Six months later, we hear that he was captured at Southampton; and, one knows not on what pretence, they beheaded him. What are we to call the Bastard, pirate or patriot? Henry was still living, though his very hours were now numbered, for on Edward’s return—he had been brought back—it was announced that he was dead, having met with nothing but care and sorrow during the whole of his most wretched life. Gloucester—not of course Humphrey, but Richard—is said to have killed him; but then Gloucester is said to have killed everybody; tradition makes him a universal murderer. At the same time, as everybody else belonging to the Lancastrian party was killed, there seems a sort of rounding off and completion of the work by the murder of Henry. The fight happening so soon after Tewkesbury as to appear uninfluenced by that event, was a splendid example of the City loyalty. What the Mayor would have done had Tewkesbury gone the other way, it is impossible to say. Loyalty, fidelity, honour, truth, in the Wars of the Roses never survived defeat. They were, however, hugely encouraged by a victory. And when Edward rode back to London he heard with pleasure that while he had smitten his enemies in the West of England, his loyal City, his “Chamber,” had bravely rid him of all that were left in the South. The Battle of London Bridge is recounted in a contemporary ballad:— “In Sothwerke, at Bambere heth, and Kyngston eke, The Bastarde and his meane in the contre abowte, Many grett men in London they made seke, Man, wyff, ne childe there durst non rowte, Oxin, shepe, and vetayle, withowtyn any dowte, They stale away and carrid ever to and froo. God suffirs moche thyng, his wille to be doo. Moche sorow and shame the wrecchis thay wroughte, Fayre placis they brend on the water side. Thayre myschevus dedis avaylid ham noughte, Schamfully thay wrougte, and so them betyd. Thay wolde not leve ther malice, but therin abyde, Thay cryed kynge Edward and Warwicke also. Thus the wille of God in every thynge is doo. At Londone brygge they made asawte, sham to see, The utter gate on the brygge thay sett on fyre; Into Londone shott arrows withowte pete. With gunnus thay were bett that sum lay in the myre. Thay asked wage of the brygge, thay paid them thayre hire Ever amonge thay had the worse, then wakynd thaire woo, False men most be poyneshed, the will of God is soo. At London brige anodyr sawte thay made agayne, Wyth gunpowdir and wildefire and straw eke; Fro the gate to the drawbrygge that brent down playne, That x myle men mygte se the smeke. Thay were not of thayre entent the nere of a leke For into the cite they mygte not com for a wele ne for woo; God restid thayre malice, the wille of hym was soo.