I think that the holidays feel like frozen noses. I love walking with the dog for long periods of time.

Hopefully it's snowing and you've got to wrap up warm. So I think a frozen nose is a sweaty armpit

because your wrapped up so warm but then you're climbing hamps and heath and you get to the top

and you're like, and then you can see the breath but then your nose is still freezing to touch.

Join in every sip with red carp snout back at Starbucks.

It is the 22nd of May, 1455. The bustling market town of St. Orban sits 20 miles north of London.

But although tomorrow is market day, the locals have either fled or locked themselves inside.

The Duke of Battenham, a tall imposing figure with a great bushy moustache and beard,

tucks his flowing hair into his tunic as a boy tightens the leather straps of his polished armour.

He looks around the market square where his soldiers are lazily leaning on their staffs

half-heartedly readying their own armour.

Behind them, propped against the wall of an inn is the blue and red royal standard of King Henry VI,

emblazoned with three lions and flurderly. As constable of England, today bucking them is in command of the King's army

and the defence of St. Orban's.

He dismisses the boy, picks up his helmet and strides along the main street to inspect the town's defenses.

His ally, Lord Clifford, is ordering the finishing touches to the hastily built barricades of wood and furniture

that the gated entrances at either end of the main street. Clifford's men at arms stand ready in their heavy armour

alongside rows of soldiers in thickly padded tunics gripping their pole axes nervously.

Peering through the gaps in the barricade, Buckingham can see the smoke and banners of the camp in the fields outside town.

Throughout the morning, envoys from the camp have been bringing notes of negotiation.

Buckingham's opposite number, Richard of York, is demanding no less than the surrender of the King's forces

and for the royal adviser, the Duke of Somerset, to stand a trial.

...