A GREAT noble now rides by on a magnificent coal-black steed. At once your eye is attracted by him, and you feel that here is a Paladin worthy of the pen of poet and romancer. Mark his great stature; his vast width and depth of chest; his high forehead; his black, curling hair fretted from the temples by the friction of his helmet; his handsome oval face; his bold features; and his massive jaw, which speaks only too plainly of his masterful nature and inflexible determination. You can readily believe that he is the idol of thousands of his countrymen, and “a setter up and plucker down” of kings.

Who is this remarkable man? He is none other than Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the richest and most powerful noble in England. Thirty thousand men eat his bread daily at the tables of his various great castles; his retainers alone constitute an army, all clad in scarlet coats with the “ragged staff” worked on back and front. His boundless wealth, his profuse hospitality, his great family connections raise him head and shoulders above his peers. He is the premier noble of England, the arbiter of her destinies, and the “last of the barons.”

He lives in an age of battle, murder, and sudden death. His land is torn by the long and fierce quarrels of two great families which are selfishly and ruthlessly fighting for the crown. Henry the Sixth, a mild, merciful, long-suffering, pious man, weak of health and weak of purpose, a hater of strife and bloodshed and a lover of religion and learning, sits insecurely on the throne, bolstered thereon by his strong-willed, indomitable queen, Margaret of Anjou. He is the grandson of that Lancastrian king who thrust from the throne the grandson of Edward the Third. His hereditary right to the crown is inferior to that of Richard, Duke of York; but his family has now been in possession of the throne for more than half a century, and the brilliant victories of his father have made men proud of the Lancastrian lineage. But feeble son has succeeded valiant sire. France has been lost; there is no child to succeed him; and he is surrounded by ambitious, quarrelsome nobles, who make him a pawn in their selfish game. Already the great houses of the realm have taken sides, and are sporting either the red or the white rose. The citizens of London, the wealthy traders and craftsmen now rising into a powerful caste, throw in their lot with York, and the yeomen of the South and Midlands are for him too. And now, in the year 1453, the poor king goes mad, and York is made Protector of the realm. He quite expects to be king when Henry passes away.

But a new arrival comes on the scene to dash all his hopes and force him to the arbitrament of the sword. Queen Margaret bears a son, Henry recovers, and York is dismissed from his post. He appeals to his friend the great Warwick, and soon a large force rallies to his standard. The rival armies meet at the old town of St. Albans, but ere the fight begins York seeks the king and endeavours to make terms. But Henry, who is as clay in the hands of his implacable wife—“the foreign woman” as the English folk call her—is for the moment moulded into something resembling courage. “I will live and die this day in the quarrel,” he exclaims, and York is cavalierly dismissed. The royalists barricade the streets, and bid the foe come on. The great earl by skilful generalship breaks into the gardens behind the houses, and his archers gain the streets with trumpets blowing and the war-cry “A Warwick! a Warwick!” A tough street fight follows, but it is soon over. The king’s chief supporter is dead, and he himself is in the hands of York. The wars of the Roses have begun, and for more than thirty years the realm will be plunged in a civil war so ghastly and unrelenting that even now it marks the blackest page in our national history.

Not that the people generally will join in the strife. The family feuds of great nobles concern them but little; they merely desire peace and good government, that they may till their lands, labour in their workshops, buy and sell, and fill their exhausted purses without distraction. Right willingly would they let the sword rust in its scabbard and the unstrung bow hang idly on the wall. But the land is full of men who have made war their trade in France, and they are eager to be hired for any adventure that is going. These roving mercenaries, the gentry, and their hosts of retainers constitute the armies which will maintain the long and bitter contest. But despite the bloody duels of factious nobles, the business of the country is not interrupted. The judges go on circuit as of old, taking their commissions from whichever king is in the ascendant; and the peasant pauses in his hillside furrow and leans on the handles of his plough to view the nobles of the land dashing themselves to pieces in battle on the plain below. The war is a war of nobles, and not of the commonalty.

The wild northern levies triumph, and the king is recovered. Then Margaret arrays her prisoners, and sets up the little prince, her son, to judge them. “Fair son,” she cries, “what deaths shall they die?” and the lad forthwith orders their heads to be struck off. The wild, lawless host tarries eight days at St. Albans, and this delay enables Warwick to unite with the new Duke of York and reach London. The king and queen gain nothing from their victory. They are forced to march north, and the Londoners, glad to be saved from Margaret and her Border freebooters, welcome York’s heir, and sing:—

They crown the young man at Westminster, and as Edward the Fourth he takes up the sceptre. It is Warwick who has made him king.

Now comes the story of a great quarrel and its dramatic sequel. Edward has fallen in love with beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, the daughter of a Red Rose father, and the widow of a Red Rose husband. He marries her secretly, and all the while Warwick is negotiating a foreign marriage for him with the French king’s sister. When Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville is announced, Warwick’s annoyance and disgust know no bounds. He dissembles, however, though day by day he grows angrier and angrier as he sees power slipping from him and passing to the “upstart” relatives of the new queen.

Edward, instigated by his new domestic circle, is bent on throwing off the Neville yoke. So he heaps honours, high offices, lands, and wealth on the Greys and the Woodvilles, and Warwick is furious. Such treatment he will not brook. He who has set up the king can pull him down again. So he seeks “false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,” who is now jealous of his brother, the king, and eager for a throne. Clarence marries Warwick’s daughter, and the strings of insurrection are vigorously pulled by the wily earl. Edward rouses himself at last and hastens northward, where his cannon soon put the rebels to flight, and their captured leader reveals Warwick’s plot to make Clarence king. At once the pair of conspirators flee to France.

Warwick and that crafty intriguer, Louis the Eleventh, now concoct a plan for driving their common enemy, King Edward, off the throne, and restoring Henry the Sixth. Queen Margaret at first indignantly refuses to accept the support of the man who has driven her into exile, and cast foul aspersions on her character; but Warwick goes on bended knee to her, and withdraws every charge. The queen keeps him in this humiliating position for a quarter of an hour, and then relents. She agrees that her son shall marry Warwick’s daughter, but only when he has restored Henry to his throne. Then the king-maker, who has broken so many solemn oaths, swears on a piece of the true cross to remain faithful to the Lancastrian cause. A fleet is fitted out, Warwick lands at Dartmouth, proclaims King Henry, and summons the national levies to his banner. As Edward lies in bed at Doncaster, two friends burst into his chamber and bid him rise and flee, for his foes are within an hour’s march. He flings on his clothes, and without armour or money rides at breakneck speed to Lynn, where he sets sail for Holland. Once more the king-maker has made and unmade a king.

The old king is clad in a robe of blue velvet, brought out of the Tower, set on horseback, and led to St. Paul’s amidst crowds of Londoners who shout “God save King Henry.” The poor old king knows full well that the proud noble who bears his train in the state procession is his and England’s master, and that he must do his bidding or return whence he came. Warwick has again triumphed, but his hold on power is far from secure. The Lancastrians have no desire for a puppet king whose strings are worked by their old enemy, and the Yorkists are busy preparing for the return of Edward. Next spring he appears in the Humber, and pushes on to London, where the gates are opened to him, and he secures the person of King Henry. Warwick is in battle-array to the north of Barnet, his forces “under a hedge-side.” Clarence, who has made peace with his brother, offers mediation; but Warwick, angry at his double faithlessness, contemptuously rejects his advances.

“Last scene of all, to end this strange, eventful history.” Raw, cold, and dismal dawns the morning on Easter Sunday in the year 1471. A heavy mist, which many a soldier ascribes to magical arts, rolls over the field and hides the opposing armies from each other. The battle begins, and men fight as in a dream, striking wildly at each other, and scarce distinguishing friend from foe. Now Warwick thinks the day is his; now Edward believes victory to be in his grasp. Then comes a lift of the cloud, and both generals perceive that their hopes are vain. For three hours the desperate fight rages; the bombards roar, and sword and arrow do their deadly work. Now deluded by the mist, the two wings of Warwick’s army are busy fighting each other, and the fatal cry “Treason! treason!” is heard on the field. Warwick’s men give way, his brother is slain, and there is only safety for the great earl in flight. He leaps on horseback and gallops to a neighbouring wood, from which there is no egress. He is followed and surrounded, and though he plies his great battle-axe fiercely he is overborne by superior numbers and slain. The king-maker will never make or unmake kings again.