‘And the king?’ she says. ‘My husband the king?’

‘Lord Warwick brought him to the battle; but left him and all the baggage as he fled. He’s here, Your Grace.’

She looks suddenly stunned. They have been apart for seven months, and she has been on the road, in hiding, or marching, for every day of their separation, living cat brigand, living like a thief; while he has been in the queen’s rooms in Westminster Palace or praying in a monastery, weak as a girl. Of course she is afraid that he has lost his wits again. Of course she fears that she will be a stranger to him. ‘Take me to him.’ She glances back at me. ‘Come with me, Jacquetta. Ride with me.’

As we ride along the road the wounded and defeated soldiers clear out of our way, heads down, their hands outspread, fearing a blow. As we get closer to the town we see the dead lying in the fields. In the High Street Warwick’s crack archers are fallen among their bows, their heads cleaved open by battle axes, their bellies ripped with swords. The queen rides through it all, blind to the misery of it, and the prince rides beside her, beaming at our victory, his little sword held up before him.

They have made a camp for the queen away from the horrors of the town. The royal standard is flying over her tent, a brazier is burning inside, there are carpets down against the mud. We go into the big tent that serves as her presence chamber, a little tent behind will be her bedroom. She seats herself on her chair, I stand beside her, the prince between the two of us. For the first time in days she looks uncertain. She glances at me. ‘I don’t know how he will be,’ is all she says. She puts her hand on the prince’s shoulder. ‘Take him out if his father is unwell,’ she says quietly to me. ‘I don’t want him to see . . .’

The flap of the door opens and they bring the king inside. He is warmly dressed in a long gown and riding boots and a thick cape around his shoulders, the hood pulled up over his head. Behind him, standing in the doorway, I recognise Lord Bonville and Sir Thomas Kyriell, men who served with my first husband in France, loyal men, good men, who joined the cause of York in the early days, and stayed with the king throughout the battle to keep him safe.

‘Oh,’ the king says vaguely, taking in the queen and his son. ‘Ah . . . Margaret.’

A shiver goes through her as she sees, we all see, that he is not well again. He can barely remember her name, he smiles distantly at the prince, who kneels to his father for his blessing. Henry puts an absent-minded hand on the young boy’s head. ‘Ah . . .’ he says. This time he cannot find the name in his muddled mind at all. ‘Ah . . . yes.’