A bloody field at Barnet Heath

It seems almost miraculous that the medieval rose windows somehow survived the conflagration at Notre Dame. I found it somehow comforting that the world seems to be mourning with the French people.
I’d naturally like to chat about Sunday’s episode of Game of Thrones. But I missed posting about an important date on the medieval calendar—April 14, 1471, the day when the battle of Barnet was fought between the forces of Edward IV and the Earl of Warwick.
This was the first major battle I’d “fought,” and it set the bar high for drama—the eerie, dense fog blanketing the field, Richard’s vanguard outflanking the enemy, and then the Earl of Oxford returning to the field after shattering Edward’s left wing and accidentally attacking his own side. The victory went to Edward and among the dead were the Earl of Warwick and his brother John. But Warwick’s allies still had to be defeated, for on that same Easter Sunday, Queen Marguerite and her seventeen year old son landed at Weymouth, ending seven years of French exile. So Edward and I would have another battle to fight in just three weeks.
This was the battle in which Richard, age 18, proved himself to his brother. Hard for us to imagine men commanding armies at 18 or 19, isn’t it?
Sunne, page 401
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In the third hour, Exeter’s line began to give way before them. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, they were falling back. Richard’s men found a last surge of strength, flung themselves forward, shouting for York. The Lancastrians were in confusion, no longer giving resistance. The thought now was of flight and men broke ranks, began to scatter.
The fog was thinning at last. Men were becoming visible on Richard’s left, men who wore the colors of York. He understood then; the van had joined with the center. Ned had smashed through Johnny’s wing.
The Sunne banner of York gleamed white and gold. Edward’s white polished armor was dulled with dirt, dented and scratched, dark with the blood of other men. He moved forward; men parted to let him pass. Reaching Richard, he raised his visor. Richard saw he was smiling.
Richard felt no elation, neither triumph nor relief…not yet. Only numbness, a weariness of body and mind unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Slowly he lowered his sword to the ground, let the bloodied blade touch the grass.
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Many men died on that spring morning at Barnet Heath, the most famous being Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick and his brother, John, the Earl of Montague, who rode into battle against York wearing their colors under his armor. Torn between loyalty to his brothers and his Yorkist cousins, he has always seemed a tragic figure to me.
This next death is not at all medieval, but is well worthy of note. On April 14, 1865, the greatest American president, Abraham Lincoln, was shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford Theatre. He never regained consciousness, dying early the next morning. Coincidentally, there was a disturbing story in the Philadelphia Inquirer this week about John Wilkes Booth. There have always been rumors that the man shot in that barn was not Booth, rumors usually dismissed. But by using the facial recognition techniques relied upon by police departments and forensic experts, a claim is now being made that Booth did indeed survive, living under two different aliases in Texas and Oklahoma, not dying until almost forty years after the assassination of President Lincoln. I admit I do not want to believe it, for I’d hate to think that Booth evaded earthly justice for a murder that brought so much suffering to so many. Here is the link to the story. https://www.philly.com/news/john-wilk...