She thought quickly now. Should the family take flight and leave the household to fend for themselves? Nay, that would be an act of cowardice she could not countenance, and besides she would get no mercy from the queen. What would Richard do? she thought. Images of Ludlow and her perilous march to the market cross flitted through her mind, but she forced herself back to the present. This time she would not leave the safety of the castle but fight for what was hers by right.

“Sir Henry, I pray you assemble the household in the courtyard within the hour, and I will address them.” The man bowed and left the room. What she would say, she was not sure but her mother had always told her, “Servants do better when they have orders. They are more comfortable doing something.” She would talk to the captain in charge of the small contingent of men-at-arms left behind to guard the duchess and her family. She nodded to herself. He could organize the small household in fortifying the castle; and she should send the kitchen boys out into the city to stock up on food in case of a siege.

What was she forgetting? Her eye fell on George and Dickon, watching her anxiously, and her heart stopped. Sweet Jesu, the boys! They were the most precious commodity in the castle, and they must not fall into Margaret of Anjou’s hands. George was now second in line behind Edward to inherit the crown when Henry died, as had been laid out in the Act of Accord. Why had she not thought of this before? They were in extreme danger. (A more forgiving observer would have explained that her existence these past few weeks had been consumed by grief, to which Cecily would have roundly responded, “Pish!”)

The wheels of her mind were turning as frantically as those that were lowering the portcullis at this moment. Where to send the boys? Anywhere north and west of London would be fraught with Lancastrian danger. Fotheringhay was too far—and they would risk running into the queen’s soldiers—Elizabeth in Suffolk was a possibility, but Lizzie was expecting a child at any moment. Her other daughter, Anne, lived in Devon, but her husband was the hated duke of Exeter, one of Queen Margaret’s adherents; nay, the boys would certainly not be secure there.

Sweet Mother of God, help me, she prayed fervently, looking out on the river, the small craft plying back and forth between the banks or down towards London Bridge and the larger ships in the Pool beyond readying for voyages to…and suddenly her prayer was answered. Why not send them abroad? English Calais, perhaps? But without Warwick there, could she trust that the garrison commander was loyal? She thought how lost she was without her husband, but Cecily had always undervalued her own intelligence for many of Richard’s decisions had actually been made by her. She needed faith in that intelligence now…