‘And what of the battle?’

The messenger looks up at her. ‘He sent no message about the battle.’

She bites her lower lip. ‘Anything else?’

‘He asks you and the court to give thanks for his escape from danger this very day.’

‘We will do so,’ Margaret says. I am so proud of her restraint and dignity that I put my hand gently on her back, in a hidden caress. She turns her head and whispers, ‘Get hold of him as he leaves and find out what in the name of God is happening,’ and then she turns to her ladies and says, ‘I will go straight away and give thanks for the safety of the king, and the court will come with me.’

She leads the way out of the rooms to the chapel and the court has no choice but to follow her. The messenger starts to fall into line at the back; but I touch his sleeve, take his arm, back him into a convenient corner as if he were a skittish horse, and forestall anyone else getting hold of him.

‘What happened?’ I demand tersely. ‘The queen wants to know.’

‘I delivered the message as I was told,’ he says.

‘Not the message, fool. What happened during the day? What did you see?’

He shakes his head. ‘I saw only a little fighting, it was in and out of the streets and the yards and the ale-houses. More like a brawl than a battle.’

‘You saw the king?’

He glances around, as if he fears that people might overhear his words. ‘He was struck in the neck by an arrow,’ he says.

I gasp.

The messenger nods, his eyes as round with shock as my own. ‘I know.’

‘How ever was he within range?’ I demand furiously.

‘Because the Earl of Warwick brought his archers through the streets, up the gardens and in and out of the alleys. He didn’t come up the main street like everyone expected. Nobody was ready for him to advance like that. I don’t think anyone has ever led an attack like that before.’

I put my hand to my heart and know with a pulse of pure joy that Richard was stationed in Calais and not in the king’s guard when Warwick’s men came like murderers in and out of the little alleys. ‘Where was the royal guard?’ I demand. ‘Why did they not shield him?’

‘Cut down around him, most ran off,’ he says succinctly. ‘Saw the way it was going. After the duke died . . .’

‘The duke?’

‘Cut down as he came out of a tavern.’

‘Which duke?’ I insist. I can feel my knees are shaking. ‘Which duke died as he came out of the tavern?’

‘Somerset,’ he says.

I grit my teeth and straighten up, fighting a wave of sickness. ‘The Duke of Somerset is dead?’

‘Aye, and the Duke of Buckingham surrendered.’

I shake my head to clear it. ‘The Duke of Somerset is dead? You are sure? You are certain sure?’