Free Loyalty by David Pilling

out into the dying warmth of the day. The lords followed him, like a cluster of nervous sheep trailing after the shepherd.
       “Saddle and fetch our horses,” he ordered the guards on the door. They hurried away towards the stables at the rear of the inn.
       “What about our men?” asked Gloucester, “are we not leaving them to be slaughtered?”
       “Not if they have any sense,” said Edward, “once word spreads that we are gone, the army will disperse. Montagu will reach Doncaster to find that all his birds have flown.”
       In spite of his love of pleasure and ease, Edward was at his best when danger threatened. A kind of nervous excitement filled him. He felt light-headed, and his blood tingled.
       His excitement was tinged with despair. He was going to have to flee abroad, to abandon the kingdom he had fought so hard to win.
       I will win all again, he vowed silently as the horses were brought up, I will sweep the board, and leave not another piece standing.
     
    Chapter 9
     
    The Tower of London, 6 th October 1470
     
    The Earl of Warwick made a triumphant entry into London at the head of an enormous host of forty thousand soldiers. Grand and shining in his polished armour, and mounted on his coal-black destrier, Black Saladin, he looked every inch the conquering warlord.
       “A Warwick! A Warwick! God save King Henry!”
       So the people hailed him as he rode through the streets. The typically shrewd and well-informed citizens had got wind of Warwick’s intention to restore King Henry, and that their previous monarch had already quit the country with a few loyal supporters.
       Londoners were survivors, and had a finely-judged instinct for when to turn their coats. They cheered Warwick and the richly-dressed lords who rode behind him, showered flowers and petals on their armoured shoulders from upper-storey windows, and ensured that red wine flowed like blood from the fountains in every square.
       Warwick liked to think that he was immune to the flattery of the mob, and was careful to appear grave and self-absorbed as Black Saladin clopped sedately through the streets towards the Tower. Inside he felt a tight little shiver of pleasure at the sound of his name echoing through the city, and gloried in the clashing of cymbals and wild blowing of trumpets that accompanied his progress.   
       Very few cheers were reserved for the Duke of Clarence. The petulant young nobleman rode just behind Warwick, no less grand in his fine armour, but significantly less popular. Clarence’s reputation as a faithless brother and a debauched, thriftless wastrel had preceded him.
       Warwick put aside his secret joy at finally receiving the popular acclaim that was his due. He needed to keep a clear head, and act with deliberate care and resolve.
       As soon as word reached London that King Edward had fled, the Yorkist government collapsed like a hollow pile of sand. His consort, Queen Elizabeth, might have holed up in the Tower and defied the invaders from behind its thick walls, but instead had fled to sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. She had no soldiers with her and few servants, and for the moment could be left to fret in peace.
       Securing the Tower, the symbol of government and authority in England, was vital. The cries of the mob seemed to die away as Warwick rode up Tower Hill and studied the whitewashed walls of the keep, shining like a grubby diamond in the dim October mist.
       Inside that grim fortalice was the greatest treasure in England. The shabby quality of that treasure said a great deal for the miserable state of the country. King Henry VI, mad, despised, a prisoner for almost a decade, but still alive, and once again destined to sit on the throne he was so desperately ill-suited for.
       The gates of the outer ward yawned open for Warwick and his entourage, and the guards knelt and bowed their heads as he cantered inside. A harsher man might have hanged a few of