Fascinated but fearful, Dickon watched the army of mounted men and foot soldiers slide like a moving carpet of gleaming silver over the landscape. Then wasting no more time, he scampered down the stairs to tell George that an army was at the gates. He should have waited to recognize the standard in the green and yellow colors of his uncle, the earl of Salisbury. The castle was not under attack after all. Even so, the boy would not soon forget his first sight of an army on the move. What he had also not waited long enough to see was that this army, which had recently seen battle, was a bedraggled and wounded horde of men straggling through Ludlow’s streets towards the castle.

When he joined his family in the courtyard, Dickon stared horrified as his uncle Richard Neville, earl of Salisbury, and his immediate entourage were helped from their mounts, blood and muck streaking their tabards and their beards. The colorful trappings on their horses were cut to tatters and dark blood caked the animals’ sides; one man’s head was wrapped in bandages, most of his jaw missing; dozens of foot soldiers supported others hobbling through the gateway on broken limbs or carried on makeshift litters; and the sounds of human suffering chilled Dickon to the marrow. He wanted to be sick, but he was a son of York and forced down his bile.

Many of the wounded had dropped where they stood once inside the safety of the curtain wall. Cecily picked up her skirts and began to move from one man to another offering prayers and words of encouragement. The common soldiers stared in awe at the beautiful duchess, clad in crimson damask and silk, who tore strips off her petticoat to wipe a bloodied brow here or staunch a wound there. Dickon stood in George’s shadow and observed his mother with pride.

Not long after her mistress jumped into the fray, Constance arrived with her bag of supplies and went from one victim to the other, ascertaining their condition and giving instructions to rush the badly wounded into her makeshift infirmary in the lodgings adjacent to the kitchen house. After years of caring for routine ailments of the household, she finally felt useful and was dispensing orders to the duke’s servants with the confidence of a battlefield commander. Then Dickon saw Meg run forward with a ewer of water and hold the vessel to the parched lips of as many as called for it. The women seemed fearless, and he could not stand idly by. As soon as he saw Meg’s pitcher was dry, Dickon picked up a pail and hurried to the well hard by the kitchen to fetch her more water. It felt good to him to be of use.

“There’s a good boy,” Richard of York called, seeing his youngest heaving the bucket back to Meg. “These men have given their blood for our house. Help as many as you can. George!” he cried, striding towards the great-hall steps with Salisbury and his oldest sons, looking to his brother-in-law for a full report. “Make yourself useful, like your young brother.”