‘A week away at most. I’ve certain knowledge of it.’ She tells them of his victory and God’s sign of the sun. ‘If you open the gates to Marguerite, you close them to God’s chosen. We need only hold fast. The Queen waits for reinforcements that will not come. Send out scouts to see. You will find, north of London, an army on its knees.’

They agree to wait. They will send scouts. They will send, too, provisions with promises of good will, but not open the gates.

‘Provision them and you lengthen the time they can stay in the field,’ she tells them as she leaves. But accepts she’s done enough for now. She has bought a day.

That night, she learns that the provisions meant for the Queen have been carried away by Londoners, who cried out for York and damned the house of Lancaster. ‘That’s Hastings,’ she tells her daughters. ‘He does his work well.’

Next day, she returns to the Guild Hall.

‘Our scouts say five thousand,’ Mayor Lee tells her.

She shrugs. ‘A quarter of my son’s force. Less. Keep the gates closed.’

‘The King swears no harm to the city.’

‘The Queen, sir. You’d be a fool to trust her. Her army murdered my seventeen-year-old son, after battle was done and he a prisoner disarmed. She is murderer and traitor, both.’

‘Traitor?’

‘Aye. You owe her no allegiance.’

Each man turns, one to the other, perplexed.

‘The Act of Accord that made my husband the King’s heir makes a traitor of any who rise against him. And yet, and at her command, his head, my son’s and my brother’s look sightless out from the walls of York. Would you betray your city to such a one?’

And another day is won.

When she returns to Baynard’s, she finds three daughters, where she had left two. Her eldest, Anne, turns a tear-streaked face upon her from the circle of Margaret’s arms. It’s a shock to see her. She’s been at her husband’s London house this while and keeping her distance.

‘He’s with the Queen’s army,’ Anne says, ‘that bastard Henry Holland. Well, I’ll not be at home when he comes. I’ll not have his murdering hands upon me.’

‘You will stay here,’ Margaret comforts her, ‘here with us.’

Cecily takes her from Margaret’s arms, sits her down, kneels before her, folds her hands in hers. Why must she always be cruel to this child? ‘Anne, where is your daughter?’

She snivels. ‘At home.’

‘You must go back to her.’

Now she cries in earnest. ‘I will not.’

‘No, indeed,’ says Margaret, eyes darting from sister to mother. ‘We will send for her in the morning. We will bring her here and you will both stay safe with us.’