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himself, after Cecily had read the letter from Edward.
    But even the dreadful toll could not dampen her joy at Edward’s stunning victory. “You say the snow helped Edward in the fight, sir. How, pray?”
    “’Twas the wind, your grace. When the Lancastrians let fly their arrows, the blizzard was in their faces and the arrows fell short. Our side picked them out of the ground and with the wind behind us shot them back with far more success.”
    Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “Killed with their own arrows? ’Tis horrible.”
    “Nay, lady, when you are fighting, you do not think on such things. Why, in the snow, ’twas difficult to tell who was with who. Many of us may have slain those of our own side, I know not! Somerset was on the higher ground, but when the archers failed to breach York’s ranks, they charged downhill to fight hand to hand. Arms and legs were hacked off, if you were fortunate. Heads, if you were not. When you thought you had broken through a line, another one was there. My lord Edward was our rallying point, never losing ground, always pressing forward and encouraging us loudly until his voice was hoarse. What was begun in the morning did not end until evening, when my lord of Norfolk arrived to reinforce us with his East Anglian force, God be praised. That is when things turned black for King Henry, for his weary men turned and ran, leaving pink snow in their wake. The pity of it was, the only place to run was down the steep sides of the other hill to the Cock Beck stream, full to bursting its banks. Many drowned in their heavy mail, and I saw others using the dead bodies to form a bridge over which they attempted to flee. The water ran red that day, your grace, red with the blood of good Englishmen. Their only fault was fighting for the wrong cause.”
    Margaret and Cecily sat in silence, transfixed by the scenes of carnage so vividly described by the messenger. Cecily, still clutching the letter, gripped the arms of her chair, her thoughts all of her late husband and how he, too, must have died thus. Margaret shuddered as she tried to imagine losing an arm or a leg—although growing up she had seen several of Baynard’s soldiers with limbs, hands or feet missing.
    “What happens to all those dead men?” she suddenly asked. “How do their families know if they are safe or killed? They cannot send messengers to every village.”
    “The wounded are cared for by the field surgeons, although butchers might be a better word, my lady,” the man said, holding up his hand and showing the stumps of two fingers, still black with the tar used to cauterize the amputation. Margaret winced, and the man grinned. “But we have to dig pits for the dead. This time, it took nigh on two days before all were buried. ’Tis presumed if a man does not return to his home that he perished,” the messenger said softly.
    Everyone in the hall crossed themselves, and Cecily fingered her rosary. Then she asked, “Where are King Henry and Queen Margaret?”
    “The king, queen and their son, the prince of Wales, are fled to Scotland, your grace, and their troops scattered. Many of the lords of Lancaster were slain that day, and those who are not dead or fled have asked pardon of the lord Edward and joined our ranks. ’Tis truly a victory for the house of York!”
    “Aye, a great victory for York,” Cecily pronounced proudly and called for wine for the assembled company.
    “I charge you all to drink to”—she hesitated, savoring the thought—“to King Edward!”
    “God save King Edward!” shouted the triumphant household as one.
    Margaret felt the swell of pride again.

3
    June 1461
    The palace of Shene was situated far from the city on a beautiful bend of the Thames, where islands thick with hazelnut and oak trees floated in the river. It was early June, and the field on the opposite bank was carpeted with buttercups. Yellow water lilies floated below Margaret’s vantage point above the water, and