by Livi Michael
Her cousin, Edmund Beaufort, had written to them at Woking, urgently requesting Henry to join with him to fight for King Henry. He would be coming to visit them, he said, in the hope that Henry would accompany him to war.
On 23 March Henry wrote back to the duke to try to put him off. He was unwell, he said, which was true enough. The old disease had broken out again. His skin had flared into lesions, his joints were swollen with unmanageable pain.
However, on 24 March Edmund Beaufort had arrived with forty armed men.
Margaret had instructed Henry to stay in his room. ‘I will deal with this,’ she’d said. And she’d entertained the duke on her own and seen to it that his men were lodged and refreshed.
But he didn’t leave. On the second night Henry heard them arguing downstairs. He’d stayed in his room as instructed and prayed to God to tell him what to do.
God, not unusually in Henry’s experience, had been silent.
On the third night, when the argument began again, Henry got up. He made his way painfully down the stairs, his breathing laboured, sweat breaking out on his scalp.
‘Do you always speak for your husband?’ the duke was saying as Henry entered the room. Then he fell silent.
Henry took one shuffling step after another towards the table at which they sat. His feet were so swollen that his toes would hardly flex. Contact with the floor sent arrows of pain through the joints of his knees and hips. He could see the duke rapidly reassessing the situation.
‘Henry –’ Margaret said, and she got up swiftly and pulled a chair out so that he could sit on it. Henry sat facing the duke, though the action caused more pain to shoot upwards from his buttocks to his hips.
‘My wife does speak for me,’ he said, ‘but she does not say anything that I would not say.’
The duke had the grace to look ashamed. ‘You’re ill,’ he said.
‘As I told you,’ his wife said sharply.
‘What is it – this illness?’
No one seemed to know the exact nature of the malady that afflicted him, nor how to treat it. The consensus seemed to be that it was a species of leprosy called St Anthony’s Fire, which was not contagious, nor fatal, but debilitating. The attacks came and went of their own accord.
A speculative light appeared in the duke’s eyes.
‘How long do they last?’ he asked.
Margaret started to say that it was impossible to tell – a month, maybe more – but Henry interrupted her. ‘I believe it will be over within the week,’ he said.
‘You don’t know that,’ said Margaret.
‘Then you can join me,’ said the duke. ‘At the end of the week.’
Margaret started to speak again, but Henry lifted his swollen hand. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said.
This was not the answer that the duke wanted. He leaned forward. ‘I must leave in the morning,’ he said, ‘to join my men in Salisbury. Then I have to take a decision: whether to fight Edward before he reaches London or go to meet the queen as I promised to do. I will let you know my decision. If you recover I will expect you to join me – for the sake of our family, our nation and our king.’
There were only two male members of the duke’s family left now, himself and his younger brother, John. The duke had been imprisoned in the Tower after Towton and released only when his older brother had defected to King Edward. Then, that defection having lasted less than a year, he had fled to Scotland with John, while his older brother had been executed, his mother imprisoned, all their lands and titles confiscated and lost.
He called himself Duke of Somerset, but that title had never been ratified by any king.
From Scotland he’d sought refuge at the Burgundian court and had fought for Burgundy at Montlhéry. Now, with the new alliance between Queen Margaret and the Earl of Warwick, he’d come back to England to fight for King Henry.
If the alliance was strange to him he did not mention it. His own allegiance had never altered, but he was aware, of course, that Henry had fought for both sides at different times. There was a certain belligerence in the way he put his goblet down.
‘You can see how ill my husband is,’ Margaret said. ‘Henry – you should be in bed.’ She summoned a servant to help him from his chair.
The duke did not look well himself. There were discoloured pouches beneath his eyes, as if he was drinking too much and sleeping too little. But he would not give up on Henry.
‘I’ll send for you,’ he said.
In the morning the duke left, as promised, and by the end of the week, as predicted, Henry had recovered sufficiently to get dressed and move around the house. Then the duke sent a message from Reading, summoning him.
Margaret was furious. ‘He saw how ill you were,’ she said.
Henry didn’t speak for a moment, then he said, ‘I’ll go to London.’
He ignored Margaret’s protests, her insistence that she would accompany him. He was well enough to travel to London if not to the West Country, he said. And in London he would be able to assess the situation. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘if I’m not here, I can’t be summoned.’
This silenced her, and on 2 April Henry set out with a small party of men; Gilbert Gilpyn, John Davy and others.
The capital was in ferment. Warwick had sent orders that the gates of the city were to be closed against the great usurper, Edward. Armed men lined the streets and rioting was heavily suppressed.
Rumours ran like rats along the alleys. The queen was advancing from the south with an army of Frenchmen, while King Edward was advancing from the north with a vast army. Warwick’s even bigger army was hard on his heels.
Then Warwick’s brother, the archbishop, arranged for King Henry to be seen in procession through the streets and Henry Stafford joined the crowds to see him.
The sight of him, so pitiful, worn and uncomprehending, struck Henry with the force of a blow. He returned to his house and sat a long time in thought.
The following day he heard that the gates of the city had been opened to King Edward, and the archbishop was begging to be received into the king’s grace. And when the king himself arrived he was crowned again at Westminster.
Until that moment Henry had not known what to do. He’d been half convinced that he should join his cousin the Duke of Somerset, in accordance with the long tradition of his family. He’d weighed up the possibilities, the rights and wrongs, the prospect of danger for his wife. He had been no husband to her in the full sense of the word; the least he could do was to protect her interests and those of her son.
On 12 April he sent her a message to tell her of his decision and to request that she should send him armour and supplies, because he had come to London foolishly unprepared. He arranged for ten of his men to meet him at Kingston in case he needed, or was able, to make an escape after the battle. And he’d written his will.
That morning, Easter Saturday, he would ride with King Edward to Barnet.
And so he lay for a long time with his eyes closed, though he was not sleeping. He remembered the young man from so long ago, the weight of his body; also all the bodies of men at Towton, and the fear of battle which was like no other fear he had ever known.
It was not death itself he feared, though he would not go so far as to say he welcomed it. Yet, because he felt a certain exhaustion at the thought of having to fight once more, or to continue to fight, with those contradictory forces of God and nation and family and illness and the sexuality which God had for mysterious reasons given him, it seemed that death on the battlefield might even be preferable to the battlefield of life. Or to the unbearable loneliness of living without a young man’s touch.
And with that thought, finally, Henry Stafford opened his eyes.
The Battle of Barnet: 14 April 1471
On Easter Eve King Edward and all his host went towards Barnet and carried King Harry with him, for he had understanding that the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Exeter, Marquis Montagu, the Earl of Oxford and many other knight
s, squires and commons to the number of 20,000 were gathered together to fight against him. But it happened that he and his host entered the town of Barnet before the Earl of Warwick. And so the Earl of Warwick and his host lay outside the town and each of them fired guns at the other all night … They fought from four o’clock in the morning until ten o’clock.
Warkworth’s Chronicle
Darkness and mist. He had no idea where he was going, just as he’d had no idea in the whirling snow of Towton. He’d had no sleep, none of them had, for the guns had fired continuously through the night. He followed a small contingent of men, hoping that when the time came he would not disgrace himself. Henry was not good with the sword, neither nimble nor quick. His older brother had tormented him mercilessly because of it, inflicting one defeat on him after another for practice, he’d said.
That was Humphrey, who had been so injured at the first Battle of St Albans that he’d never recovered. And his father had been killed at the Battle of Northampton.
It was the fate, perhaps, of Stafford men, to die in battle. He’d escaped lightly from the last one at Stamford; he did not think he would be so lucky twice.
Because he couldn’t see. That was the recurring feature of his nightmares about Towton – not being able to see.
He could hear, though. Already he could hear the shouts of men engaged in combat. It was not possible to tell who was shouting, or crying out as they fell, or where they were.
And the gunshot, of course, he could hear that, for the Earl of Warwick seemed to have an unending supply.
Edward did not seem to be firing back; presumably because his own supply was not unending. Or possibly because he still hoped to take them by surprise, creeping up on them in the darkness and mist.
Henry could smell the mist; it had a smoky quality because of the gunpowder, he supposed. It curled into the back of his throat and made him want to cough.
It would be a bad thing to attract the enemy by coughing.
Just as he thought this a shout went up, much nearer this time, it seemed; almost at his side. A judder went through the body of men he was accompanying and their formation broke apart. More shouting followed.
Henry Stafford lifted his shield and raised his sword.
And divers times the Earl of Warwick’s party had the victory and supposed that they had won the field. But it happened that the Earl of Oxford’s men had upon them their lord’s livery … which was a star with streams, much like King Edward’s livery, the sun with streams, and the mist was so thick that a man might not properly judge one thing from another; so the Earl of Warwick’s men shot and fought against the Earl of Oxford’s men, thinking and supposing that they had been King Edward’s men. And the Earl of Oxford and his men cried Treason! And fled the field.
Warkworth’s Chronicle
He heard the shouts, of course, but although the sky was lighter now he still could not tell through the mist who was shouting. Then men appeared before him out of nowhere and he rode his horse forward with a desperate determination and lunged with his sword. It clanged uselessly against the first man’s shield but, unexpectedly, his opponent toppled forward, an arrow in his back. The second man attacked from the side, making an attempt to drag Henry from his horse, but another knight rode up and struck that man down.
Henry had no time to thank the knight because his horse had stumbled and it was all he could do to stay seated. But it was the third time he’d been saved by an intervention.
Perhaps God, after all, intended him to live.
In order to cooperate with God, he manoeuvred sideways. Now might be the time to steer his horse to the outskirts of the battle, where, it seemed to him, men were already fleeing. If he could join them, he thought, he would make his way to Kingston, where he had instructed his servants to wait.
But just as he was thinking this, a shadow loomed out of the mist towards him.
He raised his shield, but awkwardly, because he was still trying to steer his horse, and the first blow caused his arm to buckle. With the second he felt his shoulder snap back, though the full force was deflected by the shield.
And still the man came forward.
‘No,’ he said, either to God or his enemy, then he felt the steel plunge into him.
His sword fell to the earth.
He stared in amazement at the shaft sticking out of him, beneath his ribs.
The man lifted his axe to finish Henry off, but then he arched backwards and crumpled, toppling slowly from his horse.
Henry Stafford twisted his neck and saw that the shaft had pierced him through. The metal tip was sticking out of his back. He dropped his shield and gripped it but his hands were slippery with blood. Then he too was falling, the world upending itself around him, his blood spilling on to the mud.
I’m dying, he thought, in some surprise.
When the Earl of Warwick saw his brother dead and the Earl of Oxford fled he leapt on horseback and fled to a wood … from which there was no way out. And one of King Edward’s men came upon him and killed him and despoiled him naked … And so King Edward won the field.
Warkworth’s Chronicle
After this victory King Edward sent the corpses of the Marquis and Earl of Warwick to St Paul’s Church, where they lay two days after naked in two coffins so every man might behold and see them … And King Edward offered at the rood of the north door of St Paul’s and after rode to Westminster and there lodged him. And soon after … King Henry was brought, riding in a long gown of blue velvet, and so conveyed … to the Tower …
Fabyan’s Chronicle
In the afternoon of the same day, Easter Sunday, [King Edward] returned in triumph to London, accompanied by his two brothers, the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester, and an escort of large numbers of magnates and common folk. However he was not able to spend many days refreshing a body weary from many blows, for no sooner was one battle over in the east than he had to prepare himself and his men for another in the western parts of the kingdom on account of Queen Margaret and her son.
Crowland Chronicle
45
The Queen Arrives
Queen Margaret and Prince Edward her son, with other knights … and men of the king of France, had ships to bring them to England, but when they were embarked … the wind was so contrary to them for seventeen days and nights that they could not come from Normandy …
Warkworth’s Chronicle
They were all exhausted, sick and incapacitated after their long voyage. Three times they’d been blown back to the coast of France. The crew were mutinous. The storms were not natural, they said. They had been conjured by Yorkist sorcerers.
Still the prince did not give up hope. Whenever he could he stood at the prow of the boat, looking for England. The queen saw him and marvelled at the flame of hope that once kindled in men could not be extinguished by any quantity of water or wind. It seemed to her that her son’s hope had grown to a beacon while hers was almost snuffed out. That was why he did not want her to stand with him, because all she had to offer him was fear. She’d even suggested going back to France. Because she knew warfare, she’d said, and he didn’t.
On that occasion he’d looked at her with more than the usual hostility; something bordering on contempt. ‘You’ve kept me from it,’ he’d said.
‘Because you weren’t ready.’
She’d had to back away then, from the look on his face.
It wasn’t his fault; she’d been preparing him for this moment his whole life. It was all he wanted. But she didn’t want it. She didn’t want to let him go.
While he was hers she’d had hope, but he was not hers now. He was married for one thing – he’d married Anne Neville before setting sail. But his heart did not belong to his wife, or to his mother. It belonged to his cause.
Now finally they’d seen land. The prince would not move from his post while it was visible. And so she made her way over to him one last time, clutching the rail.
He did not stiffen, ex
actly, but became more contained. She told herself she would say nothing to make him retreat from her even further; she just wanted to be with him as he approached his land. She stood with him as they came nearer to the rocky coast.
She did not know why her heart did not lift at the sight of that shore. Perhaps it was the memory of other landings, other defeats. Or of Pierre de Brézé.
It was not where they had planned to arrive; in fact, no one was sure where it was. But as soon as they landed they would send messages to the lords who supported them – Pembroke, Somerset, Devon – and they would come to meet them with their men. The other ships had been swept further along the coast, but it was hoped that they too would rejoin them. She should be glad that she did not have to spend any more time on that wind-tossed ship.
‘It will not be long now,’ she said. ‘You’re coming home.’
At the same time she wondered what that word meant; England had never been home to her. But it was her son’s kingdom.
He didn’t answer at first, then he said, ‘I wonder what they will think of me, the people of this land?’
‘They’ll think you are their prince.’
‘They don’t know me.’
‘They do know you,’ she said. ‘They know that you are their rightful king – that at last they will have a king who will rule them as they should be ruled.’
That was what he wanted from her, hope and reassurance, not fear and warnings. He wanted her to make him believe in himself. He said, ‘But will they take me to their hearts?’
‘Of course they will.’
‘They did not take my father to their hearts.’
‘The people loved your father,’ she said. ‘Wicked men turned them against him.’
The Earl of Warwick, she did not say, since they would soon be joining with that earl. And she did not say either that it was because his father was weak, unfit to be a king.
‘You will be a strong king,’ she said, ‘and the people will love you.’
It had come to this then: she was willing to say only what he wanted to hear in order to be admitted into his heart. She would silence that part of her that was filled with foreboding.
