A nation divided
A man claims without legal grounds that he’s the rightful leader of a country, and brings a mob to storm the seat of power. This is 2 Henry VI, although it's understandable if you were confused.
I’m continuing to read through the plays of Shakespeare for insights into today’s world. Last week, the first part of Henry VI recounted the genesis of the War of the Roses (the English Civil War), pitting the House of York against the House of Lancaster (Henry’s line of succession). The play ended with the English re-establishing their control of France, and the success of Suffolk’s ploy to convince Henry to wed Margaret (establishing a French alliance) while enabling Suffolk to cuckold Henry. Following the historical chronology (if not the chronology in which the plays were written), we’re moving on to the play “2 Henry VI”, originally titled “The First Part of the Contention of the Two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster”. This play’s action begins not long after part 1 left off: Suffolk delivers Margaret to Henry after having captured Margaret’s affections for himself.
Chances are, you know something of Shakespeare’s 2 Henry VI even if you’ve never read it nor seen it performed.
The first thing we do let’s kill all the lawyers.
This is a bloody play, full of violent language, gore, and villainy: at least a dozen characters die, most of them murdered, there are multiple beheadings, many decaptiated heads brought onstage, dual plots of violent uprisings. It is a tale of political overthrow that surges relentlessly, threatening to overwhelm political order with the tyranny of revolt. It’s a story of rampant lies, in which few characters speak the truth.
It’s also, at times, intentionally funny. I imagine the Elizabethan response to the line you know was much the same as ours: a knowing guffaw.
Synopsis
Suffolk and Margaret declare their love for each other. Gloucester, the Lord Protector and fiercely loyal to Henry, fails to convince Henry of Suffolk’s disloyalty, and of the increasing threats to Henry’s throne.
Gloucester’s wife is set up and convicted of heresy. As a royal she’s spared the sentence of death by fire given to her co-defendants, but she’s banished to the Isle of Man. Before leaving, she warns Gloucester of the villainy of Cardinal Beaufort and York. Suffolk charges Gloucester for his association with his wife’s crimes. Gloucester is murdered.
The House of Commons calls for Suffolk’s death. Henry is indecisive, swayed by Margaret’s pleas, but in the end agrees to have Suffolk killed. Margaret carries Suffolk’s head into her subsequent scene with Henry, visibly manifesting her unfaithfulness to her husband and king.
Cardinal Beaufort dies in his bed, raving mad before his final breath. Henry entered the play having the support of eight named characters in his court; by the end of the play only two remain.
Richard, Duke of York, consolidates support with his constituency: he claims he is the rightful heir to the throne and Henry is the usurper. He engages a large group of men from Kent (Kentish men), led by Jack Cade, to storm the Tower of London and capture it for the common man. Cade makes outrageous promises once they’ve overthrown the hierarchy, in his attempts to aggregate the allegiences of the commoners:
“There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for penny, the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops, and I will make it a felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass. And when I am king, as king I will be— … There shall be no money. All shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery that they may agree like brothers, and worship me their lord.”
Henry and his court flee before the Kentish mob arrive; Stafford stays behind, reasoning that since he’s been targeted by Cade, he would endanger Henry by drawing the mob to him. Stafford makes a stand to confront Cade and the mob; Stafford’s brother challenges Cade, saying that he’s only the mouthpiece of York. Cade has Stafford and his brother killed. Two other supporters of the king, Lord Saye and Sir James Cromer, are also murdered. Their heads are brought in to Cade, and he responds in ghoulish fixation with their gore:
“Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. [The two heads are made to kiss] Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night. For with these borne before us instead of maces we will ride through the streets, and at every corner have them kiss. Away!”
The king’s soldiers, led by Buckingham and old Lord Clifford, disperse the Kentish mob by having them remember King Henry V and his valor in battle against France. They offer amnesty to those who relinquish the fight and return their loyalty to the king, and they dangle the reward of a 1,000 crown bounty for the head of Cade.
A week later, a starving and isolated Cade is killed for his brutishness by a man unaware of the reward (but who is grateful to receive it).
By the end of the play, York has gathered military force and is preparing to overtake the kingdom. At the battle of St Albans, several more of Henry’s supporters, Somerset and old Lord Clifford, die. The play ends with a cliffhanger: King Henry, Queen Margaret, and Lord Clifford’s son flee to escape York’s advancing army, while the Duke of York, his sons Edward and Richard, along with Salisbury and Warwick, celebrate their victory at St Albans and set to conquer the realm.
Thoughts
Today, the United States is riven by false claims to the presidency made by a man ousted from power. He derides the man who is in power under Constitutional law, calling him a false and unlawful president.
This summer of indictments has refreshed our collective memories of a mob, incited by its false beliefs promoted by the ousted claimant. This mob overran the Capitol of the United States, preventing for a time the legal and truthful confirmation of electoral results.
Given this context, today’s reader feels viscerally the threat behind York’s aggression against Henry’s rule, and the savagery of Jack Cade’s rebellion. These aren’t simply historical events, played for maximum drama and occasional comedy from a pen writing more than 400 years ago. The mob that overran the Capitol didn’t call for killing lawyers, but colluded with them.
In the play, the men who arrived from Kent dreaming of revolt could be persuaded to change course by evoking memories of a time they felt proud to be Englishmen, under the rule of the king. But the Kentish men could only be persuaded by cleaving them from Cade, and by extension York, under whose influence their grievances had been nurtured. The king’s men didn’t try to argue the wrongness of the mob’s cause but instead offered a version of themselves as loyal subjects that proved appealing to them.
Shakespeare takes only minutes to resolve Cade’s rebellion; real life is much more complex. But the play’s perspective contains a truth that’s still relevant: proving beliefs false isn’t persuasive. Few expect that the trials resulting from this summer’s indictments will convince the ousted president’s loyalists to turn away from him. Facts don’t matter once a person has invested fully in a lie and has incorporated it into one’s identity.
The argument made to the Kentish men was based on a time in the past in which they were united in loyalty to Henry V and dominion over France. Today’s loyalists to the Big Lie reject the reality of the world today, in which the US is founded on equality and the rule of law, in which the climate is boiling and wreaking destruction, in which survival depends on global alliances and scientific knowledge to protect health, security, and freedom. It isn’t possible to be truthful and accede to desires for a world that doesn’t and can’t exist.
Shakespeare’s play cautions against indecisiveness when facing palpable threat. Henry continues trying to appease York late in the play, knowingly blind to York’s disloyalty. He has the self-awareness to acknowledge his own failings:
“Come, wife, let’s in and learn to govern better; For yet may England curse my wretched reign.”
In the final scene, as others urge him to flee upon York’s approach, Henry has ceded his agency against inevitable fate:
Queen Margaret
Away, my lord! You are slow. For shame, away!
King Henry
Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay.
Queen Margaret
What are you made of? You’ll nor fight nor fly.
Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence,
To give the enemy way, and to secure us
By what we can, which can no more but fly.
If Henry can’t take action to save himself, he cannot save his kingdom. He wants to believe that there is a way to gain York’s agreement, and paper over their division. His judgement is folly. York will be appeased only by deposing Henry and imprisoning him in the Tower.
Anyone who pursues an honest goal to rid the nation of lies and divisiveness, in hopes of knitting together a cohesive nation, can’t appease an audience that is enthralled to lies. Those loyal to the Constitution in thought and deed may not be in the dire place that Margaret depicts here, where the only option is to flee, but diffidence will surely bring that time to pass.
Where is the “wisdom and defence” of democracy? Currently, it’s in the courts of law. Thankfully, we didn’t kill all the lawyers, but instead through legal process indicted those who are alleged to have forsaken their oaths. We can only hope, as Shakespeare wrote in a play set in a court of law, that ‘truth will out’.
Ellie’s Corner
Rain on and off for days now, so Ellie claims the sunbeams whenever they come her way. She just needs human assist to open the curtains. She whines at us when the sun isn’t out, as if to say: What did you do with my sunbeams?
Thanks for reading,
