She looks up, widens her eyes. ‘Not with his men?’

The horse prances and he’s forced to rein in. ‘Neither your husband, sons or brother. You are deserted, madam.’

‘Then God help me.’

He orders her to stand and she does, bringing her children, too, to their feet. She watches him dismount, step towards her. He favours the leg that was wounded at St Albans. She can’t help but notice, to hope it hurts. He’s not so tall as his father and she looks at him, level. He draws his sword, long and ringing.

She steps back a half-pace, but does not cower. ‘I am the King’s loyal beadswoman. I’ve opened my gates to you. Ludlow is yours and I surrender to your mercy.’ She speaks loud so all can hear. ‘I am sure you will not threaten the lives of my innocent children, or those of my people who have sought safety here.’

He leans towards her, his bare blade between them, his face sneering. ‘I am not fooled by you, madam.’

‘Henry.’ Buckingham’s voice comes from behind, full of warning. ‘This is a noblewoman of my family. Remember it.’ He dismounts, comes to her, puts himself between her and Henry Beaufort. ‘Sister.’ His voice is clipped and he cannot look at her. ‘You are the King’s prisoner.’

‘I most readily submit to him.’

‘Your husband has caused us much trouble.’

Henry Beaufort is striding back to his horse. ‘Never fear. Ludlow will pay the price of it.’

They put her in the Mortimer Tower, its topmost room.

‘Stay put,’ Buckingham tells her at its door. ‘You’re in my custody now, a prisoner of the King.’ He shifts his feet, can’t look her in the eye. ‘I can’t stop what will happen here today, but you’ll be safe enough. I’ll set a guard below.’

Then, for the first time in her life, a key is turned upon her and she is constrained.

She looks about. The room is small, its fireplace is bare, there’s a bed, narrow and low. Above it, Christ in agony. A priest’s room then. There’s a window that looks down on to the bailey and the town beyond the walls. She steps to it in time to see Buckingham turn his horse about and ride out through the gates back into the town, his raised arm drawing men behind him. Into the quiet he leaves behind comes a low muttering and a chink of steel. She looks down and there’s his promise kept; a guard of twelve, metalled and stout at the tower door.