She calls her confessor and, through the day, with her daughters beside her, keeps the offices of prayer. She finds their voices must speak for her, for no words will form on her own lips. Her heart cries out for mercy, for forgiveness and salvation, not to God, but to Edward, though his power to save is no more certain. And while her daughters pray, she pummels her mind for anything she might do to prevent the city opening its gates and giving her to her enemies.

Dusk comes early and brings a soft fall of snow. When vespers is done, and she’s wet her lips with a little wine, she leans her head against the cold glass of the solar window and cranes her eyes west, to where she last knew Edward to be, until the winter sky turns black. Below her, the lighter man with his flaming brand carries fire from sconce to sconce along the riverbank. Then, in the glare of his torch, she sees a small boat slide up to the dock. A hooded figure gets out, shakes snow from his cloak, hands over coin and hurries up the steps. Her house guard challenges him, and he answers in a voice she recognizes. William Hastings, a knight lately sworn to Edward’s service, whose father served with Richard in France. She hurries to meet him, draws him inside with her own hands.

‘I bring news to cheer you, lady,’ he tells her when the servants are gone, the doors shut and only she and her daughters remain.

‘Edward lives?’ The words leap from her mouth, desperate for confirmation.

He barks a laugh. ‘And strides the world.’ Serious now. ‘He sends me to you. Bids you take heart. He’s a week from London with twenty thousand at his back. He ordered me to tell his Captain Mother that he’s coming for his crown.’

The relief of it almost takes the power of speech from her, but a week is an impossible distance when the enemy is at the door. ‘Well and good,’ she tells him, ‘but Marguerite is a day away at most.’

‘Aye,’ he says, swiping a hand across his face. ‘I’ve spied that as I’ve travelled. Listen. London must hold, or all is lost. I urge you, go to the mayor in the morning, tell him Edward is coming. Tell him Marguerite’s army is ill provisioned, almost dead on its feet. Scotland gave her men, but not the money to pay them, or the supply lines to keep them fed. That’s why the plunder’s been so bad. But they’re on their knees now. If London doesn’t let them in, or provision them, she can’t hold.’ He’s earnest. ‘London need only keep its gates closed. She’s waiting for reinforcements, but they won’t come. She’ll know that by now. The fear of God must be upon her.’