So often excluded, Gloucester must have been surprised by a summons to the Parliament in Bury. More so when he arrives and finds William de la Pole and Edmund Beaufort waiting to arrest him. They tell him he has plotted treason. That, like his wife, he has sought the King’s death, coveted his throne. The next morning, he suffers an apoplexy and, two days later, dies of it. So the official report reads. Only brave men or fools would question it, when William de la Pole is firing out arrest orders for Gloucester’s retainers as fast as an archer looses arrows. There are enough, though, that the old man’s body, naked and white as a candle, is laid out in Bury’s cathedral, where any man might seek in it the secret of his end.

Richard forbids Cecily to go. She is with child again. Such a thing could blight a babe in the womb.

‘No mark on him,’ he tells her when he returns to their lodging; when he has closed the door and checked they are alone.

‘Of course not. When a man’s heart is old and tired you don’t need a sword to pierce it.’

He nods, throws his gloves on to the bed. ‘No, indeed.’

She comes to him. Hands him a paper. ‘A note from William. You are summoned to the King.’

He reads, sighs. Rubs his face. Picks up his gloves again. ‘Then I’d best be about it.’ He hesitates a moment as she, too, rises to go.

‘What?’ she asks. ‘Am I not York too?’

The King wears black and his eyes are red-rimmed, as if he has wept. He rises to greet them, accepts their obeisance. ‘Cousin –’ he lays a hand on Richard’s arm – ‘Lady Cecily, how do you bear it? I am sure, like us, you deeply grieve the loss of our dear uncle.’

Behind him, black as crows, William de la Pole, Beaufort and the Queen have not been weeping. Though their faces are solemn, there is the shadow of a smirk about Beaufort’s lips and William is fidgeting with his cuffs as if fascinated by them. The Queen’s face is unreadable, locked on Richard.

‘He gave Your Grace good service for many years,’ Richard acknowledges. ‘And if he has lately turned from that …’

‘In my youth, Richard.’ The King raises a finger, suddenly imperious. ‘In my youth he served me well and I loved him.’ Fresh tears spill from his eyes. ‘It is bitter to believe that, now I am a man, he could wish me dead.’

William steps to the King’s side, his eyes on Richard. ‘And we grieve, Your Grace, that death has robbed him of the chance to prove his innocence.’

That imperious finger, trembling now, comes to rest on Richard’s breast. The tears are gone and his eyes blink and dart. ‘Do you think him innocent, Richard?’

How to answer?