Writers of historical novels, cloistered in their stacks, nowadays are at least attempting some verisimilitude in their reconstructions, but this author has Edward IV, his Queen and coterie chattering away like Babbitts and Bromides: ""Give my regards to the family,"" saith the King. There are more heated salivations from Warwick: ""'Squire,' he had spit, 'You dare to oppose your betters.'"" But then Warwick seems to have difficulty enunciating properly: ""'Squire's son and squire,' Warwick had ground out. . . ."" The author hastily races through such observations as ""The weather turned terrible"" and summons up the excruciating vision of a loose lady who ""had sprung fully panoplied from the loins of Eros."" The story dogs Edward through his marriage, battles, Warwick's treachery, Clarence's death and his own. Alas for York; alas for Lancaster; alas for the historical novel.