King René d'Anjou and His Seven Queens

by Edgcumbe Staley

II.

For some little time Margaret had detected signs in her consort’s speech and manner that caused her the gravest solicitude. She had witnessed the mental depression and lassitude of her uncle, the King of France, and she had grieved for her beloved aunt’s (Queen Marie’s) anxieties. The insanity of King Charles VI., too, had been one of the sad family histories of her school days in Anjou. Now she was faced with a trouble far away more terrible than any of these. In 1453 the King’s memory began to fail, he was bereft of feeling, and gradually he lost his power of walking. The malady, indeed, had shown itself during the Christmas revels at Greenwich. The Queen was already broken-hearted by the news she received from France of the critical state of her mother’s health, and when, on March 5, she heard of her death, poor Margaret was indeed disconsolate. In pain she turned to Henry for comfort, but he failed to comprehend her sorrow. All around were men and women intriguing against herself and him; alone she had to bear her trouble, and the trouble was intensified in pathos by the fact that she was at last enceinte. Would her child be stillborn, she asked herself many a time; how could she expect otherwise when so utterly cast down? Then she realized the loneliness of a throne. The menace of the Duke of York was a scourge to wear her down, and his denunciation of her barrenness an unspeakable affront.

Crushed indeed she was, and yet she had to play the man; for she was both King and Queen of England, and while she lived she determined that none should sap her authority. Henry subsided into imbecility, but Margaret’s will matched and vanquished York’s, although he was proclaimed “Protector of the Realm and Church.” The year sped on, but it brought joy to the sad heart of the lonely Queen, and the whole nation shared her happiness. On October 11 she brought forth her first-born child, a son and heir, a fact of the vastest importance for all concerned, friend and foe. York at once denounced the child for a changeling; but the nation would not have it so, and he was christened Edward publicly at Westminster, and created Prince of Wales, so named because his birthday was that of the holy King St. Edward.

Alas! the King could not be roused sufficiently to recognize his son, nor, indeed, his wife, and this was construed by York and his party as proof conclusive against the truth of the Queen’s accouchement. At the same time they threw out insinuations against her character with respect to relations with many prominent men of her entourage.

The chivalrous spirit of the Queen felt York’s false imputations crushingly. Her convalescence was retarded, and when she came to be churched at the Abbey of Westminster, she was almost too prostrate to go through the ceremony. Like the noble woman that she was, she roused herself; and when she beheld the distinguished and numerous suite awaiting her,—the forty most influential peeresses in the land,—she took heart, and was herself once more. She assumed her costly churching robe. It was of white, gold-embroidered silk and was bordered with 500 sable pelts, and it had cost £554 16s. 8d.

The Duke’s despicable conduct was flouted when Christmas next came round, for on the Feast of the Nativity the Queen presented herself holding her babe in her arms before the King. To her unspeakable joy, Henry held out his hands and drew her and the infant Prince to his breast, and out loud thanked God for the recovery of his reason and acknowledged the child as his. York was away on mischief bent, and Margaret did not fail to make use of the opportunity for checkmating his unworthy aspirations. She took the King to the Parliament, then sitting, and at his command and in his presence the decree appointing York Protector of the kingdom was revoked, and Henry, Margaret, and Edward, assumed their orthodox positions. This step was the first move in the great war game which devastated the whole realm, and ended, alas! in the absolute undoing of the King, the Queen, and the Prince. York, hearing what had transpired at Westminster, hurried from the Welsh border with 5,000 armed followers. The King met him at St. Albans, and ordered him to disband his troop and salute the royal banner. The Duke refused to obey only on impossible conditions.

But what of King René and Queen Isabelle? Their hearts were torn asunder, we may be sure, at the contemplation of their Margaret’s peril. They were powerless to assist her save by their whole soul’s sympathy; besides, they were faced by a contrariety of facts. The all too brief “truce of Margaret” was broken in 1449, and René was summoned to support King Charles and fight against the servants of her consort,—her subjects too,—for, spite of being “La Française,” she had won all hearts in bonnie England. A beautiful girl and a brave is unmatchable! Fortune of war favoured the French-Anjou colours, and Charles became master of Normandy and all English-held North France. Guienne, too, was yielded to the valiant young Duke of Calabria. Moreover, the war-galleys of “Le Petit Roy de Bourges” scoured the Channel, and gained prizes and renown for Charles and René off the English coast.

Somerset’s defeat was a loss of credit, however, to Queen Margaret, and York of course made the most of it. He boasted that, “as Henry was fitter for a cell than a throne, and had transferred his authority to Margaret, the affairs of the kingdom could not be managed by a Frenchwoman, who cared only for her own power and profit.” To placate this arrogance the Queen made a tactless move: she named the Duke Governor of Ireland, thus adding to his prestige and opportunity. Talbot’s death at Albany further weakened the King’s authority and Margaret’s strategy.

Upon the death of Queen Isabelle, so deeply mourned, not alone by her daughter in England, but by all the chivalry of France, René devolved his authority in Bar and Lorraine upon Jean, Duke of Calabria, intending to withdraw gradually from the responsibilities of government. His efforts, however, were discounted by the entreaties of Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, and his Florentine allies, that he should again take up arms and appear in the field against King Alfonso of Aragon and the Venetians who were supporting him. René was victorious, but the palm of triumph was withered in his hand by the news that reached him on his way back to France: civil war had broken out in England, and Margaret was in command of the Lancastrians. Margaret, so lovely, so cultivated, and so fearless, was adding lustre to the heroic deeds of the House of Anjou—but what terrible risks she ran! The initial victory at Wakefield was tarnished by the irony of circumstances, and, though decreed by her in the moment of her emphatic triumph, York’s grey head speared upon the walls of York must have shocked her sense of magnanimity.

KING RENÉ WRITING HIS POEM, “LE MORTEFIEMENT DE VAINE PLAISANCE”

From the Frontispiece painted by King René

To face page 280

Margaret led her troops in person,—they worshipped the ground she trod,—but her splendid courage was of no avail at the second battle of St. Albans. Henry was deposed, and York’s eldest son, the Earl of March, was proclaimed King as Edward IV. Margaret never accepted defeat; she quailed not, but off she went with her little son, who was never parted from her side, to Yorkshire and the North.

“Love Lady-Day” was the quaint if somewhat hypocritical name bestowed by general consent upon March 25, 1458. On that auspicious Lady-Day a very notable assemblage gathered together at the Palace of Westminster. The Queen had personally summoned the leaders of the rival factions to meet the King and accompany him and herself in procession to St. Paul’s, to crave from on high the spirit of conciliation. The streets were crowded with loyal and appreciative citizens, whose delight knew no bounds as they witnessed pass before them the King in his crown, his horse’s bridle held by a “White Rose” knight and a “Red.” Then followed the Queen in a litter, escorted by the new Duke of York, Somerset hand in hand with Salisbury, Essex with Warwick, and others in order of precedence. No man was armed, no woman feared, and joy-bells tossed themselves over and over again, swung by stalwart ringers. Te Deum was sung, but as the progress turned westward rumblings of thunder made wise-acres shake their heads,—and in sooth they had good cause, as matters chanced,—at the dire omen.

Warwick was the bête noire of the reconciliation. By instinct and preference a plotter-royal, he incurred the Queen’s suspicion by a system of sea-piracy he established, and because of inconsiderate language about the elder line of Plantagenet. An unfortunate street fracas led to Warwick’s imprisonment. He was too proud to plead guilty, the Queen too jealous to release him. York and Salisbury at once enrolled their retainers, and stood ready to deliver Warwick. The fruits of the reconciliation fell instantly to the ground, and the complement of “Love Lady-Day” was renunciation and conflict à l’outrance. Before the fresh outbreak of hostilities, whilst the King retired for rest and quietude to St. Albans Abbey, the Queen, accompanied by the baby Prince, made a progress through the Midlands. The child’s winning ways touched every heart, and when he distributed to struggling hands everywhere the cognizance of his patron saint, St. Edward,—little silver swans,—everybody swore to be his henchman and to stand by Henry and Margaret. Salisbury hung upon the skirts of the Queen’s cortège, and Margaret inquired his business. His curt reply determined her to demand his body, alive or dead. At Bloreheath adherents of both sides met, and then Margaret had her baptism of blood; her own was tinged with warriors’ strains from Charlemagne of old, and in her veins the old lion sprang up phœnix-like. Margaret saw red. She offered two courses only to her rebellious and disaffected subjects, submission or death—no quarter. Alas! her experience was the common one, the faithlessness of friends.

The Battle of Northampton, on July 10, 1460, was lost by the treachery of Lord Grey de Ruthen. The Queen and Prince were posted upon an eminence to view the fight, and her military instinct detected the base defection whereby Warwick was enabled to take the King’s army in the rear. Henry was captured before her eyes, and Margaret, powerless to retrieve the disaster, fled with her boy at once to the North. By a circuitous route they reached the impregnable walls of Harlech Castle. Henry was led in mock triumph to the Tower, whence Warwick had the effrontery to demand the custody of the persons of the Queen and Prince. Margaret expressed her indignation at the insult emphatically, but, waiting not to bandy useless words, she hurried off to Scotland to seek sympathy and assistance. Meanwhile the Duke of York formally claimed the crown. Margaret’s response was impressive. Without difficulty she roused Scottish enthusiasm,—generally so slow to move,—and, sweeping across the border, she gathered in her train an army of 60,000 men, and appeared before the gates of York. There she called a plenary council of lords, to whom she expressed her determination “to rest not till I have entered London and set free the King.”

York, taken by surprise, hastened to meet the valiant Queen, and found her encamped at Wakefield. Warned of his approach, she sent heralds to his quarters, who in her name defied the Duke “to meet her in honest, open fight.” He held back, and then she poured the vials of her scorn upon his head: “Doth want of courage,” she exclaimed, “allow thee to be browbeaten by a woman—fie on thee, thou traitor!” The battle was joined on December 30, and gained in less than half an hour. A troop of horse, headed by young Lord Clifford,—and followed immediately by the Queen, mounted and armed,—made an impetuous dash to where the Duke’s standard hung heavy in the still, damp air. It they captured, and forthwith threw it over Margaret’s knees, and with his sword Clifford struck the rebel leader down from his horse, and slew him as he lay at Margaret’s feet. In a trice he had severed the head of her mortal enemy, and upon his knee he offered the ghastly trophy to his Queen. “Madam,” he said, “the war is over; here is the King’s ransom!” The Queen turned sick at the terrible sight, and hysterically sobbed and laughed alternately, and she screamed aloud when soldiers stuffed the blood-dripping head into a common chaff-sack. Lord Clifford she knighted on the spot, using his own gory sword; then she ordered York’s head to be carried off to York, and placed on the city’s southern gateway.

Salisbury was also hors de combat, wounded and a prisoner, and by the Queen’s orders he was beheaded on the field of battle,—for he would not yield his sword and word,—and his head was placed by the side of his leader’s. In a moment, too, of justifiable vengeance, the Queen directed that space should be left on that carrion portal for two other traitors’ heads—Warwick’s and March’s. “There,” she said, “they all four shall dangle till the rain and the sun and the birds have consumed them—warnings to all and sundry who shall hereafter raise voice and hand against their liege.”

Margaret pushed south, and at St. Albans, on February 17, met Warwick, with the King in his camp. The issue was soon decided; 2,000 Yorkists were slain, and Henry and Margaret were united once more. Lord Montague discovered him alone seated under a tree. Clifford galloped off to the Queen to tell her the good news, and, bereft of kirtle and veil and every sign of royalty, she rushed as she was to where the King was awaiting her. He bade her kneel before he embraced her, and gave her then and there the knightly accolade, as well as to his son, who had run as hard as he could after his mother, and he also knighted sixty worthy, loyal gentlemen. All entered the abbey church for Te Deum and Benediction, and then the royal pair sought the monastery for rest and food. Leaving Henry at his devotions, and the Prince to cheer him, Margaret again mounted her charger and marched straight on London, where York’s eldest son, Edward, Earl of March, a lad of eighteen, had been proclaimed King as Edward IV. Perhaps over-confident, and at all events uncompromising in her intention to punish the disloyal and rebel citizens, she failed to post her army advantageously, although she had 60,000 men against Warwick’s 40,000. At Towton the fates were once more against her, and she, with the King and the Prince, fled for their lives to Newcastle, and over the border to the friendly Court of the Queen Regent, Margaret. Henry was established in royal state at Kirkcudbright, and the Queen and Prince at Dunfermline, and there the little fellow, just eight years of age, was betrothed to the young King’s sister, Margaret.

Margaret was really happy in her new home, and, resourceful as she was and never cast down, she turned her attention to peaceful pursuits, and in particular interested herself in the local industry of wool-weaving. She had seen her father’s and her mother’s interest, in her happy days in Lorraine and Anjou, in the craftsmen and craftswomen about them, and her own skilful fingers had busied themselves in homely, peaceful avocations. Margaret endeared herself to her Fifeshire friends, as she usually did to all who were fortunate enough to be thrown into contact with her, and they sang of her:

“God bless Margaret of Anjou,

For she taught Dunfermline how to sew.”

It was said, too, of Margaret, that “if she had not been destined to play the rôle of Bellona, she would have glorified that of Minerva.” The Earl of March,—to whom she never allowed the style of Edward IV.,—was wont to repeat his quaint joke: “Margaret is more to be feared when a fugitive than all the leaders of Lancaster put together!”

On April 16, 1462, Queen Margaret bade adieu to her consort at Kirkcudbright, and with her son and suite, in four well-found Scottish galleys, set sail for France. She landed at Ecluse in Brittany, after more perils on the sea, and was cordially welcomed by Duke Francis, who gave her 12,000 livres. Thence she made straight to Chinon,—of happy memories,—to interview King Louis, who had just been crowned at Reims, upon the death of his father, Charles VII. There she was folded in the loving arms of her dear aunt, Queen Marie; and what a meeting that was for both royal ladies! They had not seen each other since that auspicious wedding-day sixteen years before. Then they were both in the heyday of prosperity; now both were crushed by Providence—Marie flouted by her ill-conditioned, jealous daughter-in-law, Charlotte de Savoy, now Queen-consort of France, and Margaret a fugitive!

Louis played a double game—a cruel one indeed, and insincere so far as Margaret was concerned. He spoke to her fairly, but his mind was with the usurping King of England. Under one pretext or another he delayed his reply to her plea for assistance, but at length, in desperation, Margaret pledged Jersey with him for 2,000 French bowmen. King René was in Provence, but, taking a hint from Louis that his presence would be undesirable just then in Anjou, he sent for his daughter to join him at Aix. This was impossible; for Margaret time was all too valuable, and she set sail for Scotland on October 10. With her went a few single-hearted knights, but of all the hosts of admirers and loyal followers of sixteen years before, only one of mark wore his badge of chivalry consistently—the gallant and accomplished Pierre de Brézé, a preux chevalier indeed, the forerunner of Bayart, and like him “sans peur et sans reproche.”

Again the elements were not only unpropitious, but malevolent. Escaping the vigilance of Edward’s cruisers, and the rebel guns of Tynemouth, basely trained upon their Queen, her ships were wrecked on Holy Island. There 500 of her troops were massacred, and Margaret and de Brézé, and a very meagre following, put to sea in a fisherman’s open boat which landed them on Bamborough sands. The banner of Henry of Lancaster, once more raised aloft by Margaret, magnet-like drew all the northern counties, and in spite of Somerset’s desertion the Queen soon found herself at the head of a formidable army, with the King beside her and the Prince. Once more at Hexham fickle fortune failed the intrepid Queen. Henry was again a captive, but Margaret and Edward made good their escape over the Scottish border.

How often, when human affairs appear most desperate, and all hope and effort are thrown away, help comes from some unexpected quarter! So it was in Queen Margaret’s experience. There is a romantic tale with respect to her flight from Hexham’s stricken field—the story of the robber. Whether one or more outlaws waylaid and robbed the fugitives it matters not, but, stripped of everything but the clothes they wore, Queen and Prince were in dismal straits. Wonder of wonders! a messenger followed Margaret from no less a person than the Duke of Burgundy, the inveterate enemy of her house, the friend and ally of the English in France. The message was in effect an invitation to the Queen and Prince to Flanders—the splendid appanage of ducal Burgundy. Margaret’s implacable foes,—the winds and seas,—were waiting for their prey, and nearly secured their quarry as she tossed to and fro across the wild North Sea on her way to meet Philippe. Landing on the Flemish coast on July 31,—when storm and tempest should never have appeared,—with utmost difficulty, the Queen presented a sorry figure. No badge or symbol of royalty marked her worn-out figure; she was clad meanly in a coarse short worsted skirt—robette—without chemise or shawl, her stockings low down on her heels, her hair dishevelled and unveiled. Who could have recognized in that chastened traveller “the loveliest woman in Christendom”?

True to his loyal devotion, Sieur Pierre de Brézé was with his Queen poor as herself, he had, he said, “spent 50,000 crowns for nothing”—and a faithful valet, Louis Carbonelle, and no more than seven women-dresses. At once the Duke was apprised of Margaret’s coming; but, being on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Boulogne, he sent his apologies by Philippe Pot, Seigneur de la Roche and a Knight of the Golden Fleece, bidding the Queen welcome, and saying that he would present his homage to her shortly if she would proceed direct to Bruges.

That progress was a nightmare, an “Inferno,” a masquerade—what you will: the Queen of England clad in rags, her hair untied, seated in a common country bullock-cart, drawn by a pair of sorry steeds, mocked all the way along as “Une Merrie Mol!” “Une Naufragée!” “Une Sorcière de Vent!” The Comte de Charolois, heir to the duchy, met her Majesty at the digue, saluted her with all reverence, and conducted her to the Castle of St. Pol. On the morrow the Duke of Burgundy arrived, and at once went to the Queen’s lodgings to pay his homage. Right in the middle of the street, where Margaret stood to greet him, with a courtly bow he swept the ground with the drooping plume of his berretta, whilst the Queen curtsied in her abbreviated gown twice majestically. Never was there a finer piece of royal burlesque enacted!

Margaret caught the Duke by the arm as he was about to give the kiss of etiquette. “Thanks, my cousin,” she said; “now I am, perhaps, in no fit mind for compliments. I seek your aid for Henry and our son, and I beseech you, by the love of Our Lady, not to credit the abominable tales which have been circulated touching me.” The Duke did not commit himself, but generously gave his “sweet cousin” 2,000 golden crowns,—wherewith “to fit your Majesty with proper raiment,” he said,—and a fine diamond to wear for him. The next day the Duchess of Bourbon, Philippe’s sister, visited Queen Margaret, and in her she found a sincere and sympathizing confidante. She set before the Duchess all the sad facts of her impoverished condition, and told her all about the hardships she and her spouse and son had met with in England. “We were reduced,” she said, “on one occasion to one herring among three, and not more bread than would suffice for five days’ nourishment.” She went on to say that once at Mass, at Dunfermline, she had no coin for the offertory, and she asked an archer of the King of Scotland, kneeling near her, for a farthing, which he most reluctantly gave her.

“Alas!” replied the weeping Duchess, “no Queen save your Majesty has been so hardly dealt with by Providence; but now we must offer you, sweet cousin, some consolation for your sufferings.” One more affecting speech of the heroic Queen must be recorded. “When on the day of my espousal,” she said, “I gathered the rose of England, I was quite well aware that I should have to wear it whole with all its thorns!”

The Duchess, true to her word, organized splendid fêtes at the Castle of St. Pol in honour of the royal refugees, and Margaret, now attired as became her lofty station, put on one side her cruel anxieties, and yielded herself to the pleasures and humours of the festivities. They put her in mind of the gay tournaments in her happy home—the Court of her good father, King René.

Henry was all the while a prisoner in the Tower, and Margaret’s tender heart bled on his account. She for the moment was without resources, and she had to bide her time. She knew that that time would come, and never for a moment did she lend herself to unprofitable despair. The Duke stood by her, a friend in need, and bestowed both money and an escort upon his royal visitor. In the spring of 1463 she and the Prince were welcomed in Bar-le-Duc by King René and his Court, though it cost Margaret a pang to see her one-time Maid of Honour, Jehanne de Laval, in her dear mother’s place.

Six months passed all too swiftly under the hospitable roofs of her brother Jean, Duke of Calabria, and now actual Duke of Lorraine as well, and of her sister Yolande, Countess of Vaudémont. Then widowed Queen Marie sent an urgent summons for her favourite niece to pay her a visit at Amboise in Touraine, and there most happily Margaret forgot her troubles, and looked more hopefully than ever to the future.

King René’s affairs were in hopeless confusion, and his interests and resources were drained by his son’s campaign in Italy. He could offer nothing but a loving father’s whole-hearted love and protection to his unfortunate daughter and his little grandson, the pride and joy of his life. He breathed out his deep feelings in two elegant canticles eloquent of Margaret’s woes. His example set all the poets singing sweetly of the Lancastrian Queen; her beauty and her accomplishments, her troubles and her fortitude, appealed to them mightily. They sought, too, to cheer the riven soul of their liege lord and poet leader:

“Rouse thee, King René! rouse thee, good René!

Let not sorrow all thy spirits beguile.

Thy dear daughter, brave spouse of King Henry,

Tho’ sadly she wept still she coaxes a smile.”

All that René was able to do for his royal daughter was to establish her and her son at his castle of Kuerere, near St. Mihil’s by Verdun in Lorraine, with 2,000 livres to carry on the education of the Prince. Sir John Fortescue, a soldier of fortune, was appointed his tutor. He was a devoted adherent of the Red Rose. “We are,” he wrote, “reduced to great poverty, and the Queen with difficulty sustaineth us in meat and drink.”

Louis XI., who had refused to have anything to do with his unfortunate cousin, Queen Margaret, at last agreed to meet her at Tours in December, 1469, and with her he invited King René; Jean, Duke of Calabria and Lorraine; and her sister Yolande, with her husband, Ferri, Count of Vaudémont, “to consider,” as he put it, “what may or may not be done.” Louis treated Margaret with scant ceremony. Whilst discussions were going on, startling news came from England which very much altered the situation. The North and Midlands had again risen against Edward, and Warwick had gone over to the Lancastrians. Edward was a prisoner at Middleham Castle, and Warwick was virtually King of England! The diversion was, however, of short duration, for in a few weeks Edward managed to escape. And now it was Warwick’s turn to fly. He sought the French Court, and confided in Louis, who, sinister and scheming as he was always, saw a way to help Margaret and still be on the winning side. The King proposed an interview between the Queen and the Earl, with a view to a reconciliation. Margaret rejected indignantly the proposal. “The Earl of Warwick,” she exclaimed, “has pierced my heart with wounds that can never be healed. They will bleed till the Day of Judgment. He hath done things which I can never forgive.”

AGRICULTURAL PURSUITS

From a Miniature, MS. Fourteenth Century, “Livre des Proprietez des Choses”

British Museum

To face page 292.

The King was, however, determined that his idea of a rapprochement between the Lancastrians and the wing of the Yorkists who looked to Warwick for light and leading should be realized, and he urged his view so emphatically upon Margaret that at last she agreed to meet Warwick, but upon one condition: that “he shall unsay before your Majesty and the King of Sicily, my father, all that he has foully uttered about me and the Prince, and shall swear to repeat the same at Paul’s Cross in London later.”

Warwick, to the amazement of Louis, agreed to this condition, and forthwith presented himself most humbly to the Queen upon his knees. Swordless, gloveless, and uncovered, he sought pardon for his evil conduct, and prayed her to accept him as her true henchman and devoted lieutenant. Margaret seemed stunned by this extraordinary volte-face, and kept the Earl upon his knees quite a long time before she vouchsafed a reply. At last she extended her hand for him to kiss, and he, further, servilely kissed the fur hem of her robe. Then he laid his plans before the august company for releasing the King and placing him once more upon his throne. He next called on King Louis and King René to stand surety for the performance of his purpose. He said he could command immediately 50,000 men to fight under his orders, and he craved the presence of the Queen in the saddle by his side.

With Warwick was the Earl of Oxford and other leaders of his party, who all knelt in homage to the Queen and craved her clemency. To Oxford she at once extended her hand. “Your pardon, my lord,” she said, “is right easy. What wrongs you have done me are cancelled by what you have borne for King Henry.” The conference at Tours was adjourned, and resumed at the Castle of Angers; and then Louis had another startling proposition to lay before Queen Margaret: no less than the betrothal of Prince Edward,—now a well-grown and handsome lad of seventeen,—to the Earl of Warwick’s daughter Anne! Margaret flared up at once. “Impossible!” she said. “What! will he indeed give his daughter to my royal son, whom he has so often branded as the offspring of adultery or fraud! By God’s name, that can never be!”

For a whole fortnight Margaret stood her ground. She could not agree to this extraordinary proposal; but then the peaceful, fatherly insistence of René caused her to relent, but not before she roundly rated her good sire for his pusillanimity and too ready credence. Meanwhile the Countess of Warwick and her daughter had arrived at Amboise, and had been most ostentatiously received by King Louis. Then happened, by happy coincidence, an event vastly important to the King of France—the birth of an heir. Queen Charlotte was delivered of a son, the future Charles VIII., on June 30. Nothing would content the King but Prince Edward and Anne Neville must be among the child’s sponsors. At the same time, to influence Queen Margaret, Warwick, at Louis’s suggestion, made a solemn asseveration in the cathedral church of Angers: “Upon this fragment of the True Cross I promise to be true to King Henry VI. of England; to Queen Margaret, his spouse; and to the Prince of Wales, his true and only son; and to go back at once to England, raise 50,000 men, and restore the King to his honours.” Louis gave him 46,000 gold crowns and 2,000 French archers, and at the same time asked Queen Margaret to accept the charge of his young daughter Anne whilst he was away.

Margaret could not stand out any longer, and so, immediately after the baptismal ceremony,—where she herself held her little royal nephew at the font,—Edward, Prince of Wales, and Anne Neville were betrothed with gorgeous ceremonial in the Chapel of St. Florentin, within the Castle of Amboise, in the presence of nearly all the Sovereigns of France and their Courts.

“The Prince,” so said the chroniclers, “is one of the handsomest and most accomplished Princes in Europe, tall, fair like his mother, and with her soft voice and courteous carriage, was well pleased with his pretty and sprightly fiancée.” People sought to belittle the match, and called it a mésalliance; but the bride’s great-grandmother was Joanna Beaufort, daughter of Prince John of Ghent, Edward III.’s third son. She married the Earl of Westmoreland. In Queen Margaret’s estimation, what certainly did weigh very considerably was the fact that her daughter-in-law-to-be was one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. The august company went on to Angers after the double ceremony, at the desire of Queen Margaret, who insisted that a Prince of Wales could only be married in his ancestral dominions. She cited the intention of King René to leave to her and her heirs the duchy of Anjou, and so she claimed it as already English territory. Louis acceded to her whim. He could afford to wait and watch the course of events. The marriage of Prince Edward and the Lady Anne was consequently solemnized, on August 15, in the Cathedral of St. Maurice, which had witnessed so many royal functions.

The Earl of Warwick, accompanied by the Duke of Clarence, grandson of King Henry IV., departed immediately for England, to make good his brave words and prove his loyalty. His proclamation in favour of Henry, Margaret, and Edward, produced an immense sensation, and in a couple of days he found himself in command of 70,000 men, all crying, “A Henry! A Henry!” Edward IV. immediately left the capital and sought the friendly shores of Holland, and Warwick was, without a blow being struck, master of the kingdom. His first step was to send the Bishop of Winchester to the Tower, to clothe King Henry in regal robes, and conduct him with the Sovereign’s escort to the Palace of Westminster. On October 13 the King went to St. Paul’s, wearing once more his crown. Louis ordered Te Deum to be sung in every church in France, and went in person to the Castle of Saumur to salute Queen Margaret. Early in November the Queen, with the Prince and Princess of Wales and a very distinguished following, set out for Paris, on their way to London. Every town through which the royal cortège passed was gaily decorated, and the hearty plaudits of the thronging inhabitants were mingled with the joy peals of all the bells.

Harfleur once more was fixed upon as the port of passage, and once more the Channel churned and a tempest fell upon the royal flotilla. Nobody has been able to explain why Margaret of England was so persistently persecuted by the divinities of the weather. Twice they put back to port, and then, after tossing about for sixteen whole days and nights, they made Weymouth,—a passage ordinarily of no more than as many hours,—and landed on April 13. That day was indeed ill-omened for the cause Queen Margaret had at heart, and for which she had suffered such appalling vicissitudes. The Battle of Barnet was fought and lost; Warwick was killed, and King Henry was again a prisoner. Verily, Queen Margaret’s star was a blaze of disasters!

The terrible news staggered the courageous Queen; she swooned, but soon recovered her usual equanimity, although out of the bitterness of her soul she sobbed: “Better die right out, methinks, than exist so insecurely!” She appeared to have no plan of action, for such a disaster seemed to be impossible; so, to gain time for thought and effort, she moved herself and those she loved into the safe sanctuary of Beaulieu Abbey. There Somerset and many other notable fugitives forgathered. To them she counselled retreat—“Till Providence,” she said, “ordereth better luck.” The Prince now for the first time asserted himself, and, with his mother’s daring, gave an emphatic “No.” At Bath a goodly array of soldiers rallied to the royal standard, and Margaret determined to cross the Severn and join her forces to Jasper Tudor’s army of sturdy loyal Welshmen. The Duke of Gloucester opposed her advance, and so she turned aside to Tewkesbury, and there encamped.

The morrow (May 4, 1471) was to be the darkest in all the chequered career of Margaret of Anjou and England. Sweet Pentecost though it was, the spirit of comfort belied, failed the fated Queen once more. With early dawn fell aslant the springtide sunbeams a rain of feathered hail. Battle was joined, each man at his post—save one, the perjured Lord Wenlock. His command, in the centre of Queen Margaret’s forces, lacked its leader, and Somerset rode off to find him. At a low brothel he discovered the miscreant drinking with and fondling loose wenches. “Traitor!” cried the Duke; “die, thou scoundrel!” And he clove his head in two. This defection caused irretrievable disaster; still, the Prince of Wales did prodigies of valour, and so did many more; but he was felled from his horse, and the “Hope of England” was lead captive to victorious Edward’s tent. Received with every mark of discourtesy, the heart of the chivalrous young Prince must have quailed as he stood before the arch-enemy of his house, but he had very little time for reflection.

“How durst thou, changeling, presumptuously enter my dominions with banners displayed against me?” demanded Edward.

“To recover my father’s crown, the heritage of my ancestors,” bravely replied the Prince.

“Speakest thou thus to me, thou upstart! See, I smite thee on thy bastard mouth!” roughly exclaimed the conqueror, and with that he demeaned himself and the crown he fought for by cowardly and savagely striking with his mailed fist the unsuspecting and unarmed Prince. This treacherous blow was the signal to the titled scoundrels standing by for a murderous attack upon the Prince of Wales. He fell crying fearlessly: “A Henry! A Henry!” pierced by many daggers. It was a dark deed and dastardly; its stain no course of years will ever cleanse, and Edward IV. is for all time “Bloody Edward.”

Queen Margaret, seeing the hopelessness of the conflict, and fearing the worst had happened to the Prince,—for he never came to cheer her,—took the Princess and fled to a convent hard by the battlefield, and there lay concealed. Edward, yielding to the base instincts of a cruel nature, very soon got news of Margaret’s hiding-place, and with a demoniacal scowl, “Ah, ah!” he cried out, “we’ve settled the cub; now for the she-wolf!”

The Queen was dragged from her hiding-place, and borne to Edward’s quarters, where, like the brute he was, he reviled and insulted her.

“Slay me, thou bloodthirsty wretch, if thou wilt! I care not for death at thy desecrating hands! May God strike thee, as He will!” she exclaimed.

Margaret was sent to the Tower, but not to her husband; they were kept apart, and the Princess of Wales was delivered over to the care of her uncle, the Archbishop of York. But even so Edward’s malice was not exhausted. The Queen was conducted without honour, or even decency, in the suite of Edward on his return to the capital. At Coventry,—of all places for further outrage, a place so greatly agreeable to Henry and herself,—ill-fated Margaret was subjected to personal insults from her vanquisher. In reply she reviled him, and thrust him with abhorrence from her. In revenge he ordered her to be fastened upon a common sumpter horse, and he ordered a placard to be placed on her breast, “This is Queen Margaret, good lieges,” and her hands were tied behind her back. Thus was the most valiant, most unselfish, and most loyal Queen that England ever had led to grace the mock triumph of a royal murderer. She was thrust into the foulest dungeon of the grim Tower, and there remained, bereft of food, of service, and wellnigh of reason, too, for seven dreary, weary months.

The day after her incarceration King Henry’s dead body was discovered in his cell. Gloucester, it was said, had killed him; but Edward was, if not the actual murderer, privy to the deed. Queen Margaret, hearing in her dark, foul den the heavy tramp of men-at-arms, scrambled up to the bars of her little window, and beheld,—what probably Edward meant she should,—the corpse of her slaughtered husband borne past for burial. No ceremony of any kind accompanied that mournful passing. At St. Paul’s, Henry’s body was exposed in a chapel of the crypt, and then it found merciful sepulture in the God’s-acre at Chertsey Abbey.

That her beloved son,—her one and only hope,—was dead as well, heart-broken Margaret gathered amid ribald blasphemies of the intoxicated soldiery as she was borne to London in that “Triumph.” Now was she bereft indeed, and nothing seemed so desirable as death; indeed, she resigned herself, and prepared herself for execution at any moment, at any savage hint of her consort’s supplanter on England’s throne—accursed Edward! It was, however, not to be supposed that King Louis of France or King René of Sicily-Anjou should silently condone the unhalting cruelty of a bloodthirsty monarch, especially when the person and the honour of a French Princess were at stake.