The second volume of The Last of the Barons opens with a vivid contrast between two modes of power: King Edward IV, draped in gold-trimmed gowns and perfumed curls, and the Earl of Warwick, whose 'half-martial fashion' scorns the 'womanize the man' extremes of courtly dress. Bulwer-Lytton uses clothing as a precise index of character and political allegiance, noting that Edward's 'gown (a womanly garment)' and 'shoon half a yard long' signal a court 'unparalleled... for extravagant gorgeousness of dress,' while Warwick's attire 'held in lofty disdain whatever vagary of custom tended to cripple the movements.'

The narrative follows the young Nevile as he exchanges provincial simplicity for this ornate world, his new 'corset... sown with seed pearls' and 'shoes... turned up like skates' marking his entry into a realm where fashion is both a weapon and a vulnerability. The king's complaint—'I would that Warwick could be only worn with one's armour!'—encapsulates the central tension: the bear of Warwick cannot be tamed by silks.

Dress as Political Declaration

Bulwer-Lytton devotes extraordinary attention to costume, treating it not as mere description but as a language of allegiance. Edward IV's attire—'flowing to his heels, trimmed with ermine, and broidered with large flowers of crimson wrought upon cloth-of-gold'—is explicitly linked to the reign of William the Red King, a period noted for 'effeminate modes.' The king's 'locks of a rich golden colour... perfuming the whole air' and his 'complexion at once radiant with health and delicate with youth' are described in terms that blur gender lines, yet the narrator insists his appearance is 'not effeminate' because of his 'stature little less commanding than that of Warwick himself.' This careful qualification reveals a cultural anxiety about masculine display.

Warwick, by contrast, 'held in lofty disdain' such fashions. His dress is 'richly and even gorgeously attired' but avoids 'loose flowing robes' and 'flaunting tawdriness.' The contrast is not simply personal but political: Warwick's 'half-martial fashion' aligns him with the old baronial order, while Edward's 'almost oriental' garb signals a courtly, centralized monarchy. The young Marmaduke's transformation—from 'simpler yet more manly fashions' to a 'corset... sown with seed pearls' and shoes 'turned up like skates at the extremity, three inches in length'—enacts this conflict on an individual level, as he is literally reshaped by the court's demands.

The King's Indolence and Warwick's Impatience

The dialogue between Edward and Warwick reveals a fundamental mismatch in temperament. Edward, 'the gay and facile Edward,' is described as having an 'indolent temper' that chafes under Warwick's martial expectations. The king's exclamation—'Pasque-Dieu!... I would that Warwick could be only worn with one's armour!'—is a telling metaphor: he wishes Warwick were a piece of armor, to be put on only when needed. This wish exposes the rift between a king who values pleasure and a baron who embodies duty.

Warwick's own speech is blunt and direct: 'could I ever serve you at the court as I can with the people, you would not complain that John of Montagu was a better courtier than Richard of Warwick.' He frames his absence from court as a choice of effectiveness over flattery. The narrator notes that Warwick's 'affectionate though hasty and irritable nature was rarely proof against the kind voice and winning smile of his young sovereign,' suggesting a genuine bond that is nevertheless strained by irreconcilable roles. The queen's manipulation—she 'struck into the contrary path' to avoid Warwick—and her cold calculation ('the consequence of cold affections and prudent calculation') add another layer of courtly intrigue.

Setting as Historical Atmosphere

The opening description of the Strand is dense with historical texture: 'a passable road for equestrians, studded towards the river... with stately and half-fortified mansions,' while on the other side are 'straggling houses of a humbler kind,—the mediaeval villas of merchant and trader.' Bulwer-Lytton embeds the narrative in a specific geography, noting the 'fleur-de-lis, emblem of the vain victories of renowned Agincourt,' and the 'famous Cross, at which 'the Judges Itinerant whilome sate, without London.'' These details root the story in a recognizable but distant past.

The mention of 'the inn for the penitent pilgrims, who sought 'the murmuring runnels' of St. Clement's healing well' and 'springs of crystal wave and salubrious virtue' evokes a world where faith and superstition intertwine. The journey through 'the gloomy arches of the Temple Gate and Lud' to 'Marmaduke's hostelrie in the East Chepe' traces a path from the outskirts to the heart of commerce. This careful mapping of London serves not only as backdrop but as a reminder that the court's luxury is built on the city's wealth and the pilgrims' piety—a world Warwick understands better than Edward.

Readers attentive to the interplay of surface and substance will find that Bulwer-Lytton uses every detail—from the length of a shoe to the cut of a gown—to dramatize the Wars of the Roses as a conflict of cultures, not just dynasties. The second volume deepens the portrait of a king who would rather kiss through his vizor than hear of Towton, and a baron who cannot unbuckle his armor for courtly games. Watch how these opening tensions echo in later scenes, and note that the narrator's eye for material culture is never merely decorative.