by Teresa Cole
Sadly, by the time of his marriage in 1445 it was apparent that the twenty-three-year-old Henry VI had none of the strong mental qualities of his father. Amiable and eager to please, he was happy to do whatever was advised by the counsellor who had his ear for the time being. Either as part of the marriage arrangements or certainly soon afterwards it appeared that the territories of Maine and Anjou were to be handed back to the French, and Henry seemed quite willing to do this without any thought of the future consequences of such an act. Had the long-sighted Cardinal Beaufort still been attending the council this might not have happened, but he had by now retired to Winchester to live out his days in peace.
With both Suffolk and now the queen favouring peace with France, though without being able to produce a satisfactory treaty, the removal of Humphrey of Gloucester, probably at the instigation of Suffolk, seems timely. Arrested in February 1447 on a charge of treason, he allegedly suffered a stroke and died a few days later, though some have claimed foul play on the part of Suffolk and his supporters as the real cause of death.
Having sold the idea of peace, however, Suffolk proved totally unable to achieve it. In 1449, a foolish raid by uncontrolled English troops provoked the Duke of Brittany to invade Normandy where he was soon backed up by Charles VII. The Duke of Somerset, showing none of the fire and resolve of his Beaufort uncles, put up a feeble defence and by July 1450 the whole duchy was lost.
Even before this Suffolk had paid for his failures with his life. In January of that year Parliament had insisted he be impeached and put on trial for his mismanagement. In an attempt to save his friend and counsellor, Henry decided he should instead be banished for five years, but the ship on which he set sail was intercepted and the duke summarily beheaded, his body then being left on the beach at Dover.
Less than thirty years after his death, therefore, all the lands won by Henry V had been lost again. Nor was this the end, for in the next three years Gascony, too, was attacked and retaken by the French, leaving the small district around Calais as the sole English possession.
The shock of this last loss may have been the trigger for the first mental collapse of Henry VI. In an attack frighteningly reminiscent of his French grandfather he spent more than a year in a kind of waking coma, not speaking or moving, being fed with a spoon and not even acknowledging the presence of other people. Even the appearance of his baby son in October 1453 did not rouse him. After six childless years of marriage there were rumours that the child was not Henry’s, but in the absence of any sign from the king the boy was christened Edward and duly acknowledged as heir to the throne.
The first descent into madness was the spark that set alight the conflict that has come down to us as the Wars of the Roses – imaginatively named by a nineteenth-century historian with more than a dash of romance about him. Following the death of the Earl of March in 1425 the heir presumptive to the throne had been a strong and capable military leader, Richard, Duke of York. He was descended on both sides of his family from Edward III, on his mother’s side through Edward’s second son, Lionel, and on his father’s side through the fourth son, Edmund, Duke of York. Although acknowledged as heir he had not been favoured by King Henry VI, and the queen, influenced first by Suffolk and then Somerset, was convinced he was trying to steal the throne. He had therefore taken no role in government and had been sidelined, first in France and then in Ireland, watching with increasing fury as the incompetent lords who had the king’s favour frittered away the legacy of Henry V.
Somerset, despite his role in the loss of Normandy, had been welcomed back as chief advisor by the king, and there had even been talk of altering the law so the succession fell on him. He was, after all, the grandson of John of Gaunt, and therefore also a great-grandson of Edward III. All that stood in the way was the Act of Parliament passed in 1407 barring the Beauforts and their descendants from the throne. The birth of Henry’s son, and also the king’s sudden affliction, changed all that. Though Richard of York fully accepted the rights of the new baby he would not stomach Somerset depriving him of his own rights, as senior prince of the blood, to act as regent for the ailing king.
And so the events in England mirrored almost exactly those in France of fifty years before, as the nobles divided into rival parties fighting for the control of a feeble and incapable king. It needed no invasion now, however, to clear out a generation of the nobility. They did a good enough job themselves, even to the extent of, ‘Your father killed my father, so now I will kill you.’ There is a strange irony, however, about those who became ‘last man standing’ and claimed the crowns as king and queen.
Katherine of France, widow of Henry V, was of course required to remain in England to care for her infant son but was given no role in his upbringing. Her sole duty seemed to be to take him on her lap through the streets of London when he was still a baby and present him to Parliament. (Even here the story goes that he screamed so much that he had to be taken away. One can only speculate what might have passed through the minds of Henry V’s noble warriors on bowing the knee to a bawling baby.) Soon there were rumours that the queen was falling for Edmund Beaufort (later to become Duke of Somerset) and a law was quickly passed to say that she could not marry without the king’s consent and any man that did marry her without that consent would forfeit his lands for life. Since the king was still a six-year-old child at the time and the Act declared he could only give consent once he had attained his majority it was obvious that his consent would be a long time coming and Beaufort beat a hasty retreat. Sometime between 1428 and 1432, however, the queen may have married a bolder man, Owen Tudor, who at the time was probably the Keeper of the Queen’s Wardrobe, a kind of superior steward. The marriage was never definitely proved but they certainly had at least two children (and probably more) together, Jasper and Edmund Tudor. The latter of these married Margaret Beaufort, great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt through his eldest Beaufort son, John. The child of this marriage was Henry Tudor, whose slenderest of rights to the throne came through his mother, but only then if the Act of 1407 barring the Beauforts is disregarded.
Even more bizarre is the descent of his wife. Jacquetta of Luxembourg, the widow of John of Bedford, had travelled to England after his death in the company of his chamberlain, Sir Richard Woodville. Once again love blossomed and they were married in secret some time before March 1437. Their eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was widowed at the Second Battle of St Albans in 1461 and subsequently (some say by her mother’s use of the dark arts) succeeded in enchanting the Yorkist king, Edward IV, to such an extent that he risked his throne to marry her. At first the marriage was secret (something of a family tradition) but later Elizabeth was acknowledged and crowned as queen, and it was their daughter Elizabeth of York who became the wife of Henry Tudor in 1486. It seems a very odd coincidence that the Tudor dynasty trace their origins on both sides back to women who were married to the two most capable Lancaster brothers, Henry and John.
Writing in 1908 in her Groundwork of English History, M. E. Carter declares of Henry V that ‘his wars had won him great glory but they conferred no permanent benefit upon England and they brought many troubles in their train’. The first part is certainly true. He was in his time renowned throughout Europe for his military prowess though the cynical might suggest that his early death meant he had departed the stage before his house of cards came tumbling down. Comparing his reign with the troubled times before and the near anarchy that followed, however, it is easy to see why it was viewed as a beacon of order and achievement, at least by the accepted standards of the day. To modern sensibilities, of course, the invasion of another country, the sieges and the bloodshed are easy to condemn, but they were the common currency of life and death in the times in which he lived.
Harder to swallow for some late Victorian historians was his claim that in doing this he was carrying out God’s will to punish a wicked nation and impose on them good governance. In considering what he calls Henry’s ‘double-faced and shif
ty diplomacy’, Oman comments rather sniffily, ‘The selected tool of Providence should not indulge in such tricks.’
Another result of his early death was that many of his contemporaries – friends, military commanders, household and advisers – outlived him in some cases by decades and all were determined to keep his memory alive. There were already accounts of his exploits written in his own lifetime but these were soon added to and perhaps embroidered by those left behind. Providing an example for his son to follow is one reason for this, but another is the use of his story to influence political decision making. Humphrey of Gloucester, for example, commissioned an Italian writer, Tito Livio, to produce a life of his brother in the late 1430s when he felt the peace party was moving too far from the policies Henry had recommended. Later the loss of Normandy and other French possessions was a spur to further writing, some containing new anecdotes and details, presumably gleaned from those still alive who had known the king. French and Burgundian writers, too, admiring of Henry’s qualities if not always of his achievements, produced further accounts, in some cases claiming to be scrupulously neutral and in others clearly representing a national viewpoint.
In the next century the Tudors, with their peripheral links to the Lancastrian cause, were also keen to promote the memory of a time of glory for an English king. Henry VIII in particular saw comparisons between himself and his predecessor that went beyond just the name. He was, after all, in a similar position to Henry, the second in a line of kings that had acquired the throne in a less than conventional way, and was similarly anxious to promote a national identity and national unity. He also saw himself as following in Henry’s footsteps in aspiring to recover English possessions in France. He used the title ‘King of France’ and actually invaded and fought one small engagement, the Battle of the Spurs, though at the request of the Pope rather than for national purposes.
This stimulated further accounts of the life and achievements of Henry V, culminating at the end of the century in the three plays of Shakespeare to feature that king. Although Shakespeare clearly made full use of the sources available to him his Henry is necessarily a character in a drama, and some would say that, although it guaranteed his immortality, it is unfortunate that the real king should have attained it by this process. For many if not most people, Shakespeare’s Henry is the king.
It is true as well that troubled times did follow the king’s death though not immediately, and it is not at all clear how far he can be asked to shoulder the blame for what happened later. For some the whole adventure in France is to blame and Henry ‘made a grievous mistake in choosing his life’s work’. For others it was the failings of the next generation who did not possess the qualities displayed by their parents that led to the catastrophe that followed. Shakespeare is quite clear that it was those who acted for the infant king that should be condemned: ‘Whose state so many had the managing that they lost France and made his England bleed.’
No doubt Henry would have preferred not to die young with his projects half achieved and left to others. No doubt he would have preferred his heir to be older and more substantial. It seems, however, a little harsh to account these facts as failures on his part. Even those who accuse him of using his will to tie the hands of his successors, for example in directing that the war should continue, overlook the fact that the council was later quite choosy about which of his directions they would follow and which they would ignore. In the matter of Humphrey’s regency, for instance, they firmly declared that the king could not dispose of government matters after his death. Perhaps at most we can say that his reign established a potential for later trouble, and without his firm hand and single-minded vision trouble duly followed.
When, however, we look for permanent benefits arising from Henry’s actions we are on firmer ground. If his policies in France were ultimately counted a failure, such was the energy and capability of the king that there is hardly an area that his hand touched domestically that was not in some way improved. His overhaul of royal finances and the administration of government enabled a long-running war and a regularly absent king to be accommodated with very little fuss. While many would say that this was in large measure due to the quality of the men who served him, it must still be acknowledged that there is a skill required in finding the right man for the right job and then trusting him to do it. Henry demonstrated this skill throughout his reign, and we might note that it was something that seemed to be quite beyond the powers of both his predecessors.
Henry’s formal indenture system and regular pay for his armies was also a substantial improvement on what had gone before, as was his control over those who served in his forces. The lack of looting, the purchasing of provisions and the discipline of his troops were all commented on even by his enemies. If, as some claimed, this was maintained purely by fear of his harsh reprisals, still it was more than most could manage at the time. Similarly his care for his men and his ability to keep a standing army in the field for long periods, including overwintering, was unprecedented.
The navy, too, benefitted from his care. Henry VIII is traditionally seen as the founder of the modern navy, but as Rodger comments, ‘Until 1525 Henry VIII had done nothing by land or sea which Henry V had not done a great deal better.’ He was the first to recognise the importance of controlling the seas, particularly between England and the Continent. It is from the time of his earliest intervention in government that the permanent office of Admiral of England dates. He set up the first regular patrols of the Channel by royal ships, issuing detailed orders to their commanders, and contributed substantially to both ships and shipbuilding, in particular establishing an embryonic naval dockyard on the south coast.
Henry was perhaps the first king to recognise the value of asking rather than demanding. His relations with Parliament were consistently harmonious and smooth, again in sharp contrast to those of his predecessors. For that he had to thank not only his own character and reputation, but also the skills of his long-time chancellor Bishop Henry Beaufort. Nevertheless, during Henry’s reign Parliament itself was accorded a status it had rarely previously enjoyed. Generally stable and with a recognised role in government, it was becoming the natural place for the rising middle classes – the minor gentry of the countryside and merchants and lawyers of the towns – to express themselves and to expect to be heard.
One of the hardest questions to answer about Henry V is, ‘What was he really like?’ So many people have written about him, most with a particular view in mind, so many have borrowed his image to promote some ambition of their own, it is as hard to see the real face of the king as to see that of a model airbrushed to perfection on the cover of a modern magazine. All we can do is to try and draw a general trend from the variety of different descriptions.
That he was a military strategist and commander of genius seems undisputed. From his time to our own, military men who should know about such things have been unanimous in their praise. Equally unanimous is the acclaim given to his energy, hard work and sheer attention to detail. Meticulous planning is evident in everything, from the provisioning of the army gathered in Southampton in 1415 to the building of huts for his men for the winter siege of Rouen. He was apparently one of those people who needed little sleep, using the night hours to visit and encourage or to check that orders given had been carried out.
One virtue that endeared him to the Victorians was his impeccable clean living. Despite tales of his wild youth, no mistress has ever been identified and no bastard acknowledged, something almost unheard of for a prince of his day. Even those who relate such tales can find no speck against him after he became king. He was frugal, courteous but plain-speaking, careful of his religious observance, and if his humility in victory was a show it was a consistent one and well maintained in public and in private. Similarly if he had any secret vices they were so secret they have not yet come to light.
All the accounts, even those penned by his enemies, acknowledge his commitment to good order and
to justice, for the least as well as for the greatest in the land. His care for the common people is not only well documented but evident from his regular actions. Though Shakespeare put words into his mouth, his night-time visits to troops and encouragement of those on the march to Calais are recorded by witnesses and seemed to inspire rather than terrify, suggesting a common humanity rather than a controlling tyranny. Nor did this stop at caring for his own people. Many a town that could have been sacked was spared on his orders, and his tight control of his soldiers had some complaining about the lack of loot to be won on his campaigns.
It was not only for profit, however, that men followed him. Success and charisma are equally attractive but he was clearly a natural leader able to fire others with his own vision. Where some have claimed that he was merely lucky, the comment of the famous golfer comes to mind, that the more he practised the luckier he got. Perhaps it was Henry’s meticulous planning and ability to seize an opportunity that made it seem that the dice rolled his way so often.
All these positives, however, are countered by others who see his single-mindedness as ruthlessness and cruelty, and his humility and religious practice as so much hypocrisy. Oman points out that, when piety and magnanimity threatened to get in the way of his ambition, it was ambition that won every time. There is no doubt he was a driven man, though whether it was pure ambition or something else that drove him is open to question. If his claim to the throne of France was hypocrisy, it was an hypocrisy maintained to the very end. With almost his dying breath he declared he believed his cause was just and that it should be pursued. Maybe had he lived he would have shown more flexibility in the matter. He was in general a realist about what could be achieved, though he often aimed higher than his contemporaries.