‘Did you think that, when you broke the barricades at Northampton or threw your strength against the Tower? Did you shiver in your boots and say, “Oh, but it’s a terrible risk”?’

He smiles, rueful. ‘It was much on my mind.’

‘It didn’t stop you, though, did it? Don’t imagine Marguerite to be less brave than you are.’

‘Would you have done it?’

‘In a moment.’

He laughs. ‘Well, you’re braver than us all.’

She laughs with him, takes his arm. ‘Is Warwick right? Can we get the support?’

‘If anyone can, he can.’

‘He’s very bold.’

‘Wait and see. He makes impossible things happen every day. He’s not afraid of anything. He says a thing will be so, and it is.’

‘What of your father? You went with Warwick to Ireland. You’ve seen him. Does he want it?’

He grimaces. ‘I think he wishes he could stay in Ireland.’ He smiles when she frowns, chucks her under the chin. ‘Only if he could get you there.’ Then, serious again. ‘No. He comes for the Crown, I think.’

It seems he does. He writes in mid-September and bids her come towards Hereford to meet him. As she looks down the Wye’s steep valley slopes to his encampment she sees, flying above it, the royal standard alongside York’s. It sets her pulse racing. When he comes from his tent to greet her he doesn’t speak. Just wraps his arms about her, breathes deep, then pulls back, a little shamefaced but smiling, and hands her to her son.

She holds Edmund at arm’s length and takes the time to look. His face hasn’t lost its summer burnish, his shoulders are broader than she remembers. She feels the muscle of his arms. ‘You’ve been working,’ she says. ‘Irish sword play, I suppose.’

And there’s that slow, lovely grin, the dip of his head, a glance to his father. Still a boy, after all. Easily flattered. There’s more than just a year of age between him and Edward now. There’s blood and battle and the making of a man. Tears threaten and she blinks them back. She gambled this one’s life and still bears the shame of it. She’ll do penance.