John Fortescue, the only one she felt comfortable with, was on another ship. Margaret of Anjou ignored her. The Prince was busy with battle strategies. Anne treasured her solitude; in that silent time she found strength.
The crossing was slow but unchallenged, protected by French ships. Arriving at Portsmouth, Margaret demanded that Anne’s mother be removed from the ship. Their main landing was to be at Weymouth and she wanted one less Neville to deal with. Wenlock insisted that the Countess be sheltered in Beaulieu Abbey until they knew the state of things in England.
For Anne, her mother’s farewell was tearful. The Countess held Anne in her arms and wept as she whispered words of encouragement. “Wenlock will be with you, daughter. There’s no need to fear. Your father rules the realm.”
Anne brushed aside her mother’s tears. “Do not weep for me, mama. I will be fine now that I am back home.”
Her mother took the coral rosary from a purse. “Keep this close, Anne. It is worn with prayers. It’s all I have for you to remember me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s too precious to you.”
“And so you must have it.” Her mother hugged her child closely again. “Be courageous, like your father.”
Anne put the rosary in her purse that was emblazoned with the Warwick emblem. “I love you, mama. God be with you.”
“And with you, Anne. Always.”
With a small contingent, the Countess was transported to the harbor of Portsmouth. She would be further from her daughter but closer to her husband.
In the red-hued dusk of mid-April, while the sun touched the distant horizon and the ocean glistened in the low light, the main group of ships landed at Weymouth on the south coast of Dorset. Orders were given, the gangplank banged down, seamen swore, shouted, and gave thanks for a safe crossing.
Unnoticed in the noisy confusion, Anne ran down the gangplank laughing in excitement. She listened to the calling of English voices; gladly inhaled the noxious stench of fish, seaweed, and rotted wood; surveyed the greenness of the mossy pier; the ale houses, with projecting poles that marked them, thrusting far out above the doors. Bending down, she joyfully scooped up a handful of sand and gravel. It was damp, cold and dirty, but she held it dearly, pressing the mixture into a ball, a small portion of England. This was all the Kingdom she desired.
“Princess, we’re to go to Cerne Abbey for the night. Queen Margaret has arranged it. They’re kind to wayfarers.”
Anne smiled at Wenlock. “We’re hardly wayfarers. Couldn’t we ride onward to London? Why is no one here to meet us? Isn’t this Easter Day?”
Wenlock nodded. “So what should we fear on a holy day? The Saints are with us.” To himself he thought it most likely that everyone had grown impatient waiting for Margaret, and moved north to join Warwick. If only they could have arrived a month sooner.
PART II
1471-1472
Her and Her Alone
“Sire, I love her and her alone”
Le Morte d’ Arthur
Thomas Malory
II. CHAPTER 1
Camped near Barnet, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, was dealt a severe blow to his ego. Word had reached him that, after Edward and the Yorkists had successfully returned to England, Louis of France had sworn a new treaty of friendship with Burgundy. Unexpected. Demoralizing. Warwick had rejected the pardon offered by King Edward, assuming he could prevail against the Yorkists with the aide of France. Now Louis, whom he had called friend, betrayed him. He must face the forces of Edward on his own. In anguish and anger he wrote Louis accusing the French King of perfidy and treachery. Warwick was throwing away what might have been his last refuge. But he wanted a final casting of blame if he did not survive this day.
Edward of York had marched his forces up from London and now confronted him on the field of Barnet. Margaret was said to have sailed from France, but she would come too late, far too late. Warwick continued to contemplate on his situation. He should have given battle to Edward when he was near Coventry. Then he had stood on the city walls and looked out at those who were once his creation. Edward, the man he’d made King, a giant in armor; his prized student, Richard, standing beside Edward; even his son-in-law, Duke of Clarence was in the foreranks. Warwick was not surprised at the latter. Clarence was born to take the most expedient path.
In an agony of self-pity, Warwick felt as though his heart was cut out of him. Did anyone not realize how close he’d come to fulfilling the great Enterprise he created? He had brought men together by the sheer force of his personality, his genius, and his leadership. King in all but name. “Almost”. A word of failure, when all hope ceased.
Warwick pondered whether tonight, on the field of Barnet, the day’s ending might be the last sunset he’d ever see. No longer could he check the tides of fortune. The Royal forces were near. He was informed that as they approached, Edward and Clarence formed the center of the approaching forces while Lord Hastings took the rear-guard position. Most surprising was the report that young Richard of Gloucester, who had never fought a major battle, led the main vanguard. A blinding fog was enclosing his camp. He dreaded the thought of fighting under these conditions.
Warwick’s men were drawn up on a rise of ground about a mile north of Barnet. It was a great plateau, four hundred feet above sea level. Oxford was here with him, as was his brother, John. No one was sure of the new battle formation of the King’s men, somewhere in the fog near the village. Warwick ordered his cannons fired into the darkness. A futile gesture, like flinging stones into a void.
Warwick walked among his men and found them ready. He assured them that they outnumbered the Yorkists, and that they held the best ground. Then he withdrew to his tent. Tomorrow will come soon enough. I’m glad all will finally be decided, he said to himself.
He saw, with a start, his brother John sitting on a stool by the portable writing desk. His younger brother had despair in his eyes. “John, we cannot lose. We have all the advantages: cannon, more men, a better position.”
John Neville looked away. “Edward of York has never lost a battle.”
“He’s not invincible.” Warwick felt a cold shiver run down his back. John was ambivalent, uncertain. He could see in his brother’s worried face the need to end the tearing of his soul trying to decide his allegiance between King and brother.
“Richard, you are my brother whom I love. Yet tomorrow I will wear two badges: one, your Bear and Ragged Staff; the other, the Sun in Splendor of York. I don’t know which one will be over my heart.”
“John, you must not desert me. We can prevail and achieve great glory.”
“What price victory, Richard. I know who I am. Do you know who you are and what you really stand for?” John Neville rose and embraced his brother. “Until we meet again, beyond the field of Barnet.” He paused a moment, “beyond ambition.” Then he disappeared into the night. Warwick wearily sank down on his pallet. He wished John had stayed a bit longer. They could have talked of their boyhood pleasures in Northumberland, the good years. His brother had asked him who he was. He was Warwick the great Kingmaker, of course. He stood for ultimate power, complete control, and unquestioned obedience. For close to six years he had been moving toward this hour, this battle for the realm. He would prevail. Why would God endow him with such passions only to destroy him? He slept little and awoke with the answer to his own question. He had forsaken God and had turned his back on all the others. The reasons had seemed sufficient at the time.
THE BATTLE OF BARNET
A guard told him it was four o’clock, Easter Sunday. The day of final reckoning. His squires dressed him. He would fight on foot realizing that he must take the same risks as the common soldiers in the coming melee. The fog still hung like a wet blanket over both camp and town. The banners were limp. The trumpets sounded thin. It was time. He thought of his wife, Isabel, and Anne. He must have this day for them and the name of Neville as well.
John Neville led the main body of Warwick’s t
roops. The centers of both armies clashed and locked. The soldiers could barely see each other in the fog. Warwick supported his brother with a contingent of his own Household Guard. The fog thickened and hid the battle in a gray mist.
Under cover of the fog, Edward brought his forces closer to the line’s front. It was fierce hand-to-hand fighting from the start. Swords clanged, horses screamed, cannons roared. Soldiers from both armies perished in large numbers. Warwick brought up men from the rear when the line weakened. He planned new strategies in an instant, and gave strength to his men by the sheer force of will and determination. The Bear and Ragged Staff banner floated high, a portent of triumph to come. “To Warwick,” he shouted, and the men came to his support. An hour, two hours passed. Warwick’s ranks swayed but did not give. Edward continued to hammer Warwick’s line at his center. Yet they failed to advance.
Warwick perceived victory. Edward couldn’t break his lines. He knew that, if by God and St. George the flanks held, the field was his. But one flank was led by Richard of Gloucester who was making headway against Lord Exeter. And Warwick did not know that the outer lines of his army had twisted in the fog. Whole sections of were out of touch with the central command. Insignia blurred. Messengers were lost in the dense vapors.
Then suddenly, Oxford, thinking to charge the Yorkist’s left wing, completely overshot the mark, and turned to attack from the rear. But the battle had shifted and he collided with the center of his own Lancastrian army. Oxford’s banner of the Star and Streams had been mistaken for the banner of the Sun in Splendor of York in that dim mist.
In a moment so cold it froze his heart, he heard the shout, “Treason.” Some thought Oxford now fought for York and began to desert him.
Up to that time the battle was favoring Warwick. His forces were slowly pressing the Yorkists back toward the edge of the plateau. But then, in the confusion, men turned on each other, thinking they were betrayed. John Neville’s line, which had held firm, now began to give as the King led another charge. Warwick struggled to bring up more reserves for his brother John, but then Oxford fled the field. Panic ripped through the remaining forces. Dimly, in the fog, Warwick could see the Sun in Splendor banner bearing down on his brother.
Warwick paused for a moment. He must get to a horse. There was always another day. Arrows whined near him. He looked at his banner again, still tall and untouched. But then he grimaced as he saw that is brother was down. Even though John had not betrayed him, it was learned later that he wore the badge of York under his armor.
Suddenly Warwick was alone. Chaos reigned about him. He heard shouting and knew those voices bearing down on him. Instinct made him turn to where the horses were tethered with the intent to escape. But standing in a whirl of fog, beneath his banner of Bear and Ragged Staff, he never saw the men who struck him and clawed the helmet from his head, tearing his skin. A knife flash was his last reality. He thought with wonder how bright the blade as he sank to the ground.
The King found him as soldiers stripped his body. Edward, covered with mud and blood from almost three hours of fighting, bent over the still figure in reverent silence. He had given orders that Warwick’s life be spared. Yet it was better this way. Better for such a man to die for a cause than to decay in the Tower his remaining years.
Richard, slightly wounded in the side, joined his brother as he looked down on the man who had wrought such havoc. He mourned the death of his favorite tutor. “I could never have imagined that his ending would be so inglorious.” Richard moved stiffly. They had won the battle. Yet he’d never known such sadness.
Edward put his arm around Richard. “Warwick’s star burned too brightly,” he said respectfully. “He was consumed by his own desire for an earthly kingdom.” Edward then praised Richard for the valiant manner in which he held his ground against the assault of Warwick’s left wing under Lord Exeter so that he could charge the center of Warwick’s line without diverting his reserves. It was the turning point in the battle. The untested Richard had passed his Rite of Passage. The bond between he and Richard became ever stronger. Edward saluted Richard in gratitude then rode away to collect his forces and congratulate his lieutenants. Richard stood staring down at the mangled face of Warwick. The skin was stripped from the nose. Now there was just tangled gray hair and shredded flesh where the armor had been torn away. So the life of a Kingmaker ends thus.
The ultimate indignity for the Neville name, however, was the transport of the mutilated bodies of Warwick and his brother John to London where they were put on public display for two days as an example to those who would challenge King Edward. Then they were properly buried. Yet, thought Richard, despite his fall from grace, Warwick had lived to the utmost in a world of power and intrigue. Richard wondered how Anne would take the loss and disgrace of her father.
II. CHAPTER 2
Two days later Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, whose father had died fighting for Lancaster, appeared at Cerne Abbey in Weymouth. He had ridden hard without rest from the Barnet battlefield. He was disheveled, his face was haggard, his arm ached from a wound. Gulping a glass of wine offered him, and ignoring the proffered food, he spoke in a rush, his voice wavering. “Barnet’s a hell, a stinking hell on earth,” he mumbled, looking at no one in particular. “Choking gunpowder, shouting, betrayals, a cursed fog all about us.”
Margaret and Prince Edward listened in disbelief. Anne pictured the scene with stark vividness taking her mind far from the snug, comfortable parlor of the Abbey and the distant chanting of Matins. Outside the leaded windows the sun was shining, but clearer to her was the fog at Barnet. She could easily imagine the confusion of battle that Somerset tried to explain with panting breath. Margaret began a rhythmic pacing up and down the room. She was insensitive to Somerset’s sorry plight. “And so? Gather yourself and tell us your news without mumbling.”
Somerset slumped into a chair, his eyes fixed on the floor. “The battle at Barnet is lost. Warwick is slain, Madame. Also his brother, John.” He paused, taking more wine.
“Warwick, dead?” Fear, laced with joy, raced through Margaret’s mind. One less enemy.
“They stabbed him mercilessly again and again; stripped his armor. So much chaos.” Somerset put his hands over his face and closed his tired eyes.
Anne felt faint, visualizing the terrible fate of her father, letting the tears run down her face. She would never see him again. He had sold his honor, and finally lost his life in pursuit of his quest for power. But remorse was tempered because he had also used her to achieve his goals. Now that he was dead she could love him again, fully. Gone. No bells would toll for him. No Masses said. Anne wiped her tears. It was over for him. Rest in peace. Oh, rest in peace, father. She became aware that Wenlock was watching her reaction. He, too, was saddened. Anne was glad he held back the usual hollow words of comfort.
Prince Edward was furious. “If I had been there, we would have defeated the Yorkists.”
Somerset answered the Prince tonelessly. “Your Grace’s presence might have made some difference.” What he really wanted to say was that if Margaret had not delayed her sailing from France, the tide of battle would surely have had a different outcome.
“Warwick was an old war-horse, ready for the pasture,” Edward continued.
Anne stood abruptly and interjected loathingly. “He was more a man, husband, than you could ever comprehend.” She left them all to mourn in private. She was the only one who truly grieved for the loss of Warwick more that the loss of the battle.
By evening, plans were made for the march against the Royal forces. The Duke of Somerset, revived by food and rest, spoke of what had to be done. Anne half listened. The evening was warm for April; there was a bouquet of early daffodils on the table, yellow as the sun. She’d mourned through the day, and felt ever more remote. What further did she have to do with these people or their feverish planning? With her father dead, she was a non-entity and would be treated so. She was expendable and now must fear for her p
erson.
Finally, all arrangements were completed. The Countess of Warwick would stay in sanctuary at Portsmouth. Anne would accompany the Lancastrian force, thus keeping whatever remained of Neville support.
“The Earl of Devon and many still loyal to the Lancastrian cause will flock to your banner,” Somerset predicted. “Also, the Welshman, Jasper Tudor, commands a friendly and fierce army in Wales. He, too, is eager to join the Lancastrian cause. Barnet doesn’t mean the end of our quest. “The time is ripe for Lancaster as never before,” the Duke’s confidence was total.
Margaret of Anjou bit on dry lips. “Yet Edward of York is mighty in battle.” She looked at her son. “I don’t know if fate will smile kindly on us. I am plagued with doubts. Fear gnaws at my heart.”
Sir John Fortescue, who had sat quietly through the early discussion, leaned forward. “Madame, as a friend through these long years, may I state it plainly? To go back to France is obscurity for the Prince here. The only other choice is to fight this Yorkist foe. Edward of York may have weaknesses and his brother Richard is said to be wounded. You will never have a better chance. You must see that.”
Anne winced at the thought of Richard being wounded. She had wondered at his safety. Margaret hunched her shoulders forward in indecision. “I’ll never have another chance if my son is dead.” She could barely say the words.
John Morton, Bishop of Ely, who had joined them in France, crossed himself. “Surely God will not allow such disaster, Madame. I think if we can join with the Welsh, all will be well. They are zealous fighters.”
“You have striven long and hard, mother.” Edward regarded her uneasily. “Now let me carry on the fight. Somerset says men will flock to our banner. We mustn’t let the prize slip by. And it will be all ours. There’ll be no grasping Warwick to share in the glory.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 10
