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Margaret stared after them, dumbfounded. Sweet Jesu, she thought incredulously, I will be a princess.
    W HERE, IN ALL of this, was King Henry and his queen? Margaret wanted to know. Cecily was proud of Margaret’s keen perception and the intelligent curiosity that had prompted the question. They both looked at Edward. He was relaxing for a few hours in front of the fire in his mother’s solar with his favorite wolfhound lying on the tiled floor beside him, using Edward’s foot as a pillow.
    “The She-Wolf is on her way north, Meg. Turned on her tail, with Henry tied tightly to it, and went back north. Word has reached me of more devastation in her army’s path as they retreat. I can never forgive her for her disregard for our people. In truth, what can you expect from a French woman! God’s nails, but I hate her!” He hissed the last comment and drew a frown and a “Hush, Edward” from his mother.
    “What happens now, Ned? Does England have two kings?” Margaret asked, innocently.
    Edward grinned at her. “’Twould appear so, my dear sister.” Then he turned serious. “Nay, the business is not finished until one or other of us kings is defeated completely. The queen is not finished, I can promise you that. And,” he paused, shifting his weight so the dog had to move, “neither am I!”
    “More fighting then?” Margaret lamented. Edward nodded and reached for his wine.
    I N THREE WEEKS, Edward’s call to arms had brought thousands of new followers to London, who were eager to rid the realm of the hated Margaretof Anjou. Almost immediately after Edward’s victory, Warwick had taken his force to the Midlands, intending to gather more men along the way. Messengers to Baynard’s regularly came and went, keeping Edward informed of Warwick’s progress and the whereabouts of Henry and his queen. Edward learned that the Lancastrians had now amassed a greater army in Yorkshire than the one they had taken to the gates of London, bolstered by the duke of Somerset rallying new troops to the cause.
    On the thirteenth of March, Cecily and Margaret watched grimly as Edward led his personal meinie out of Baynard’s courtyard. The tabors beat a slow march and the shawms alerted the citizens that York was on the move. Londoners gathered to cheer him out of the city as loudly as they had cheered him in. He twisted round in the saddle and waved to his mother and sister, looking every inch the young warrior on a crusade. He had ordered a new badge for his men, a blazing sun in splendor chosen because of the three suns phenomenon at Mortimer’s Cross. All of them wore the badge proudly on their tunics.
    “God speed, my son! And may He hold you safe!” Cecily called, drawing her sable cloak close to shield herself from the biting wind. “I pray, dear Mother of God, that he is safe,” she whispered, her lip trembling.
    “Have no fear, Mother,” Margaret tried to sound cheerful. “How can Edward lose? Look at him!”
    Cecily gave her a grateful look and turned back into the hall. How many times would they, as women, have to watch their men march off to do battle? Certes, she sighed, there must be another way!
    Margaret left her mother’s side and, under the pretext of using the garderobe, hurried to the bridge room, where she could catch a last glimpse of the cavalcade as it disappeared from view. She waited until she could no longer hear the shawms and tabors and then went back to her own apartments.
    E DWARD MARCHED NORTH towards York, joining with Warwick’s force along the way, and on Palm Sunday on a plateau known as Towton Field, the two armies finally faced each other. It was said that fifty thousand men were arrayed that day in the snow, with Edward’s force two-thirds the size of Henry’s.
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    “N EAR TWENTY THOUSAND slain? ’Tis pitiable!” Cecily exclaimed, when she heard the news. “God rest their poor souls.”
    “Aye, God rest their souls,” the messenger echoed, crossing