The Arrow’s Verdict: 

Death and Destiny at Shrewsbury

 

            On 21 July 1403, King Henry IV crushed a rebellion at the Battle of Shrewsbury, defeating the formidable Sir Henry “Hotspur” Percy in one of the bloodiest and pivotal battles of medieval England. What began as a bold uprising by one of the king’s former allies quickly spiraled into a full-scale confrontation that threatened the very stability of the Lancastrian crown. As arrows blackened the sky and steel clashed on the fields outside Shrewsbury, father fought against former friend, and prince against rebel. In a single day, thousands perished, including many of England’s seasoned knights. The fierce Hotspur fell, his rebellion dying with him. The battle not only secured Henry IV’s hold on the throne but also marked the dramatic rise of his son, Prince Hal, who would one day become the legendary King Henry V.

 

King Henry IV, Imagined Portrait, Unknown

            Sir Henry “Hotspur” Percy had once been one of Henry IV’s most trusted allies, instrumental in the dramatic downfall of King Richard II. Alongside his powerful father, the Earl of Northumberland, Hotspur helped rally northern forces to support Henry Bolingbroke’s (as he was then known) return from exile and eventual seizure of the throne in 1399. But while Henry IV claimed a crown, the Percys expected generous rewards: lands, influence, and a firm hand in northern and border politics. What they received instead was neglect and suspicion. Henry IV’s reluctance to ransom Scottish prisoners captured by Hotspur, an affront to both honor and profit, deepened tensions. Adding to the strain, the king’s refusal to grant the Percys further control over the volatile northern frontier, particularly in dealings with the Welsh revolt led by Owain Glyndŵr, stoked a sense of betrayal. Glyndŵr’s uprising against English rule in Wales had raged since 1400, and Hotspur was forced to bear much of the burden of defending the realm with little royal support. Feeling isolated, undervalued, and disrespected, Hotspur’s loyalty unraveled. What had begun as a noble alliance became a bitter feud. In 1403, emboldened by his family and secretly allying with Glyndŵr himself, Hotspur raised the standard of rebellion, determined to defy the king he had once helped make.

Owain Glyndŵr in Battle, A.C. Michael, 1918

            Marching south with a rebel army drawn from the north of England and bolstered by allies of the powerful Percy family, Hotspur aimed to strike a swift and decisive blow by seizing the strategic town of Shrewsbury. Control of the town would not only divide royal forces but also open the path to London, where the rebels hoped to rally broader support and force the king to the negotiating table…or the battlefield. But Henry IV, acting with urgency, moved swiftly to intercept the uprising. Henry IV pushed westward and reached Shrewsbury just before Hotspur’s arrival, seizing advantage and barring the rebel army from taking the town.

 

            Hotspur now found himself forced into a pitched battle. Among the rebels were fierce and seasoned troops, including a large contingent of Chesire archers, veterans of past campaigns and fiercely loyal to the memory of Richard II, who had long held favor in the region. These archers were renowned for their deadly skill with the longbow, and at Shrewsbury they unleashed a devastating storm of arrows upon the king’s lines. The initial volleys were so intense and accurate that they reportedly caused panic among royal troops.

 

            Attempts at parley quickly broke down, neither side willing to bend. And so, on that grim July day, the fields outside Shrewsbury erupted into one of the most savage clashes in English history. Amid a hail of arrows and the brutal clash of hand-to-hand combat, rebellion met royal wrath in a battle not only for the crown, but for the future of England.

 

            Amidst the chaos and carnage of the battlefield, the king’s son, Prince Henry of Monmouth, the future King Henry V, proved himself with extraordinary courage. Though just sixteen years old, the prince led his division with determination and discipline, standing firm even as waves of rebel forces pressed against the royal lines. In the thick of battle, an arrow pierced his face, entering beneath the eye and embedding deep into the bone. The wound could have been fatal, and many expected the prince to be carried from the field. But Prince Henry refused to retreat. Bleeding and in agony, he held his ground, rallying his men and continuing to command with unshakable resolve until the tide turned and the field was won. His survival became one of the great stories of the battle.

King Henry V, Unknown, 16c, via Wikipedia

            Afterward, the removal of the arrow fell to the royal surgeon, John Bradmore, who used a specially designed instrument to extract the barbed shaft from Prince Henry’s skull. Bradmore recorded the procedure in painstaking detail, a brutal yet miraculous operation that saved the prince’s life and left him with a scar that he would carry to the throne. For many, Prince Henry’s valor at Shrewsbury marked the birth of a warrior-king. The boy who bled on that battlefield would one day wear the crown and lead England to legendary glory at Agincourt.

            As the battle neared its brutal climax, Hotspur, bloodied but unbroken, led one final, desperate charge. With the rebel lines faltering and the field strewn with the bodies of fallen comrades, Hotspur saw only one hope left: to strike down Henry IV himself and shatter the royal army’s moral in one bold stroke. With sword raised and courage undiminished, he spurred forward through the chaos, cutting a path toward the king’s standard. It was the act of a warrior and a gambler- brave, reckless and utterly defiant.

 

            But fate, ever fickle in war, turned against him in that moment. In the confusion of battle, Hotspur is said to have lifted his visor- perhaps to call out to his men, perhaps to get a clearer view. In doing so, he exposed his face, and in that instant, an arrow struck him down. The man who had once shaken kingdoms, who had defied a king and dared to dream of a new England, fell lifeless on the field he had hoped to claim for his cause. His death, sudden and ignoble, sent shockwaves through the rebel ranks. Leaderless and demoralized, the rebellion crumbled. What had begun as a bold uprising ended in blood and dust, with Hotspur’s body lying in the dirt beneath the banner he had carried into battle.

            In the aftermath of the battle, as silence fell over the blood-soaked fields of Shrewsbury, the body of Hotspur was found among the slain. At first, there was confusion. Rumors spread that he had escaped, wounded but alive. To quiet any whispers of Hotspur’s survival and to make a public example of the fallen rebel, Henry IV ordered that the body be handled with cold political precision. Initially, Hotspur was buried with honor at Whitchurch, in Shropshire, not far from the battlefield. But Henry IV, wary of legend forming around a martyred hero, soon had a change of heart. Fearing the grave might become a rallying point for northern sympathizers and loyalists to the Percy name, Henry IV ordered the body exhumed. It was then publicly displayed in Shrewsbury to confirm beyond doubt that Hotspur was dead.

 

            The display of his body was only the beginning. Hotspur’s body was subjected to the full, brutal punishment for treason: he was drawn and quartered. His head was sent to York, where it was placed on a spike above Micklegate Bar, a dramatic and deliberate insult to the powerful Percy stronghold in the north. His remaining limbs were scattered, sent to London, Newcastle, Bristol and Chester- grim trophies of royal justice, designed to deter any future insurrection. Eventually, likely in response to growing public discomfort with such barbaric treatment, Hotspur’s remains were gathered and returned to the Percy family, who were finally permitted to bury him properly at Whitchurch. But the damage had been done. The once-revered knight had been posthumously shamed, his body desecrated, his reputation blackened as a traitor.

 

            And yet, death could not erase his legend. In time, the name Hotspur would come to represent not treason, but valor, defiance, and tragic nobility, immortalized in the pages of history and in the words of Shakespeare, who cast him not as a villain, but as a fiery, flawed hero in Henry IV, Part 1.

 

            The Battle of Shrewsbury was more than a clash of swords and strategy, it was a defining moment in the struggle for England’s crown, a collision of ambition, loyalty and betrayal. Hotspur’s rebellion, though crushed, left a legacy far greater than its failure. His fiery courage, his tragic death, and the brutal fate of his body became symbols of the brutal price of dissent in a kingdom still learning to live under Lancastrian rule. For Henry IV, the victory solidified his tenuous grip on the throne. For Prince Henry, it was a trial by fire. His wound and unshakable resolve on the battlefield forged the image of the warrior-king he would become. And for England, it marked a turning point, a moment when the sword decided the future, and myth began to take root in the ashes of war. In the years to come, history would remember Shrewsbury not just as a battlefield, but as the birthplace of legends- where Hotspur fell, Hal rose, and the fate of dynasty was sealed. Henry IV stood victorious, his crown secured- for now.

©All Things Tudors

 A Castle, a Queen, and a Courtship: 
Elizabeth I at Kenilworth

 

            From the 9 to 27 July 1575, Queen Elizabeth I was the honored guest at Kenilworth Castle—a visit drenched in pageantry, poetry, and longing. For nineteen glorious days, the castle was transformed into a stage of elaborate entertainment designed to dazzle the Virgin Queen and, perhaps, to win her heart. Beneath the spectacle, however, pulsed a deeper story: that of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, whose grand gestures masked a quiet yearning. Every fountain, masque, and melody seemed to whisper a single question—might this queen finally chose love?

Queen Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, Nicholas Hilliard, c. 1575

            The castle belonged to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester—the man who had stood beside Elizabeth for years, not merely as a trusted courtier, but as the subject of whispered love and endless speculation. Their bond had captivated the courts of Europe: she, the resolute Virgin Queen, who claimed she was married to her people; he, the ever-present favorite, whose heart seemed forever pledged to her alone. From their earliest days at court, their closeness had raised eyebrows and stirred gossip—dinners taken in private, glances exchanged in plain view, and an intimacy that danced just outside the bounds of what was proper. Though scandal and tragedy had often overshadowed their connection, Leicester remained a constant- ambitious, devoted, and perhaps the only man who truly knew the woman behind the crown. Kenilworth Castle was more than his home; it was his love letter in stone, and in the summer of 1575, he opened its gates in the hope that all his lavish displays might finally win her hand.

            New chambers were constructed for the Queen, outfitted with the finest tapestries, gilded furnishings, and every comfort befitting a monarch. A majestic gatehouse was raised in her honor, its very architecture, a tribute to her majesty. The surrounding gardens bloomed with intoxicating color and scent—roses, lilies, and sweet herbs arranged with poetic care, each one chosen not just for beauty, but for symbolism. Every path she walked, every blossom she brushed against, every shimmer of candlelight that flickered through the twilight was carefully curated to enchant her senses.

 

            Elizabeth was enveloped in a dreamscape of feasts and revelry: grand banquets served on silver platters, thrilling hunts through lush Warwickshire woods, intricately staged masques with allegories of virtue and love, and music that floated through the castle wall like sighs in the night. The culmination came with fireworks that split the sky—light and fire dancing above the towers of Kenilworth as if heaven itself celebrated her presence. It was a courtship on a royal scale, a living sonnet composed not in ink but in stone, silk, music and flame.

 

            But the proposal never bore fruit. Whether out of political caution, personal conviction, or the careful balancing act of sovereignty, Elizabeth—ever the monarch first—chose not to marry. The weight of her crown, the expectations of her council, and the precarious dance of European alliances made any union fraught with risk. For all Leicester’s efforts, for all the unspoken promises, the Queen remained steadfast in her solitude.

 

            Yet in those golden summer weeks, within the rose-scented halls and candlelit chambers of Kenilworth, love reigned—if only in gesture, not in vow. Theirs was a romance suspended in time: tender, complicated, and unresolved. No ring was exchanged, no future pledged, but something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, a shared history, a quiet ache. Though Elizabeth left the castle unmarried, she left with a memory steeped in longing and loyalty, one that would linger in both their hearts long after the gates of Kenilworth had closed behind her.

 

            Centuries later, Kenilworth stands in a quiet testament to an extraordinary moment in Elizabethan history. Though the grandeur has faded and the music long since ceased, the story still lingers—not as a tale of triumph or tragedy, but of possibility. It reminds us that even the most powerful hearts are not untouched by longing, and that love, however restrained, can leave an enduring mark. At Kenilworth, politics paused, and for nineteen days, the Queen of England was simply Elizabeth—admired, adored and, perhaps, tempted to imagine a different fate.

©All Things Tudors

 

THE SIEGE OF THE TOWER OF LONDON, JULY 1460

 

In the summer heat of July 1460, the ancient stones of the Tower of London bore witness to one of the most dramatic and violent chapters of the Wars of the Roses. For two relentless weeks- from the 2^nd to the 16^th—London itself became a battleground as Yorkist forces clashed with the defenders loyal to King Henry VI. The Tower, a symbol of royal power and the fortress of the Lancastrian regime, came under siege from within its own capital. As cannon fire echoed along the Thames and the cries of the wounded rose above the city, the struggle for England’s crown reached a fever pitch. This was not just a military confrontation, it was a turning point in the brutal civil war that would define a generation.

Tower of London, May 2023 © All Things Tudors

Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury; his son, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick—known later as the “Kingmaker”; and Edward, Earl of March—son of Richard, Duke of York—were three of the most powerful figures in the Yorkist cause. United by blood, ambition and deep frustration with the weak rule of Henry VI, they believed the House of York had a superior claim to the throne through descent from Edward III. Richard, Duke of York, was the son of Anne Mortimer, a direct descendant of Edward III’s second surviving son, Lionel of Antwerp—giving the York line a possible senior claim over the Lancastrians, who descended from Edward III’s third surviving son, John of Gaunt. The Yorkist lords also accused Henry VI’s court of corruption and misrule, blaming Queen Margaret of Anjou and her circle for the kingdom’s instability. Their military campaign was as much about restoring strong governance as it was about dynastic legitimacy—and by 1460, they were ready to fight for both.

Edward, Earl of March, later King Edward IV

And so, on 26 June 1460, a determined Yorkist force commanded by Salisbury, Warwick and March (the future King Edward IV), landed at Sandwich on the southeastern coast of England. Their landing marked the beginning of a bold military campaign aimed at challenging the authority of the Lancastrian regime. The Yorkists had sailed from Calais, a strategic English stronghold on the continent, which Warwick controlled as its captain. The passage was swift and unopposed, and upon reaching the Kentish coast, they quickly seized the port town of Sandwich, where they encountered little to no resistance.

From Sandwich, the Yorkist army advanced inland toward Canterbury, one of England’s most important ecclesiastical centers. The city, perhaps sympathetic to the Yorkist cause or unwilling to provoke conflict, opened its gates without opposition. The way with which the Yorkists took Canterbury suggested a favorable local sentiment or, at the very least, a widespread disillusionment with the ineffective rule of King Henry VI and his court.

Meanwhile, the royal army, still loyal to the crown and commanded by Queen Margaret of Anjou and her Lancastrian allies, remained stationed in the Midlands. They had positioned themselves strategically, prepared to respond to simultaneous threats. The Lancastrians anticipated that invasions might come from multiple directions- Edward of March had connections to Ireland, and Warwick’s fleet could strike from Calais-making it difficult to predict where the Yorkists would make their move. The uncertainty left the royalists at a disadvantage, unable to concentrate their forces effectively as the Yorkists advanced swiftly through Kent.

The Yorkist army advanced steadily toward London, their numbers swelling as they marched through Kent and the surrounding counties. Support for their cause grew with each passing day. Local gentry, merchants, and even former royal officials began to declare for the Yorkists, bringing with them men, arms, and valuable intelligence. By the time the army approached the capital in early July, it had become a formidable force, organized and emboldened by a string of easy successes.

On 2 July 1460, the Yorkists reached London. Rather than resist, the city welcomed them with open arms. The gates were thrown open, and the citizens, many of whom favored the restoration of good governance and the rule of law the Yorkists promised, greeted their arrival with cheers. Warwick, already popular in London due to his naval victories and reputation for order, was met as a liberator rather than a conqueror.

However, not all within the capital shared the city’s enthusiasm. Inside the heavily fortified Tower of London, a garrison of Lancastrian loyalists under the command of Thomas, Lord Scales, refused to surrender. Determined to hold the Tower for the King, Scales defied the surrounding Yorkist forces and took the drastic step of ordering cannon fire on the city itself. Shot and flame rained down on London’s streets and rooftops, striking both innocent civilians and Yorkist troops. Panic and fury spread through the city as homes were damaged, and citizens were killed by the very defenders sworn to protect them.

The Yorkists responded swiftly and decisively. Drawing on bombards and heavy artillery stolen from the Royal arsenal, they positioned their own guns to return fire on the Tower. The city, once a neutral prize in the political struggle, had now become a battlefield. The Yorkists understood that they could not secure the capital fully while the Tower remained in enemy hands.  The exchange of fire marked the beginning of a tense and dangerous standoff in the heart of London.

The Yorkist besiegers methodically cut off supply routes to the Tower, while continuing to pummel its thick stone walls. Yet even as the Tower’s defenses began to weaken, Scales remained defiant. He may have hoped for a royal victory at Northampton, which Warwick and March had departed for, or at least reinforcements from loyalist forces in the Midlands. But with each passing day, news from the north was ominously absent—and inside the Tower, provisions began to dwindle. Morale among the Lancastrian defenders fell sharply, worsened by the realization that the people of London were no longer silent spectators but actively hostile.

Public anger now boiled over. The citizens of London became active participants in the siege. Armed mobs erected barricades, maintained night watches, and patrolled the riverbanks to prevent any escape from the fortress. Several local militias, aligned with the Yorkist cause, offered their services to the commanders coordinating the assault. Calls for vengeance grew louder with each civilian casualty from the Tower’s bombardment.

Everything changed when word reached London of the Yorkist victory at the Battle of Northampton on 10 July 1460. More devastating still for the Lancastrians, King Henry VI had been captured. The political and symbolic blow was enormous—without the king, the defenders of the Tower no longer had a cause to fight for. Realizing that no reinforcements would come, and that further resistance would only bring destruction upon themselves, Scales began to negotiate surrender. Around 19 July 1460, the Tower of London capitulated. March and Warwick returned to London with the captive king in tow.

Yet surrender offered no guarantee of safety. As Scales attempted to slip away under cover of night, disguised and aboard a barge down the Thames, he was recognized by a London mob still furious over the destruction of their homes and families. Dragged from the boat, he was brutally murdered in the street—an act of mob justice that reflected the deep bitterness left in the wake of the siege. His body was left exposed near the Church of St. Mary Overie, a grim warning to any who might challenge Yorkist rule in the capital.

With the Tower now firmly in Yorkist hands and the king himself in captivity, London was at last secured. The city, which had stood at the heart of political instability for over a decade, was now the stronghold of the Yorkist regime. What followed would be a dramatic and unprecedented political maneuver: Richard, Duke of York, returning from Ireland to press not for the protection of the realm—but for the throne itself.

 

©All Things Tudors