Chapter 21

Margaret clutched Binnie’s shoulders.

Binnie flinched from the strength of her grasp, but dared not pull away. She was the queen.

“Alex. What is it?” Margaret said. “What is your idea?”

In the tense moment, Binnie did not think about his flat voice. He remembered his visit with the blacksmith while he was waiting for the right moment to leave Coin Forest. “I know this blacksmith,” he said. “He told me a story about horseshoes.”

The queen no longer cringed at his voice, but leaned toward him, eager to hear. “Go on,” she said.

“The smithy told me about how he stores horseshoes for luck. If you store the horseshoes with the open ends down, your luck will run out, but if you store them with the open ends up, your luck will run in.”

“You speak to me of luck?” Margaret released him. She narrowed her eyes and grimaced as if Binnie were speaking an unknown language.

“If you can change your luck with horseshoes by switching them, you can also change the way your horse runs,” Binnie said.

Nicole grabbed his arm. “Binnie. Clever!”

“What are you talking about?” Margaret’s voice rose.

“Reverse your horse’s shoes, and the Yorkists cannot track you,” Binnie explained. “They will think you’re coming, not going.”

Recognition lit Margaret’s eyes. “Your sister is right. Alex Miles, you are clever.” She hurried down the stairs.

Mucklestone’s blacksmith was summoned. He arrived in a rush, his horse winded from the run. Dark-haired, his sturdy forearms scarred with proof of his craft, William Skelhorn set to the task. Binnie, Nicole and the knights helped, following Skelhorn’s directions.

Skelhorn worked up a sheen of sweat, his large muscles bulging as he hammered the shoes. He worked in a distinct rhythm, whistling softly to the horses as he worked. Soon Margaret’s and Edward’s horses wore the reversed shoes, as did Nicole’s Grace, and Binnie’s Hingit.

“Faster. Faster,” Margaret urged.

Sweat beaded and snaked down Skelhorn’s brow. “Yes, your Grace.” The blacksmith’s ample jowls shook with each pounding of the nails.

“Ah!” The older knight standing nearby cried out in pain and clutched his chest. An arrow had pierced his armor. He fell.

The brother knights looked back in the direction where the arrows had come and hurried for their horses. The knight with the badly scarred ear—Nat, Binnie remembered—pushed Margaret, Edward, Nicole and Binnie toward the church. “Get inside. Stay there.”

Nat pushed them in the doorway and began to close the door. His hand splayed and he grunted in pain and fell. An arrow had driven deep in his back.

Binnie scooped Digger up, shut the door and passed his sister. “Make way. I have bolts.”

“The crossbow? Binnie, no!” Nicole reached for him.

Binnie sidestepped her. His sister had long legs, but he was quicker. She had stopped him too many times before, convinced him to shrink back, avoid being heard or seen. No more.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do. You only know that I’m deaf.” He pushed his sister away and hurried to the rood screen where he had stored Stephen’s cross bow. He dropped Digger, grabbed the bow and took the winding staircase two steps at a time.

“They will see you, Binnie. Stop.” His sister dashed up the stairway, her long legs bringing her inches from him.

Binnie stopped and raised his arm, blocking his sister. “You stop,” Binnie said, pushing the words out, imagining them loud as he could make them. “I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“Because I can, Nicole. I can.”

She nodded. “Be careful, for God’s sake.

Binnie hurried onto the roof and surveyed the grounds below. The late afternoon light cast shadows, but he could see everything. The horses. Four knights, Matthew, his bald head shining in the sun; the brothers, and Paul, the tallest, with the broken jaw. Father Samuel foolishly lingered at the door.

Seven Yorkist archers were positioned thirty yards from the church on a small knoll to the right, ready to pick off the rest of the knights. Once done they would capture Nicole, the prince, the queen.

In the horse enclosure, Hingit whinnied and pulled, trying to break free. Binnie had brought Hingit into this danger. He needed to protect him.

Behind him, Digger pawed at his legs. “Down, Dig.” Binnie batted at him without taking the archers out of his sight. “Stay down.”

A mist cleared in his mind, leaving every detail sharp. To shoot his crossbow he must rise and be visible on the roof, risk being seen. Shot.

He took a deep breath.

Rubbing his thumb gently over the honed edge of a bolt he imagined the pain, feeling it knife into his body. His body convulsed from a tic of fear.

Deaf. Deaf. He pushed the thought away. He may die trying, but they would all die if he did not.

“You are a master at this,” Joya had said.

I can save the knights and the throne.

So this was what war was about.

His hands shook. Binnie notched the long, heavy bolt into position. By the saints, I will save them all. I will.

A strange power pulsed in his veins. A liquid strength, not fear, jolted through his body. If he hurried he might be able to loose two or three bolts before they started shooting at him.

He had killed rabbits and stags but never a man. He aimed for the closest archer, just thirty yards away. It became to him not a man’s chest but a target, the tattered target at Coin Forest. He released the bolt.

The powerful cross bow issued a melodic plang.

The archer fell.

Binnie grabbed another bolt from the quiver. He slapped his shaking hand, successfully cocked the crossbow, and aimed.

The bolt hit the second archer. He dispatched a third.

Something akin to joy surged through Binnie’s chest. He jumped in the air.

“He’s up there. On the tower,” an archer shouted.

He’d given away his position. Binnie ducked, peeking out from the crenellated top at an angle.

Arrows rained on the roof.

Binnie slammed himself against the side. Fool. He chanced another glance. Four more archers remained. He would have to risk more shots.

He threaded the bolt, hoping speed would lessen the risk. He estimated their last position and prepared to aim. At the first sign of a break in the rain of arrows he rose, gaining a quick lead on them, and shot. Not waiting to see if he was successful, he aimed another bolt and released it. His heart settled and he shot all of his remaining bolts.

The arrows stopped flying.

Binnie risked a glance down.

They were dead.

Margaret’s surviving knights advanced on the archers, taking their bows.

Nicole appeared at the top of the steps. “Binnie. It’s safe. Let’s go—hurry.”

Running full force into his sister, he hugged her and jumped up and down. “I did it. I did it.” His legs refused to quit jumping.

“I can’t believe it,” Nicole said. She gave a startled expression. “No, what I meant to say is, I saw it for myself. You saved us.” Respect shone in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Binnie’s heart swelled. She saw. She believed in him now.

They raced down the stairs. Binnie grabbed his bag and they ran to their horses.

“Leave. Go.” Father Samuel helped the queen and Nicole on their horses. The knight mounted and the blacksmith boosted the young prince up with Paul.

Binnie tucked Digger in his riding hood, stepped on the first rung of the horse post and mounted Hingit. He ventured a gaze at the fallen archers. But for the blood they looked peaceful, as if sleeping. One had a full, light beard.

An image shot through Binnie’s brain, his father. Dead in the wagon.

Did that archer have a sister? Children? Ice spread through his stomach, a weakening sense of loss. I killed them.

Profound sorrow pierced Binnie’s chest as surely as his bolt had pierced theirs. His joy, his exaltation at having succeeded faded to a numbing confusion.

War was not so honorable.

The knights mounted, bringing Binnie back to the danger.

Nicole approached the queen. “Did you see what Binnie did?”

The queen nodded. “Surprising. Very good.”

Binnie glanced at the dead archers again. “There are only five of them. There were seven.”

Paul frowned. “Two must have gone to get help.” He looked at Margaret. “They know you’re here. We must leave.”

“What about Charles? Alfred? Nat?” Margaret asked.

“Dead,” the tallest knight said.

“Get their horses then,” Margaret said.

“I did not have time to finish their shoes,” Skelhorn said.

“Leave them,” Paul said, his speech slurred from the broken jaw. “We must go.”

Skelhorn bent to retrieve his tools from the ground.

Paul stepped forward, his movement abrupt, urgent, catching Binnie’s attention. Paul stepped on Skelhorn’s hand, keeping him down. In a deadly efficient sweep, he grabbed the smithy’s hair, pulled his head back and slit the blacksmith’s throat.

Skelhorn dropped his tools and fell, his lifeblood spurting.

Nicole’s face drained of all color, and she looked at Binnie, eyes wide in shock.

“Knave!” Binnie cried at Paul. “Murderer.” He turned to Margaret. “Why? He helped us.”

Margaret glared at him. “The Yorkists would have done much worse to him to find out where we went. Now let us go, or his sacrifice will have been in vain.”

We could have taken him with us. Binnie’s stomach turned.

Father Samuel bent down to Skelhorn’s struggling form. Mumbled words, then the priest’s clear voice. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name...”

“We’re leaving.” Margaret spurred her horse toward the woods. Her horse balked, lifting its hooves but not stepping forward.

Hingit did the same, as if he were dancing in place.

“It’s the shoes. They feel strange,” Paul said. “Be firm with them.”

Binnie urged his horse on, rocking in the saddle. “Come, Hingit. Come on.” Hingit grumbled, but finally responded.

The horses advanced uncertainly at first, then faster.

Father Samuel’s prayers faded as they rode.

The horses sprinted for the cover of the forest, some three hundred yards distant, seven horses with reversed shoes, by all appearances coming rather than going.

* * *

Binnie huddled with Nicole, the queen and the others, a half mile in the forest. They had been making their way, north and east under the forest cover, heading for Eccelshall, when Paul and Nicole heard the Yorkists approaching from the west. They cut a wide circle and stopped in the cover of a shrub thicket of evergreen oak.

Trees blocked the sun, shadowing the forest in flat grey with occasional splashes of green and slanted sunlight.

The Yorkists had stopped just twenty-five yards away, a dozen or so of them. One walked directly toward them.

Binnie held his hand in front of Hingit, signaling him to be quiet. His heart pounded. They could not have come this far, the blacksmith could not have died, just so they could be captured.

The Yorkist party spread out, checking the ground.

One of them pointed to the ground and said something.

Another man joined him, also pointing to the ground. Seeing the hoof prints? His heart skipped again.

A third man joined them, peering at the ground. Were they speaking? Pox, pox, pox on my ears. Binnie struck his right ear, knowing it was futile.

His sister poked him, mouthing what the enemy trips were saying.

Binnie watched, reading her lips.

“Why would the queen return to the church? Makes no sense,” Nicole mouthed.

“Because someone else is following them,” she continued.

The first one mounted his horse.

“Who cares?” Nicole mouthed. Her chest rose and fell as if she had exhaled a large breath. “They’re going back to the church,” she mouthed.

The other Yorkists mounted and headed away, toward the church.

Binnie waited with Nicole.

Nicole smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

Margaret nodded.

Paul regarded him with a tipping gesture, as if he were flipping his helm open.

They rose with caution, mounted and resumed their easterly route.

Binnie patted Hingit and sat straighter in the saddle.

* * *

Nicole allowed the queen’s advisor, William, to escort her into Eccleshall Castle’s great hall, some ten miles distant from Blore Heath. Home to the bishop, the hall was thrice the size of Faierfield’s and lavishly decorated. It was well after midnight.

“You and Alex are to wait here,” William said, directing them to a space to the right of the dais. “The queen will call upon you when she is ready.”

Nicole leaned against the wall, weak from hours of witnessing unspeakable bloodshed and death, of unrelieved worry about Stephen and the strange events at Mucklestone.

Binnie stood to her left, holding Digger, Stephen’s crossbow still strapped on his back.

The royal losses numbed Nicole. The early reports varied wildly, some confirmed, others not. Two thousand, likely more had perished. Audley had fallen, his body recovered. Dudley had been captured. Thousands more were being pursued. Despite Margaret’s vow, Salisbury was rumored still alive, camped at Market Drayton, but he had not escaped unscathed. His sons, Sir Thomas and Sir John Neville, had been wounded at Blore Heath and were later captured by the royal army in nearby Cheshire.

Stephen. Stephen. Her eyes stung, and she summoned anger to stop the tears before they exposed her as weak. She needed to be strong, but seeing Stephen defect to the enemy burned in her heart, a disease that made her want to disappear.

Now the fireplace glowed, the blaze taller than she, so large it woofed in the downdraft, popping sparks. Noblemen and knights filled the hall, some lying wounded on tables. Their soft moans filled the hall, punctuated by the sound of the enemy’s cannon that still fired at Blore Heath.

Binnie nudged her.

“What?”

“Comb your hair,” he whispered, lifting her purse from the fold of her skirt.

Nicole touched her hair, stroked through the tangles caused by the wild ride. Yes, appearances. Years of Emilyne’s lectures sounded in her ears. Even here she must represent the family with dignity. She found her comb. Turning away from the hall, she tamed her hair and returned to stand by her brother.

She searched the dozens of faces, desperate for a glance at the tall, dark-skinned man she loved, desperate for some explanation that proved he hadn’t deserted the royal army.

Trumpets sounded.

All men able to do so dropped to their knees.

King Henry and Queen Margaret entered the hall, pausing for a moment as the horns completed their flourish.

Margaret had covered her dress with a red velvet cape and a headdress of pearls and red roses. The lovely black onyx necklace still adorned her neck. An air of power surrounded her. Did she walk, one foot in front of the other? Nay, she seemed to float across the large hall, men bowing, making room for them as they passed.

She stilled them each with a cool glance, not one of condemnation but one of ... Nicole searched for the right word. Regard. Margaret possessed great strength in her small body, and strong will. By the expressions on their faces, every man felt that forcefulness.

King Henry towered over his queen. He had fine hands, slender fingers, like her father’s. His furrowed brow and thinned mouth revealed his distress over this bloody defeat. His robe could not conceal the hesitancy in his step or the pale tinge of his skin.

Margaret helped her king get seated.

Henry spoke firmly to his leaders, thanking them for their loyalty and sacrifices. When he spoke of Audley’s death, his usual gentle nature changed to one of passion and fury. He condemned Salisbury and York and vowed they would dearly regret this day. With a delicate cough, he bid them Godspeed and turned to his queen.

Margaret then spoke, expressing sorrow for their losses, outrage toward the Yorkists. “Oh, England! This is our darkest hour, our country cloven by the most evil of traitors! Our finest noblemen bleed tonight, and many have taken their last breath defending her.

“Make not their sacrifices be in vain!” She turned to the king. She lay a hand on his shoulder to bring him back from the mental fog into which he had visibly fallen. “They love you, my king, they love you and your son deeply.” She paused and turned back to her noblemen. “By my troth I promise you. A bright day is coming for you and our beloved king. Ten thousand men wait outside these gates to join you, and another twenty thousand stand ready in Coventry. We will crush these traitors.” Her eyes flashed with passion and determination and the men seemed to draw strength from her, strength and hope.

She turned to Henry. “You are our king. Long live England. Long live our king.”

The hall erupted in cheers.

“Your beloved king appreciates your heroism, and he will reward you for killing his enemies. I have a story to tell.” Like a song, Margaret’s voice carried through the hall, filled with passion and pride, a richness the sirens would have envied. She had gained their full attention.

“...and our king has asked that we honor them today.” Nicole’s attention returned to the dais and she realized she had fallen under Margaret’s spell, hearing the passion but missing the words.

Binnie nudged her. “She ordered us to approach.”

They did so.

Margaret took Nicole’s hand and guided her up the steps to the dais. “Nicole Miles Ellingham, you helped me at Mucklestone, and you reported the activity on Blore Heath with honesty and accuracy, even though at times it was painful and detrimental for you to do so. I am grateful, and bestow upon you such that I can in this time of war.” Margaret removed the heavy gold and black onyx necklace and placed it on Nicole’s neck.

Nicole fingered the gold and the stones, still warm from Margaret’s skin. She had never been publicly recognized. She felt the eyes of the men upon her, basked in the warmth of Margaret’s round eyes, her perfect smile, the stunning gift. She bowed to the queen. The necklace was worth much, but it was the queen’s gratitude that touched Nicole. New hope filled Nicole’s thoughts. The queen could help her spare Stephen, give him a chance to explain his actions, and this shadow on his family would be lifted. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“And this young man, Alex Miles,” the queen said, inviting Binnie up the steps, “helped me escape Mucklestone and certain capture. His quick wits and deadly aim with his crossbow saved my knights and my son this night.”

Margaret told the story of Binnie’s strategic plan with the horseshoes. “Your king rewards your loyalty with this as recompense.” The queen slid a large ruby ring on Binnie’s thumb.

Binnie studied the heavy gold ring and gaped at Nicole.

Visions of Skelhorn’s kind eyes and anvil flashed before Nicole’s eyes. What would he receive for his loyalty?

Binnie dropped his gaze. Was the slain blacksmith in his thoughts, too?

But Margaret was watching, waiting. Binnie remembered his manners and bowed. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“I call upon all of you to emulate the loyalty and courage that these two showed today.” Margaret turned to the men, warning them of the growing threat to the throne that the Yorkists represented. “We will defeat these traitors with might, and with unity.”

Traitors. The word knifed Nicole, tightening her throat. Stephen.

Margaret searched the crowd. “Ulger Miles, please come forward.”

Ulger made his way through the crowd to the dais, his expression clouded. He avoided looking at Nicole, even as he stood just inches from her. “Yes, my queen.”

Margaret lowered her voice. “You disobeyed Lord Audley today. Your premature attack destroyed our battle plan.”

“I acted out of love for our king,” Ulger said, rubbing his nose. “It was not me, but Stephen Ellingham who destroyed our plans. He deserted, joined Salisbury to fight against the king. Our troops were so dispirited they gave up, right there. Stephen Ellingham caused our defeat.”

Angered beyond control, Nicole pointed a finger at her uncle. “Lies! You’re ever eager to discredit Stephen.” She turned to King Henry, hoping he would be more open to learning all the facts before condemning her husband. “Please give Stephen a chance to explain.”

Margaret grabbed Nicole’s arm and pulled her down to meet her, face to face. “Be silent or you’ll be dismissed. Both of you.” Her eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “Do not try me.”

The queen addressed Ulger. “What makes you sure Stephen deserted and joined Salisbury?”

Morys limped forward from among the crowd, face muddied, his eyes and lips swollen twice their size. He forced his way to the dais and stood to Nicole’s right.

Ulger saw him and flinched in surprise.

“Well?” the queen demanded.

“It was clear as day,” Ulger said.

Silenced and helpless, Nicole listened to every word, noted every expression. Why was Ulger glancing at Morys out of the corner of his eye as he spoke?

“Stephen rode his black destrier,” Ulger said. “He made no effort to disguise himself. He wore the Faierfield shield and carried the Tabor banner. He encouraged others, and they joined Salisbury’s camp.”

“He lies” Morys shouted. He pointed at Ulger. “I saw you! Stephen was hurt. Down. You took his helm, you put it on and carried Stephen’s flag. I saw you do it.”

“State your name,” Margaret said.

Ulger’s knight, Simon, forced his way forward. “An Ellingham knight,” he said in his whining, fawning way. “What could we expect but to hear you spouting desperate lies?”

Daniel appeared at Morys’ side. “I am not an Ellingham knight, my queen. I serve Lord Faierfield, and I know it was not Stephen that went to the enemy.”

“Was it you then?” Simon’s voice dipped, taunting Daniel. “Mayhaps we all wore Stephen’s helm and shield and carried Stephen’s flag and rode Stephen’s horse?”

A few men laughed.

“Sir Daniel. Why do you think it was not Stephen?” Margaret asked.

“Your Grace. Stephen tied a blue scarf in his armor before the battle started. It was his wife Nicole’s scarf.” Daniel pointed at Nicole. “The man I saw forsake our troops had no scarf in his armor.”

“Babble,” Simon mocked. “You speak of a scarf, so easy to fall free.”

Margaret’s eyes flashed. “Who are you, and who gave you consent to speak?”

Simon’s eyes widened and he fell to his knees. “Forgive me, my queen.”

“This is Simon, my knight,” Ulger said.

“My lord speaks the truth,” Simon said. “I saw Stephen Ellingham defect with my own eyes. He encouraged hundreds of others to join him. You saw him do it, too. You, and you, and you.” Simon pointed to men nearby. “We all saw him do it.”

One in the crowd nodded, then another, then more, murmuring their agreement.

Margaret put a finger to her lips, thinking. “You men would swear to this?”

A knight with his arm in a sling nodded. “I saw it, too.”

“Yes it was him,” said another.

“It was broad daylight. I saw him,” said a third.

Nicole fought an unladylike urge to spit in Simon’s face, and her uncle’s as well. Her skin stung, as if unseen needles pricked, torturing her neck. She yearned to defend Stephen but dared not risk losing Margaret’s favor by defying her and intervening again. She tried to contain herself at hearing Stephen being accused thusly. She turned to Morys, pleading with her eyes to help her.

“May I speak, your Grace?” Morys asked.

At Margaret’s nod, he continued. “I saw Ulger don Stephen’s helm. Of course it was daylight, but once his helm was on you could not see his face. All any of you saw was a man in armor, riding Stephen’s horse and carrying his banner. I swear to you, I saw Ulger do it.”

“Would you take the word of a drunk, then?” Ulger asked. “He was swilling tankards of wine during the parlay. Would you trust one drunk, or hundreds of clear-sighted men?”

That earned Ulger another round of nods and mumbling.

“My queen,” Ulger said, sounding much the wise man. “This is easily settled. Dozens of men have given testimony they saw Stephen Ellingham do it. If he is innocent, where is he? Where is his father, Lord Tabor? Their absence speaks louder than I ever can.” He turned to the king. “Mind you the long-standing Ellingham loyalty to Gloucester, with their strong ties to York. It only makes sense the Ellinghams would take their side. Your tolerance these years—admirable, but the Ellinghams have shown their color. And it is not red. It is white.” Ulger concluded his speech, raising his chin.

Nicole wanted desperately to take advantage of her position on the dais and kick the smirk from his face.

Margaret stared at him, finally shaking her head. “You seem to have forgotten, we were talking about you, Ulger. How your hasty attack cost us dearly today.”

Ulger’s expression turned to one of agony. “It will haunt me all my life, your Grace. I so feared Salisbury would escape. I was compelled to serve my king, to earn honor and favor for my family.” Ulger cleared his throat. “I pray I have earned your trust, that you will at long last grant my petition...”

“Not that again,” Margaret said. “This is not the time.”

King Henry stirred, as if waking, and waved Margaret silent. “What petition is that?”

Margaret scurried. “You have been ill, and we are at war, my lord. I have not had the time to bother you with it.” She shot arrows of anger at Ulger. “Ulger wishes to assume young Alex’s title. He thinks the boy mad, but he is not, I warrant. In fact he is bright and capable. I have seen this myself.”

“And who is Alex?” the king asked, looking around as if searching for Alex.

Margaret met Nicole’s eyes and blushed. She approached Henry and whispered, loudly enough because of the king’s faded hearing that Nicole, standing close by, heard. “He’s standing here, on the dais, my lord, with his sister. Alex is Emilyne’s son. Lord Marmyl’s grandson.”

“Marmyl?” the king said.

“Alex is the boy we just rewarded for saving us at Mucklestone,” Margaret said. “He’s heir apparent. His father, Walter Miles, died. Remember?”

King Henry’s eyes widened. He recovered, nodding sagely, as if they were discussing options, instead of being reminded of one of his own war-decorated earls, and the late Lord Faierfield and his descendants.

Realization struck, and Nicole swallowed hard. The king had not the mental faculties to remember long-standing allies, or what had happened just moments earlier. All King Henry’s illnesses came to mind, their number and duration. Nicole met Margaret’s eyes. Margaret was not just the queen.

She was also the king.

Margaret did not flinch. She raised her chin in challenge.

Nicole hurriedly lowered her eyes, which blinked rapidly of their own volition.

“Bring Alex to me, then,” King Henry said.

“Your Grace, we have more pressing problems to address, we—”

“Alex Miles,” the king said.

Alex stood before the king.

“Your father was a fine nobleman, loyal to the crown. Your grandfather was an earl, the great Lord Marmyl. His blood runs in your veins. You’re young, but not too young to defend your queen.”

He gestured to William, and William handed him a sword. “You will inherit your rightful title.”

“But your Grace,” Ulger protested. “That is not what I petitioned. Alex is not fit to assume title, he—”

The king’s pointed glance silenced Ulger.

Nicole’s heart pounded. Was the king really... She shook her head and realized Binnie was still standing. “Kneel. Kneel.” She mouthed and gestured.

Binnie knelt, and the king touched him lightly on the shoulder. “I present Alexander Miles, the future Baron Faierfield.”

“No.” Ulger’s anguished cry echoed in the quiet hall. “No. I have presented evidence, testimony that—”

“You will receive your ceremony and formal presentation of arms on your fourteenth birthday.”

Alex bowed and stood. A smile had claimed his face, broad and joyful. He closed his mouth, capturing it, allowing a more humble smile. He could not contain the joy in his eyes, and they shone with a happiness Nicole had not seen since before he had lost his hearing.

“Alex Miles, Baron Faierfield,” she whispered, knowing he didn’t need to hear the words to know what she was saying.

Decorum forgotten, they threw their arms around each other.

Nicole embraced her brother, floating with gladness. All her worries, all her efforts to hold Ulger at bay, all of Stephen’s help, protecting Binnie—Alex, she corrected; she must learn to give him the dignity of his name and his title. “Alex. Alex.” She hugged him.

“...and I hoped you would recognize my contributions over the years, my considerable contributions.

Nicole reluctantly abandoned their celebration to hear what Ulger was saying privately to the queen.

“Ulger, you worry me to death. You’re a thorn in my side. You’re useless in battle, and—”

“My finest knights are at your disposal, your Grace. I have been and forever will be your servant. You know that.” Ulger turned to the king. “My support through the years has been considerable, my king. You know that. You would never have to wonder about loyalty with me.”

“The king will take it under consideration,” Margaret said, ice in her voice. “We will not decide this here.

King Henry waved Margaret silent. “You have shown your generosity. I will show mine.” He turned to the dozens of battle-exhausted men before him. “Let us pray. ‘Blessed be the Lord God who formeth our hands for battle and our fingers for war. He is our salvation. He is our refuge. He setteth us free.’”

Illness aside, the king was an especially learned and devout man. Nicole bowed her head respectfully.

The men repeated the soldier’s prayer, their expressions matching the king’s pious devotion.

They love their king. Warmth filled her heart for her monarch. He may be physically and mentally weak, but he was good. Honorable. He had protected Binnie from Ulger. Nicole would be forever grateful.

Henry continued addressing the men. “You led your troops with pure hearts today. Many, so many gave their lives.” He gestured toward the men lying on tables. “And many have suffered grave wounds.”

The king’s eyes were weary, but his expression grew hard with anger. “War is evil, war is ungodly. When it is forced upon us, we must respond. But just because we are surrounded by the white plague of York and his evil, that does not mean we must embrace it. After all your sacrifice, it would be folly to tolerate treason. It must be punished.”

The king made a sweeping gesture over the men before him, his stature regal, his eyes sad but filled with passion. “You accepted the call to arms this day. Your king understands mistakes made in the passion of wanting to smite the enemy. So it is with Ulger here. Such loyalty should be rewarded. So be it,” King Henry said, waving his wife to silence. “By their acts of treason, the Ellinghams will forfeit their holdings. Ulger, you have proven your loyalty.” He turned to Ulger. “I will grant you Coin Forest.”