Jasper Tudor came to her. They were not beaten yet, he said. The mist had beaten them at Barnet. They would win through yet. She must not despair. If she and her gallant son marched through the country they would bring the people rallying to their banner.

The Prince said that Jasper was right: they would go into action; and as she looked at her son a terrible fear came to her. What did she want most, this son of hers alive, vital, beautiful, the whole meaning of life to her, safe and well, or the possibility of a crown?

I dare not risk him, she thought. Warwick had died. Such a short time ago he had been so sure of success. He had not been young it was true, but death and he had seemed far apart and then suddenly on that bloody field it had claimed him.

‘Edward,’ she said, ‘perhaps the time is not ripe. Let us go back to France. Let us wait there until we have such a mighty force that none can come against us.’

Edward looked at her in astonishment. ‘Do I hear alright? Is this my warlike mother?’

For a moment she was no longer the battling Queen, she was just a woman vulnerable because of her fears for her son.

He understood; he took her into his arms. ‘Dearest mother,’ he said, ‘I am going to put a crown on this head of yours ere long. You are going to be the recognized Queen of England. I promise you that.’

‘I want only you...safe beside me.’

He stroked her hair and soothed her. ‘Dear mother, remember you are the Queen. For years you have taught me where my duty lies. I shall go into battle, win my father’s crown and we shall live together, you, he and I happily all through our days.’

‘I am a foolish woman,’ she said.

‘Nay,’ he answered. ‘You are a great one. Never shall I forget what I owe you...I shall remember while there is life in my body.’

She knew that it would be folly to give up just because Warwick had died at Barnet. They had put too much faith in Warwick. They could succeed without him.

So they marched, and so they came to Tewkesbury where Edward of York was waiting for them.


* * *

The ranks of the army were weary. They had marched seventy-three miles; they should turn away. They were in no fit state to fight. But Edward of York was there...waiting for them.

Margaret was uneasy. How many men in that field now would turn to the enemy if they thought the fight was lost? How many could she trust?

‘Ride with me,’ she said to Edward. ‘I want them to see us...to know how determined we are. I am going to tell them what rewards shall be there when this battle is won.’

So they rode together she and her noble son and because of the young man’s belief in victory and the indomitable courage of the Queen, the spirits of the soldiers revived and they ceased to complain of their exhaustion and prepared themselves to do battle next day.

She was there when the battle started, and she quickly knew that her men were no match for the enemy. She greatly feared for her son and cursed herself for not insisting that they fly to France instead of engaging in such an unequal struggle.

‘It must stop...stop...’ she cried hysterically. ‘Where is the Prince? Bring the Prince to me.’

She was half demented not only with exhaustion but with fear. Some of her bodyguard said that it would be better for her to leave the field. She would be needed after the battle was over.

‘My son...’ she murmured.

She was half fainting. These fainting fits were new to her. They were due to an excess of emotion she supposed, but when they were on her she was limp and helpless, so she allowed them to put her into her chariot and take her from the field.

Close by was a small convent and it was to this place that she was taken. Anne, her daughter-in-law, was already there and they sought to comfort each other.


* * *

Edward of York was certain of victory. Warwick was dead and he felt freed from a bondage from which previously he had been unable to esc ape. Warwick had meant so much to him; he had been his friend and mentor. He had loved him and in his heart continued to do so; but Edward was not a man who could be on leading strings forever. He had had to break away. He had hoped – and believed – that in due course he and Warwick would overcome their differences, reach a new understanding and be friends again.

Now that was too late. He did not wish the young Prince of Wales to be killed on the field. Too many deaths were bad for a man; he did not want blood on his hands; and although he had not personally killed Warwick his death would be laid at his door.

He sent out an order. ‘If Edward who calls himself Prince of Wales be captured, do not kill him. I promise a hundred pounds a year for life to the man who brings him to me: and the: Prince’s life shall be spared.’

He could afford to be magnanimous. The battle was almost over and was an undoubted victory and Edward believed that after this there would be no more. He would be safe on the throne.

He saw a party of men coming towards him. They had a prisoner with them.

Edward stared in amazement for the prisoner was Prince Edward.

One of the captains, Sir Richard Crofts, was close, proud ol having captured the Prince, and came to claim his reward.

Several were crowding round as the two Edwards faced each other.

The young Prince was arrogant, good-looking in a somewhat effeminate way. Edward of York towered above Edward of Lancaster.

Edward of York said: ‘How dare you so presumptuously enter the field with your banners displayed against me, your King?’

The young Prince held his head high and retorted: ‘I am here to recover my father’s crown and my own inheritance to which you have no right.’

Edward was incensed by those words. He had convinced himself that he had the greater claim, but this captive boy was telling him that he was the son of Henry the Sixth who had to be held captive because the man who had usurped his throne knew that the people were with him.

In a sudden rage he struck the young Prince in the face with his gauntlet.

Those about him saw in this a signal.

The Prince had insulted the King and the King wanted vengeance.

Six or seven of them moved in on him, their daggers raised.

Prince Edward gasped and as he fell to the ground his last thoughts were of his mother.


* * *

So there was nothing now to live for. She was in a state of daze. She did not hear what was said to her. She had only one wish and that was for death.

Her gentle daughter-in-law tried to comfort her; but she too was plunged into deepest melancholy. It had been a brief marriage but she and her Prince had begun to love each other.

‘We must fly from here,’ Margaret’s friends had said. ‘Edward will not rest until you are his prisoner.’

‘I care not,’ she answered.

‘It is important. There is the King to think of.’

But she could think of nothing but her dead son.

They left—she and Anne and it was inevitable that they should be captured sooner or later. They had no heart for the flight, no desire to survive.

They were taken at Coventry.

Edward had decided that she and Anne should travel together in the same chariot and take part in his triumphant procession through London. The people would see that they were his prisoners and that the war was over. Right had prevailed and the strong King was on the throne. The Londoners would welcome that. They had always been for Edward.

It might have been humiliating but she no longer cared. She could see nothing but Edward her son...Edward as a boy...growing up and Edward during those last meetings... How right she had been to suggest they go to France. It must have been some premonition.

And she had lost him...lost him. Why should she care that Edward of York sought to humiliate her before the people of London? She had never cared for them before.

So they were at the Tower. Henry was there in that one they called the Wakefield. Would she see him? She doubted it. They would not let them be together.

They separated her and Anne and sent them to different prisons in the Tower.

‘Oh God,’ she thought. ‘You have deserted me. ‘Why did you not let me persuade him to go to France? If only my son could be restored to me I would ask nothing more. Crowns...kingdoms...what do they matter to me now? If I could but live in peace with my dear son I would ask nothing more.’

The door was shut on her. There were guards outside.

Alone! A prisoner!

If I could but have my son back alive and well I would ask nothing more, she mourned.


* * *

Edward of York was flushed with triumph. The people of London welcomed his victory. This would mean peace and peace meant trade. The hated Margaret was in the Tower; the so-called Prince of Wales had been slain in battle; this was the end of the Lancastrian cause. The red rose was trampled in the mire and the white one was victorious.

‘Let us have an end of wars,’ said Edward. ‘Let us seek to make our country great through peaceful means.’

His brother Richard listened to him, his admiration shining in his eyes.

Edward laid his hand on his arm. If only he could trust George as he could Richard.

As they sat at the table with their most trusted friends Edward talked of the future. ‘The country is being crippled by wars. We have enough enemies overseas. They rejoice in the conflicts which torture our realm. There must be an end to them.’