The Red Rose of Anjou (24 page)

Warwick, thought Somerset. Who was Warwick? Of very little importance before he had had his first stroke of luck in marrying Anne Beauchamp, daughter of the Earl of Warwick. Salisbury’s son who had married the only daughter of Richard Beauchamp and inherited her father’s vast lands and title of Earl of Warwick! Strangely enough he and Somerset were related because Warwick’s grandmother had been Joan Beaufort, daughter of John of Gaunt.

These entwined branches sprang from many trees. Warwick’s aunt Cecily had married the Duke of York, and Warwick was allying himself more and more with York.

The real enemy, Somerset believed, was the Duke of York. Yes, York was determined to destroy him. Somerset knew where York’s thoughts were moving. He saw himself as heir to the throne. Sickly Henry, childless, and an unpopular Queen meant that eyes were all turned on the next claimant.

It could be York. Some would say he was the most likely. But Somerset was not without his supporters.

As they walked out into the Temple gardens for a breath of fresh air the scent of the roses was everywhere. They had been well tended and grew in profusion on either side of the path and the gardener had arranged them so that red roses were on one side, white on the other.

Warwick approached Somerset and there was no mistaking the hostility in his eyes.

‘My lord,’ said Warwick, ‘you should count yourself fortunate that you walk freely in these gardens.’

‘I understand you not, my lord,’ retorted Somerset.

‘Ours is a sad country these days, my lord. How long ago is it since the streets of this city were ringing with triumphant bells and there were processions there to celebrate our victories?’

‘You would know that, my lord Warwick, as well as I and I cannot think why you should ask such a question of me.’

‘Of whom else should I ask it, since you are the author of our troubles?’

‘You go too far.’

‘I will go as far as I consider seemly.’

People were beginning to gather round sensing a growing excitement. A quarrel between two of the mightiest nobles in the country.

Somerset’s hand was on his sword. He was notoriously quick-tempered. The Duke of Buckingham caught at his sleeve to restrain him. Warwick looked him steadily in the eyes.

‘My lord,’ said Warwick, ‘I see plans in your eyes.’

There was no mistaking his meaning. Somerset felt an uneasiness creeping over him.

‘I am loyal to the King,’ he cried. ‘I am his servant as long as he honours me with his commands.’

‘We are all good servants of the King and this realm,’ retorted Warwick. ‘But methinks, lord Somerset, that there is one who comes before you in his closeness to the King.’

‘So you are for York, are you, Warwick? You have decided j to take sides in this quarrel you seek to ferment.’

‘It is not of my fermenting but when there are those who concern themselves with great projects it is the duty of all honourable men to support that which is right.’

Somerset was seething with rage. He was alarmed. The country was against him. Unfairly they blamed him for defeats in France. He only had the support of the King and the Queen to rely on. But no, there were others. There must be some who did not want to see York rise to power.

He moved away from Buckingham’s restraining hand and plucking one of the red roses, the symbol of the House of Lancaster since the days of Edmund, Earl of Lancaster and brother of Edward the First, he cried out: I pluck this red rose. The red rose of Lancaster. I am for Lancaster and the King.’

Warwick turned away and immediately picked a white rose —the symbol of York—the white rose worn by the Black Prince himself. He held the rose on high. ‘I pluck this white rose,’ he said. ‘The white rose of York. Let every man among us choose his rose. Let him declare himself with these fair flowers. Then shall we know how we stand together.’

There was a shout of excitement as all began plucking the roses until the flower beds were completely denuded. Their cries filled the air.

‘For York. For Lancaster.’

This was the prelude. The curtain was about to be raised on the wars of the roses.

###

The Duke of York had gone off to his castle of Fotheringay on the banks of the river Nen in Northamptonshire which had become a favourite seat of the House of York since Edmund Langley had taken possession of it. There he was joined by the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Salisbury and Salisbury’s son Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick.

They had gathered together to plan how they should act at the forthcoming session of Parliament.

‘The King cannot continue to reign unless he ceases to be guided by his wife,’ declared Warwick.

Since the scene in the Temple gardens he had set himself up as an adviser to York on whose side he had now proclaimed himself so openly to be. York was a strong man he believed and what the country needed was a strong man.

‘Poor Henry,’ said York. ‘‘Tis a pity he cannot go into a monastery. It would suit him better than his throne.’

‘It may well be that in time he will,’ added Warwick.

The others were silent. Warwick was perhaps being impulsive not in having such an opinion, but in voicing it.

‘If the Queen were to have a child...’ began Salisbury.

‘My lord, do you think that possible?’ asked York, desperately hoping to hear that it was not, for if Margaret did bear a child all their scheming would come to nothing.

‘Hardly likely,’ said Salisbury. ‘Not after all this time. The King is too deeply concerned with his prayers and the Queen with being Queen. She divides her Ume between instructing her seamstress on the making of extravagant garments and arranging the marriages of her serving-women. The Queen is a meddler.’

‘Better for her to meddle with her needlewomen and serving-wenches than with the affairs of this country,’ put in Warwick.

‘But she meddles in everything. And Somerset is her darling.’

‘Do you think...?’

A fearful thought had come to York.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Even Margaret would not go as far as to foist a bastard on the throne.’

‘But Somerset—if he were the father—would salve his conscience by declaring—to himself of course—that it was a royal brat.’

‘We go too far,’ said Warwick. ‘The Queen is not with child or likely to be, so we waste time in discussing who the father of a possible bastard might be. Let us give ourselves to matters of immediate concern. We must rid the country of Somerset. He should be impeached for what he has done in France.’

‘The Queen will never agree to it.’

‘It is a matter for the Parliament. What we shall aim for is to remove Somerset and set you, my lord York, up in his place. Protector of the realm to serve under the King, which means you will advise him, with the help of your ministers, and it may well be that we can snatch a little victory out of this morass of disaster and failure into which our once great country has fallen. We shall attend the Parliament wearing white roses. It will show clearly what our intentions are.’

‘It is not easy to come by white roses at this time of year,’ pointed out Norfolk.

‘Then they should be fabricated in paper or whatever substance can be found. Let us keep to our symbol of the White Rose. All those for us shall wear it and you may be sure that our enemies will retaliate by flaunting the red rose of Lancaster. Then we shall know our friends...and our enemies.’

So they would go to the Parliament.

###

Margaret was furious when she heard that Richard of York had seen the King and that Henry had agreed to call a Parliament.

‘That man is a traitor,’ she cried. ‘You know what he wants, don’t you...he and that haughty wife of his? Do you know Proud Cis is already behaving as though she were a queen and that her women have to kneel to her?’

‘She was always a proud woman.’

‘It’s because she is the daughter of that bastard Joan Beaufort,’ went on Margaret.

Henry smiled at her affectionately. She had been so fond of that other bastard, Joan’s brother, the Cardinal. Margaret was so fierce in her loyalties, her likes and dislikes, that she was not always logical.

‘You mistake York,’ he said. ‘He has been wrongfully accused of complicity with Jack Cade. He wanted to be exonerated. That is all.’

‘That is all," ‘ she mimicked. ‘And wrongfully accused. He has not been wrongfully accused. You may depend upon it, Richard of York has his eyes on your crown.’

‘How could he ever hope for that?’ asked Henry, his eyes wide. ‘I am the son of the King. I have worn my crown almost since I was in my cradle.’

Margaret looked at him in exasperation. Would he never learn? Could he not see evil when it was creeping up on him and was all around him? What a fool he was to think that the whole world was intent on good and every man as saintly as himself. It was well for him that he had a strong woman to look after him.

‘At the Parliament.’ she said, ‘the supporters of York will wear white roses in their hats or on their sleeves.’

‘The white rose is of course the symbol of York and has been for some time.’

‘They wear them in defiance. Have you forgotten that scene in the Temple Gardens?’

‘I did hear of it,’ said Henry.

‘Don’t you see it was significant? It was like a declaration of war.’

‘My dear Margaret, there is no war. There will be no war. Those who wear the white rose are proud of it because it has been their symbol for so many years.’

It was useless to talk to him, to try to make him understand.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Let them wear their white roses. We shall wear the red rose of Lancaster and show them that our red rose will never give way to the white rose of York.’

She would wear a red rose in her hair. Henry should wear one on his cloak. There should be a finer array of red roses than of white.

So at the fateful meeting of the Parliament were sown the seeds which were to develop into a bloody war—red rose against white rose—and change the course of history.

Both colours were well represented. Already men were straining to get at each other. They jostled one another, sought a pretext to fight.

It was an uneasy occasion.

Margaret was unaware of it as, looking very beautiful with the red rose in her hair, she listened to the ceremony of Parliament, during which it was agreed that the Duke of York should be recognized as heir to the throne should the King die without heirs.

The white rose faction seemed delighted with this and the Parliament broke up peacefully.

In the York apartments Cicely declared herself satisfied with the proceedings. ‘The people will not endure foolish Henry and proud Margaret for long,’ she cried. ‘Speed the day when they put a real King on the throne.’

Her fond eyes were on her husband. Of course Richard should be king!

As for Margaret, she was incensed. The impudence of York! Heir to the throne indeed. Oh, if only she could get a child!

In the meantime Henry must keep his hold on the affection of his people.

‘We will do some pilgrimages,’ she said. Yes, that was it. They would make progress through the country. The people loved to see the King; and she would appear among them sumptuously gowned, looking beautiful, and she would try to hide her impatience with the stupid people and be so gracious that they all thought her the loveliest creature they had ever seen.

Yes, that was it. They should show themselves to the people. There was nothing the people liked better.

THE KING’S MADNESS

Richard was frustrated almost beyond endurance. The hardest task a man of ambition could be called upon to do was to wait. Yet wait he must. That the opportunity would come he was sure; and to strike prematurely would be to ruin his hopes. So there was nothing he could do but retire from court and bide his time.

It was nearly two years since that Parliament when the hostile wearers of red and white roses had faced each other. That could so easily have developed into conflict which would have been unwise and have achieved nothing.

He had suffered a certain temptation then. There were so many who recognized the incompetence of Somerset’s rule, the domination of the Queen over the King, and who looked upon Somerset and Margaret as two wicked conspirators. But it was not the moment. It would have been a reckless gamble which might have resulted in the end of hope.

Looking back he now began to wonder whether he had been too cautious. When the people had rioted in Westminster after that memorable Parliament they had shouted for Somerset’s blood. They would have murdered him if they had caught him. Yes, and made a martyr of him. That was not the way. Somerset should be tried and his crimes and failures in France and a gang of soldiers returned from the wars surrounded his house in Blackfriars and would have murdered him then and there had he not been rescued.

Some thought it ironical that his rescuers should be the Duke of York with his ally Devonshire. But it was all part of a strategy. Richard was anxious that all should realize that the last thing he wanted was to create conflict in the country. He was all for law and order. He wanted Somerset to be impeached, he wanted him to stand his trial, yes. What he did not want was for him to be murdered by the mob.

Together he and Devonshire had rescued Somerset and taken him to the Tower. Not as a prisoner, Richard was eager to stress, but for his own safety. He was eager to make a good impression on the people; and if ever he found government in his hands the last thing he wanted was to have come to it through the mob.

He was a cautious man and he soon realized that the King with Margaret behind him was too strong on his throne to be lightly overturned. The Commons might support York but the Lords certainly did not. He knew that the best thing he could do was retire quietly for a while and bide his time.

He retired to the Welsh border where he was by no means inactive. He was persuading his friends to stand with him; making them see that there could be no prosperity for England while she was ruled by the Queen and Somerset, a man who had failed dismally in France and was now doing the same in England. Were they going to stand by and see the decline of their country or were they going to be rid of this feeble House of Lancaster and set up that which had more right to be there and had the will and the power to govern—the Royal House of York?