His chair scrapes as he gets to his feet and pushes it back and walks round the table towards her. Ignoring her belly Isabel drops to her knees before him. ‘I am doing this for you,’ he says quietly. ‘I will make you Queen of England, and if that child you are carrying is a son, he will be a royal prince and then king.’

‘I will pray for you,’ Isabel whispers almost inaudibly. ‘And for my husband.’

‘You will take my name and my blood to the throne of England,’ Father says with satisfaction. ‘Edward has become a fool, a lazy fool. He trusts us and we will betray him, and he will die on the battlefield like his father, who was a fool as well. Here, child, get up.’ He put his hand under her elbow and hauls her ungently to her feet. He nods at me. ‘Guard your sister,’ he says with a smile. ‘The future of our family is in her belly. She could be carrying the next King of England.’ He kisses Isabel on both cheeks. ‘Next time we meet you will be the Queen of England and I shall kneel to you.’ He laughs. ‘Think of that! I shall kneel to you, Isabel.’

The whole household goes to our chapel and prays for Father to be victorious. The whole household, thinking that he is fighting for the king against the rebels, prays without understanding the real danger he is in, the great risk he is running, challenging the King of England in his own kingdom. But Father has prepared the ground; Lincolnshire is alive with rebels, one of our kinsmen has roused the country complaining of the king’s ill-judged rule and false councillors. George has an army of his own sworn to him whatever side he takes, and Father’s men would follow him anywhere. But still, the fortunes of war are changeable and Edward is a formidable tactician. We pray for Father’s success morning and night, and we wait for news.

Isabel and I are sitting in her chamber, Isabel resting on her bed and complaining of a pain in her belly. ‘It’s like a gripping pain,’ she says. ‘Almost as if I had eaten too much.’

‘Maybe you have eaten too much,’ I reply unsympathetically.

She pulls a face. ‘I am nearly eight months into my time,’ she says plaintively. ‘If Father were not marching out I should be going into confinement this very week. I should have thought you would be kinder to me, your own sister.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I am sorry. Shall I call the ladies, shall I tell Mother?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I probably ate too much. There’s no room in my belly, and every time he moves or turns I can’t breathe.’ She turns her head. ‘What’s that noise?’

I go to the window. I can see a troop of men coming down the road towards the castle, out of their lines, stumbling like a weary crowd not marching together like a force, and ahead of them the mounted knights going slowly, wearily. I recognise my father’s warhorse Midnight with his head bowed, and a bleeding wound deep in his shoulder. ‘It’s Father, coming home,’ I say.

Isabel is up from her bed in a moment, and we run down the stone stairs to the great hall and fling open the door as the servants of the castle pour into the yard outside to greet the returning army.

My father rides in at the head of his troop on his weary horse, and as soon as they are safe inside the castle walls, the drawbridge creaks up and the portcullis rattles down and my father and his son-in-law, the handsome duke, dismount from their horses. Isabel at once leans on my arm and puts her hand to her belly, to make a tableau of maternity, but I am not thinking of how we appear, I am looking at the faces of the men. I can tell at one glance that they are not victorious. My mother comes up behind us and I hear her quiet exclamation and I know that she too has seen weariness and defeat in this army. Father looks grim, and George is white with unhappiness. Mother’s back straightens as she braces herself for trouble and she greets Father briefly with a kiss on each cheek. Isabel greets her husband in the same way. All I can do is curtsey to them both and then we all go into the great hall and Father steps up on the dais.

The ladies in waiting are standing in a line, and they bow as my father comes in. The senior men of the household follow us into the room to hear the news. Behind them come the servants, the garrison of the castle and those of the troop who chose to come to listen rather than go to rest. Father speaks clearly enough so that everyone can hear. ‘We rode in support of my kinsmen Lord Richard and Sir Robert Welles,’ he says. ‘They think, as I do, that the king is under the control of the queen and her family and that he has reneged on his agreements to me, and that he is no king for England.’

There is a murmur of approval; everyone here resents the power and success of the Rivers family. George clambers up on the dais to stand beside my father as if to remind us all that there is an alternative to this faithless king. ‘Lord Richard Welles is dead,’ Father says bleakly. ‘This false king took him out of sanctuary –’ he repeats the terrible crime done against the laws of God and man ‘– he took him out of sanctuary, and threatened him with death. When Lord Richard’s son Sir Robert was arrayed for battle this false king killed Lord Welles before the battle even started, killed him without a trial, on the field of battle.’

George nods, looking grave. To break sanctuary is to undermine the safety and power of the church, to defy God Himself. A man who puts his hand on the altar of a church has to know that he is safe there. God Himself takes such a criminal under his protection. If the king does not recognise the power of sanctuary then he is setting himself up as greater than God. He is a heretic, a blasphemer. He can be very sure that God will strike him down.

‘We were defeated,’ my father says solemnly. ‘The army mustered by the Welles’ was broken in Edward’s charge. We withdrew.’

I feel Isabel’s cold hand come into mine. ‘We’ve lost?’ she asks disbelievingly. ‘We’ve lost?’

‘We will retreat to Calais and regroup,’ Father says. ‘This is a setback but not a defeat. We will rest tonight and tomorrow we will pack up and march out. But let no-one mistake, this is now war between me, and the so-called King Edward. The rightful king is George of the House of York, and I shall see him on the throne of England.’

‘George!’ the men shout, raising their fists in the air.

‘God save King George!’ my father prompts them.

‘King George!’ they reply. In truth they would swear to anything that my father commanded.

‘À Warwick!’ My father gives his battle cry and they bellow with one voice after him: ‘À Warwick!’


DARTMOUTH, DEVON, APRIL 1470

Midnight, Father’s black warhorse, is one of the last to be led up the gangplank. They put a sack on his head so he cannot see the ridged plank and the water beneath. But he knows they are putting him on board a ship. He has gone criss-crossing the seas many times, he has invaded England twice. He is a veteran of Father’s many battles but now he behaves like a nervous colt, pulling back from the gangplank, rearing up so that the men scatter from his flailing hooves, until they put him in a sling and load him on board and he cannot resist them.