‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said Henry. ‘I shall give thanks when we get home. The Lord has been wonderfully kind to us this day.’
It was a sensational victory. Half the chivalry of France, effectively the government of the country, lay dead on the battlefield. Despite the odds, the English had achieved a mighty success against their longest and most implacable of national opponents.
They had taken some very important prisoners too. Charles, Duke of Orléans, had escaped the slaughter by lying unnoticed under a heap of bodies as the fighting swirled around him. Clad in heavy armour, the twenty-year-old was unable to stand up without help. The English hauled him upright after the battle and took him to King Henry.
Charles was important because he was the leader of the Armagnacs in France. He was also one of the heirs to the French throne. Henry was very glad to have him captive.
‘Welcome, cousin. I’m sorry the battle didn’t go your way today.’
‘Alas, God chose not to smile on France this time.’
‘It’s His judgment on your army, I’m afraid. Your people have been too proud and arrogant. Your soldiers have robbed churches, raped women and stolen from the countryside. You can’t expect any help from God, if you behave like that.’
‘What will happen to me now?’
‘England, I fear. You will be our prisoner.’
‘Will I be ransomed?’
‘We must wait and see. I may have to keep you hostage, if you’re in line for the throne.’
It was beginning to get dark as they spoke. Too late in the day for Henry’s exhausted troops to go anywhere. Henry gave the order for them to make camp where they were, right in the middle of the battlefield, and settle down for the night. They were only too happy to obey.
They resumed the march to Calais next morning. There was a renewed spring in their step as they went. The men had all had a good feed before they set out, tucking into French army rations and keeping more food for later. They marched to Calais in battle order, but they were no longer expecting to be attacked. Henry allowed them to march without their heavy coats of arms, although they were told to remain on their guard at all times.
His army reached Calais in three days. Food, beer and medicine awaited them, sent over in advance from London. Henry spent the next fortnight organising ransoms and exchanges of prisoners before ordering his army back to England. It wasn’t until the middle of November that the first of the victorious troops began to return across the Channel.
Henry himself returned to Dover on 16 November in the middle of a dreadful snowstorm. He was greeted by a reception committee of Cinque Port barons who waded into the freezing water to carry him ashore shoulder high.
Henry spent the night in Dover, allowing his companions time to recover from the sea sickness that they had all suffered during the crossing. He set off next morning for Canterbury, taking his prisoner Charles d’Orléans with him. The two men rode side by side for the fifteen-mile journey.
‘We’ll stay the night in Canterbury,’ Henry told the young duke as they set out. ‘There’s plenty of time to get to London. I want to give thanks at the shrine of St Thomas first.’
A huge turnout awaited them along the road. Everyone in Kent had heard the wonderful news about Agincourt. Thousands of excited people hurried to the roadside to make sure of catching a glimpse of the victor as the great King Henry passed by.
At Barham Downs, a few miles short of Canterbury, the Cinque Port men-at-arms were drawn up beside the road to welcome the conquering hero. Barham was the traditional place for Kentish soldiers to greet a monarch returning from abroad. The men bristled with weapons as they prepared to give Henry a royal salute. They alarmed the Duke of Orléans when he spotted them.
‘Are we about to go to war again?’ he asked, only half-joking.
‘Relax,’ Henry told him. ‘These are the children of my country. They’ve only come to welcome me home.’
The crowds grew even larger as they approached Canterbury. Henry and his retinue were joined by a mounted escort of local men for the last stretch. They were applauded all the way to the city gates, where Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury, was waiting with a cluster of dignitaries to welcome the King to their city.
The streets were full of cheering people as he made his way in procession to the cathedral. He was accompanied by hundreds of the nobles, knights, esquires, archers and pikemen who had fought alongside him at Agincourt. The fighting men all dumped their weapons in a great pile when they reached the gate and then followed their leader into the cathedral.
Henry was the picture of humility as they entered. He knew that he owed his miraculous victory against the odds to God, rather than his own military skills. If he was a great commander now, fit to be mentioned in the same breath as Richard the Lionheart, Edward I and the Black Prince, it was the Lord’s doing, not his. Henry was suitably grateful as he prayed to St Thomas and made his offering at the shrine.
He went to see the Black Prince’s tomb after the mass was over. That extraordinary young man had defeated a much larger French army at Crecy and Poitiers, just as Henry had at Agincourt. He spent some time in reflection at his great-uncle’s tomb before turning to the Archbishop at length.
‘And now for my father,’ he told him.
The most important tomb had been left until last. Henry’s father had been buried in the cathedral two years earlier. His tomb lay close to St Thomas’s, just across the way from the Black Prince.
Henry IV had been expecting to die in Jerusalem, according to an ancient prophecy. He had fulfilled the prophecy by expiring in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster Abbey, rather than on a crusade, as he had imagined. His body had then been taken to Canterbury for burial.
The journey had been by water, rather than land. There had long been a rumour that the body had got no further than the river Thames before being thrown overboard in the middle of a storm. According to gossip, the boat had continued its journey to Kent when the weather improved. An empty coffin had then been given a ceremonious burial in the cathedral.
There was no truth in the story, although quite a few people had believed it for a while. Henry V paid it no mind as he knelt beside his father’s tomb. He prayed in silence for a time, shielded from the throng by his people. When he had finished, he rose again and rejoined the Archbishop.
‘All done, my Lord?’ the Archbishop asked.
‘I think so.’ Henry nodded. ‘It’s been good to spend some time at my father’s grave. I’m very glad I’ve been able to do that.’
The whole congregation rose to its feet as Henry left the cathedral. The archers and pikemen in the nave all bowed in respect as he passed. He was followed by the Archbishop, the other priests, the nobles and a long procession of knights and esquires as they formed up behind him and emerged triumphantly into the open air.
An admiring crowd was waiting to greet them. Trumpets sounded and Bell Harry rang out in celebration as King Henry appeared. The people of Canterbury gave him a loud roar of appreciation and prolonged applause as he returned to the cathedral gate. Henry V was king of England, monarch of them all, the greatest military commander of the age. They were determined to give him a time in their city that he would never forget.
The celebrations continued for the rest of the day. When all was done, Henry and his companions retired exhausted to St Augustine’s abbey to stay the night before continuing to London next morning. They were in no hurry to reach the capital. The people of London needed time to complete the arrangements for a royal reception, now that they knew for certain that the King was coming.
The crowds were out again next morning to watch Henry depart. A long column of men-at-arms stood waiting outside the abbey’s Fyndon Gate to escort him in style to London. Henry looked every inch a conquering hero as he emerged from the gate mounted on a fine steed and accompanied by the Duke of Orléans and his standard bearer. When all was ready, he raised his right hand and turned to look at the rest of h
is horsemen.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry! England and Saint George!’
Unfortunately, the dramatist to turn Henry’s fine thoughts into words had yet to appear. The command he actually gave his men at the Fyndon Gate was far more prosaic.
‘Fellers,’ he told them. ‘Let’s go.’ It was the same order he had given at Agincourt.
Chapter Nine
Edward IV and the Wars of the Roses
Waddington Hall was a very good place to hide for a while. Just south of the Forest of Bowland, in the wildest part of Lancashire, the farmhouse lay well off the beaten track, hardly visited by anybody from one month to the next. A man with a price on his head could lie low there for years without the outside world ever knowing anything about it.
One day in July 1465, the occupants were enjoying a quiet dinner when they received a rude surprise. Armed men appeared at the door, demanding to be let in. The men were looking for a well-known fugitive. They had reason to believe that he was one of the people sitting down to dinner.
They were correct. The man they wanted was there, all right. He jumped up at once, terrified that he was going to be captured at long last.
‘Quick!’ One of his companions ushered him to the stairs. ‘Up to your room. Out the window. We’ll hold them off while you get away.’
The man did as he was told. It was a mile across the fields to the river Ribble. If he could get across the stepping stones before his pursuers caught up with him, he might just lose them in the woods the other side.
It was a forlorn hope. The man’s pursuers were relentless. They caught up with him at the river and took him prisoner before he had a chance to vanish into the forest. He cut a pathetic figure as he struggled to regain his breath.
‘Who are you?’ they demanded, when he was able to talk.
‘I’m a monk. Just a simple man of God. Why are you chasing me?’
‘You’re no monk. Who are you really?’
The man tried to bluff it out, but he soon saw that it was hopeless. His captors knew perfectly well who he was. He couldn’t pretend otherwise.
‘I am King Henry VI of England,’ he conceded defiantly. ‘The son of King Henry V. I am the rightful ruler of this realm. I am your lord and sovereign.’
His captors weren’t impressed. The country had a new sovereign now. King Edward IV of York had held the throne for the past four years, ever since the defeat of Henry’s Lancastrians at the battle of Towton. One side in the civil war favoured a red rose as its emblem, the other white. The struggle for supremacy between the two cousins had been going on ever since the first bout of Henry VI’s mental illness more than ten years earlier.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he demanded, as he was led away.
‘That’ll be for others to decide. London, probably. We’re not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
It was splendid news that they had managed to track him down at last. Henry had been missing for the past twelve months, his whereabouts completely unknown. He had disappeared from public view after the battle of Hexham, wandering in disguise from place to place in the north of England while people loyal to his cause took it in turns to give him food and shelter. But the Yorkists had him now.
‘We must tell King Edward,’ one of them said. ‘He’ll want to know at once. Where is the King?’
‘Down south somewhere. We’ll have to get a message to him.’
A monk was appointed to the task. He was given a letter containing all the details of Henry VI’s capture and told to take it straight to the King. On no account was he to give it to anyone else. He was to hand it to King Edward IV in person.
The monk set off. Several days of hard riding brought him to London. He made inquiries and was told that the King was in Canterbury with his new Queen. The monk went that way immediately, carrying the precious letter with him.
King Edward had arrived in Canterbury on 13 July, the same day as Henry VI was captured in Lancashire. He had his wife with him, Elizabeth Woodville, the woman he had recently married in great secrecy, to many people’s annoyance. She had been crowned Queen by the Archbishop of Canterbury only six weeks previously.
The cathedral monks were curious to see the new Queen when she arrived. They had heard that Elizabeth Woodville was very beautiful, so good-looking that she had King Edward firmly under her thumb. The monks reasoned that she must be quite a woman to be able to do that. King Edward was no stranger to the ladies.
Queen Elizabeth was indeed a great beauty. A little past her best, but still a magnificent woman. The monks could quite see why the King was so taken with her, even though no one liked her much, or her grasping family.
The royal couple were in Canterbury for a visit to St Thomas’s shrine. They were planning to stay for at least a week. They had been there for several days when the monk arrived from Lancashire. He told the King’s people the reason for his visit and insisted that he would speak to no one but the monarch himself.
The monk was ushered into the royal presence. Dropping to one knee, he gave his letter to King Edward.
‘Wonderful news, sire. I think you should read it.’
The King did. The news was wonderful indeed. His rival for the throne had been captured at last, after more than twelve months on the run. Henry was being taken even then to London for incarceration in the Tower.
‘Who else knows about this?’ Edward demanded.
‘No one, sire. I haven’t told a soul.’
‘Keep it that way. I want it to be a secret for the moment. I’ll see that you’re rewarded.’
The monk nodded and withdrew. Edward could hardly contain himself as the man left. He would be much more secure on the throne if he had poor, sick Henry under lock and key. The house of Lancaster would have no one to rally to if Henry was permanently out of circulation.
It was almost time for mass. Edward quickly summoned the Archbishop and told him what had happened. They agreed that the news should be made public at once. The best way to do it would be to announce it from the pulpit, during the sermon.
The announcement was duly made. King Edward and Elizabeth Woodville were sitting in the choir to hear it. An audible ripple of excitement ran through the congregation as the implications sank in. King Henry a prisoner! It would surely mean the end of the war, if King Henry had been captured at last.
The monks of Canterbury cathedral hated the civil war. Red rose, white rose, what did it matter to them? They had done their best to keep the fighting out of the precincts, but they hadn’t always succeeded. Both houses, York and Lancaster, wanted St Thomas on their side for the struggle. Both houses had presented jewels to his shrine to curry favour with the saint.
King Henry VI himself had been to the shrine before his overthrow. So had the Earl of Warwick, the one they called the king maker. And so had King Edward’s brother Richard, the Duke of Gloucester.
The monks all remembered the King’s brother. Such a contrast between the two of them. Edward was tall, handsome and commanding, an obvious leader of men. Richard was puny, physically handicapped by scoliosis of the spine. A hunchbacked little man, but a brave fighter, by all accounts.
The mass came to an end. The congregation was still buzzing with the news of Henry’s capture as everyone filed out of the cathedral. All eyes were on King Edward as he emerged after the service. He was a lot safer on the throne, now that his cousin had been taken prisoner.
‘What are you going to do with Henry?’ his wife asked, as soon as they were alone.
‘I’ll keep him prisoner in the Tower for the moment. He’ll be well looked after.’
‘Aren’t you going to kill him?’
‘Not for now. There’s no point.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s much more use alive. I can keep him as a hostage.’
‘No.’ Edward shook his head. ‘I’m not going to do that. Not while his son’s alive.’ King Henry’s son and heir was safe in France with his mother, well beyond Edward’s reach. ‘The Lancastrians would only rally to the boy if the father was murdered.’
‘So you’re just going to keep Henry prisoner in the Tower?’
‘For the moment. For as long as his son is still alive.’
‘I think you should kill him. Do it now, while you have the chance.’
‘Why?’ Edward was puzzled. ‘We have Henry safe as a prisoner. He can’t do any harm in the Tower. Why are you so keen to see him dead?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I’ll tell you, then.’ Queen Elizabeth Woodville slipped an arm through her new husband’s. ‘I’m pregnant, that’s why. You’re going to have an heir in a few months’ time. The child will succeed you on the throne one day, just so long as there are no rivals around to dispute it.’
Chapter Ten
Henry VIII and the Boleyn Girl
For more than four weeks now, the Holy Roman Emperor had been stranded in the Spanish port of Corunna, waiting for a fair wind to England. Charles V was due to arrive at Sandwich on 15 May 1520 for a long-planned meeting with Henry VIII, but the weather stubbornly refused to shift. If it didn’t change soon, the meeting would have to be abandoned and his chances of disrupting the alliance between England and France might be lost.
As Holy Roman Emperor, Charles was the successor to Charlemagne. He was King of Germany, Italy and Spain, Duke of Burgundy, Archduke of Austria and Lord of the Netherlands. Charles was the most powerful man in Europe after the Pope. But he wanted to destroy England’s already shaky alliance with France for political reasons of his own.
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