Red and White: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses

by Emily Sarah Holt

As soon as Edward heard of Warwick's approach, he and his brother of Gloucester went out to meet him. They took with them carefully one person whom they might have been expected to leave behind. This was King Henry. Was there in the minds of the royal brothers of York any sinister intention of exposing their rival to the fate of Uriah the Hittite? Had Henry fallen, perchance by a stray shot from his own side, would the pair have mournfully and hypocritically condoled with each other on the fact that "the sword devoureth one as well as another?"

The little town of Barnet was occupied by Edward, Warwick remaining on the plain without.

Late on that Saturday night, without any previous despatch of a herald, as was usual, to request an interview, the Duke of Clarence, encamped on Gladmore Heath, received a visit from his brother of Gloucester. They held a long conversation; after which Clarence returned with Gloucester to the town, and humbly implored pardon from his brother Edward. He was likely to be welcomed and forgiven, for he brought with him twelve thousand men. This little business arranged, Clarence sent a message to Warwick, informing him of the very interesting occurrence which had just taken place, and offering to make peace for him also. The envoy returned with an answer from Warwick which breathed scorn in every syllable.

"I choose rather," said the King-Maker, "to be consistent with myself than to follow the example of thy perfidy!"

The night was now wearing towards morning—the morning of Easter Sunday. But no sun danced, nor even shone, upon that awful Easter Day. At four o'clock in the morning the armies met, but in so thick a mist that no man could see the banner of his feudal lord. Since the battle of Mortimer's Cross, where three mock suns had been considered a happy augury, Edward had borne as his badge a sun with rays: and the Earl of Oxford's men, mistaking this sun for the star of the Veres, made the blunder of the Midianites, and turned their arms against each other. They engaged with Warwick's men, and a cry of "Treachery!" was raised by both sides. Oxford fled, carrying with him eight hundred men. At this juncture Montague (another "honourable man"), who had been in private correspondence with Edward ever since he landed, thought it time to turn coat, and did so literally, donning Edward's livery under cover of the mist. But some of Warwick's men caught a glimpse of the hated blue and murrey, and falling upon Montague, exacted the penalty of his treachery in his life. Warwick saw that the field was lost. Montague was dead; Exeter was not to be found; Oxford had fled the field. He mounted his horse, and tried to make his own escape through the intricacies of a neighbouring wood. Even here fate met him in the persons of two of Edward's men, who after a short sharp struggle, unhorsed and slew the foremost man of their age—the man who, more or less, for twenty years had had all England at his bidding.

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon. King Edward—king in a sense he had never been till then,—as the first regal act of his restoration, took his revenge upon the commons of England for their Lancastrian proclivities. Hitherto, following the ancient humane custom peculiar to this country (a source of considerable astonishment to French generals), after a battle, Edward had been accustomed to mount his horse, and cry loudly over the field, "Quarter for the commons!" The nobles and gentry of the defeated side were of course put to the sword. But at Barnet Edward forsook his usual custom. He mounted, indeed, but he left the commons quarterless to the fury of his soldiers, and he spurred fast to London.

That evening, after Edward had entered his metropolis in triumph, King Henry was brought, attired in a long gown of blue velvet, from the fatal field of Gladmore Heath, to that silent dungeon in the Tower which he had occupied so long that it must have borne almost a homelike look to him, and which he was never to leave again, except for the better Home above.

When the military grave-diggers came to bury the dead, they found lying on Gladmore Heath the body of the Duke of Exeter. He had fought manfully, and had fallen at seven o'clock, since which time he had lain insensible on the field. They took him at first for dead: but on careful consideration they came to the conclusion that life was not quite extinct. The party of workers were either Lancastrians, or they were for their time inexplicably tolerant and humane. Instead of stamping out the little spark of life, they respected it, and carried the Duke to the house of one Ruthland, an old servant of his own, who nursed his master back to that life which was worth so little to him. He was then, on the 26th of May, carried a prisoner to Westminster, where he was allowed the service of a chaplain, cook, page, and varlet, with three servants to wait on them. He was detained in this captivity until the fifteenth of September.[#] Six shillings and eightpence per week were allowed for the Duke's board, two shillings for the chaplain, twenty pence each for the cook, page, and varlet, and sixteen pence each for the inferior domestics.

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV.—Rymer is apparently under a mistake in stating that Exeter fled to Westminster Sanctuary, about two months after Barnet. The language of the Roll is decisive that Exeter was a prisoner, and not in sanctuary, between the dates named.

King Henry was rather better treated. Dispute his title as he might, Edward provided for him as for a captive prince. About half-a-crown per day was allowed for his "diet;" but a strong guard of thirty-six persons, afterwards gradually reduced to eleven, was thought necessary for his safe keeping.