But he’d done his duty, I wept one night as his face floated before me. He couldn’t let his men be cut down without trying to save them. And people respected him for that, extolling his knightly virtues whenever they came to console me.
“I’ll make it up to you, my love,” I murmured into a pillow.
Over the years, at the Augustinian priory at Clare in Suffolk, I erected a shrine to my lord of York in the form of a repository of documents and other memorabilia commemorating his life. I built an image of the lost heroic father, the worthy statesman, the pious man chosen by God to be king, and the courageous warrior beleaguered by his enemies. It was imperative that the House of York pull together to fight its enemies. And folk needed a hero to inspire.
And so my marriage came to an end. But I did not have the luxury of grieving forever, for there was a war on.
After a month, I sat up in bed and took a deep breath. I was free. As a fabulously wealthy woman, I could live in comfort for the rest of my days. There would be no more pregnancies. I could indulge my slightest whim. And best of all, I need never marry again, for I was far too powerful to be cozened by an ambitious aristocrat seeking to feather his nest. I closed my eyes and silently thanked Our Blessed Lady.
Chapter 46
February to March 1461
After the massacre at Sandal Castle, Edward gathered the Yorkist forces together and fought a battle at Mortimer’s Cross, which he won on the Feast of Candlemas, the second day of February in 1461, just a month after Richard was murdered.
The main part of the Lancastrian army moved south, marching toward London via Grantham, Stamford, Peterborough, Huntingdon, Royston, and Saint Albans. My lady queen was unable to pay her soldiers, so she gave them license to loot. They robbed, burned, raped, and pillaged their way through the countryside. They sacked priories and abbeys. They burned whole villages, barns, and manor houses. Many people fled south from the wrath of the northerners, carrying with them dreadful tales of atrocities. These reports caused many towns to switch sides, furthering the Yorkist cause.
On the twelfth day of February, Warwick rode out of London at the head of a large army, making his way north. He met the queen’s army at Saint Albans on the seventeenth. Thus the Second Battle of Saint Albans commenced. Warwick would have won this engagement but for the treachery of one commander who held back, then raced to join the Lancastrian side. Under the cover of darkness, Warwick gathered up the remnants of his army and marched west to meet Edward of York.
As news of Warwick’s defeat reached London, panic spread. Streets emptied as merchants shut and locked their shops. Folk barricaded themselves inside their houses. Some wealthy merchants even went abroad. The queen sent a deputation to London’s mayor to negotiate the terms of the capital’s surrender. She ordered the Londoners to proclaim Edward of York a traitor and assured them of amnesty.
The Londoners did not trust her.
My lady queen countered by sending four hundred of her elite troops to march on Aldgate, where they demanded admittance to the city.
The people of Aldgate barred their entry.
Another group of the queen’s men made it to Westminster, but were driven away by the indignant Londoners. And so the queen retreated to Dunstable in Bedfordshire, some forty miles to the northwest.
I was staying at my London residence of Baynard’s Castle, increasingly concerned that George and Richard might be taken hostage for Edward’s good behavior. Early one morning, I put them on a ship bound for Burgundy, where they would remain under the protection of Duke Philip until it was safe for them to return. Margaret remained in London with me, and every day we went from house to house, accepting hospitality from the good folk of London while persuading them to stay with the Yorkist cause despite the terrifying tales they were hearing about the queen’s army.
On February 27, Edward rode into London at the head of twenty thousand knights and thirty thousand foot soldiers. I was reading in my solar at Baynard’s Castle when the roar of the crowd reached my ears. I rose and went to my prie-dieu to pray. When I rose, the shouts of the crowd had become more distinct.
“Hail to the Rose of Rouen,” they roared. One imaginative young man sang:
Let us walk in a new vineyard,
and let us make a gay garden into the month of March,
with this fair white rose and herb,
the Earl of March.
Smiling, I walked outside with Margaret. Edward was here, the Londoners behind him.
“Mother!” he exclaimed, vaulting off his gelding. “My fair sister!”
“Well met, my son,” I said loudly and clearly so that the crowd could understand. I had not seen Edward since the death of Richard. Now, he was the head of the House of York. Nearly nineteen, he cut a striking figure, and he held the Londoners in the palm of his hand. With him was his cousin Warwick, already beloved of the people.
“Greetings, dear nephew,” I said, kissing Warwick’s cheek. Warwick was an ambitious, proud aristocrat who wanted to serve as the king’s chief minister, but he had no thoughts of being king himself. As the grandson of Joan de Beaufort, born of an adulterous relationship between John of Gaunt and Catrine de Roet, Warwick did not have a tenable claim to the throne. And so, he supported his cousin Edward.
We waved to the crowd, then I took them inside for mulled wine and counsel, which I invited Margaret to attend, believing she should understand matters of state.
The discussion was not congratulatory. Edward’s position was not strong. Technically, he was an attainted traitor. He lacked funds, as well as the support of the majority of the magnates.
“It is imperative that you have the support of the London merchants,” I remarked.
“Don’t worry, Mother. We’ll test the waters first,” said Edward, kissing my cheek.
Chapter 47
Saint John’s Fields, London
Sunday, March 1, 1461
For the first time in a long time, it was safe enough to go out, and the Londoners wanted to see the army defending them from the marauding Lancastrians. After morning Mass, they poured out of the northern edge of the city toward Saint John’s Fields, where the Yorkist army camped.
It was a cool, blustery day with the wind whipping the ladies’ veils around their faces. Fine ladies huddled in their mounds of sables, while their less well-off neighbors donned thick, woolen mantles. Warwick vaulted off his horse and strode among them, basking in their affection and warmth, the Bishop of London at his side. Someone even found a couple of wooden boxes for him to stand on, so that he could be seen by all.
“Good people of London!” he exclaimed. “You may want to know why I say that King Henry is a usurper.”
The crowd laughed and inched closer.
“It’s simple,” remarked Warwick. “My cousin Edward is descended from Edward III’s second son, while Henry of Lancaster is descended from Edward III’s third son.”
“What happened to Edward III’s first son?” someone asked.
“A goodly question,” replied Warwick. “Edward III’s first son had an only child, who became King Richard II. But King Richard had no children, and so his line died out.”
“So you are saying that the Earl of March is the legitimate heir to the throne?” asked a well-dressed young man, wearing a thick mantle of beaver fur.
“Exactly, my friend,” replied Warwick. He turned to the Bishop of London.
“Good people,” intoned the bishop, “we want to know your opinion. Think you that Edward, Earl of March, should be King of England?”
“Yea! Yea! King Edward!” shouted the crowd, clapping their hands.
The soldiers of the Yorkist army accompanied this acclamation by drubbing on their armor.
“We must call a council, here at Baynard’s Castle,” I said, when Warwick returned bringing news of what happened in Saint John’s Fields. Certainly, events proceeded apace and it was best to strike while the iron was hot.
“We must invite the Archbishop o
f Canterbury, all the bishops, and all of the peers. Parliament is in session, so it will be an easy matter to manage. I will have the invitations sent out now.”
I snapped my fingers, sending people in all directions.
On the third day of March, the magnates present at the meeting that I convened at Baynard’s Castle agreed that Edward should be offered the throne.
Still, I couldn’t sleep that night. How was it that everything Richard had striven for so mightily was dropping into Edward’s lap? The people of London scarcely knew him, yet they’d taken him to their hearts. Was it out of respect for the late duke?
I felt a twinge of guilt, then quickly suppressed it. Since Marguerite did not feel guilty about her illegitimate son, why should I? Richard was in heaven, and nothing could hurt him now. Clearly no one knew that Edward was not the duke’s son, not even Edward himself. I vowed to keep it that way.
Next morning, Warwick was ushered in just as I was breaking my fast.
“I come with a petition, dear Aunt!” he cried in ringing tones.
I rose, thanking Our Blessed Lady that my sleeplessness of the night before had caused me to rise early and put on my finest attire. Behind Warwick was a crowd of familiar faces. This could only be a deputation from the Lords and the Commons. I beckoned to my steward. “Ask Lord Edward to come at once.”
When Edward walked in around an hour later, he looked every inch a king. I regarded him with astonishment, feeling again that now-familiar quandary that Blaybourne used to put me in—that a peasant could look like an aristocrat.
“God Save King Edward,” raised a faint voice.
I turned around.
“ ‘Tis the crowd outside,” remarked Warwick. “They followed me all the way from the Herber and have been waiting.”
I smiled. “Let us open the door, therefore, that we may hear them.”
“King Edward! God Save King Edward!” chanted the crowd outside, as my steward slowly opened the heavy oak door.
My chest swelled as tears pricked.
Warwick went down on one knee. “We humbly beg you, Edward, Earl of March, to accept the crown and royal dignity of England.”
Wasn’t it fortunate that I named him Edward? His name reminded everyone of his descent from King Edward III.
“Aye!” exclaimed the Lords and the Commons. “We beg you to accept the crown.”
“Avenge us on King Henry and his wife!” chanted the crowd outside.
Edward bestowed his dazzling smile on everyone and made a pretty speech, in which he accepted their petition.
Warwick summoned London’s leading citizens to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, where they enthusiastically acclaimed their new sovereign. Truly, Edward behaved like a king that day. He made a thanksgiving offering to God, then processed to Westminster Hall where he took the oath of the new monarch.
I found it all I could do to keep from weeping, my son attired in royal robes and the cap of estate, enthroned on the king’s bench to the cheers of the greatest magnates of the realm.
Afterwards, everyone formed up in procession and went past delirious Londoners who threw snowdrops and wintergreens at their new sovereign. They went to Westminster Abbey, where the abbot and monks presented Edward with the crown and scepter of Saint Edward the Confessor. Edward made offerings at the high altar and the Confessors Shrine before seating himself in the coronation chair. He addressed the congregation, explaining to them why he was their rightful king. When the lords asked the people if they would have Edward as their king, their roars were loud enough to lift the roof. The magnates then knelt, one by one, to do homage to Edward, while the monks sang the Te Deum.
On the thirteenth day of March, Edward left for the north.
Chapter 48
Baynard’s Castle, London
April 3rd 1461
On the third day of April, I received a letter from Edward. I called my household together and read it to them from the steps of the dais of Baynard Castle’s great hall.
Well-beloved Mother, we greet you well. It has pleased God to grant us a great victory at Towton this twenty-ninth day of March, in the first year of our reign. We now advance on London, where I shall soon greet you in person.
“Edward the King!” Cups and tankards clanked and everyone toasted my son. The noise they made carried outside, and an excited crowd gathered. I ordered my steward to proclaim the news of Edward’s victory and provide a cup of ale for anyone who wanted to toast him. Then I mounted the stairs to my bedchamber to read the rest of the letter.
On the twenty-eighth day of March, I sent Cousin Warwick to secure the bridge over the River Aire, but we were ambushed, and many of our number were killed. Cousin Warwick was wounded in the leg, but it was just a graze. When the news spread, the soldiers were full dismayed. But Cousin Warwick saved the day by killing his own horse, in full view of the army. He told them that he would fight on foot and die with his men, rather than yield another inch.
I lay back against my pillows. How proud my father would have been to see how indispensable the Nevilles had become to the House of York. Just as Salisbury had supported my lord, so now his son Warwick supported my son.
Though the Lancastrians destroyed the bridge, we managed to cross the Aire and set up camp that night on the other bank. Did I forget to mention that the weather was atrocious? My men had to endure driving snow and hail. Baron John de Clifford, whom you well know was responsible for brother Rutland’s murder, died.
I shivered and crossed myself, trying not to think of another bitter winter day when my son, husband, and brother had been cut down by those Lancastrian beasts.
That night, I stayed in Pontefract castle. The next day, I drew my men up in battle formation near unto the village of Towton. We fought all day long, from around eleven in the morning, to well past compline, in the midst of a thick blizzard. As dusk came on, Norfolk sent in a strong force, and the Lancastrians fled in a rout. Maybe forty thousand souls perished that day, the bloodiest day on English soul. I have given the gravediggers extra wages, for their labor will be long and hard.
I crossed myself and murmured a prayer. How like Edward to remember the common folk. My heart swelled; he had endured a hard and bitter fight, and he had won. Now, I would be able to summon George and Richard home from their exile in Burgundy.
Written at Towton, the thirtieth day of March, by your most loving son,
Edwardus Rex.
A month before his nineteenth birthday, Edward became King of England, styling himself Edward IV. Henry of Lancaster and Marguerite d’Anjou were in York when they heard the news of their defeat. They fled north. Exeter was in their train.
Edward had won an important victory, yet it was incomplete. Henry of Lancaster, his wife, and her son were still at large, Marguerite vowing she would be revenged on the House of York.
Chapter 49
April to November 1461
Throughout April and May of 1461, I received numerous letters from Edward telling me of his affairs.
Well-Beloved Mother,
I write to you from the fair city of York, where I shall rest to celebrate Easter. My first act on arriving was to order the decent burial of my beloved father, uncle and brother. I hope, dearest Mother, this will give you some peace...
I felt the now familiar rise of bile at the hideous way my menfolk had been treated. I retreated to the privy.
After murdering them, the Lancastrian beasts struck their heads off their bodies and put them atop pikes above Micklegate Bar, the main gateway into the city of York. These beasts even put a paper crown on my lord’s severed head before moving off.
Later, propped up in bed with a cup of Jenet’s soothing mint potion, I read the rest of the letter.
We are to set off north tomorrow in pursuit of the Bitch of Anjou. My scouts tell me she is making her way towards Scotland with her family...
In early May, Edward left the north and returned to London, where he received a hero’s welcome for saving the city from
the savagery of the northerners. Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful in preventing the Bitch of Anjou, Henry of Lancaster, and others from reaching refuge in Scotland.
On the twenty-eighth day of June, in the year 1461, Edward was crowned in Westminster Abbey. On that day, he made his younger brother George the Duke of Clarence. Richard was allowed to remain under my care.
I was determined to do something for my eldest daughter Nan. When Marguerite d’Anjou and Henry of Lancaster fled north into Scotland, Exeter had followed, leaving his wife and daughter behind. Edward declared him to be a traitor, and in the normal course of affairs would have confiscated his lands. Yet he offered to restore Exeter’s lands to Nan that she might live comfortably for the rest of her life and provide for her daughter, who would now be a wealthy heiress.
Nan was at first unwilling to agree, certain that her husband would eventually return. She gave in only after seeing Edward’s coronation. I wanted her to stay awhile in Baynard’s Castle, but Nan refused.
“I must manage my lands, madam,” she told me. “There are many out there who would take Anne’s inheritance away. I must ensure that does not happen.”
I could not fault her reasoning. Nan was like a whipped horse. Only time and the greatest patience would enable her to trust anyone again.
On the thirty-first day of July, Edward appointed Warwick to be Warden of the East and West marches on the northern border, thus combining the Percy’s share of the defense with that of the Nevilles, for the Percy Earls of Northumberland were Lancastrian still. This was a rich and well-deserved reward for the cousin who’d proved himself a loyal friend. Edward also made him chief advisor, giving him the responsibility of defending the kingdom and of foreign policy.
Not more than a month passed after Edward’s coronation before King Charles VII of France died. He was succeeded by his son Louis, who had been friendly towards the Yorkists. But matters between the new kings of England and France did not proceed smoothly. One September day, Edward was closeted in his study with his cousin Warwick, tackling the numerous problems facing England, when a young man flew in and bent at the knee, sweat pouring down his face.
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