A long July day is coming to its close when Ludlow finally comes into view. First, the high, square tower of St Lawrence’s, then the castle, safely hemmed by the Teme’s reaching arm. For want of a wind to set them flying, the pennants of York hang heavy from its walls, and though the sun is lowering, the day holds hard to its sultry heat. As they begin the steady descent to cross the river at Ludford Bridge, Cecily grimaces at the shift of her weight in the saddle and the taste of dust in her mouth. Dickon rides astride Richard’s saddle, just as Edward did so many years ago. The boy has long since fallen asleep, his head against Richard’s chest, anchored by a weight of arm. His face is flushed and his dark hair sweat-flattened at neck and brow.

‘Doesn’t he make you hot? We should have put him in the carriage with the others,’ says Cecily. Margaret and George have long since tired of riding, and trundle with their nurses further down the line.

Richard only smiles down at the boy. ‘Let him be. I see little enough of him.’

He seems precious to Richard, this little boy. Cecily wonders why. He’s slighter than the others, dark where they are fair. He hasn’t George’s boldness or Edmund’s grace and, of course, no one can hold a candle to Edward. Perhaps it’s because Richard senses, as she does herself, that he’s the last. In the four years since Ursula, her womb has never quickened. She is forty-four this summer. Her blood comes rarely now and she marvels, when it does, that she endured it so long, the mess and the ache. It’s a relief to lie with her husband and not wonder, for days after, whether this time she has caught; not to shield her heart, as her belly grows, lest this child finds better rest in a tomb than a cradle. She has borne twelve children. Seven of them live. She’s thankful for each of them, and glad to be done with it.

She told this to her confessor last winter, expecting a penance.

He only smiled, patted her hand and said, ‘God is merciful.’

She’s called from her thoughts by the boom of Ludlow’s castle gates being drawn open, and Edward’s voice calling down from its walls.

‘Mother! Father!’ His arm about his brother Edmund’s shoulder, and pointing. A wide-armed wave, then he’s gone, and Edmund following a moment later.

By the time they’re through the gate Edward’s there before them, reaching for her reins and talking across her to his father of men arriving, of the muster already begun. He pulls her horse to the mounting block, then she’s down and he’s on his knee before her, kissing her hand.

‘Get up, Edward, let me look at you.’