Thwarted Queen (42 page)

This time, Edward acted quickly and marched north. The king’s army confronted the rebels at Empingham in Rutland on the twelfth day of March 1470, and it struck so swiftly that Warwick and George had no time to bring in reinforcements. The rebels fled with such speed they left their jackets behind. And so this battle became known as the Battle of Lose-Coat Field.

On the twenty-fourth of March 1470, Edward issued a proclamation calling Warwick and George traitors and rebels. They fled to Calais, taking Warwick’s wife, George’s wife, and Bella’s younger sister, Nanette.

Then tragedy struck.

On the sixteenth day of April 1470, Bella, heavily pregnant, went into labor.

Our first child could not be saved,
wrote George in a letter to me,
for we were all on a ship at anchor in Calais Harbor, and Edward’s henchmen would not let us land in Calais. When Cousin Warwick pleaded with them, saying that his daughter was like to die, they replied that they had received direct orders from King Edward himself. Can you believe it? I had not thought him to be cruel. Bella lost a lot of blood. She owes her life to her mother, cousin Anne, who is skilled in midwifery.

I shook my head. The continuation of the war was making men bitter. Even Edward, usually so genial and tolerant, forgot his knightly code. Taking George’s letter, I went to my
prie-dieu
and placed it between my hands. I spent an hour or so praying to God that George and Bella would have healthy children.

Things continued to go badly for George. Warwick gained an audience with the King of France and was persuaded to make reconciliation with Marguerite of Anjou, then staying at the French court with her son, Édouard. As I had foreseen, George was set aside. For King Louis XI thought it better to try and reinstate Henry of Lancaster, rather than put George on the throne, telling Warwick that George was unreliable.

It did not take George long to realize what was afoot, and the letter he wrote me was an angry one. I resisted telling him off. Instead, I wrote a soothing note in which I expressed the hope that he might reconcile himself to Edward, f
or he is your sovereign lord
, I wrote,
and greatly beloved by the people
.

I wondered how Louis XI had persuaded Marguerite d’Anjou to make peace with Warwick. I had an opportunity to find out when the French ambassador traveled up from London to pay his respects.

“It was not easy, madam,” he replied, smiling faintly in reply to my question. “Queen Marguerite cried out that Warwick had pierced her heart with wounds that would bleed until Judgment Day, when she would appeal to the justice of God for vengeance against him.”

“Not an auspicious beginning,” I remarked, signaling for more wine to be poured.

Now that I had been at Berkhamsted for over a year, the place was beginning to look like a royal palace again, where I might entertain visitors without embarrassment. Edward had graciously forgotten to take my revenues away from me, so I was able to pay for the upkeep and refurbishment of this place, which had been home to so many English queens.

“It was not an auspicious beginning,” agreed the ambassador, wiping his lips with a napkin. “But King Louis is very patient. He heard her out and, when she finished, told her bluntly that while her arguments might be valid, she should put her personal feelings aside if she wished to win the throne back for her husband.”

“And she agreed to this?”

“Only after a discussion that lasted many, many days.”

On the fifteenth of July 1470, Warwick’s wife, Anne, and his daughter Nanette were formally presented to Marguerite d’Anjou. Ten days later, on July 25, Nanette was betrothed to Marguerite’s son Édouard in Angers Cathedral. Five days later, on July 30, Warwick swore to keep faith with the Lancastrians on a fragment of the true cross.

In August, Edward, who had ignored the warnings from his diplomats and went hunting, was drawn north to Yorkshire by news of a rebellion.

On the thirteenth of September, Warwick’s fleet of ships arrived in the West Country harbors of Dartmouth and Plymouth. So many men flocked to Warwick’s banner, by the time he reached Coventry, he had an army numbering some fifty thousand men.

Edward marched south to deal with Warwick’s rebellion only to find his soldiers deserting in large numbers. And so he fled to Burgundy, taking with him his boon companion William Hastings, his brother-in-law Rivers, and my youngest son Richard.

Chapter 59

October 1470 to October 1471

My three sons now fought over the throne of England. It was impossible for me to take sides; however much I disagreed with Edward over his choice of wife, he had been a good king. Moreover, Richard, of whom I was so proud, adored his brother the king. He had followed him into exile, even though it meant fighting against his former mentor and friend, Warwick. As for George, I could never now think of him without the greatest anxiety. What was to become of him? His life seemed rudderless and dark.

We rode into London at the head of a triumphal procession,
wrote George,
and made homage to King Henry. Cousin Warwick ordered the king to be newly arrayed in a robe of blue velvet, and we rode from the Tower along Cheapside to the Bishop of London’s palace. Warwick had him sit on the throne and placed the crown on his head. He paid him great reverence. But I could not help noticing that King Henry sat on the throne as if he were but a sack of wool. Was he always like that, Mother? For you knew him well in his younger days.

I smiled grimly as I tucked that letter away. The fact the King Henry seemed so inert caused a small spark of hope to light in my heart. But where were Edward and Richard?

Soon after, I received a letter from Richard.

Madam,

I recommend me to you as heartily as is to me possible. Edward and I and others of our party have arrived in The Hague, so you need fret no more, Mother. We are safe. We are going to seek out Charles of Burgundy, and in my next, I hope to bring you tidings of our sister Margaret.

On the second day of November 1470, the Serpent gave birth to a son, named Edward. It should have been a day of great rejoicing, for after three daughters, she had given Edward his heir. But the Serpent was perching in Westminster Abbey where she had taken sanctuary. And Warwick reigned supreme.

However, the birth of the Yorkist heir disquieted Warwick. On the thirteenth of December 1470, his fourteen-year-old daughter Nanette was married to seventeen-year-old Édouard of Lancaster, now styled Prince of Wales, in the Château d’Amboise. Marguerite of Anjou was in attendance.

Then, Warwick blundered.

I received this news one cold, wet morning in February of 1471 when a messenger ran into the great hall of Berkhamsted Castle.

“He’s ordered the Calais garrison to attack Burgundy!”

I straightened in my seat on the dais, and frowned. “What mean you, my good fellow?”

The messenger gasped out something that I could not clearly hear.

I signaled to my steward. “Bring a pitcher of ale and some pies from the kitchens.”

As he hurried off to do my bidding, I recognized the messenger as being one of my late husband’s agents. I beckoned him closer.

“Tell me your message more slowly, my good friend. Of whom are you speaking?”

“Warwick, my lady. Warwick has ordered the Calais garrison to attack Burgundy.”

“Are you sure?” I said, watching his face closely.

The messenger gazed squarely into my eyes, his expression never changing.

I frowned as I settled more comfortably against the cushions in my carved chair: “That seems extremely foolhardy. If he did that, there would be no better way of throwing Charles of Burgundy into Edward’s arms.”

“Indeed, madam. Which is why I am here. To bring you good comfort.”

I smiled. Edward and Richard would have an opportunity to invade England after all. But their path would be fraught with danger.

“Tell me about the London merchants,” I said, motioning him to rise. “Do they know of this matter?”

“Indeed they do, and they are furious. The do not want England dragged into a war with Burgundy without Parliament’s consent. They know this could ruin their trade. And so, they are refusing to lend Warwick any more money.”

The tide is turning, I thought, giving the messenger a sovereign.

On the fourteenth of March 1471, Edward landed in Ravenspur, Yorkshire with an army funded by the Duke of Burgundy. Four days later on March 18, he was welcomed into the city of York. On the twenty-ninth of March, Edward appeared before Coventry, one of the most heavily fortified towns in England, for his spies had told him that Warwick was there with seven thousand men.

Edward spent three days sending formal challenges to Warwick to come out and fight, to no avail. Edward then marched his army to Warwick and captured the castle. There, he was formally proclaimed king.

I took this opportunity to write to George:

My beloved son,

You can see how little you stand with Warwick, for I am told that he recently forced you to hand over some of your property to Marguerite d’Anjou. I pray you, therefore, to put aside your differences and give Edward your assistance in regaining his throne. Edward is generous with his rewards, and your elderly mother will rejoice to see her sons reunited.

On the third of April, George, Duke of Clarence, led his army of twelve thousand men into King Edward’s camp at Banbury and knelt in submission. On the eleventh of April, another messenger ran into Berkhamsted Castle.

“The king has arrived in London!” he exclaimed.

I rose from my seat, flooded with energy. “Heavens be praised. How was he greeted?”

“With great joy, madam,” replied the messenger bowing. He handed me a letter with a flourish. “He had with him his brothers of Clarence and Gloucester.”

“Thanks be to God,” I exclaimed, crossing myself.

Edward’s letter invited me to meet him in London. And so, it came to pass, that Edward, George, and Richard attended a solemn service in my private chapel on April 12, 1471, Good Friday.

As I walked down the stairs into the great hall of Baynard’s Castle to greet my three sons, I finally felt some measure of peace. How wonderful that they were together at last. For this was the way it was supposed to be, brother supporting brother.

To celebrate the occasion, I invited several leading citizens of London and their wives. It was heart-warming to hear so many kind folk inquire after my health and express their delight that I was back in London. I was in the middle of talking with Sir Simon Eyre, former sheriff and mayor of London, who was telling me his memories of my lord Richard, when twenty-eight-year -old Edward strode boisterously into the hall, looking fit and lean after his exertions in the field. As was his wont, he had no trouble filling that huge room with his presence.

“Mother!” he bellowed, kissing me on both cheeks. “How good it is to see you again.”

I had no time to register any emotion, for he immediately turned away, and began shaking hands, clapping people on the back, and patting arms, laughing boisterously all the while as the Londoners crowded around him.

He was followed by Richard, now eighteen years old, but looking ten years older. As usual, Richard seemed content to remain in Edward’s shadow, looking watchful and grave, while Edward charmed everyone.

I took Richard’s hands in greeting as he kissed me on both cheeks. He would never be indolent like Edward, but would he be as well liked? He was too difficult to read.

Last to arrive was George, making an awkward third spoke of a wheel. He pecked me on the cheek, then circled the room studying his brothers, running his tongue over his lips.

What was going to happen to George? Would he ever keep his word again? Or had he been corrupted beyond redemption by Warwick?

Edward held a great counsel at Baynard’s Castle, then marched north to deal with Warwick. On Easter Sunday, at dawn, near the village of Barnet, Edward fell upon Warwick’s army and soundly defeated him. Warwick was cut down fleeing from the scene. When Marguerite d’ Anjou, newly arrived in England, heard the news, she collapsed into a faint. Her commanders persuaded her to stay and fight.

This time, Edward wasted no time in marching out of London to the West Country to intercept Marguerite and Édouard to prevent them from crossing the Severn into Wales.

On the fourth of May 1470, they met at Tewkesbury, near Gloucester. With the help of my youngest son, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Edward won the day. And Marguerite’s son Édouard was cut down.

I closed my ears to tales that Édouard survived the fighting and was murdered after the battle in cold blood by my three sons. I tried not to hear the whispers that Henry of Lancaster, the former King Henry VI, was struck down while at prayer. Some said that Richard of Gloucester was responsible for his murder. That he had come up silently behind King Henry before cracking his head open with a mace.

I turned a deaf ear to these rumors because I was grateful that the Cousin’s War was over. Nearly ten years after my lord’s murder, the House of York had prevailed.

On the twenty-first of May 1470, Edward was formally welcomed into London by the populace. In his train was Marguerite of Anjou, enduring the taunts of the crowd as they threw rubbish at her. Meanwhile, on the twenty-second of May 1470, Henry of Lancaster’s corpse was taken to Saint Paul’s so that all might pay their respects. The people of London were saddened by Henry of Lancaster’s passing, but thankful to be rid of their weak king. Marguerite was imprisoned in the Tower of London. But Edward, in a merciful gesture, sent her to live in Wallingford Castle so she could be near her great friend Alice Chaucer, the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk.

Dearest Mother,
wrote Beth,
you may have heard that the former queen has come to live nearby, owing to her friendship with my mother-by-marriage, Duchess Alice. Edward wrote to me, asking me to accompany the Dowager Duchess as much as possible on her visits to the former queen. I assured him I would do my best, for you know I am good at keeping quiet.