Cecily called to Piers. “Master Taggett, be so kind as to go and find Doctor LeMaitre. Quickly!” Piers nodded and went in search of the physician. Satisfied, Cecily took her boys’ hands and with deliberation began her journey to face she knew not what.

If ever there were a time to attribute great courage to Cecily of York, it was now.

It was less than half a mile to the market square, but when Dickon chose to remember their slow march that day, it was dreamlike. Much of it became buried under more vivid memories, like recognizing Constance’s screams from behind the castle keep and his mother’s cry of anguish when the doctor was heard no more.

“God rest her soul,” Cecily had whispered, the words informing Dickon their dear friend must be dead. He whimpered. True, he had witnessed death first-hand with the young billman, but he had not known the lad. He knew and loved Constance and had understood then he would never see her again. She would never sit by his bedside cooling his fevered head with a sweet-smelling cloth; never tell him tales of her time at the university in Salerno or of her childhood in Paris; nor help him catch butterflies; nor show him how to recognize poisonous herbs; nor make a poultice for the boils that often plagued him. He had swallowed a sob. Dickon grieved for her until his childhood memories faded over the years.

Dickon would also never forget how filthy soldiers fingered his hair, stuck out their tongues in his face, reached out and pulled at Cecily’s gown making disgusting sucking sounds. “Whore! Bitch!” they called, but proud Cecily walked on, eyes fixed on the castle gate, ignoring the taunts and insults.

Somewhere along the perilous path out of the castle grounds, Dickon had sensed a mysterious shield around his mother, George, and him. The soldiers had suddenly looked almost afraid and stepped away. He peeked up at his mother and, seeing a strange glow on her face, knew she had felt it, too. Was an angel guarding them? Nay, it must have been his imagination he would later tell himself, but at the time it lessened his fear.

Cecily had finally reached the sanctuary of the Market Cross and stood firm, surrounded by bloodthirsty enemy soldiers, before King Henry himself arrived on his huge warhorse, parting his troops and confronting Cecily. Dickon remembered holding his breath. Had his father been right? Would the king show mercy? Or were they all going to die? It had been a huge gamble based on York’s trust in King Henry’s honor and the chivalric code they all lived by.