Читать книгу Red and White: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses онлайн | страница 13

It has already been said that the decision for peace or war was not left in the hands of King Henry. The woman who sat by his side on the throne was no longer the timid, lonely dove of their early married life. Marguerite of Anjou was now a woman of middle age, and a mother whose very soul was wrapped around that bright-haired boy who alone shared her heart with his father. Could she but have looked forward a few years, and have seen that for that darling son war meant an early and bloody end, she might have been more ready to acquiesce in King Henry's preference for an obscure but peaceful life. What she saw was something very different. How was she to know that the golden vision which rose so radiantly before her entranced eyes was but a mirage of the desert, and that the silver stream which seemed to spread so invitingly before her would only mock her parched lips with burning sand?

The fatal choice was made for war, and the war had now been raging for fourteen years. The wheel of Fortune had turned rapidly and capriciously, but York had on the whole been uppermost. To the majority of ordinary Englishmen who cared at least as much for peace and prosperity as politics, "the King" had meant Edward IV. since 1461. England at that weary hour cared more for rest than she cared to know who gave it to her. Edward, on his part, had "indulged himself in ease and pleasure"[#]—which was what he most valued—and might have continued to do so if he had kept on good terms with Warwick. For let Edward or Henry be termed the King, it was Warwick who "had all Englond at his bedyng," and the man who offended this master of kings was not likely to be king much longer. Edward had sent Warwick to France to negotiate for his marriage to Bona of Savoy, the Queen's sister, and while the envoy was away, the master fell into the toils of the fair face and golden hair and sweet purring ways of the Lady Grey of Groby. As Edward had passed his life on the easy principle of never denying himself any thing, he acted consistently in marrying the lady. Considering how few ever do so, he had probably not realised that this easy principle is apt to turn in later life into the sharpest of scourges. Warwick came home in a furious passion, and carried his power, influence, and army instantly over to the side of Lancaster. No man likes being made to "look small," and least of all could it be brooked by a man of Warwick's character and position. Edward paid very dearly for his golden-haired bride, and whether the purchase was worth the amount it cost may be considered extremely doubtful. Elizabeth Grey was not like Marguerite of Anjou, a far-seeing, self-less, large-hearted woman. Her mental horizon was exceedingly minute. She was chiefly concerned, like the creature she most resembled, to obtain the warmest spot of the hearthrug for herself. Very delightful to stroke and pet when all goes well, such quadrupeds—and such women—are capable of becoming extremely uncomfortable companions in certain combinations of circumstances.