Ruins and Old Trees, Associated with Memorable Events in English History

by Mary Roberts

O Lady! on thy regal brow The shades of death are gathered now! What matter, if in queenly bower, Was past of life thy fitful hour? In cloister gray, where meets at eve The whispering winds that softly breathe; Or, if in leafy glen afar, To some lone cot the guiding star Of him, who turn’d with weary feet Thy joyous answering smile to meet? What matter, if in hut or hall, Was spread o’er thee the funeral pall; If mutes and banners waited round, Or flowrets decked thy simple mound? If wrought on earth thy Maker’s will, No meddling fiend shall work thee ill: O blest thy waiting-place shall be, Till the grave shall set her captive free, Through His dear might who came to bless Man in his utter helplessness.—M. R.

What see you in that old oak more than in any other tree, except that its trunk is white with age, and that gray lichens hang in tufts from out the interstices of the bark? That tree, stranger, was a silent witness of scenes long past. It stood when England was rent asunder during the fearful contest of the Roses; and beside its noble trunk met those, in all the pride of chivalry and loveliness of beauty, who now are resting from life’s weary pilgrimage beneath the tomb of Quentin Matsys.

Who has not heard concerning the Duchess Dowager of Bedford, how she left her high estate to wed a simple squire, and to dwell with him in the beautiful solitude of her dower castle of Grafton, far from the scene of her former greatness! The noble trees that grouped around the castle wall, mingled with those of the wide forest of Whittlebury, a royal chase, on the verge of which, and at no great distance from the castle, stood this aged tree, then in all the pride of sylvan majesty; and far as the eye could reach, extended one vast sweep of woodland scenery, with breaks of lawn and thicket. The inhabitants of Grafton Castle passed the first years of their wedded life in comparative obscurity, exercising hospitality, according to the manners of the age, yet keeping as much as possible apart from the dangers and excitements of public life. At length the necessity of providing for the elder branches of an increasing family, rendered it desirable to strengthen their connexions, and the Duchess of Bedford, whose rank was more exalted than her fortune, resolved to introduce them at the court of her friend, Queen Margaret, to whom her eldest daughter, the beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, was appointed maid of honour.[40]

Years passed on, and Elizabeth was united to John Gray, son and heir to Lord Ferrars of Groby, possessor of the ancient domain of Bradgate,[41] by reason of his descent from Petronilla, daughter of Grantmesnil, one of the proudest of our Norman nobility. Withdrawn from her quiet home by the stirring incidents that attended the fierce contest between the rival houses of York and Lancaster, Elizabeth accompanied her husband during the campaign, and shared with him in many of its perils. It was even said that Queen Margaret persuaded her to visit king-making Warwick in his camp, under the pretence of requesting some little favour, for the stout earl was ever kind to her; but in reality to make observations relative to the number and condition of his troops. This was on the eve of the great battle of St. Albans, which took place at a short distance from the abbey. The abbey stood, in peaceable times, like a vast granary, which continually received and gave out its produce, into which was gathered both corn, and wine, and oil, barley, and the fruits of the earth, and to which not fewer than twelve cells and hospitals were appended. And scarcely was there a forest, chase, or wood throughout the greatest part of England, which did not in some measure contribute a supply to the abbey of its timber or venison. Successive monarchs banquetted within its walls, and while the abbots were distinguished for their extensive hospitality, the poor were not forgotten. Thus stood St. Albans, often in stormy times a place of refuge, into which the peasants drove their cattle and were secure, and while the storm of war raged furiously without, there was safety and abundance within. But it was not always so, and St. Albans was sacked more than once. The infuriated followers of Wat Tyler set fire to the papers and written records of the abbey, and in after times it was exposed to all the horrors of civil war, when the rival houses of York and Lancaster battled close beside its walls, and beneath the floor of our Lady’s chapel rest the remains of many who fought and fell in those murderous conflicts. Showers and warm sunbeams contribute their aid ofttimes to repair the ravages which war has made in the aspect of nature. The trodden fields were again covered with corn; dwellings which had been set on fire, were speedily rebuilt, and all went on as before. Tributes of corn, and wine, and oil, were brought into the abbey, and the poor and destitute received their daily doles. But men had not yet learned that war and misery are synonymous. The second battle of St. Albans, at which the forces of Queen Margaret were, for a brief space, triumphant, was deeply felt within the abbey. Wounded men, borne by their companions from the fray, were continually brought in; and when the battle ceased, it was fearful to hear the continual tolling of the bell, sounding daily from morning till night, while the dead were being interred; if holding rank among the living, within the precincts of the monastery, if otherwise, in an adjoining field.[42] The husband of Elizabeth Woodville, Gray Lord Ferrars, was then in the twenty-fifth year of his age. Handsome, valorous, and intrepid, and devotedly attached to the cause of Henry VI.; he was appointed commander of the Red-rose cavalry, and, while leading on the memorable onset by which the field was won, he received a mortal wound, of which he died a few days after, at the village of Colney, on the twenty-eighth of February 1461.[43] Henry VI. visited and endeavoured to console the dying youth, and sought, with the usual kindliness of his nature, to reconcile him to the thought of death, by pointing to the only Refuge, on whom his own hopes rested. Some chroniclers relate, that, according to the fashion of the age, he conferred the honour of knighthood on the wounded earl, for the sake of his sons, for although his father, Lord Ferrars, had died two months before, the distracted condition of the country had prevented the young nobleman from taking his place in the house of peers. A deep and rancorous feeling seems to have existed against the memory of this brave and devoted adherent of King Henry; his harmless children, the eldest of whom was not more than four years of age, were deprived of their inheritance, and his widow was not permitted to remain on the family estate; the fine old mansion, with its broad lands, was confiscated; it became the property of another, who repaired thither to take possession, and with him his family and dependents, who filled all the offices and places of trust and profit which the adherents of the house of Gray had hitherto enjoyed. Elizabeth, therefore, sought again the paternal roof. Sad was the day of her return, yet she only was changed. The avenue of noble trees waved in the breeze, fresh and shady as when last she passed; the fields, too, looked as green and lovely, and through them lay the pathway, fringed with wild flowers, where she had often gathered, with her young companions, fresh garlands of sweet flowers, with which to bedeck themselves. The mansion had not been altered, since the family returned from court, at the accession of Edward IV. There was the open door, down the steps of which the train of sisters had followed their stately mother, when they set forth a few years before, at the invitation of Queen Margaret, to visit her court; the eldest, appointed to be her maid of honour;[44] the others, with promises of favour and promotion. They had now returned, for there was neither favour nor promotion for adherents of the Red-rose, and Catherine, and Anne, and Mary, were waiting to receive Elizabeth with blended feelings of joy and sorrow; joy, to welcome back their sister; sorrow, to see her widow’s weeds and orphan children. Time had not changed them, nor were the faithful servants, who had seen, a few years back, their young mistress depart, with tears and blessings, yet broken down. Here, then, at a short distance from this time-worn tree, Elizabeth continued to reside in Grafton Castle, devoted to the education of her sons; for whom, as well as for herself, she was dependent on the bounty of her father.

Edward came at length to hunt in the forest of Whittlebury, for this great forest was a royal chase, abounding with shady coverts and open spaces, where the fern grew wild and high, and dancing lights and shadows seemed to sport over a wilderness of broken ground and coppice-wood. Elizabeth heard that he would pass at a short distance from her mother’s dower castle, and she resolved to wait for him under the shade of the tall tree, which bears her name. The mingled sound of hounds and horns, with the trampling of horses on the green turf, soon reached her ear, and presently the monarch passed that way with his gallant train of hunters. She was then, for such is the tradition of the neighbourhood,[45] with her fatherless boys, on this very spot, for she had thrown herself on the ground, and besought him, with many tears, to have pity on her impoverished and bereaved children. The sight of beauty in affliction softened the stern heart of the monarch, while the anxiety of a mother for her children seemed to awaken in his heart feelings of kindliness and compassion, to which he had been long a stranger, and he raised her from the ground, with assurances of favour and consideration.

Legends tell, that they met again under the same old tree, for that Edward seemed to prefer that their interviews should take place where he had first seen and loved the beautiful Elizabeth. History relates that the espousals were privately solemnised early in the morning of the first of May 1464, at the town of Grafton, near Stony Stratford. None were present excepting the Duchess of Bedford, the priest, and two gentlewomen, with a young man, who assisted in singing. The priest who wedded them lies buried before the altar, in the church of the Minoresses at London-bridge.[46]

O what a mingled throng are passing now,
As in a mirror, which time seems to hold
For men to gaze in! Actors in all scenes,
Mingled, and yet distinct, with names on each,
Given by Him who sent them forth to bless
Their homes or kindred—dwelling where they may.
Kings, with their crowned heads, and he who serves—
The anxious tradesman, and the gentle one
Who walks with peace, looking on meads and streams—
Loving the sound of whispering winds at eve,
Of warbling birds, and prattling streams that gush
’Mid flowers and ferns, and green hills meeting round;
For such are seen, e’en near the deadly fray
Of battle fields, where meet the sire and son.
The Red-rose conquering now—and then the Pale;
And he, who skulks in forest haunt, or cave
When morning dawns, walks as a chief at eve.

Look, then, at the strange eventful scenes in the life of Elizabeth Woodville, as they pass before the mental vision, now in brightness and in beauty, and now in shade and sadness.

Observe that gallant gentleman, holding a lady by the hand, in a large and antique apartment, for the scene has changed from Grafton Castle to the old palace of Reading. That gentleman is Edward IV., and standing round, are peers and princes of the realm, adherents of the house of York, whom the king has convened in council, that he may present to them the lady Elizabeth as his rightful queen,—one whom he had wedded because of her exalted worth, for he could never hope to espouse a foreign princess, on account of the house of Lancaster.[47] The queen is apparently little more than twenty-eight years of age, and her delicate and modest beauty is not impaired by either time or sorrow. Her head is encircled with a high crown of peculiar richness, the numerous points of which are finished by fleur-de-lis. Rich pearls, strung in an elaborate pattern, encircle her beautiful neck, while a small ring, in the middle of her forehead, divides her pale yellow tresses, which descend in waving curls of great length and profusion. Her face is exceedingly fair, and her eyes are timidly cast down. She is royally attired in a splendid kind of gold brocade, woven in stripes of blue and gold, of which the wearing is restricted to the royal reigning family, with a close boddice and tight sleeves, and ermine robings, turned back over the shoulders, and the whole dress is girded round the waist with a crimson scarf. Her skirt is full and flowing, with a broad ermine border, and a train of many yards in length, held up by a trainbearer, a fair and gentle-looking damsel, most probably one of the queen’s sisters, who has gracefully folded the extremity around her arms. A rich blue satin petticoat is seen beneath the drapery, and the shoes that peep forth occasionally are of a pointed form.[48]

From that old room of state, where stands the fair young queen, thus regally attired, passes on the pageant of king and lady, and bearded counsellors, in solemn pomp, to the stately abbey church of Reading, the lady led by the young Duke of Clarence, where she is publicly declared queen; and where having made her offering, she is receiving the congratulations of the assembled nobility, among whom, some people say, is the Earl of Warwick. Brilliant fêtes and tournaments succeed, such as have not been seen in England, since the gorgeous days of Edward III., when he held high state in Windsor Castle. Elizabeth presides in all, with her lovely train of sisters, and around them gather, as shepherds to “the star of Arcady, or Tyrian cynosure,” many a gallant knight and noble, proud to tilt in honour of those fair damsels, and to receive from them the prize that beauty awards to valour. Listen now to the loud hum that mighty London sends through all her gates, for sights and sounds of revelry pertain to this bright act in the life of our sovereign lady. Knights, and citizens, and throngs of people are filling every street, and crowding every window. The queen is passing through the city to her palace of Westminster, in a litter borne on poles, and supported by stately prancing steeds; and right and left, behind and in advance, ride valiant men, whom the king has deputed to this honour. The queen has come from Eltham Palace, where the hawthorn-trees are all in blossom, and the little birds are singing blithely, as if to hail their queen on the day of her coronation. And when the train of knights and citizens is seen passing beneath the lofty portal of the ancient abbey, sweet sounds greet them, not of joyous birds that warble their harmonious concerts among the trees in Eltham park, but deep solemn music, and glorious human voices chanting in unison; and thus welcomed and attended, enters Elizabeth, to pass forth again a crowned and anointed woman. And with her is Count James, of St. Pol, uncle to the Duchess of Bedford, with a hundred knights and their attendants; a sovereign prince, and near kinsman of the queen, whom Charles the Bold had deputed to be present at the coronation. King Edward desired that the peers of England and the citizens of London should be assured that the lady whom he married was worthy, by her high descent, to share his throne, and he had requested the French king to induce some of the princes of the house of Luxemburg to visit England, and claim kindred with his wife. Count James set forth accordingly, for now that his fair cousin wore a crown, he was proud to acknowledge the connexion. It was otherwise a few years before with the house of Luxemburg: they had not only chosen to forget the mother of Elizabeth, because she married a private gentleman, “though he was the handsomest man in all England, and the duchess was an exceeding handsome gentlewoman.” They had not only chosen to withold their countenance, but had even spoken such harsh words, that neither the knight nor lady dared to claim kindred with them on the continent, for the father of that same count, who was now in England, would have slain them both, had they ventured within his reach. All was now forgotten, and he who looks with the mental eye through the long, long vista of past ages, may discern in the dim distance, gorgeous pageants, and tilts and tournaments, ladies coming forth from their old Gothic castles to grace the court, with chevaliers of France and England, each from their baronial residences, mingling in feats of arms and festivals. And then, beside the small couch of a fair infant, are seen standing the haughty Cicely of York, and the royally descended Jaquetta of Bedford, grandmothers of the young scion, made friends that day, as they bend with looks of love over the unconscious sleeping one. Sleep on, fair child, thy brow shall wear a crown, but weary years of woes and wanderings are before thee.[49]