YORK,

SPRING 1461

The king, the queen, the prince and the members of their household are housed in York, the royal family at the abbey, the rest of us wherever in the city that we can find rooms. Richard and Anthony ride out almost straight away with the army commanded by the Duke of Somerset, to block the road north and prepare the stand against Warwick and the boy who now calls himself king: Cecily Neville’s handsome son, Edward.

The king rises to the danger he is in, his wits sharpened on the ride, and writes a letter to Edward’s army reproaching them for rebellion, and commanding them to come over to our side. The queen rides out every day with the prince, calling on men to leave their villages and their occupations and join the army and defend the country against the rebels and their rebel leader, the false king.

Andrew Trollope, the royals’ best general, advises that the army should make its stand on a ridge, some fourteen miles south of York. He puts Lord Clifford as an advance guard to prevent the Yorks crossing the River Aire, and Clifford tears the bridge down, so that when the young Edward marches up the road from London there is no way across. Boldly, Edward orders his men into the water, and as the snow falls on them in the swirling current in the evening light, they work on the bridge, up to their waists in freezing water with the winter floods running strong. It is easy work for Lord Clifford to ride down on them, kill Lord Fitzwalter and wipe out the troop. Richard sends me a note:

Edward’s inexperience has cost him dear. We have sprung the first trap, he can come on to Towton and see what we have for him here.

Then I wait for more news. The queen comes to York Castle and we both put on our capes and go up Clifford’s Tower. The armies are too far away for us to see anything, and the light is failing, but we both look south.

‘Can’t you wish him dead?’ she asks. ‘Can’t you strike him down?’

‘Warwick?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘Warwick would change his coat, I know it. No, curse that boy Edward, who dares to call himself king.’

‘I don’t know how to do such things, and I never wanted to know. I’m not a witch, Margaret, I’m not even much of a wise woman. If I could do anything right now I would make my son and husband invulnerable.’

‘I would curse Edward,’ she says. ‘I would throw him down.’

I think of the boy the same age as my son, the handsome golden-haired boy, the pride of Duchess Cecily’s &l. I think of him losing his temper in Calais, but his quick flush of shame when I told him that we had guarded his mother. I think of him bowing over my hand outside the queen’s rooms in Westminster. ‘I have a liking for him,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t ill-wish him. Besides, someone else will kill him for you, before the day is out. There has been enough killing, God knows.’