Wars of the Roses
I promised you a mini-series on Margaret Beaufort. And a mini-series on Margaret Beaufort you will get.
Here’s my mutterings on her first (proper) marriage.
What think you all?
NB: I make two mistakes in this video – one I didn’t realise until I uploaded it. Can you spot it?
Hi geeks! Currently ‘shooting’ a new video mini-series on the mother of the Tudors. Got some great questions in that I was going to answer all at once – but the video got way, way, way too long.
So here’s the intro. Pretty soon all the clips about Margaret and her marriages should be up. Hope you enjoy!
Loyal readers will know that I’m something of a ‘Wars of the Roses’ fan. I mean, obviously I’m not actually a fan of any war – but you get what I mean.
Some argue the wars ended in 1471, others in 1485. In reality they are still bring fought today – just on social media rather than the battle field.
Or, to be less dramatic, it is fair to say that the debate around which Royal House – York or Lancaster – had the best claim to the throne is still hotly debated.
The Wars of the Roses saw the houses of York and Lancaster fight for the throneThe argument – with respect to my fellow geeks – is not always at the most sophisticated level. A slightly flippant summary would go along the lines of ‘I’m a Tudor geek so Lancaster had the best claim’ to be retaliated with ‘York had the moral high ground because I fancy Max Irons.’
Up until recently, my more moderate view was that ‘York probably had the best claim’ while accepting it wasn’t a black and white issue. I even created some quite hilarious memes to that effect. But there’s a reason I decided to pick up my virtual biro and pen this post. That’s right super cool readers…following a bit more research, I have changed my mind.
Let’s have a quick recap. In 1399, Henry Bolinbroke deposed his cousin Richard II and established the house of Lancaster on the throne of England.
Henry IV – as Bolinbroke became – was the eldest boy of John of Gaunt – third son of Edward III.
The Lancastrian crown then passed safely down the dynasty for three generations until in the late 1450s people got fed up with the well meaning but weak Henry VI who was probably mentally ill. He was challenged for the throne by his distant cousin Richard, Duke of York – a descendant of Edmund of Langley, Edward III’s fourth surviving son.
On the face of it therefore, York’s claim seems pretty weak; Langley was certainly the younger brother to Gaunt. But here’s the snag. Richard was also descended from Philippa of Clarence, the daughter of Lionel of Antwerp – Edward III’s second son. So, if you accept that women can transmit their claim to the throne to their male descendants, York really did have a claim worth taking seriously.
By the end of the end of the 15th century, descent through the female line was broadly accepted as a legal basis for succession. Henry VII loosely claimed the throne through his mother, Margaret Beaufort and his son had a far greater claim through descent from Elizabeth of York. Perhaps because my interest in history began in the Tudor era, I have always been tempted to read this mindset into earlier generations and this might be why I had always assumed York’s claim was slightly superior, despite recognising it was complicated.
However, the more I’ve researched the politics, law and conventions of the 14th century, the more I’ve begun to question my thinking. I’ve discovered that- while Salic law, which prohibits women from inheriting the throne was never formally introduced – the trend toward male-only inheritance was gaining currency. Many nobles were entailing their estates so that only sons could inherit.
It would seem that the great Edward III has similar sentiments. Disaster struck the Royal House when Edward the Prince of Wales (known to history as the ‘Black Prince’) died prematurely leaving one surviving son behind. In a world of high mortality, the succession was far from secure.
To the political classes it was unclear whether the next heir after Prince Richard (the future Richard II) was Roger Mortimer, son of Philippa of Clarence (the heir general) or John of Gaunt and his son (the heirs male).
Essentially, because the Duke of York inherited the Mortimer claim via his mother, it is this question that legitimised the Wars of the Roses. But, little did I realise until recently, it is actually one that Edward III had decided to answer. In 1376 he created a document that made clear his intent to entail the throne through the male line. Should Richard II’s line fail, his intent was that the crown should pass to Lancaster.
Legally, the only thing that could really override this would be if Richard had nominated a successor – but he appeared to leave the question open, possibly for political leverage. However he did ultimately name Henry as his successor by the handing over of the ring – admittedly under some duress. When Parliament accepted Henry IV’s sovereignty in 1399 it was probably not because of the size of his army – and indeed there is much to suggest that his ‘coup’ was relatively bloodless – and more to do with the fact that, once a case could be made to dispose Richard, a Lancastrian succession was legally appropriate.
That said, there were those in the reign of Henry IV who always believed the Mortimer claim to be superior – although usually because they had something to gain from thinking like that. I accept this is not a closed conversation.
But what you can’t do, is start applying attitude changes retrospectively. By the 1460s, people were more open to female succession in the 1460s. To an extent, even Lancastrians had to be. Henry VI’s unimpressive efforts in reproduction were leaving Margaret Beaufort as one of the talked about candidates for the crown. But you can’t wind the clock back and uproot a dynasty and this is why no one took York’s claims particularly seriously until he made them good on the battle field. When changes in attitude take place and the rules of succession evolve, it is generally accepted that these apply only to future generations.
I’ve had blogged previously about why Edward IV must be deemed a usurper; this post reinforces my views. The House of York did not have a superior claim to the throne than Lancaster; instead they did what other usurping dynasties before them had done – they allowed might to make right and came up with a justification to rubber stamp it. Lancaster had done the same in 1399 by attempting to claim senior descendants from Henry III. It just so happens that York’s claims had a little more credibility to back up their military antics.
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People have been asking me recently what I think about historical fiction. I assume what they mean by that is ‘how much does it matter whether fiction based on history actually follows the facts.’
And my answer? Not much. Personally, I much prefer fiction that sticks as closely to the available facts as possible while adding some snap, crackle and pop where it’s needed. Philippa Gregory and last year’s ‘Victoria’ series just about got it right for me. But ultimately if something is labelled fiction than that’s exactly how it should be treated. Readers and watchers should not assume they are getting the factual truth and if they do, that is not the fault of novelists or TV producers.
But there is a genre of history that worries me much more. The 1 hour documentary. I understand – and accept – that things need to be simplified for TV. I recognise that there has to be different entry points for varying levels of knowledge and interest and many of my curiosities were sparked through this very medium. However, I am getting a little fed up with the huge oversimplifications that have been transmitted through our TV screens in the last year or so which make a big impact on popular understandings of the historic debate.
Lucy Worsley’s ‘History’s Biggest Fibs’ got me a bit riled on Thursday night. While I did really enjoy much of it, the assertion that the ‘Wars of the Roses’ was a Tudor myth and that Richard III’s name was blackened by his successors, drove me crazy.
I’ve blogged previously about the Wars of the Roses, but can I please just but in a plea for sanity when it comes to the accusation that the Tudors led some kind of deliberate propaganda campaign to tarnish the previously saintly reputation of the last Plantagenet King.
Of course Tudor writers would have been mindful of the need to please the new dynasty and this would have been reflected in their writing. As Worsley notes, John Rouse’s work is a perfect example of this – he was complimentary about Richard in his life time but negative about him once Henry Tudor came to power.
However we now know that things once believed to be a Tudor invention have turned out to be true. Richard’s curved spine, so often dismissed as Tudor spin has been established as fact.
The account of Dominic Mancini – dated 1483, two years before the Tudors took over – makes it clear that people strongly suspected Richard in his own lifetime of usurping the throne and doing away with the Princes.
Of course Richard’s reputation suffered under his successors. Things rooted in truth were exaggerated and he was not treated with a sense of balance and objectivity. But the beginnings of his huge unpopularity and the link to the crimes many hold him responsible for, can clearly be found in his own reign and lifetime.
The Tudor era can boast a plethora of family feuding, crimes of passion, collections of tragedy and acts of cruelty that would stretch the imaginations of even today’s most far-fetched soap opera writers.
And of course, Tudor addicts like me, will know that the founding of the Royal dynasty begins with one savage, selfish and almost unforgivable act of cruelty. That of a pre-teen child bride being forced into marriage with a man twice her age and exposed to sexual intercourse and the dangers of child birth long before her body, let alone her mind, was ready for either.
Margaret Beaufort fascinates me. I have spent more time trying to stitch the fragments of her life together than I have any other member of history’s royalty. And that’s why, as I have trawled through some of her earlier biographies, I have been fascinated to find that many have underplayed the trauma of her early years by making a simple but significant error, calculating her birth date at 1441 rather than the correct 1443.
Why does this matter? Because it, in part, dilutes the tragedy. If born in 1441 than Margaret fell pregnant at 14 and gave birth at 15. Still far too young of course – but it would have meant both her body and mind would have enjoyed two extra years of development and by the standards of the day, this would have been far more socially acceptable.
The origins of the error are fairly simple and apparently arise from misinterpreting evidence given at the inquest of her father’s death. However, a much stronger case can be made for a 1443 birth date; in that year her father – preparing to go off on a military adventure – was negotiating the future of his unborn child should anything happen to him. Further to this a book of hours from the family has been discovered that states her birth clearly as 1443.
But there is another piece of evidence which, despite rarely cropping up in the debate, actually makes the case for a 1443 birth almost watertight.
In his funeral sermon of the venerable Lady, her long-time friend and confessor Bishop Fisher makes it clear that she gave birth ‘before she was 14 years of age.’
Surely, I hear you ask, this could just be a miscalculation? No, it can’t be.
By saying ‘not yet 14’ Fisher is not just making a passing comment on her age. In fact, were she 14 or over he probably wouldn’t have mentioned it.
Fourteen was the closest thing that this era had to an age of consent. Sex was just about permissible at 12 but few thought it appropriate before the age of 14. Sometimes, this proviso was even written in to marriage contracts.
By saying that she was ‘not yet 14 years of age’ Fisher is acknowledging – subtly and tactfully of course – the early tragedy that befell her. That a man had violated her before an age at which it was appropriate. That everything that followed – her ensuring her son’s early safety and fighting for continual advancement – shows her incredible strength of character by being able to overcome this early tragedy.
Recent students of Margaret Beaufort cannot help be amazed at how she survived and recovered from such a horrible early experience. It would seem, from Fisher’s comments, that contempories also had a sense of it. No wonder that respective for this great lady, was almost universal.
Been thinking lately about good King Henry. No not that one. Nor that one. Not even that one.
I speak not of Henry VIII, who transformed England perhaps more than any other ruler. Nor do I dwell on his father, who founded the infamous Tudor dynasty. I do not even mean the fifth Harry, who took England to its 100 year war zenith at the battle of Agincourt.
Instead, I’ve been pondering the reign of Henry VI – the man whose reign was seen as so disastrous that it led to the Wars of the Roses and ultimately, the downfall of Lancaster and the rise of York. He was weak. Easily led. He had no desire for glory in war. He lacked ruthlessness. He was far too trusting; particularly when it came to unscrupulous advisers.
All this is accurate. He had none of the qualities necessary for successful medieval Kingship.
But something bothers me about how history judges him. No sympathy has emerged and few rarely speak up for his good qualities. He was a man of genuine religious conviction. He was compassionate. He invested in education. He forgave people that wronged him. He was not promiscuous. He took care of his maternal half-brothers. He was a lover of peace.
None of this, I agree, would have endeared him to contemporaries. But shouldn’t the 21st century observer be pouring praise on these virtues? After all, the behaviour of Catherine Howard made her a totally unsuitable Tudor Queen; but the modern reader has sympathy with her, recognising that she was essentially an abused teenage girl, forced into marriage with an obese man in his 50s. Why isn’t Henry VI given the same generosity?
It has come to my attention of late that the Wars of the Roses are still being fought – albeit by history fans on Twitter. Great! But it surprises me that so many side with Edward IV at the expense of poor Henry.
Don’t get me wrong – as I’ve said above, I understand why contemporaries would have seen Edward as the better King. But shouldn’t we judge differently? Shouldn’t we be quick to acknowledge that virtuous, faithful, peaceful Henry is a better offering than adulterous, gluttonous and war ready Edward – even if we have to sadly acknowledge that the latter probably makes you a better ruler of 15th century England?
But we don’t. Part of me can’t shake the feeling that this has all been distorted by the fact that so many history fans have a crush on Max Irons…
Anyway, for this blogger at least, Henry VI deserves a reprieve. He may have been one of the most unsuited heads to ever wear a crown – but he’s one of the finest characters in the annals of history.
Okay Yorkists (and other geeks) – do your worst. Tell me where I’m going wrong! I want to hear what you think!
As I trawled through my Google analytics the other day, I noticed that my post on the ‘Three things the White Queen Got Wrong’ was one of the highest read so far. In fact, with the exception of anything about Prince Harry, the Wars of the Roses is easily the most popular topic. Clearly the hit BBC series had something to do with that.
And for the most part, I’m a fan. I’m relatively relaxed about the fact that historical fiction needs to take twists and turns that cause it to differ from the facts. Obviously I wish that people would channel their new found interest into checking out an actual history book, but the fact that they don’t isn’t the fault of fiction writers or TV producers.
But it’s the Margaret Beaufort stuff that still bothers me. I know, I know – I’ve blogged about this before. However, the more I get into engaging with the historical community on Twitter (which I love by the way) the more I realise that some stuff still needs to be said.
For me, it isn’t the fact that the White Queen series has got facts about Margaret’s life wrong. These things happen and actually the Philippa Gregory book of ‘The Red Queen’ is chronologically very accurate (and btw, an excellent read). It’s the fact that her portrayal on the series – and how she is presented in other formats – has totally skewed perceptions of her. This has now reached such an extent that back in 2013, the BBC history website (which many might understandably view as a respectable source) actually listed Margaret as a potential killer of the Princes in the Tower – almost as if the case against her was as strong of that against Richard III.
Anyway, I’m getting toward the end of my rant. What I want to do quickly, is just list three things I believe about Margaret which the White Queen TV series entirely failed to capture:
Rant over for now. But one day, I would love to see a novel and TV series that present the warmer, practical and realistic Margaret that I have been privileged to get to know through study.
I stumbled across something interesting the other day. For some reason, I was checking out the Wikipedia entry on ‘usurpers of the English throne’ (we’ve all done it) and discovered that it features a list of those who had seized the crown. As you can imagine, it was an exciting moment!
But it was also a moment that triggered a surge of indignation in my usually placid personality. For while Henry IV, the first Lancastrian King had made his way onto the list, Edward IV of the House of York was strangely absent.
Before this spirals into a whole Lancaster vs York partisan thing, let me be clear: I fully accept that Henry IV deserves his place on the list. Even though his bid to seize the throne was initially fairly popular and despite propagandist claims that his cousin Richard II ‘agreed’ to the new arrangement, there can be no doubt that Henry of Bolingbroke was a usurper. Richard II was clearly forced off the throne and even if he had died or surrendered it willingly, there was arguably another with a better claim.
But excluding Edward IV, who seized the throne from the Lancastrians in 1461, really got my goat.
Although the authors of the page do not present a reason for their spurious (yes, I said it – spurious) decision, it’s not hard to guess where they’re coming from. While Henry Bolingbroke – as the eldest son of Edward III’s third son – was the heir male of his grandfather (or at least, he was after Richard II had actually died), the house of York descended in the female line from Lionel of Antwerp (Edward’s second son), making Edward IV the heir general of his namesake. Most historians now believe this gave York a superior claim to the throne. No doubt the Wikipedia entry does therefore not list the first York King as a usurper because they view it as a restoration of the true blood line.
But this doesn’t stack up.
To start with, back in 1399, when Henry IV was crowned, there was genuine confusion as to whether someone could base their claim to the throne through descent in the female line. Obviously this had become fairly meaningless by the end of the War of the Roses when even the best Lancastrian claimant (Henry Tudor) was basing his right to the crown on his mother’s lineage. But for as long as the male-line Lancastrian wing existed, they had a right which could well have been viewed as superior.
The real reason actually goes much deeper. Regardless of the ‘who had the better claim’ debate, the truth was that by 1461, the house of Lancaster was an established dynasty. The crown had passed seamlessly from the first Lancastrian King to his son who reigned so successfully that his infant boy inherited without challenge. Not only had Henry VI inherited the crown smoothly enough, he had held it for the first 40 years of his reign without anyone questioning it. When Edward IV managed to get his hands on power, Parliament had only recently re-asserted Henry’s right to it, albeit at the cost of disinheriting his son.
To take the throne, Edward IV had to seize it by force. Both law and the establishment were initially against him. In my book, this is the very definition of usurption and, to be frank, it should be in anybody’s. Perhaps the Wikipedia community could take a little look at this post and snap into edit mode.
(Editor’s note: What really makes my blood boil is that Richard III is also excluded from the list of usurpers. I’m too angry about this to even put pen to paper.)
Well geeks over to you…am I misjudging what it means to usurp? Are you a crazed Yorkist who believes that house can do no wrong? Do you have a crush on Max Hastings and are letting that cloud your view? I want to know what YOU think!
The great Tudor rose. Red for Lancaster and white for York. A symbol that good King Henry had united the waring houses and brought stability to England.
And of course it wasn’t just a piece of empty imagery; it was a symbol of success. He had infused his Lancastrian blood with the rival genepool of Elizabeth of York, thanks to an alliance between their respective mothers, giving birth in turn to a host of young Yorkcastrians, better known to us as the Tudors.
But what if there was a break somewhere in the chain? What if instead of uniting his line with the descendants of Richard, Duke of York, Henry had inadvertently hooked up with the heir to a little-known French archer? According to rumours, he had done just that.
The story goes that when they were both in France, Cecily, Duchess of York and her husband the Duke were temporarily estranged due to his military commitments. During this separation, she succumbed to the advances of an archer named Blaybourne and fell pregnant with the child that would one day become Edward IV, hero of the house of York and father to the first Tudor Queen.
Most damagingly, it is claimed the story originates with Cecily herself. As even the most casual observer of this era will be aware, Edward’s marriage to the low-born Elizabeth Woodville (whose family were both known as Lancastrian sympathisers and fierce social climbers) was immensely controversial. Apparently, so enraged was she with her son, that she threatened to confess that he was illegitimate and deprive him of the throne.
It’s a serious accusation but one we should be cautious about taking at face value. There is no record of the rumour before 1483 when it emerged in the pages of Dominic Mancini, an Italian scholar dispatched to England to serve as the eyes and ears of a continental Bishop. It must be remembered that at this point, Richard III and his cronies were putting it about that Edward IV was a bastard, in order to bolster his younger brother’s claim for the throne. It is likely therefore that this rumour crops up for the first time in 1483 and probably didn’t spring from Cecily’s lips.
Without being able to depend on this fundamental plank of evidence, the rest of the arguments fall down somewhat. Let’s explore them.
Aside from all the above there are other points worth mentioning. Cecily was outraged by such rumours (suggesting, again, that she didn’t start them) and it seems hugely out of character for her to have committed adultery, especially with someone of low-birth. I think it is also reasonable to assume that Richard, Duke of York believed that Edward was his; he is unlikely to have claimed the throne for his descendants and willingly passed it on to another man’s son.
All this said, I have only had chance to #digalittledeeper into this topic. One day I would love to research it more thoroughly and am certainly open to changing my mind.
Fierce debate rages amongst super-cool Royal history geeks as to the merits of high-profile historical fiction. On the one hand, it sparks interest within the general population; on the flip side, it encourages severe inaccuracies to flow through the popular consciousness.
Generally, I’m in the ‘pro’ camp. If interest is sparked, there is a greater opportunity for misconceptions to be corrected. Besides, I really like reading and watching it all.
So when I heard that the ‘White Queen’ would enjoy a sequel in America – although not in Britain – I thought this was good news. The BBC series in 2013 sparked interest in the Wars of the Roses and the matriarchs of the Tudor dynasty more than anything I’ve ever known.
But…but, but, but, but, but…the inaccuracies were of epic proportions, to a much greater extent than the Philippa Gregory books on which they were based. It’s so important that this is realised.
Let me start by trying to tidy up a few bits. Primarily I want to say what I think was wrong with the portrayals of the three main heroines, Elizabeth Woodville, Margaret Beaufort and Anne Neville:
Elizabeth Woodville – Beautiful, heroic and tragic. All of these were true, but unlike in the book, her negative qualities just did not come across. True, she was vengeful toward those who hurt her family (though later, unconvincingly, forgave brother-in-law George), but where was the ambition, the vindictiveness, the ruthlessness and the spite? The entire court loathed Elizabeth and her kin. They must have had some kind of reason and their savagely ambitious personalities were a part of this. In one sense Elizabeth is no hero at all, but very much a medieval woman on the make. This was just not clear enough.
Margaret Beaufort – I’m sorry, but no. Yes, Margaret had blood and marital connections to Lancaster (and no doubt preferred Henry VI to Edward IV), but she was no blind fanatic to the cause of the Red Rose. Yes, she had dramatic loyalty to her son, but never in his tender years did she expect him to be King. It is well documented that she was a pious woman, but she was no crazed fundamentalist and let’s be clear – nor was she a sinister child killer. The Margaret that I have researched was a cautious pragmatist that would one day take a huge gamble that ultimately paid off. I’m also not sure why they decided to ruin her marriage to Henry Stafford, the relationship which was probably the happiest of her life.
If people are interested in a more balanced picture of Margaret Beaufort’s life and character, check out our content from Margaret Beaufort week.
Anne Neville – It wasn’t so much that they got Anne Neville’s character wrong; the problem was that they actually gave her one. Anne Neville, through the manipulations of her father and two fateful marriages to key players in the political scene, would have seen a lot. However, there is very little evidence to suggest that she herself ever inputted much. I really don’t think she helped to mastermind Lancaster’s military strategy in 1470; neither do I think she pressured her husband to do away with her nephews.
If the book is anything to go by, the new series of ‘The White Princess’ is also going to require some correcting. Never fear though geeks…that is a post for another time!