The people in the towns were hostile as they came south. How-dared the foreign woman bring with her this band of ruffians who looked on the spoils they could collect from the towns and the villages as fair game. The trouble was that when the looting started beggars and vagabonds came in from all over the country to join in.

Margaret had never lost the talent for turning the people against her.

Meanwhile as far south as London there was anxiety and when Warwick set out with an army many joined him. Warwick took the King with him; he was anxious to show that he was still Henry’s loyal servant. It had always been his cry that it was not the crown he wanted to take; he merely wanted to make sure that the country was well governed. He accepted Henry as the rightful King but on his death the Duke of York should be the King. That seemed to him reasonable and there were a great many who were ready to agree with him.

The weather was bitter. It was not the time of year for fighting. Alas, that was something Warwick could not choose; but if the weather was bad for him it would be equally so for his enemies and this was time for a decisive battle.

It was the twelfth day of February when he rode out of London. He had a worthy army behind him and the good will of the people of the capital. Rumours had reached London as they had other cities of the conduct of hordes of looters and spoilers who made up Margaret’s army and the merchants were terrified that they might invade the city. Their goodwill went with Warwick’s disciplined men and Warwick knew it.

He was full of confidence as he rode north. With him were the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Arundel, Lords Montague and Bonvile, Sir Thomas Kyriell and Captain Lovelace, a gentleman from Kent who had been captured at Wakefield and had managed to escape. This last was an excellent soldier and Warwick put him in charge of some of his best troops.

He had new weapons with which he hoped to strike terror into his enemies. There were firearms which could shoot lead bullets, and something called wildfire which was calculated to strike terror into all who beheld it. It was cloth dipped into an inflammable mixture which was lighted and attached to arrows; when the arrows with the wildfire attached to them were shot into the enemy’s ranks they should cause the worst kind of panic for they would ignite anything they touched.

At St. Albans Warwick called a halt. He had chosen this for the site of the battle. It was at St. Albans that he had on a previous occasion won great success. Looking back he realized that before that famous battle he had been of little account. It was at St. Albans he had proved his worth. St. Albans had brought him good fortune once. It would do so again.

It was always an advantage to choose the battleground, and he was sure he knew which way Margaret was coming and he spread his forces out so that both roads from Luton might be blocked.

She was some way off’ and he had several days’ grace; he would spend them in constructing defences. He was superbly equipped. His bowmen had shields of a kind which had never been used before; they opened while the archers shot their arrows and then closed again; these shields were studded with nails so that if the enemy rushed forward to attack they could be thrown down to trip up men and horses and break their legs. Traps were set across the ground.

Warwick congratulated himself and his friends on their magnificent preparations and assured them that the battle would be over before it had begun.

‘Look to the King,’ he said. ‘He will not wish to be in the thick of the battle but it would be well to guard him. I do not think he will attempt to escape but you, Bonvile, will keep close to him and someone else must join you.’

Sir Thomas Kyriell volunteered to do so and Warwick said that there could not be a better choice.

‘Lovelace, I am putting you in charge of the right flank.’

Lovelace nodded. He hoped he did not show how uneasy he was. He was in a dilemma. His position was not a very happy one. He had not escaped from Wakefield as he had said he had. It was rather different. He had been released on a condition. He had no wish to be a spy. It was not his role at all. He was a soldier. But when faced with torture and horrible death he had had to make a choice.

‘You may return to Warwick’s army,’ he was told. ‘You will

lead his men; but in truth you will be working for us. You will send messages to us as to where his strength and weakness he; you will let us know his plans...’

He wished he had not agreed. He wished he had accepted death and honour. But it was hard on a man.

So here he was in Warwick’s army, enjoying Warwick’s trust. Well hardly enjoying it...wishing with all his might that he had never been captured at Wakefield.

But perhaps he was unduly worried. Warwick was going to win this battle; and if he did, why should he worry about what Margaret and her captains could do to him? After the resounding victory that Warwick would surely achieve there would be nothing to worry about.

Warwick would succeed. He must succeed. He must so completely rout the enemy that Lovelace would never have to worry because he had failed to play a double game.

Henry’s tent had been pitched under a tree and Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas Kyriell were with him.

‘Never fear,’ Lord Bonvile promised him, ‘we shall not leave you. We shall be beside you while the battle rages.’

‘Battles,’ murmured Henry, ‘I would there need never be more battles. Of what use is this bloodshed? Have I not promised that York shall have the crown on my death? Oh shame on them, shame on them, so to treat the Lord’s anointed.’

‘It is the Queen, my lord, who will not agree to the people’s wishes. She will take the crown for her son.’

The King shook his head and mumbled. Bonvile and Kyriell exchanged glances. It was strange that the King should be ready to pass over his son. Could it really be that Edward was not his child and he knew it? Or was it simply that Henry was ready to make any sacrifice for the sake of peace?

One thing was clear. It was only necessary to look at the King to understand why this war had to be. He was unfit to rule; and when there was a claimant who looked like Edward Longshanks and who acted like him—then clearly that claimant was meant to be King.

Almost as soon as the battle began Warwick realized his mistake. His defences on which he had spent so much time and on which victory depended were useless. Margaret was not coming in by either of the roads he had imagined. She was going to strike his army on the undefended north-west front. This meant that his men would be facing the bitter wind while the enemy would have it at their backs.

Another point which he had overlooked was the size of Margaret’s army; it was not quite double his own but nearly so; not a decisive factor certainly, but in view of the layout of the land and the position which had been forced upon him it could prove disastrous.

It began to snow and the wind blew the snow into his men’s faces; the wildfire, to which they were not accustomed was worse than a failure; it reacted against them. When they shot it forward the wind cruelly blew it back; and they were the ones who suffered from the deadly weapon.

The nets and traps which he had set up were useless; and the Lancastrians were smashing into his defences. It was becoming clear that all his skill and all his ingenuity could not save him. The men were quick to see that they were losing the day.

Lovelace saw it. He had his own life to save and there was only one way he could do so.

He shouted an order to the troop of men under his command and they galloped after him right into the Lancastrian forces shouting: ‘A Henry. Margaret the Queen forever.’

Margaret was exultant. The battle had been all but won, but Lovelace had added the final touch.

Warwick was in retreat. The first battle of St. Albans had been a disaster for her; the second was triumph.

In his tent, guarded by Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas Kyriell, Henry sat praying silently. All about him were the sounds of war. He was deeply distressed. He prayed for death—his own death for it seemed to him that there was nothing in life but continual conflict. If he were dead Edward of York would be King and perhaps there would be peace. But no, Margaret would never stand aside and let them take the crown from their son. That was what this was all about.

Sir Thomas was whispering to Lord Bonvile: ‘We should go now. Our friends are leaving the field.’

Lord Bonvile hesitated. ‘Who will guard the King?’

‘None will harm him. Margaret would not want that.’

‘Who will know that he is the King?’

Henry heard them whispering. ‘You are planning to leave me,’ he said.

‘My lord, our army is all but defeated. If we stay here we shall assuredly be killed.’

‘Nay. I will protect you. You have protected me and I will protect you.’

The two men exchanged glances. It was their duty to stay with the King. Warwick had commanded them so that he would be protected from any of the soldiers from either side who might seek to murder and rob him. When the looting began it was not easy to restrain them. If the King were left alone in his tent and discovered there he would very likely be murdered.

‘Then, my lord,’ said Bonvile, ‘we will stay.’


* * *

The battle was won. The enemy was in flight. Margaret was triumphant. She embraced her son and cried out: ‘We have defeated them. We will drive them from this land. This is the end of York and Warwick. Perhaps they will see this now. Let us thank God for this victory. But we shall not rest on it, my son. No, no, now we should go to London. We shall proclaim you heir to the crown. I shall be Regent until you are old enough.’