‘My father reigned as a King and so did my grandfather. I was a King in my cradle. Yet you have decided that I am no King.’

‘Edward is our King now. You are his prisoner. You must make ready to go to the Tower.’

‘And you must do with me what you will.’

‘I doubt harm will come to you if you keep your place.’

‘My place, ah! That is the sorry question. I was anointed King and I think I and others in this realm know my place.’

Warwick gave orders that Henry’s legs should be bound under his horse with leather thongs. They put a straw hat on his head and thus he rode into the City of London.

London was for Edward. Edward had brought prosperity to the country; Edward knew how to rule; he had driven the Angevin virago out of the country. So they came out to watch Henry, pale, aloof and unkingly. How different from handsome

Edward, all smiles and bonhomie, throwing his glances up at the pretty women who leaned out of the windows to cheer for him.

Henry rode forward looking ahead as though not caring what they thought of him. They had never hated him as they did his foreign wife. She was the one who had been the cause of all their troubles, but Henry had allowed her to be as she was. Henry was weak; Edward was strong. The Londoners did not have to ponder long to find out where their allegiance lay.

Some were silent; some jeered. They wished him no harm though. Poor Henry.

So he came to his room in the Tower.

Mildly he remonstrated with those who called him impostor.

‘My father was King of this realm,’ he repeated, ‘and peacefully he possessed the crown for the whole of his life. His father, my grandfather was King before him. And I as a boy, crowned almost in his cradle, was accepted as King by the whole realm and wore the crown for nearly forty years, every lord swearing homage to me as they had done to my father.’

His jailors remonstrated with him. He must be quiet. Good Edward was on the throne and was going to stay there.

It was a sad day for Henry when he had been captured. He did not see Edward, Warwick or any of the noblemen; he was left to guards.

There were many of them who thought themselves mighty to have charge of a King and be able to treat him as inferior to themselves.

Sometimes they struck him when he did not answer readily. ‘Speak up, man,’ they would shout; and marvel that they had struck a king, for King he was, though brought low. It was true that he had been anointed and crowned a King. And there they were with him at their mercy.

He rarely protested. When he did it would be to utter mildly: ‘Forsooth and forsooth, you do foully to smite a King anointed thus.’

His very meekness irritated them. If he had attempted to fight back they would have respected him more. But his manner invited their curses and neglect. They did not care what they gave him to eat and brought the remains of their dinners for him. It seemed a great joke to them. They would not bring him changes of clothes; his hair grew long; he was getting very thin and turned away from the scraps they brought him.

It would have been kinder to have taken him out to the Green and chopped off his head, thought some of the guards. But Edward was too clever for that. He was not going to have it said that he murdered the King. He had come to the throne through right of succession and conquest. Not murder. Besides there was a Prince in France and a forceful woman who might at any time raise her head.

No, the King’s blood must not be on his hands. If he died a natural death so much the better. There would be one of them out of the way. But Edward agreed with Warwick, there must be no hint of murder.

So while Margaret waited in St. Michiel for an answer to her prayers, Henry languished in the Tower, dirty, unkempt, insulted, often hungry and thirsty, finding comfort only in prayer.

THE QUARREL

At this time Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick was at the height of his powers. None could deny – perhaps not even Edward the King himself – that Warwick was the most important man in the kingdom. He was indeed the King-Maker. Edward could never have attained the crown but for Warwick; and had Warwick decided to throw in his lot with Henry, Henry would be on the throne at this time.

Life had been good to him, he conceded. Not in bringing him into the world with a fortune in his grasp; that had not been so. True he was the son of the Earl of Salisbury but his great fortune had not come from his birth.

No, life had smiled on him when he had married Anne Beauchamp, only daughter of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick although at that time he had no notion of what great good fortune that was. At the time of his marriage two lives had stood between him and the vast Beauchamp inheritance. Anne’s brother Henry, heir of Warwick, died leaving only a daughter as his heiress and two years after her father’s death this child died. Anne was sole heiress and so everything passed to her husband, who had become Earl of Warwick and the richest nobleman in the country.

Anne had brought him a great deal but there was one thing she had failed in. He had no son. He had his two girls, Isabel and Anne – delightful creatures, but girls. And Anne could bear him no more children. Well, she had made him rich and brought him a great title so he must be content, and his two girls would be the greatest heiresses in the Kingdom.

After the first battle of St. Albans and his exploits in Calais he was accepted as one of the heroes of the age and he had become one of those legendary figures who cannot be suppressed. There might be the occasional setback...but there was nothing which could deter them for long. He could turn defeat into victory as he had after the second battle of St. Albans. Who would have believed that after suffering such a defeat—one might say a debacle—he would be riding into London and proclaiming a new King.

He had genius. There was no doubt about it. He knew it and in his cleverness had made others accept that fact.

He was the Lord of the Kingdom.

Edward would have given him any honour he needed. He only had to ask.

‘What shall it be, Richard?’ he had said. I owe so much to you.’

He had shrugged his shoulders. He could not be the King. But he was Warwick.

He said: I will be just Warwick. I think that is enough.’

Edward declared with ready satisfaction that it certainly was. No one in the kingdom should ever doubt what everyone owed to Warwick.

‘Ah, my good friend, you are right. The name Warwick is as proud as any man could wish.’

Edward had that easy charm. He liked to leave things to Warwick. Warwick was shrewd; he had the people with him. But not so much as Edward had. How they loved that golden youth in whom the marks of debauchery had not yet begun to show, but they would, Warwick knew; none could live as Edward did and remain unscathed. The people thought it was manly. God forbid! But it was a change of course after the piety of Henry. It was surprising that though people admired piety and applauded it, they soon grew heartily sick of it; and when a libertine like Edward rode through their streets and eyed the merchants’ wives and daughters the merchants seemed to like it.

There was no doubt that Edward possessed that indefinable quality called charm. That was all to the good. He was the best possible figurehead behind whom a King-Maker could work, as long as Edward did not forget that he owed his position to Warwick.

Often he told the King that he was not completely safe. True Margaret was on the continent and Henry in the Tower; but while Margaret lived they must be watchful. She had friends in France. Not only her father—poor ineffectual René, drooling over a young wife now...well, he would do that very well, Warwick was sure. They must not forget him though. He could be in a position to supply Margaret with the means to return. But the big menace was the King of France.

‘He is not so fond of Margaret as his father was,’ said Edward. I doubt he would want to be embroiled.’

‘He would like to harass us...a pastime greatly loved by the French for as long as any of us can remember.’

‘He would not want to go to war with us.’

‘He might like to help Margaret to do so. The North is ready to rise with her. Don’t forget they hid Henry all those years. He has friends up there. Edward, a marriage in the right quarter could do our cause all the good in the world.’

Edward nodded.

‘Marriage with France,’ went on Warwick tentatively.

‘Indeed yes.’ Edward was thinking of the most enchanting woman he had ever met. When he had been hunting she had suddenly appeared before him and throwing herself on her knees had begged him to restore her husband’s estates. Edward had been amazed that one so young could be a widow. Her husband she told him had been killed at the second battle of St. Albans.

Edward fell in love as rapidly and regularly as most people sat down to dinner; and because of his charm and royalty he could invariably dispense with the preliminaries of courtship. It had been different with the fair young widow. She was most elusive, so he was thinking of her and only half listening to Warwick. He knew Warwick was right, of course. He would have to marry and marry soon. He only hoped the French Princess was personable. He could not abide ugly women. But with his habitual easy-going temperament he shrugged all that aside. He would have to do his duty and that need not interfere with his enjoyment.

Warwick was saying something about negotiations with the King of France, talking a little smugly. Edward smiled inwardly. He believed Louis treated Warwick as an equal. It was amazing what store Warwick set on that.