“D’you think the duchess has your brother Richard in hiding?” he asks me, matter-of-factly, as if it is a question of mild interest. “The trophy of a long plot between her and your mother? D’you think your mother sent him to her the moment that he was in danger, and sent a pretend prince into the Tower? D’you think he has been there for these four years? A pretender waiting for the battle to be fought for him, before he springs out, triumphant? Like Jesus from the tomb? Naked but for his winding sheet and his vanquished wounds? Triumphing over death and then me?”

I can’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know anything. Before God, Henry—”

He checks me. “Don’t be forsworn,” he says. “I have men swearing lies to me ten times a day. All I wanted from you was the simple truth.”

I stand before him in silence, and he nods as if he knows there can never be a simple truth between us, and he goes out.










COVENTRY CASTLE, SUMMER 1487

My Lady the King’s Mother cannot do it. She cannot act as queen of a happy court when every day another rider comes from Ireland with more bad news. John de la Pole and Francis Lovell have landed in Ireland with a massive trained force of two thousand men. My Lady walks everywhere with her rosary in her hands, telling her beads and whispering prayers for the safe deliverance of her son from danger.

We learn that, just as Henry told me privately, they have crowned a boy king in Dublin and declared that he is Edward of Warwick and the true king of England, Ireland, and France.

My Lady stops speaking to me; she can hardly bear to be in the same room as me. I may be her daughter-in-law, but she can only see me as the daughter of the house that has raised up this threat, whose aunt Margaret is pouring money and weapons into Ireland, whose aunt Elizabeth provided the commander, whose mother is masterminding the plot from behind the high walls of Bermondsey Abbey. She will not speak to me, she cannot bear to look at me. Only once in this difficult time she stops me as I walk past her rooms with my sisters and my cousin on my way to the stables for our horses. She puts her hand on my arm as I walk by, and I drop a curtsey to her and wait for what she has to say.

“You know, don’t you?” she demands. “You know where he is. You know he is alive.”

I cannot answer her white-faced fears. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know very well what I mean!” she spits furiously. “You know he’s alive. You know where he is. You know what they plan for him!”

“Shall I call your ladies?” I ask her. The hand that grips my arm is shaking, I really fear that she is going to fall down in a fit. Her gaze, always intense, is fixed on my face, as if she would force her way into my mind. “My Lady, shall I call your ladies and help you to your rooms?”

“You’ve fooled my son, but you don’t fool me!” she hisses. “And you will see that I command here, and that everyone who has treasonous thoughts, high or low, will be punished. Treasonous heads will be cut from their corrupt bodies. High and low, nobody will be spared at Judgment Day. The sheep will be parted from the goats, and the unclean will go down to hell.”

Cecily is staring at her godmother, quite horrified. She steps forwards, and then she shrinks back from the woman’s anguished dark glare.

“Ah,” I say coldly. “I misunderstood you. You are speaking of this pretender in Ireland? And whether you command here, or whether you have to flee from here in terror, we will know very soon, I am sure.”

At the very word “flee,” she tightens her grip and sways on her feet. “Are you my enemy? Tell me, let us have honesty between us. Are you my enemy? Are you the enemy of my beloved son?”

“I am your daughter-in-law and the mother of your grandchild,” I say as quietly as her. “This is what you wanted and this is what you have. Whether I love him or hate him, that is between ourselves. Whether I love you or hate you, that was your doing too. And I think you know the answer.”

She flings my hand away as if my touch is repellent. “I will see you destroyed the day that you raise him up against us,” she warns me.

“Raise him up?” I repeat furiously. “Raise him up? It sounds like you think we would raise the dead! What can you mean? Who do you fear, My Lady?”

She gives a racking sob and she gulps down an answer. I sweep her the smallest curtsey, and I go on my way to the stables. I duck into my horse’s stall and slam the stable door behind me to rest my head against his warm neck. I take a shuddering breath and realize that she has told me that they believe my brother is alive.










KENILWORTH CASTLE, WARWICKSHIRE, JUNE 1487

I hardly see Henry, who is closeted with his uncle Jasper and John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, forever sending messages to the lords, trying their loyalty, asking them to come to him. Many, very many, take their time in replying. Nobody wants to declare as a rebel too soon; but equally, nobody wants to be on the losing side with a new king. Everyone remembers that Richard looked unbeatable when he rode out from Leicester, and yet a small paid army confronted him, and a traitor cut him down. The lords who promised their support to that king, and yet sat on their horses and watched for the outcome on the day of battle, may decide to be bystanders once again and intervene only on the winning side.