Those who had died were in the ground, and wounds had become scars for those who lived. The fears and dark memories were already fading, driven out and swept away in the roar of cheering throats. Huge crowds had gathered from long before dawn for their one chance in a lifetime to see the king and queen of England. None of them had fought on the hill at St. Albans. Though the town was barely twenty miles from the city, the butchers and tanners and aldermen of London had not been there to see Henry fall, nor the barricades torn down. They knew only that the strife between houses was at an end, that peace had returned and King Henry had forgiven his rebellious lords. The entire city seemed to have turned out along the route of the royal procession through the great, wide road of Cheapside, toward St. Paul’s. The mob heaved against lines of soldiers in bright colors, their faces strained with duty and irritation. There were a few scuffles—moments when a purse was cut, or screeching urchins ran wild through the throng—but for most the mood was light.
