The Duke of York laid his hand on the throne. Now he would be king!
“Uh,” the Archbishop of Canterbury hummed hesitantly. “I don’t think you should do that.”
“But I want to be king!” the Duke of York fumed.
“And I think he should be,” pouted the earl of Rutland.
“Well, I don’t,” argued the earl of March.
“Can I have a quiet word? In private?” insinuated sir Thomas Nevill.
“Let’s go and see what the king has to say,” the Archbishop suggested.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the King flummoxed. “Ask the lawyers.”
“How are we supposed to know?” the lawyers dissimulated. “Ask the Earl of Warwick, he’s wise and powerful and everyone loves him.”
“I tell you what,” the Earl of Warwick pontificated. “Henry can be king until he dies then York can have a turn. How does that sound?”
“Fair enough,” conciliated the King.
“It will have to do, I suppose,” harumphed the Duke of York.
“Meh,” equivocated the Earl of Salisbury.
“Que’sckesay?” shrieked the Queen when she heard the news. “My son! Mi hijo! Eee is to be, ow you say? disinerited? Non! Non! and Non!”
Then the Duke of York went to Sandal Castle and got himself killed at Wakefield, which rendered the whole question moot.
“Shit!” quoth the Earl of Salisbury just before he died.