He nods. Exactly. Wolsey is destroying his rival for the king’s affection and attention. This has been a long campaign. The splash of water on the robe of cardinal red left a stain that will be blotted out, blood red. Wolsey wants revenge.

“What will happen to the duke?” I don’t need to ask because I know. I know the punishment for treason. Who would know better than I?

“If they find him guilty, he will be beheaded,” Boleyn says quietly.

He waits while I absorb the information that I know already. Then he says something even worse. “And, my lady, they are questioning others. They are suspicious that there is a plot. A faction.”

“Who? What others?”

“His family, his friends, his affinity.”

This is my family, these are my friends, this is my affinity. The accused is my cousin and friend, my daughter Ursula is married to his son.

“Who are they questioning, exactly?”

“His cousin and yours, George Neville.”

I take a little breath. “Is that all?”

“His son, your son-in-law, Henry Stafford.”

Geoffrey’s friend, Ursula’s husband. I take a little breath. “Anyone else?”

“Your son Montague.”

I choke. I can hardly breathe. The air in this tiny room is thick; I feel as if the walls are closing in. “Montague is innocent,” I say stoutly. “Has anyone named Arthur?”

“Not yet.”

We are intertwined like a plant: the Planta genista that we are named for. My daughter, Ursula, is married to the duke’s own son. He and I are cousins. My boys were raised in the house of my other cousin, George Neville, who is married to the duke’s daughter. My son Montague is married to Cousin George’s daughter. We could not be more closely related. It is the way of great families, marriage and intermarriage, working together as one force. This way we keep our wealth inside the families, concentrate our power, join our lands. But looked at with a critical eye, looked at with a suspicious, fearful eye, it gives the impression that we are a faction, a conspiracy.

At once I think of Geoffrey, serving as a page in the queen’s rooms. At least his loyalty must be unquestioned. He must be safe. If Geoffrey is safe, then I can face anything.

“No word against Geoffrey?” I say flatly.

He shakes his head.

“Will they question me?” I ask.

He turns just slightly away from me, a cold shoulder. “Yes. They are bound to. If there is anything in the house—”

“What do you mean?” I am furious with fear.

“I don’t know!” he bursts out. “I don’t know! How would I know? I don’t hold with prophecies and predictions and long-lost kings. I don’t have giants in my family tree, like you Nevilles. I don’t have three suns in the sky like you Yorks. I am not descended from a water goddess who comes out of a river to mate with mortals! When your family was founded, no one had ever heard of us. When your uncles were on the throne, mine were quiet City men. I don’t know what you might have, what you might have kept from those times—a banner or a standard, a bead-roll or letter. Anything that shows your descent, anything that shows your royal blood, any prophecy that you once had the throne and will have it again. But whatever you have, your ladyship, clear it out and burn it. Nothing is worth the risk of keeping.”

The first thing I do is send a message to Geoffrey and tell him to go at once to Bisham and stay there till he hears from me, to speak to no one and to receive no one. He is to tell the servants that he is sick, he is to give out that it might be the Sweat. If I know that he is safe, then I can fight for my other sons. I send my Master of Horse to the Tower of London to discover who is behind those high gray walls, and what is being said about them.

I send one of my ladies-in-waiting to Ursula and tell her to take her little son and go to L’Erber and stay there until we know what we should do. I send my page boy to Arthur and say that I am coming to court at once, that I will see him there.

I send for my barge and have them take me downriver. The court is at Greenwich and I sit quietly in my seat at the back of the barge with a couple of my ladies at my side and compose myself to be patient as the high towers come into sight over the tops of the fresh green trees.

The barge ties up at the pier and the rowers make a guard of honor with their oars as I step onshore. I have to wait until they are assembled and ready, and then I walk through them with a smile, controlling my desire to run to the queen’s rooms. I walk slowly up the graveled path and hear the noise from the stables as half a dozen riders come in and shout for their grooms. A guard swings open the private garden door to the queen’s stair. I nod my thanks and go up, but I don’t hurry, and my breath is steady and my heartbeat regular when I get to the top.

The guards outside her door salute me and stand aside as I go in to see the queen settled in the window seat, looking out at the garden, a beautifully embroidered linen shirt in her hands, one of her ladies reading from manuscript pages, the others sitting around and sewing. I see the Boleyn girls and their mother, I see Lord Morley’s daughter Jane Parker, the Spanish ladies, Lady Hussey, half a dozen others. They rise to curtsey to me as I curtsey to the queen, and then she waves them away and I kiss her on both cheeks and sit beside her.

“That’s pretty,” I say, my voice light and indifferent.

She raises it up, as if to show me the detail of the black on white embroidery, so no one can see her lips as she whispers: “Have they taken your son?”

“Yes, Montague.”

“What’s the charge?”

I grit my teeth and manage a false smile, as if we were speaking of the weather. “Treason.”

Her blue eyes widen, but her face does not change. Anyone looking at us would think she was mildly interested in my news. “What does this mean?”

“I think it is the cardinal, moving against the duke: Wolsey against Buckingham.”

“I will speak with the king,” she says. “He must know this is baseless.” She hesitates as she sees my face. “It is baseless,” she says less certainly. “Isn’t it?”

“They say that he spoke of a curse on the Tudor line,” I tell her, my voice a thread of sound. “They say that a lady from your rooms spoke of a curse.”

She takes a little breath. “Not you?”

“No. Never.”

“Is your son accused of repeating this curse?”

“And my cousin,” I confess. “But, Your Grace, neither my sons nor my cousin George Neville have ever said or heard a word against the king. The Duke of Buckingham might be intemperate but he is not disloyal. If a great nobleman of this kingdom is going to be charged at the whim of an advisor, a man who is nothing more than one of the king’s servants, a man without birth or breeding, then none of us will be safe. There is always rivalry around the throne. But a loss of favor cannot lead to death. My cousin Edward Stafford is tactless; is he to die for it?”

She nods. “Of course. I will speak with the king.”

Ten years ago, she would have walked at once to his rooms and taken him to one side; a touch on his arm, a quick smile and he would have done what she told him. Five years ago she would have gone to his rooms, given him advice, and he would have been influenced by her opinion. Even two years ago she would have waited for him to come to her rooms before dinner and then told him the right thing to do and he would have listened. But now she knows that the king may be talking with the cardinal, he may be gambling with his favorites, he may be walking in the gardens with a pretty girl on his arm, whispering in her ear, telling her he has never, never desired a woman more, that her voice is like music, that her smile is like sunlight, and he has little interest in the opinions of his wife.

“I’ll wait till dinner,” she decides.

I sit with the queen until the king comes with his friends to escort her and her ladies to dinner. I plan to greet Arthur with a smile, whisper a warning, and meet with him later. But when the double doors are thrown open and Henry strides into the room, handsome, laughing, and makes his bow to the queen, Arthur does not stroll in behind him.