He comes in wearing deepest blue, his face drawn and tragic. He takes my hands and kisses me. When he draws back to look at me he has tears in his eyes.

‘Oh, George,’ I whisper.

All his smug confidence has gone; he is lean and handsome in grief. He leans his head against the carved chimney. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ he says quietly. ‘When I see you here – I can’t believe that she is not here with you.’

‘She wrote to me that she was well.’

‘She was,’ he says eagerly. ‘She was. And so happy! And the baby: a beauty, as always. But then she suddenly weakened, fell away almost overnight, and in the morning she was gone.’

‘Was it a fever?’ I ask, hoping desperately that he will say yes.

‘Her tongue was black,’ he tells me.

I look at him aghast: it is a sure sign of poison. ‘Who could have done it?’

‘I have my physician inquiring into her household, into our kitchen. I know that the queen had a woman in Isabel’s own confinement room, to report to her at once whether we had a boy or a girl.’

I give a little hiss of horror.

‘Oh, that’s nothing. I have known of it for months. She will have a servant set to watch you as well,’ he says. ‘And a man placed among the household, perhaps in your stables to warn her when you mean to travel, perhaps in your hall to listen to the talk. She has watched us all ever since we first came to her court. She will have watched you as well as Isabel. She trusts no-one.’

‘Edward trusts my husband,’ I protest. ‘They love each other, they are faithful to each other.’

‘And the queen?’

He laughs shortly at my silence.

‘Will you speak to the king about this?’ I ask. ‘Will you name the queen’s guilt?’

‘I think he will offer me a bribe to buy me off,’ George says. ‘And I think I know what it will be. He will want to silence me, he will want me out of the way. He won’t want me accusing his wife of being a poisoner, naming their children as bastards.’

‘Hush,’ I say, glancing at the door. I go to him at the fireplace so we are head to head, like conspirators, our words blowing up the chimney like smoke.

‘Edward will want me out of the way, somewhere I can’t speak against him.’

I am horrified. ‘What will he do? He will not imprison you?’

George’s smile is a grimace. ‘He will command me to marry again,’ he predicts. ‘I know that is what he plans. He will send me to Burgundy to marry Mary of Burgundy. Her father is dead, our sister Margaret his widow has suggested my name. Mary is her step-daughter, she can give her in marriage to me. Edward sees this as a way of getting me out of the country.’

I can feel the tears spill down my cheeks. ‘But Isabel has been dead less than a month,’ I cry. ‘Are you supposed to forget her at once? Is she to be buried and a new wife in her place within weeks? And what of your children? Are you supposed to take them with you to Flanders?’

‘I’ll refuse him,’ George says. ‘I will never leave my children, I will never leave my country, and I certainly will not leave the murderer of my wife to walk free.’

I am sobbing, the loss of her is so painful, the thought of George taking another wife so shocking. I feel so alone in this dangerous court without her. George puts his arm around my shaking shoulders. ‘Sister,’ he says tenderly. ‘My sister. She loved you so much, she was so anxious to protect you. She made me promise that I would warn you. I will protect you too.’

As always, I have to wait in the queen’s rooms in the hour before dinner for the king and his household to join us, so that we all go into the great hall together. The queen’s ladies assume that I am quiet from grief, and leave me alone. Only Lady Margaret Stanley, recently come to court with her new husband Thomas, takes me to one side and tells me that she prays for the soul of my sister and for her blessed children. I am oddly touched by her goodwill and I try to smile and thank her for her prayers. She sent her own son, Henry Tudor, overseas, for his own safety, as she does not trust this king with his keeping. Young Tudor is of the House of Lancaster, a promising youth. She would not allow him to be raised by a York guardian in this country, and though she is now married to one of the lords of York and high in favour with both king and queen she still does not trust this royal family enough to bring her boy home. Of all the court she will understand what it is to fear the king that you serve, she knows what it is to curtsey to the queen, uncertain if she is your enemy.

When Richard comes in with his brother the king, all smiles, and takes me by the hand to lead me into dinner, I walk close to him and whisper that George has come to court and promised me that he will find the murderer of my sister.

‘How will he do that from Flanders?’ Richard asks caustically.

‘He won’t go,’ I say. ‘He refuses to go.’

Richard’s crack of laughter is so loud that the king looks back and grins at him. ‘What’s the jest?’ he asks.

‘Nothing,’ Richard calls to his brother. ‘Nothing. My wife told me a jest about George.’

‘Our duke?’ the king asks, smiling at me. ‘Our Duke of Burgundy? Our Prince of Scotland?’ The queen laughs aloud and taps the king on the arm as if to reprove him for publicly mocking his brother though her grey eyes gleam. I seem to be the only person who does not understand the richness of the humour. Richard draws me to one side and lets the dinner procession go past us. ‘It’s not true,’ he says. ‘It’s the reverse of the truth. It is George who is demanding a chance at the dukedom of Burgundy. He hopes to become the duke of one of the richest countries in Europe and marry Mary of Burgundy. Or if not her, then the Princess of Scotland. He’s not particular as long as his next wife is wealthy and commands a kingdom.’

I shake my head. ‘He told me himself he would not go. He is mourning Isabel. He doesn’t want to go to Flanders. It is the king who is trying to get him out of the kingdom to silence him.’

‘Nonsense. Edward would never allow it. He could never trust George as ruler of Flanders. The lands owned by the Dukes of Burgundy are enormous. None of us would trust George with that power and wealth.’

I am cautious. ‘Who told you that?’

Over his shoulder I can see the queen seating herself at the high table that looks over the great hall. She turns and sees me, head to head with my husband. I see her lean to the king and say one word, two, and then he turns and sees us both too. It is as if she is pointing me out, as if she is warning him about me. As her gaze flicks indifferently over me I shiver.

‘What’s the matter?’ Richard asks.

‘Who told you that George was trying to go to Flanders or to Scotland and that the king would not allow it?’

‘The queen’s brother, Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers.’

‘Oh,’ is all I say. ‘It must be true, then.’

She looks down the great hall at me and she gives me her beautiful inscrutable smile.

Rumours swirl around court and everyone seems to be talking about me, and about Isabel and George. It is generally known that my sister died suddenly, having come through the ordeal of childbirth, and people are starting to wonder if she could have been poisoned, and if so, who would have done such a thing. The rumours grow in intensity, more detailed and more fearful as George refuses to eat in the great hall, refuses to speak to the queen, takes off his hat but does not bow his head as she goes past, crosses his fingers behind his back so that anyone standing beside him can see that he is using the sign of protection against witchcraft against the queen as she goes by.