Free Loyalty by David Pilling Page B

capable of snapping Henry’s neck between finger and thumb.
       “Like a bull paying tribute to a mouse,” said Clarence, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose, “Christ save us, Henry stinks. I’m not going to kiss his hand. I might catch something.” 
       For once Warwick could empathise with his troublesome ally, but the forms had to be observed. He knelt beside Oxford and placed his hands together as if in prayer, offering them up in homage to Henry.
       “My lord king,” he said gravely, “I swear my oath of allegiance to you, and vow to return Your Majesty to his throne and kingdom.”
       Clarence followed suit, though his oath was more of a resentful mumble, and all three men waited expectantly for Henry to react.
       After a few seconds of tense silence, Warwick looked up. He had not paid much attention to Henry’s face, and had forgotten how large and expressive his eyes were. They were sad blue eyes, layered like an onion, with different facets of their owner’s splintered personality gazing out on the world.
       They stared at Warwick now, with a vacancy that suggested he had not understood a single word of what had just passed. Henry’s moon-calf face was still plump, but there were deep lines scored into the corners of his mouth and eyes.
       “Majesty,” Warwick said, louder this time, “can you hear us? You are King once more.”
       A muscle twitched in Henry’s left cheek. He blinked, once, and ran a dry tongue along his lips. His mouth worked, and he seemed to be fighting for words.
       “God save us,” said Clarence, “he’s lost the power of speech.”
       “Nonsense,” replied Warwick, with a confidence he didn’t feel. The best doctors in the land had failed to diagnose the core of Henry’s malady, though it plainly derived from his Valois blood. Only God knew how far his mind had degenerated in the past nine years.
       Henry’s lips peeled back in a ghastly smile, revealing the blackened ruins of his teeth. “My dear cousin,” he rasped, “have you come to restore my godhead?”
       He tossed his head back and laughed, a weird, high-pitched croaking noise, not unlike an over-excited bullfrog.The laughter quickly subsided into a hideous ruptured giggle, and he hid his face behind his tattered sleeve.
       “His Majesty is not well,” said Oxford, rising, “his gaolers have not looked after him properly. We should send for a physician.”
       “And someone to bathe him, and fetch a change of clothes,” added Clarence.
       Warwick said nothing. His eyes narrowed as he studied the pathetic figure, tittering into his sleeve like a naughty schoolboy. He had always wondered how much of Henry’s madness was feigned or exaggerated. How much of the real man was still in there, looking out at the world and laughing at his deception.
       “You will be king again, cousin,” he said quietly, “even if I have to strap you into your throne.”
     
    Chapter 10
     
    The speed with which the Yorkist government collapsed took Martin by surprise. He had expected to fight a war, and taken a tearful leave of his sister and niece. They stayed behind in France. Warwick and Queen Margaret had agreed that she and her son should remain in France until England was secured, and Margaret had insisted that Mary stay with her.
       Martin entered London as part of Warwick’s entourage. He had never visited the capital before, or any major city, and was overawed by the sheer size and grandeur of the place, not to mention overwhelmed by the noise and stench.
      He was good at spotting deceit, and saw plenty of it on the faces of the people who thronged the streets and cheered themselves hoarse for Warwick and King Henry.
       Martin had no desire to linger in such a cesspit any longer than necessary, and tried to obtain permission to leave from Warwick. This wasn’t easy, since Warwick was now de facto head of state and had a kingdom to set in order, but after