History tells us that the intelligent, wealthy, and powerful Margaret of York had everything any woman could want, except for love. The acclaimed author of A Rose for the Crown takes us between the lines of history and into her heart. It is 1461: Edward, son of Richard of York, ascends to the throne, and his willful sister, Margaret, immediately becomes a pawn in European politics as Edward negotiates her marriage. The young Margaret falls deeply in love with Anthony Woodville, the married brother of Edward's queen, Elizabeth. But Edward has arranged for his sister to wed Charles, son of the Duke of Burgundy, and soon Margaret is setting sail for her new life. Her official escort: Anthony Woodville. Margaret of York eventually commanded the respect and admiration of much of Europe, but it appears to history that she had no emotional intimate. Anne Easter Smith's rare gift for storytelling and her extensive research reveal the love that burned at the center of Margaret's life, adding a new dimension to the story of one of the fifteenth century's most powerful women. "Enjoyable, beautifully researched -- a vivid portrait of one of history's most enigmatic women." -- Diana Gabaldon, author of Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade "A sweeping, romantic novel.... With consummate skill, Anne Easter Smith has created a delightful heroine, spirited, plucky, and wise. A remarkable achievement." -- Sandra Gulland, author of the Josephine B. Trilogy "Here is the richly imagined life of Margaret of York -- a woman who dares to dream of love in a world where she is allowed only the role of political pawn." -- Judith Mererkle Rileyey, author of The Water Devil "Anne Easter Smith knows how to deliver a journey of the heart." -- Sandra Worthrth, author of Lady of the Roses A native of England, Anne Easter Smith has lived in the United States for more than forty years. She was the features editor at a newspaper in New York State and now lives in Newburyport, Massachusetts, with her husband, Scott. You can visit her website at AnneEasterSmith.com. 1 1461 The Micklegate towered above her, seeming to touch the lowering sky, as she knelt in the mud and stared at the gruesome objects decorating the battlement. Rudely thrust on spikes, several human heads kept watch from the crenellations, wisps of hair stirring in the breeze. A paper crown sat askew on one of the bloodied skulls and drooped over a socket now empty of the owner's dark gray eye. The fl esh on the cheeks had been picked clean by birds, and there was no nose. Yet still Margaret recognized her father. She could not tear her eyes from him even as his lifeless lips began to stretch over his teeth into a hideous smile. It was then Margaret screamed. "Margaret! Wake up! 'Tis but a dream, my child." Cecily shook her daughter awake. She watched anxiously as Margaret's eyes flew open and looked around her with relief. "Oh, Mother, dear Mother, I dreamed of Micklegate again! A terrible, ghastly dream. Why does it not go away? I cannot bear to imagine Father and Edmund like that!" Margaret sat up, threw her arms around her mother's neck and sobbed. "Oh, why did they have to die?" Cecily held her daughter close and was silent for a moment. Why, indeed, she thought, fighting back her own tears. It was surely a mistake, a horrible mistake! If only she had stopped them venturing out that fateful New Year's eve. Christmas was supposed to be sacrosanct no matter how great the hatred between enemies -- all retiring to hearths and homes to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The great hall at Sandal Castle had been decorated with boughs of holly and pine, the rafters ringing with the noise of men feasting and drinking. The Christmas fortnight was half spent, and thoughts of death had been put aside for the holy season. Cecily sat close to her beloved husband, Richard, duke of York, and their second son, Edmund, earl of Rutland, aware of the uneasy peace that lay around them, for the enemy army of Lancaster lay not ten miles hence at the royal castle of Pontefract. Then came the knocking at the great oak door and the unexpected entrance of more soldiers -- but these were armed, disheveled, bloody. Richard upset a goblet of wine as he rose in alarm. "Ambush!" cried the leader of the stragglers. "Trollope ambushed us as we foraged!" The duke and seventeen-year-old Edmund called for their arms, and the cry was taken up by the rest of the company: " Aux armes ! A York, Á York!" Pandemonium broke out as servants ran to fetch weapons and armor, men donned breastplates, helmets and shields and ran out to the castle courtyard. "My lord, my dearest lord, this is Christmas!" Cecily cried, taking Richard's face between her hands. "Surely Somerset would not break a Christmas truce! These men must have come upon a band of brigands, not an army of the king!" "Perhaps you are right. Trust me, mon amour , we shall be home again in a little while. Keep faith,