Londoners who are against us. Never mind. They shall pay for their treachery. We will go to our good friends. We will go to Scotland.’

* * *

Edward rode into York with Warwick beside him. As he looked up at the walls he saw the heads of his father, his brother and his uncle and sadness overcame his triumph, but it was soon replaced by fury. His first act would be to remove those heads and give them a decent burial. Others should replace them. They would not be difficult to find.

Into York in triumph—King of England. It was what his father would have wished.

Margaret in flight; her armies in disorder. A new reign had begun.

The years were taking their toll. She was no longer the young and beautiful Queen whose dainty looks belied her urgent determination. But nothing the years could do to her could subdue her spirit. Perhaps if it had not been for Edward – her darling, her beloved, her precious son – she would have given up. She had long decided that Henry was of no use in her ambitions. Strangely enough she still retained a lingering fondness for him. She thought of him often and wondered what was happening to him. He would never be able to fend for himself.

It was years since she had seen him. Edward was a young man now. He was devoted to her as she was to him and through all their adventures they kept their eyes on the goal. Something within her would not let her give up hope.

At first when they had flown from York and come to Scotland craving hospitality from Mary of Gueldres she had believed that in a short time they would return to England. It would be amusing if not tragic how people’s affection for them flickered and wavered according to their prospects. Edward the Fourth was crowned; the people of the South wanted him as their King. The North was more faithful to Henry though. It was amazing what a hold such a weak man could have on their affections. But he was useless to fight. She often told herself that if he had appeared at Towton at the head of his troops instead of spending the day on his knees because it was Palm Sunday, there might have been a different result to that battle—and that would have meant a complete reversal of their fortunes.