She shivers and pulls up her hood. ‘It’s going to snow,’ she says. ‘It’s late in the year for snow.’

We go to the abbey for dinner and the king leads her in through the great hall filled with his household. ‘I have written to Edward Earl of March,’ he says in his fluting voice. ‘I have asked for a truce for tomorrow. It is Palm Sunday, he cannot think of fighting a battle on Palm Sunday. It is the day of Our Lord’s entry into Jerusalem. He must want to be at prayer. We will all be at prayer on such a holy day, it is God’s will.’

The queen exchanges a quick look with me.

‘Has he replied?’ I ask.

He casts his eyes down. ‘I am sorry to say that he refused a truce,’ he says. ‘He will risk the fortunes of war, on the very day that Our Lord went into Jerusalem. Edward thinks to ride out on the very morning that Our Lord rode to His holy city. He must be a very hardened young man.’

‘He’s very bad,’ Margaret says, biting down on her irritation. ‘But it must be to our advantage.’

‘I shall order the Duke of Somerset not to give battle,’ the king tells us. ‘Our men should not make war on a Sunday, not on Palm Sunday. They must just stand in their ranks to show our faith in God. If Edward charges they must turn the other cheek.’

‘We have to defend ourselves,’ the queen says quickly. ‘And God will bless us all the more for defending ourselves against such a faithless act.’

The king considers. ‘Perhaps Somerset should withdraw until Monday?’

‘He has a good position, Your Grace,’ I say gently. ‘Perhaps we should wait and see what is the outcome. You have offered a holy truce – that must be enough.’

‘I shall ask the bishop for his view,’ the king says. ‘And I shall pray tonight for guidance. I shall pray all night.’

The king performs his vigil in the minster, the monks from the abbey coming and going in the great church as he prays. I go to bed but I am wakeful too; I cannot sleep for thinking of Richard and Anthony, out all night in the cold, a north wind blowing snow, with a battle coming tomorrow on a holy day.

* * *

In the morning the sky is heavy and white as if the clouds are pressing down on the very walls of the city. At about nine o’clock it starts to snow, great white flakes swirling round in dizzy circles and lying on the frozen ground. The city seems to huddle down under the snowflakes, which come thicker and thicker.

I go to the queen’s rooms and find her prowling around, her hands tucked in her sleeves for warmth. The king is praying at the abbey, she is giving orders for their goods to be packed up again. ‘If we win we will advance on London and this tie they will open the gates to me. Otherwise . . .’ She does not finish the sentence, and both of us cross ourselves.