"Have we won?" the king inquired hesitantly.

"I think not, my liege, but until the snow stops we cannot really tell," the man said candidly as they rode away.

"Where is the queen? The queen will know if we have won. The queen always knows what is happening," the king said anxiously. He was still with great effort managing to cling to his sanity.

"I am taking you to her now, my liege," the man responded, "but we must hurry lest the Yorkists catch us." And before one of us decides to turn you over to them to save his own skin, the king's companion thought to himself. He noticed three or four of their party had already disappeared. Well, good riddance to them, the traitors!

"They will kill me," the king said fatalistically. "They have to in order to justify what they have done. And they must kill my son though he be just a lad, for he is the true heir to England's throne after me. But if I know my wife, Margaret, will fight like a tigress to protect our child." Henry VI had not yet released his hold on his sanity. But the few men left to accompany him knew it was but a matter of time before he was once more hurled into his private hell. His mind was simply not strong enough to manage this terrible change in his fortunes.

They hurried through the fierce storm to reach Queen Margaret and the little prince, who were sheltering in a nearby farmhouse. They would have to get deep into the borderlands before the storm ceased. Only then would their king and his family be truly safe, and then only temporarily. Sir Udolf Watteson, who now rode with them, would give them all shelter. At least for the few days it would take for the outcome of the battle to be known down in London, where the new king resided. Until the order was given, and came north for the arrest of Henry Plantagenet, his wife, and his son. The Lancasters were done. At least for now. Perhaps forever.