‘We’ll draw up a plan,’ Richard says. ‘And Sir Henry will go back to Warwick and serve alongside him until we join in battle. We’ll march tonight, in darkness. With good luck we will come upon them when they think we are still a day away.’

The queen smiles on him. ‘I’ll get ready,’ she says.

* * *

We wait. The royal army with the Scots forces goes almost silently down the lane in the darkness. The Scots are barefoot, they have no horses, they can disappear into the night with no sound. They like coming unexpectedly out of the darkness to kill. Richard is at the head, our son Anthony commanding a troop, and John is leading the cavalry. The queen and I doze in our chairs, either side of a banked-in fire in the hall of the Dominican friary at Dunstable, dressed in riding clothes, ready to get to our horses and ride forwards or away, depending on the luck of the battle. She keeps the prince beside her, though he is restless, playing with his badge of the swan. He says he wants to ride with the men, he may only be seven years but he is old enough to kill his enemies. She laughs at him but never checks him.

ST ALBANS,

SPRING 1461

We have to wait all day. As darkness falls, one of the queen’s household comes riding back to us and says that the town is taken, St Albans is ours, and the terrible shame of our earlier defeat there is wiped out. The prince drops his livery badge and runs for his sword and the queen gives the order to her household that we can proceed. As we ride south, filled with excitement at our triumph, the guards around us, their swords drawn, we can hear the noise of battle, the erratic firing of guns with damp powder. It starts to snow, cold wet flakes which melt on our shoulders and heads. Occasionally we see men, running from the battle, coming up the road towards us, but when they catch sight of our troop, swords out at the ready, they vault over a gate and get into a field, or melt through the hedge and disappear. We can’t tell if they are Warwick’s men or our own.

We halt outside the town and the queen orders two scouts to go forwards. They are jubilant when they return.

‘Warwick grouped his men on Nomansland Common, and was firing on our men. But then Sir Henry Lovelace led his men out of Warwick’s army leaving a gap in his line, and our cavalry charged straight at it.’

The queen makes a fist of her hand and holds it to her throat. ‘And?’

‘We broke the line!’ the man shouts.

‘Huzzah!’ the prince calls. ‘Huzzah!’

‘We broke Warwick?’

‘He’s sounded the retreat, he’s off like a scalded cat. His men are running away or surrendering. We’ve won, Your Grace. We’ve won!’

The queen is laughing and crying at once, the prince is beside himself. He draws his little sword and whirls it round his head.