So Warwick was dead. That saddened him. He had admired Warwick, had idolized him. He did not want him to die. It had grieved him that they were on opposing sides and if Warwick had lived he would have freely pardoned him.
He gave orders that Warwick’s body must be exposed for the public to see so that none should say afterwards that the King-Maker still lived. Then after a few days he should be taken to Bisham Abbey and buried there with his family.
Margaret was awaiting news of the battle. She was certain that this was going to set Henry firmly on the throne. Edward would be Regent and she would be at his elbow.
It was a long time since she had been so happy.
Then she saw the messengers. They came slowly—not as bearers of good news should.
She hurried to meet them.
‘God help me,’ she cried, ‘what has happened?’
The messengers could not speak for a few moments. They just stood there looking blankly at her.
Nor did she reprimand them. She knew.
‘The Earl of Warwick has been killed,’ they told her. ‘His armies are in retreat. Edward of York has won the battle of Barnet.’
She swayed a little and sought to steady herself. She saw her son coming towards her.
‘News?’ he cried. ‘Oh dear lady, what news?’
She turned to look at him and he saw the bleak despair in her white face.
He ran to her and put his arms about her. She said quietly: ‘I think I am going to swoon. Let...me...Let me for a brief while shut this away from me.’
Then he knew.
He stared at her blankly and then he caught her before she fell.
Her mood of desperation did not last long. It was not the end. One battle did not make a war. They had been defeated before. Warwick was dead, it was true, but the Prince of Wales thank God had not been at Barnet. They would win through yet.
‘Is this not how it has always been?’ she demanded. ‘Ever since the white rose started to fight against the red there have been victories and defeats. One battle cannot decide the war. We have lost Warwick but Warwick did not always win. We are here in England...The King is free. We are free. We shall go into battle again and win.’
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?’