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.