A Totally True, Completely Authentic Retelling of History
(To be Enjoyed With a Butt of Malmsey Wine)
For nearly one hundred years in England’s history, a knot of noble families fought over the royal throne in a giant, messy multi-generational screw-you fest that history has dubbed “The Wars of the Roses”.
This title is a misnomer, of course. The murder, deception, and power mongering went far beyond any battlefield. So not simply a war.
And furthermore, though history tries to explain this era as being a battle between two families–each represented by a rose–that ignores a lot of historical context, and a whole lot of players from other families and other countries. So not really strictly about roses either.
Maybe they should have called it The Great English Stink instead. Eh, guess no poets were on hand to think of it. Shakespeare really dropped the ball on this one, eh?
“You will smell the white rose! Smell it! Smellllll it!”
Anyway, it’s a rotten, stinkin’ historical mess that took forever to play out and is really damn confusing. So to understand this giant historical knot, you really need a proper illustrated guide. Right? And it ought to be irreverently blunt. Right? Yes, yes. Good, good. I think so, too.
Edward III Starts Shit With France and Jinxes His Whole Family
Our tale opens in 1377 as Edward III sets his sights on France, and the various territories that England wanted to wrest from the clutches of the wicked land-stealin’, cheese-eatin’ French. Edward’s territorial grudges and battles would eventually explode into what was later dubbed The Hundred Years War–a war that France would eventually win, at a high cost to both sides. So one could posit that perhaps Edward had run afoul of karma in starting this war.
Edward III: “I say, Martin, these men appear to be quite dead. Do we win?”
Yes indeed, Edward had a whole lot of blood on his hands, and as if the battlefield deaths weren’t enough punishment for the monarch, the Black Death ripped through England from 1348-1351, and killed one-third of the country’s population.
And then, just as the cherry on the war-ravaged, disease-infested sundae, Edward III went and croaked from a sudden stroke in 1377. And in a dramatically historical moment, all of his sons, and their sons and daughters inhaled sharply and watched the alley-ooped crown tumble through the air, each of them picturing their own hands snatching it and claiming it.
Shit was about to get real.
Richard II: A Little Prick Takes the Throne
By the time Edward died in 1377, his eldest son, Edward the Black Prince was already wormfood. So the line of succession questionably traveled to the Black Prince’s ten year-old son, Richard to take the throne. Yes, ten.
No doubt watching a ten year-old ascend like that could not have been easy on Edward III’s other living (grown-ass) sons: John of Gaunt, Edmund, Duke of York, and Thomas, Duke of Gloucester. Kneeling as their father’s crown went to a ten year-old snot-rag nephew had to be just peachy. Three uncles all throwing shade at one small boy.
Nevertheless, the child, Richard II was crowned in 1377 and would go on to reign for 22 years, continuing his grandfather’s conquest of France. The young king, who was self-obsessed and had surrounded himself with sycophants, was careful to keep his uncle, John of Gaunt, as a trusted advisor, though neither nephew or uncle cared for each other much. No surprise there.
But after his wife, Anne of Bohemia, passed away in 1394, many accounts note that Richard lost what little restraint he had and became tyrannical and downright murderous. Paranoia also began to grip him, and, being that he had no heir (and, gulp, a brand-new seven year-old bride), he started to distrust all of his uncles and cousins as out to take his throne.
Which they were. Absolutely. One hundred percent.
In 1397, Richard II was likely responsible for the murder of his uncle, Thomas, Duke of Gloucester (two uncles down, two living ones to go). His excuse was probably pretty valid–Uncle Thomas had risen with a band of nobles to weaken Richard’s rule.
Just two years later in 1399, Richard’s frienemy and not-so-trusted advisor, John of Gaunt died, likely of diease(s). Probably lots of diseases. That left just one uncle left. One to go. One York uncle. What could go wrong?
But the Yorks were still cooling their heels.
Instead, freaked out King Richie decided, just to be on the safe side, that he’d better exile his newly croaked uncle’s son, Henry Bolingbroke. Oops. Bad idea.
Bolingbroke was all like “Helllllllll no, Richie, I’m comin’ to get ya!” So Bolingbroke strolled back to England with an army at his side, plucked the king off his throne and tossed him in the Tower of London. Shortly after that, Richard II died in prison under mysterious circumstances. Some say starvation. Others say murder. Either way, it was officially the first major blow in The Wars of the Roses (TWOTR).
Richard II in prison: “I was told there’d be pudding. Where’s my pudding?”
Henry IV: Papa Skin Rash Kicks Ass for the Lancasters
With Richard II out of the way, cousin Henry Bolingbroke, of the Lancaster–LANCASTER–line of the family took the throne and was crowned King Henry IV in 1399. And while he continued to spar with France over territory (making Grandpa Edward smile from his wormy grave, no doubt), his reign was mainly marked by rebellion. Lots of rebellions.
See, seizing the crown against the line of succession and murdering the king, it just puts funny notions in peoples’ heads. Why can’t I do that? I’d look good in a crown! Yes, Henry IV set a very dangerous precedent for the English monarchy.
Nevertheless, he was able to quash the many rebellions that arrived at his doorstep, and had a moderately successful reign, making many babies with his first wife, Mary de Bohun. When he died of, seriously, many diseases–including an unidentified skin disease, ewww–in 1413 at age 45, his eldest son, Henry succeeded him with little ado.
Henry IV: “Skin disease? I don’t know what you’re talking about! This scarf on my head? Oh, that’s for fashion! Pretty, right? I think it’s very becoming. Why else would I be wearing it? Not to hide some sort of contagious rash, that’s for sure!”
Henry V: Bowl Cuts Won’t Be Denied
Henry V, that handsome devil with the bowl cut, was raised to be king. By the time Papa Skin Rash passed away in 1413, Henry was already a tested battle leader, and was not afraid to make France his bitch on the battlefield and at court. Most notably, Henry V trounced the French at the Battle of Agincourt, and subsequently negotiated the Treaty of Troyes, which knitted him in to the line of succession right behind France’s reigning (and nutty–no really, like, batshit insane) king, Charles VI. The Treaty of Troyes also furnished Henry V with a pretty young new wife–Charles VI’s daughter, Catherine of Valois, whom he married in 1420.
So all he had to do was outlive King Nutbar of France and he could have him a second crown and the King’s babe of a daughter. Score!
The young king and queen were adored on the homefront; people saw him as a just and wise king, under whose rule the nation prospered. Shakespeare no doubt aided in his sparkly reputation in the centuries that have followed. Henry-the-Hair-Bowl even successfully impregnated his new French bride very quickly! She delivered a healthy baby boy, also named Henry. Because everyone from this era is named Henry, Edward, George, or Richard. Just go with it.
Yes, things looked golden for the 35 year-old king (whose famous portrait only mostly resembles the head of a penis).
Henry V: Stand back ladies, he’s already taken! Rawr!
And then…the Siege of Meaux happened. It seems fitting that Henry’s end was from the battlefield. It’s just a shame that, of all things, it was the bloody flux that took him. Yes, Henry V died of pants shitting on August 31, 1422 after reigning for only nine years. He never even met his infant son. And even more cruelly, King Nutbar, Charles VI of France would die just two months later. Isn’t that a kick in the pants? He was just two months away from being King of France. Poor penis head.
Henry VI: So Apparently Crazy Runs in the Family
So it’s 1422, and there are two nations in mourning: England just lost Henry V, and France just lost Charles VI. Who do they both turn to as their new king? A tiny little baby in his cradle. King Henry VI. By the time he was two years old, he was “presiding over parliament at Westminster”.
Which is adorable, if you think about it in a Hollywood way. “I call this session of parliament to order!“, says the young king, banging his rattle on his stuffed bear.
Really, though, Henry’s reign began somewhat successfully, in that he lived and no one usurped him. However, his advisors ill treated his realm, and the boy grew to be an unpopular man-child with little interest in (or affinity for) ruling. On the plus side, he married 15 year-old Margaret of Anjou and together they had one son, Edward.
And here is where the good news ends for Hank 6, because by 1453, he had lost control over France, and with it, the French crown.
At this point, Henry had a complete mental breakdown, which in modern times has been fashionably attributed to schizophrenia…mainly due to his documented hallucinations and general lack of awareness of his surroundings.
Does this sound familiar? Because the same thing happened to his grandfather, King Nutbar, Charles VI of France. ‘Memba him? Yeah, the guy who lost his kingdom to England because he was so batshit, out-to-lunch crazy? Guess he got the last laugh, because his crazy genes passed right through his daughter Catherine of Valois to his grandson.
Mwahaha! Revenge! For Charles! “Suck it England, and eat our crazy genes!”
Henry VI: “Hoorah, I say, applause for the applesauce. Now, I shall share some of the toast that I keep under my hat. Anybody? Com’on, you know you want some hat toast.”
Since Henry VI was most decidedly out to lunch, Richard, Duke of York, stepped up as Lord Protector. And, as Yorks–YORKS–tend to do, he started chatter among nobles that England was in need of a real king. A capable king. Preferably a sane king. And that son of his, Edward? Nah, too young. And probably illegitimate anyway, right? Right? I mean, that Queen Margaret, she gets arrrrround. Like a record.
No, instead Richard, Duke of York made the case that he had the best claim to the throne.
Richard, Duke of York vs. Margaret of Anjou: FIGHT!
Richard’s son Edward (left in haughty crown): “Oh Edmund Beaufort, I say, this is nothing to lose your head about. Bwa. Bwahahaha.”
Edward IV: York on York Action
And then all was seemingly quiet. The dark and dangerous Earl of Warwick had his pet, King Edward IV, to snuggle with and control. Okay, maybe I made up the snuggling bit.
And Edward had the companionship of his two brothers, George, Duke of Clarence, and Richard of Gloucester. They were like the three amigos. Until Yoko came along to break up the band.
See, Edward IV went and did something very dangerous: He got himself secretly hitched to a commoner named Elizabeth Woodville in 1464. Against the advice of Warwick. And then that new wifey had the nerve to demand advantageous marriages for all of her relations. Against the will of Warwick. Warwick probably sat back and twizzled his mustache angrily as all of this was going down, wondering what to do about Edward’s uppity wife. Then it came to him! He could go to one of the brothers–George, Duke of Clarence–and start whispering about how that horrible wife just ruined everything. They could be their own little “He-Man Woman Haters Club”. Warwick and George began secretly plotting to overthrow the young king and his disgustingly common wife. And they probably built a tree fort. I am guessing here.
Warwick: “If I just keep staring at her like I’ve been sucking lemons, she’ll pack up and leave, right? Keep it up, Warry. Staaaaaare.”
Warwick In, War Without
If there were three people on the planet who really hated King Edward IV, it had to be Warwick, Margaret of Anjou, and the King of France. And all three were huddled and plotting.
In 1470, Margaret and Warwick led a Lancastrian army to invade England. (George was presumably sitting about drinking French wine.) They successfully sent King Edward on the run, chasing him and his brother, Richard, out of the country, all the way to the Netherlands. Except, Eddie left behind his family (rude!). Elizabeth hustled her children and very pregnant belly (so, maybe more of a waddle than a hustle) into the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey, where they hid out, and Lizzie popped out a new rugrat.
Edward IV: “Now, Richard, when we were packing for our Netherlands trip, I remembered my hat. Yes. My ring. Yes. My frilly orange coat. Yes. But have I forgotten something….oh, where did I put that family of mine?”
Warwick and George triumphantly yanked ol’ Henry VI out of the Tower of London and plopped the crown back on his head. Of course, sadly, the years of imprisonment and insanity had taken their toll, and Warwick and George essentially pulled a Weekend at Bernie’s with the older king.
Poor Warwick and George didn’t last long. About 6 months after their grand victory, Edward IV came back from the Netherlands with a Burgundy army to help him whomp the Lancasters again. It all came down to the Battle of Barnet on April 14, 1471.
The battle was initially leaning toward Warwick’s Lancastrian forces. But then the fog attacked like something out of a bad Stephen King story. Not really, but there was some seriously thick fog that day. It was so bad, that the Lancaster army had looped around on itself, and they began attacking their own men. Dumbasses. I mean, I get that there was some confusion over sigils, stars versus suns. But still.