This is a story that ends badly, with ‘A wretched and blundering youth’ hacking at the head and shoulders of an old lady dressed in new shoes. She is the last Plantagenet, executed on the orders of the Henry VIII. Yet Dan Jones’s thrilling account ‘of the Wars and the Roses & the rise of the Tudors’ begins so very differently.
Children dressed as angels, with gold painted faces, sang ‘Hail flower of England, knight of Christendom’, as they greeted Henry V on his return to London following the great victory at Agincourt. Five years later, in 1420, the king was regent of France, heir to the French throne, and married to their princess, Catherine of Valois. ‘It is not recorded’ wrote one admiring chronicler, ‘that any king of England ever accomplished so much in so short a time’.
Unfortunately, Henry V’s glorious reign ended with his early death in 1422. He left his infant son as king Henry VI, and his wife a lonely young widow. The revenge of the French for their humiliation at Agincourt would prove to lie in her blood, for it passed to their son a strain of madness inherited from her father, who had suffered bouts of insanity in which he used to run through his palaces naked and screaming, covered in his own excrement.
At first Henry VI, seemed merely gentle and weak. As a young man he was a loving – if not very potent - husband to his loyal wife, Margaret of Anjou, and a kindly half-brother to the recent, and very embarrassing, Tudor additions to the royal family. His widowed mother had married a Welshman ‘of no birth neither of livelihood’, one Owen Tudor, with whom she had fallen in love after he had fallen drunk into her lap at a party (or so legend had it).
The Queen and the commoner had had four children and Henry VI arranged the marriage of the eldest to a royal cousin: Margaret Beaufort. Her descent from an illegitimate line of the House of Lancaster, would give her son, Henry Tudor, his only – and corrupted - claim to English royal blood. But the disasters that were to befall the English crown would carve out a path to the throne.
By the time Henry Tudor was born in 1457, Henry VI had lost his French kingdom, and gone quietly loopy, raising the ambitions of the Plantagenet Richard, Duke of York. The consequence was the period we remember as the Wars of the Roses – a term Jones defends against those historians and novelists who have been claiming, entirely spuriously, that contemporaries called it the ‘Cousin’s War’, and that we should too.
Jones navigates the violence and treacheries that follow in such vivid prose that even a non-battle seem incredibly dramatic and exciting. When the Duke of York runs away to avoid a fight at Ludlow we find his wife abandoned at the castle with her two youngest sons, aged nine, and seven. Henry VI’s vengeful Queen, Margaret of Anjou, is standing behind the royal lines and ‘she was in terrible danger’, but ‘the grand wife of the vanquished duke walked through the streets of the ransacked town, her sons by her side. They walked as far as the overturned market place, in the shadow of the castle walls, and then came to a halt: the remnants of a great family throwing themselves on the mercy of the crown.’
Cecily survives Margaret of Anjou’s wrath, only to see her husband killed after a later battle, and his head stuck on the gates of York, a paper crown fluttering on his bloodied hair in mockery of his former ambitions. But her eighteen-year old son revenges his father, overthrowing Henry VI to become in 1461 the Yorkist king Edward IV. The Lancastrian cause seems hopeless, until in 1470 Edward’s cousin and closest ally, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, ‘the Kingmaker’ makes an alliance with Margaret of Anjou that sees Henry VI re-adapted as King – briefly.
Edward defeats Warwick at the battle of Barnet and then Margaret of Anjou at the battle of Tewkesbury, where her son is killed, before Henry VI is murdered in the Tower.
With the House of Lancaster wiped out in the legitimate male line, only the fourteen-year old Henry Tudor is left to represent the Lancastrian cause, and he is driven into exile in Brittany. ‘
There had not been so successful no so fortunate an English general since the days of Henry V’ Jones observes of Edward IV. But like Henry V, Edward dies young, leaving a child – his twelve-year old son Edward V – as his heir. England was dependent on the good will of the adults around a king who was too young to rule, and that good will proved in short supply. The rivalry between the young king’s close relatives – his mother’s family, the Woodvilles, and Edward IV’s only surviving brother, Richard - was to be the final undoing of the House of York.
When Richard III overthrew Edward V, and the boy king and his young brother disappeared from the Tower in the summer of 1483, he was following the example set in the overthrow and death of Henry VI. But Henry VI had been a failing king, and Richard III had fatally underestimated the loyalty Edward IV’s memory inspired. So angry were the Edwardian Yorkists at Richard III’s usurpation that they turned to Henry Tudor to overthrow him.
The deal Henry Tudor made with the Edwardian loyalists was that in the event of victory, they would back him as king, and he would marry Edward IV’s daughter, Elizabeth of York. After Richard’s death at Bosworth this is exactly what Tudor did, and in an inspired move he chose as his badge the red rose, which had vague Lancastrian connections, uniting it with the famous white rose of York, to create a symbol of national reconciliation.
Tudor’s son, Henry VIII, became the living embodiment of the union rose and its hopes. But with Henry VIII’s Reformation the dynastic rivalries of the Wars of the Roses came to be replaced with religious divisions. In Margaret Plantagenet, niece of Edward IV and granddaughter of Warwick the Kingmaker, these issues came together, and cost the old lady her life.
In the Hollow Crown the portraits of the leading women are as richly painted as those of the men, and even those who appear only briefly are memorable. The pathetic detail of Margaret Plantagenet dying at the hands of the blundering axeman, while wearing new shoes, is typical of Jones’s ability to get under the skin of the reader to bring people and events alive. Fast moving, witty and humane, the Hollow Crown is narrative history at its best.
A version of this review appears in the September 2014 edition of the Literary Review