Years later when Dickon thought back on those few hours at Ludlow on the thirteenth day of October, his memories had blurred into a nightmare of dead bodies; yards of bloody entrails through which terrified horses slithered; screaming women slammed against walls as men thrust up brutally between their legs; houses on fire; pandemonium in the streets; and menacing soldiers brandishing pikes, clubs and daggers in the faces of the little group of women led by his dogged mother, who walked proudly with her young sons through the castle grounds to the market square, seeking the mercy of the king. How terrifying that, other than a few trusty servants, the duchess’s little party had no men left to defend them. Every second Dickon had expected to be separated forcibly from her, beaten, or stabbed, and he clung to her hand with every ounce of strength he had.

It was an angry army that awoke to find it had been hoodwinked that morning. Queen Margaret was livid her arch enemy had escaped and so allowed her troops to tear apart the barricade, swarm across the trench and over the bridge into Ludlow, where they ransacked the town. The screams, alarm bells and clashing steel penetrated the fitful sleep of the inmates in the castle, and soon pandemonium broke out behind the thick walls as those servants who remained and their noble charges hurried to dress and ready themselves for surrender.

“We shall not fight,” Cecily cried from the top step of the great hall, her weeping over. Proud Cis had emerged from her chamber earlier with a purpose. “I pray you put your trust in Our Sovereign King Henry. I am commanding that any man who is able to walk leave by the postern gate immediately. My ladies, my children and I shall walk out to meet the king and save the castle,” the duchess declared as though it were a routine, everyday task. When Duchess Cecily set her mind on something, it was pointless to object—although many in the room had fearful misgivings.

Constance had no qualms about leaving her mistress in charge as she slipped away to the infirmary to tend to the wounded, while the men of the household staff paid their respects to the duchess and began to leave through the postern gate. Only faithful Piers Taggett, his eyes never wavering from his mistress and savior, stayed by her side. Even had the duke not ordered him to stay with Cecily, Piers would have remained.

“I hope my plan works,” she said to her ladies.

“No one would dare to touch you, Your Grace,” Beatrice spoke up from behind, her hand entwined in Meg’s. “You look magnificent.”