Free Loyalty by David Pilling Page A

them, just   as a warning, but Warwick was anxious not to spoil the festive atmosphere inside London. Much depended on the notoriously fickle goodwill of the citizens.
       He left Black Saladin in the care of his squire, and mounted the stairs to the upper levels of the keep with just Clarence and Oxford for company.
       “This place was always hellish cold,” remarked Clarence as they laboured up the winding steps, “the damp rises off the Thames and infects the stones. I would hate to reside here for a month, let alone nine years.”
       “If certain people had held to their sacred oaths, our lord the king would not have been obliged to stay here for so long,” Oxford said stiffly. Clarence scowled at him, but said nothing more.
       Warwick felt uneasy. To the likes of Oxford, who had always stayed true to the House of Lancaster, Henry had never ceased being the rightful king, even when shut up in prison. Warwick could hardly claim such a record of loyal service. There was a danger of a rift opening up between the diehard Lancastrians and those whose loyalty had been slightly less than unquestioning.
       Old wounds, old resentments, bitter, lingering feuds…these were the scars of civil wars. It fell to Warwick to try and heal them. He had craved the power, and now it dawned on him that the responsibility was about to fall on his shoulders as well.
       King Henry could not be expected to rule – he was a puppet now, required merely to validate Warwick’s seizure of power in England – and Queen Margaret would have to be restrained. Left to themselves, she and her vengeful son would decorate the gates of every town and city in England with the heads of so-called traitors. Warwick was wise enough to know that peace could only be achieved by compromise, not revenge.      
       At last they reached the doorway to Henry’s prison. Two halberdiers guarded it, but were as pliant as their comrades, and bowed humbly before Warwick.
       “Is the prisoner…is His Majesty ready?” Warwick demanded, remembering himself just in time.
       “As ready as we can make him, lord,” one of the guards replied promptly, “we washed and shaved his face, and persuaded him to eat a little breakfast, but nothing on earth will persuade him to change his clothes.”
       “Washed and shaved, and made to eat a little breakfast,” Clarence said sardonically, “what a mighty sovereign we have come to rescue.”
       “Be silent,” Warwick snapped, and gestured at the guards to get on with it. One of them rose, took a set of iron keys from his belt, and unlocked the large black-timbered portal.
       Warwick hesitated before entering. He felt oddly afraid. What did he have to be frightened of? One lone madman who had to rely on others to wash and feed him in the morning?
       “Foolish,” he muttered, and stepped purposefully towards the door. Clarence and Oxford followed.
       Henry was in the exact same position as the last time Warwick had visited him at the Tower, seated on a bench beside a fireplace with his hands demurely folded over his bony knees. He didn’t seem to notice his visitors until the door swung shut with a bang, which gave Warwick time to study him.
       It could be worse, he reflected. Henry’s keepers had cut his hair and beard, so he at least looked vaguely presentable. Always a slender, lightly-built man,he had been kept adequately fed and watered, and even developed a little paunch.
       Warwick wrinkled his nose. There was a dreadful stench in the room. No doubt it arose from the filthy knee-length russet smock Henry wore, and the inevitable hair shirt beneath. Henry’s calves were bare, and Warwick almost gagged when he saw a louse crawling up his ankle.
       “Your Majesty,” said Oxford with genuine respect. He was the first of the three nobles to kneel before the ragged figure on the bench and bow his head in reverence. The earl was a big, powerful man, and looked