‘I’ve grown rather used to your company, son. You’re with me. Warwick, gather a force about you and keep close to London. Be ready to come to us at need, but your first priority is to defend the capital. And the King.’

He comes late to her chamber that night, leans against the door jamb, looking in. She’s dressed for sleep and her hair is down, braided on her back. ‘I’ll understand if you don’t want me here.’

She doesn’t, but can’t clearly say why. ‘I wanted a crown for you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll get one yet. When I fight the Queen and win.’

‘They should have let you fight as king. Men fight harder for a king.’

‘Yet a king may die, just as easily as any other man.’

‘You must not die.’

He looks past her, and away. ‘Do you remember what Ormond said, that day at Tara? He said you have to do more than lay your hand on the stone to be a king. First you have to bed the Queen of the World. Well, I’ve done that. Then ride your horse full gallop at a wall. I suppose Marguerite is my wall. If I’m meant to be king, she will fall before me.’

‘A test then?’

His eyes return to her face. ‘I suppose.’

She puts out a hand. ‘Come here.’

45

December 1460–January 1461

Thanks to Parliament’s long disputation it’s deep winter by the time Richard rides out. A poor time for campaigning, but they’d be fools to rely on Marguerite to idle away the cold months. Edward left for Wales yesterday, a wall of fur-wrapped muscle, his bright head shining in the frost. On the brink of departure he pulled George and Dickon on to his saddle, as if he meant to take them with him, and rode the courtyard in trotting circles till they squealed. When he handed them down they hung on his stirrup, laughing.

Cecily steeled her heart to scold him. ‘That horse is a danger and you are a fool.’

He leaned down, smiling, to kiss first Margaret’s cheek then hers. ‘Hold the city, Captain Mother,’ he ordered, and winked. ‘You’re in charge.’ Then he grasped his father’s arm, clapped his shoulder and was gone.