‘Nay,’ cried the crowd with fervour. ‘Never.’
‘I hear you. I hear you well and my friends I know your good sense. Then if you will not have Queen Margaret will you take King Edward?’
The shouts filled the air. There was not a nay among them.
‘Edward,’ they chanted. ‘Edward for King.’
Warwick was gleeful. It was more successful than he had thought possible. George had preached the sermon of his life and they would be talking of it in the city for weeks to come...years to come mayhap. Because there was going to be change. Edward was to be crowned King.
Warwick went with all speed to Barnard Castle where Edward was waiting to hear the result of the meeting in the Fields.
‘We will strike now,’ cried Warwick. ‘We must get this matter settled immediately before anything can happen to stop it, I shall issue a proclamation for Wednesday. I shall summon the people to Paul’s Cross and there you shall be proclaimed the King.’
To his great joy everything went as he had planned it. Edward was proclaimed at Paul’s Cross and went immediately to Westminster Hall. He seated himself on the marble chair. He had become Edward the Fourth.
How the people loved him—particularly the women. They leaned from their windows to throw spring flowers down at him as he passed by. He had a smile for all and especially warm ones for the women. Even at such a time he could show his appreciation of them. They had heard tales of his amorous adventures which made them giggle indulgently. Very different from Pious Henry, they commented.
‘Ah, but Edward is a man.’
That was it. They loved him. It was great Plantagenet again. A return to the blond giants who had figured in the stories their mothers had heard from their mothers.
There would be no more wars; peace for ever; and a strong King to keep law and order while he supplied them with tales of his romantic adventures.
London loved Edward. London made him the King; and the rest of the country must needs accept him.
Warwick looked on with satisfaction. He was now the power behind the throne, the King-Maker.
He called a council at Barnard Castle.
‘We must not allow this success to blind us to reality,’ he said. ‘There is a large Lancastrian army in the North to be dealt with. The King is with it and that means we cannot sit back and enjoy
this situation in which by skill and diplomacy we have placed ourselves.’
Warwick paused and looked at Edward. He hoped the young King realized that when he said we have placed ourselves he really meant I have placed us.
With that easy grace which was almost as much a part of his charm as his outstanding good looks, Edward said: ‘Richard, my dear friend, may I lose my crown if I ever forget one part of your efforts in placing it on my head.’
Warwick was satisfied.
‘You are worthy to wear it,’ he said. ‘Worthier than even your father would have been. I doubt not that if you and I stand together we shall remain firm until every one of our enemies is defeated.’
‘So be it,’ said Edward.
It was like a bond between them which could only be broken by death.
‘Now,’ said Warwick, ‘there is work to be done. The people are with us. We have to rout the Lancastrians. I shall not rest happy until Henry is in our hands...Margaret too. That woman is the source of all our troubles.’
‘Then,’ said Edward, ‘we shall gather together an army and march in pursuit of Margaret.’
It was not difficult. Men rallied to Edward’s banner. It was understood that the end of the war was in sight. They had a new King. He was the sort who would bring victory first and then prosperity.
Edward was exultant. The role of King suited him; but he was not more satisfied than Warwick. Warwick saw in Edward the perfect figurehead, the beautiful young man with the right appearance, the right manners, all that people looked for in a king; self-indulgent, yes, but that was all to the good because it would leave the actual ruling of the country to Warwick. Warwick would be the power behind the throne; Warwick the ruler of England; they would call Edward King but it was the King-Maker who would govern.
It was very satisfactory—the more so because of the defeat at St. Albans. If he could snatch victory from that debacle, he was capable of anything.
He had strengthened his position. In all important places were his men. Brother George was the Chancellor; he would see that the Parliament did what Warwick wanted it to; his brother John, Lord Montague, would go with him to control the armies when they travelled north. Hastings, Herbert, Stafford, Wenlock...they all recognized the genius of Warwick and wanted to be reckoned as his friends.
It was a happy day when he had brought the new King to London and Margaret had decided that she would be too unwelcome there to attempt to enter.
Fortune favoured the bold—indeed it did. And here he was in that position on which he had set his sights from the very first battle of St. Albans.
He had power in his grasp. He must hold tightly to it; and he could not be sure of it until Henry was again a prisoner and Margaret was with him.
Therefore there was no time for rejoicing. They must set out for the North and not rest until they had vanquished Margaret’s army.
Bitterly Margaret considered what had happened. What folly to have allowed Warwick and Edward to go to London. She had always hated the Londoners because they had hated her. And they had cheered for Edward and Warwick. They had dared call Edward their King.
Henry was with her. He was praying all the time. He was so weary of the wars, he told her. Would they never stop? He would do anything...anything to make them...give them what they wanted, anything.
‘Forsooth and forsooth, what life is this for us!’
‘We have our son to think of,’ Margaret told him fiercely. ‘Have you forgotten that?’
‘He will be happier in some quiet place,’ said the King, ‘far away from conflict ‘
‘He is not like you,’ retorted Margaret. ‘My son was born to be King.’
Henry sighed. He was so weary. Margaret could not sit quietly; she would find such comfort in prayer, he told her.
She paced up and down—over to the window, straining to see if a messenger was coming, then back to the fire, standing there staring into the embers, seeing Edward proclaimed by the treacherous Londoners...Edward in battle...the battle which was now taking place.
She was kept informed. No sooner had Edward declared himself King than he prepared for the march to the North. He was determined to destroy her and her armies,
‘Nay, my lord,’ she thought fiercely, ‘it is I who will destroy you.’
It was Palm Sunday. Henry would not go with the army. ‘This is a time for prayer,’ he said. ‘We should be kneeling together, those men of York and those of Lancaster. They should ask for God’s help to solve their differences.’