“Never!” a woman exclaims, and then bites back the denial, realizing that she does not want to be seen defending a traitor.

Henry holds out his hand, disregarding the gasp from the lords. I see the seal as it comes from the bag, almost as if by magic, as if I suddenly have the eyes of a hawk that can see far, far below the crouching mouse, the dash of a pheasant chick. As Sir Robert hands over the small red seal, I recognize the imprint of my mother’s ring.

Sir Robert knows it too. He hands it over without saying a name, and Henry takes it without comment, turns and looks at me, his gaze absolutely expressionless, his dark eyes as flat and unloving as Welsh slate. Silently, he puts it on the table, beside the seals of the other traitors. Uncle Jasper glares at me, and his mother turns her face away. I meet my sister Cecily’s frightened gaze but I dare not signal to her to say nothing. I keep my face perfectly still; the most important thing is that we none of us confess to anything.

Another seal comes from the bag. I find I am holding my breath as if preparing for something yet more terrible. Henry puts it on the table without saying the name, and the whole of the court cranes forwards as if they would read it, despite him.

“Dorlay,” he says bitterly. There is a low moan from one of my ladies as he names her brother.

Sir Robert passes another seal from the bag, and I hear My Lady gasp in horror. She reels back, grips the chair to steady herself as Henry rises to his feet. His hand is on the seal, I can’t see the inscription, and for a moment, in my terror, I think he will turn to me, I think he will name me as a traitor. I think it is my seal in his hand. The court is breathless, looking from the king’s shocked face to the pallor of his mother. Whatever Henry was planning in this ordeal, it was not that he should find this seal in the bag. His hand shakes as he holds out the seal with the familiar crest.

“Sir William?” he asks, and his voice falters as he looks past his mother to her brother-in-law, the trusted beloved brother of her husband, whose army saved Henry’s life at Bosworth, who handed him the crown of England and was made Lord Chamberlain, the highest position in the kingdom, and given a fortune as a mere part of his reward. “Sir William Stanley?” he repeats, disbelievingly. “This is your seal?”

“It’s not possible,” Thomas, Lord Stanley, says hastily.

Terribly, at that moment, a laugh forces its way out of my mouth. I am so horrified and so shocked and so startled that I laugh like a fool and bury my face in my hands and find I cannot catch my breath for wanting to laugh, laugh out loud at the madness of this moment. I choke and peal after peal of laughter escapes me.

It is because I see, so blindingly clearly, that yet again the Stanleys have put a man on either side, as they always do, as my mother herself warned me they always do. There is always a Stanley on either side of the battle, or one who has sworn he is on his way, or one promising an army but unfortunately failing to deliver. Whenever there is a moment that a family must choose a side, the Stanleys are always to be found on both sides at once.

Even at Bosworth, though they were to be found on the winning side at the very end, they had promised their loyalty and their army to Richard. At the start of the day they were sworn to be his allies. Richard even had Thomas Stanley’s son as a hostage, to prove their goodwill. He was certain they would ride to his aid even as they waited on the hill to see which way the battle was going, and then thundered down to support Henry.

And now, they have done it again. “Sans changer!” I choke. “Sans changer!”

It is the Stanley motto: never changing. But they are only unchanging in the pursuit of their own safety and success, and then I feel Maggie at my side and her fingers pinching the inside of my arm as she whispers urgently, “Stop it! Stop it!” and I bite the back of my hand and choke into silence.

But as my laughter drains away, I realize how powerful “the boy” has become. If the Stanleys have divided—one to Henry’s side, one to the boy’s—then they must know that he will invade and they must think that he might win. To have a Stanley on your side is like a pedigree—it shows that your claim is a good one. They only ever join a winning side. If Sir William is backing the boy it is only because he thinks he will triumph. If Lord Thomas has allowed it, it is because he thinks the boy has a good chance and a better claim.

Henry glances at me as I struggle to compose myself. He turns back to Sir William and his face is blank. “I gave you everything you asked for,” he says flatly, as though loyalty should be bought.

Sir William inclines his head.

“You yourself handed the crown of England to me on the battlefield.”

It is terrible how the people have fallen away from Sir William as if they have suddenly seen on him the pockmarks of the plague. Without seeming to move, everyone has receded from him by a clear pace and he stands alone, facing the king’s horrified gaze.

“You are my stepfather’s brother, I have treated you as an uncle.” Henry looks at his mother. She is swallowing convulsively as if bile is rising in her throat and she is going to vomit. “My mother assured me that you were her kinsman, you were a man we could trust.”

“A mistake,” Thomas, Lord Stanley, says. “Sir William can explain, I know . . .”

“There are forty important men promised with him,” Sir Robert prompts unasked. “He has recruited supporters. Between them they have sent the boy a fortune.”

“You are of the royal family of England and yet you side with a pretender?” Henry struggles with the words as if he cannot believe that he is saying this to his uncle. He had thought to shame me with the proof of my mother’s disloyalty, he had thought to shock the court with half a dozen names that he would send to the hangman to teach the others to be loyal in future. He did not think that in this theater of asserting his power he would find a traitor in his own family. I look at his mother, who is clinging to the back of his chair as her knees give way beneath her, looking with staring eyes from her husband to his brother as if they are equally faithless. At that horror-stricken glance from her I realize that they probably are. The brothers never act without each other. Perhaps they decided that Sir William would back the pretender and Thomas, Lord Stanley, maintain his fatherhood of the king. Both of them waiting to see who would win. Both of them determined to be on the winning side. Both of them judging that Henry Tudor was likely to lose.

“Why?” he asks brokenly. “Why would you betray me? Me! After you supported me? Me! Who gave you everything?”

Then I see him snap off the questions, as he hears in his own voice the weakness in his tone. It is the whine of a boy who was never loved, who was always in exile hoping one day to come home. The boy who could never understand why he should be far from his mother, why he should have no friends, why he should live in a foreign land and have only enemies at home. Henry remembers that there are some questions which should never be asked.

The last thing he wants his court to hear is why Sir William was ready to risk everything for the boy, to throw away everything he had gained from the king. Why Sir William would take that choice could only be for a residual love and loyalty for the House of York, and his belief that the boy is the true heir. Henry doesn’t want to hear this. The last thing he should invite is a justification from the Stanleys. Who knows how many people would agree with them? He slams his hand flat on the table. “I won’t hear a word from you.”

Sir William shows no intention of speaking. His face is pale and proud. I can’t look at him without thinking that he knows his cause is a good one. He is following a true king.

“Take him away,” Henry says to the guards at the door and they step forwards and Sir William goes with them without a word. He does not ask for mercy and he does not try to explain. He goes with his head held high, as if he knows he will have to pay the price for doing the right thing. I have never seen him, in all my life before, walk like a proud man. I have always thought of him as a turncoat, one who would go from one side to the other for the winnings. But today, as they take him out as a traitor, when he is going to his death, when he is utterly lost for supporting the boy who says he is my brother—Sir William goes gladly, his head held high.

Sir Robert, whose family lands were confiscated by Sir William and who has borne him a grudge since then, watches him go with a broad smile, and reaches into the sack of seals as if to give us all another surprise.

“Enough,” Henry says, looking as sick as his mother. “I will inspect them on my own, in my rooms. You can go. You can all go. I want no one—” He breaks off and looks past me as if I am the last person who might give him comfort in this moment of betrayal. “I want none of you.”










WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, FEBRUARY 1495

“Do you mind?” I ask Anne.