Richard of York entered London, appeared before the peers, and advanced to the throne, placing his hand upon the canopy. This mute claim was received in silence, that was broken by the Archbishop of Canterbury, as he enquired whether the Duke would not wait upon the King. York haughtily replied, “I know of none in this realm than ought not rather to wait upon me,” and turning his back upon the peers, retired.
It was admitted by the lords that Richard was the lineal heir to the throne, but Parliament had elected Henry IV. to the crown, Henry V. had succeeded, and his son, the present King, had been accepted by the lords and commons, and, but for the ambition of York, his title would have remained unquestioned. The peers passed over the claims of the young Prince of Wales, and decided that the King should retain the crown, but that, on his death, York and his heirs should inherit it.
Margaret was immediately summoned to London, and prepared for the journey by raising her standard. Before she appeared upon the scene the battle of Sandal was fought.
The Yorkists now freely dipped their hands in blood. Lords Hungerford and Scales were allowed to pass out of the Tower free men, but the soldiers and officers had “to abide by the law.” Lord Scales was murdered within the week by mariners serving Warwick and March. He was seen “lying naked in the cemetery of the church of St. Mary Overy, in Southwark. He had lain naked, being stripped of his clothes, for several hours on the ground, but afterwards on the same day he was honourably interred by the earls of March, Warwick, and others.” In the same month, July, Sir Thomas Blount, of Kent, with five others of the household of the Duke of Exeter, were accused before “the Earl of Warwick and the other justiciaries of the King, of illegally holding the Tower,” and “were drawn to Tyburn and beheaded, and shortly afterwards John Archer, who was in the councils of the duke of Exeter, shared the same fate.”
Duke Richard was declared heir-apparent on the 9th of November, with the present title of Lord Protector, and an allowance of £10,000 to maintain the dignity. The Yorkshire royalists were in arms, and “had destroyed the retainers and tenants of the Duke of York and Earl of Salisbury.” Salisbury and York immediately marched for the North.
Their vanguard struck Somerset’s army at Worksop, and was cut off. On the 21st December York occupied his Castle of Sandal. His army consisted of 6,000 men, too few to cope with the enemy lying at Pontefract under Somerset and Northumberland. The Duke might have maintained the defensive until the Earl of March came up from the Welsh borders, but on the 30th of December he sallied out to rescue a foraging party from the Lancastrians. With so numerous an army to feed, and in a position so remote from succour, Richard might reasonably risk something to protect his foragers.
Vainly Sir David Hall argued against so perilous an adventure. The drawbridge was lowered, and York’s banner was given to the wintry wind. It bore for device a Falcon volant, argent, with a fetter-lock, or. The bird was depicted in the effort of opening the lock, typical of the crown.
Behind the falcon-banner marched 4,000 veterans. With the Duke there rode to his last battle, Salisbury and the good knights, Thomas Neville, David Hall, John Parr, John and Hugh Mortimer, Walter Limbrike, John Gedding, Eustace Wentworth, Guy Harrington, and other notable men-at-arms.
Raising the war-cry of York, and sounding trumpets, they charged through the drifting snow-flakes, and awoke the fury of the battle. The Duke was outnumbered and surrounded, but fought stubbornly, being nobly seconded by his heroic army. Lord Clifford hotly attacked him, exerting every effort to cut off his retreat. Duke Richard valiantly attempted to cut his way through and retire into Sandal, but Clifford as sternly drew around him the iron bonds of war, prevented all retreat, and held him to the trial. The battle was extremely sanguinary, and the Lancastrians fought as though they were the red-handed arbiters of the whole dispute, and, like avenging angels, must wash out the treason of York in streams of blood. As Mountford fought at Evesham so fought the Lord Protector that day—exacting the heaviest price for his doomed life. Weapons whirled before his face, rang on his mail, and probed the jointed armour with point and edge until the good steel harness was dinted and stained with gore. Many warriors perished around him, and he, too, fell, sorely stricken, and died in his blood, amid the trampling of iron-clad feet, and the clash of crossing swords, as friends and foes fought hand-to-hand above his body. The crisis came. The falcon-banner fell, and the pursuing swords maimed and slew the fugitives, burdening the old year with the sorrows of the widow and the orphan. In the triumphant van, in the moment of victory, Richard Hanson, Mayor of Hull, laid down his life for Queen Margaret and her fair son. Salisbury won his way through the press, to fall by headsman’s axe. Rutland broke away from the slaughter, reached Wakefield Bridge, to perish by the steel of Clifford, happy in his early death that saved him from the infamy of bloody years that tarnished the fame of his brothers, March, Clarence, and Gloucester.
Some chroniclers represent the Queen as commanding her army in person, and as luring the Duke to meet her in open field. Dissuaded from the encounter by his friends, he declared that: “All men would cry wonder, and report dishonour, that a woman had made a dastard of me, whom no man could even to this day report as a coward! And surely my mind is rather to die with honour than to live with shame! Advance my banners in the name of God and of St. George.” This is not the York of history.