He pulls in a breath and gains power to speak. ‘Aye, lady. All of yours are safe. A battle was fought yesterday through the streets of St Albans. The Duke of Somerset and Earl of Northumberland, both Beaufort and Percy, are dead. The King was injured but will be well. Your lord duke is with him. I left them yesterday evening. They ride for London this morning—’

‘And the Queen?’

‘In Greenwich, with the prince.’ He signals the paper, now in her hand. ‘There is more, I am sure, in the letter.’

‘I will read it. Wait here for my reply.’ She’s off now, remounting the steps, calling for pen and ink.

‘The duke begs you remain here at Fotheringhay,’ the messenger calls to her. ‘Till he’s sure of the city’s safety.’

‘Does he now?’ Thrown back at him, over her shoulder.

She closes the door of her chamber. Walks slow to the window, rests her hands against its sill and her brow against its glass. Her heart pounds. It had soared with exaltation at word of Beaufort’s death. She should make confession of that, she supposes, but to what end? She’s not sorry. She opens her mouth and a gasp of laughter escapes it. The back of her trembling hand bars more. She breathes deep, steadies herself, sits, and breaks the seal.

He tells her first what she most needs to know; the numbers and names of the dead. The one that matters most to her is Somerset, damn him to hell. The rest are her brother’s northern rivals. Henry Percy. His nephew, Thomas Lord Clifford. Others who have given Salisbury and Warwick reasons to grudge them. The cobbles of St Albans are slick with her enemies’ blood.

Then, because, as ever, it is foremost in his mind, he assures her he kept his loyalty.

‘When we came to the town in the morning,’ he writes, ‘the King’s banners already flew above it, his soldiers arrayed on its walls. I had my heralds call out that I wanted no battle here. Only the surrender of the traitor Beaufort. That given, I would tender my allegiance to the King.’

She imagines her brother shrugging and letting him get on with it. Always useful to be able to say we tried.

‘But the messenger that rode out to say I must quit the field or die a traitor’s death, with every man in my company, wore Beaufort’s colours. And when I pressed him, before God, whether his words were the King’s or his master’s, he hung his head for shame. And so, we set ourselves for a fight.’

Thank heavens for that. Her rapid hand turns the page.

‘Warwick took Beaufort down,’ she reads. ‘He was first into the fighting within the town. While I led an assault on the barricades to the south, he broke in with his father through the north wall. Our ruse. It worked.’