I was pleased to see that in the peaceful and safe environment of Kenilworth my half-brother had recovered his physical health, although perhaps had not returned to full mental capacity. But I was able to discuss with him the appointment of a commission to enquire into Edmund’s death and the need to make arrangements for his widow and son.

The king announced at the next meeting of the Great Council that he would confer the vacant Richmond title, which was a royal honour, on his nephew Henry Tudor, our late and much-lamented brother’s son.

Then he went on, to my surprise, ‘However, the boy’s mother is still a minor, too young to have his custody. We will grant that to his uncle, the Earl of Pembroke, with an allowance for his keep from the Richmond estates and the bulk of their revenues reverting to the crown for the time being. The title Countess of Richmond will remain with Lady Margaret, as will the Somerset estates, and we will find her a suitable marriage as soon as the mourning period has elapsed so that they may be well supervised.’

Later the king explained his intentions further. ‘As matters stand in the realm at present, Jasper, I cannot grant you the full revenue from the Richmond estates during your wardship of young Henry, because it will stir resentment among certain of my nobles.’

‘I am sure his grace does not need to spell out which noble in particular,’ remarked Queen Marguerite tartly. Seldom far from her husband’s side, she seemed to have taken the place formerly filled by the king’s successive favourites, the Dukes of Suffolk and Somerset, whose deaths she had deeply mourned and blamed on one man alone, the man whose name did not pass her lips.

I nodded and observed casually, ‘We have not seen his grace of York at court since the Protectorate ended. Has he other business? Perhaps his duchess has produced yet another child to add to their plenteous family?’

Marguerite’s lip curled. ‘You are perceptive, Jasper, but at least it is another girl. I keep telling the king that he should send the duke back to Ireland. Children do not thrive there they tell me.’

I acknowledged her cold smile, knowing that her real hope was that one of Ireland’s notorious bogs would swallow up Richard, Duke of York completely. ‘And how is the Prince of Wales, your grace?’ I asked. ‘He must be three by now – practically a knight!’

‘Édouard is well, thank you. The Kenilworth air suits him.’ This time the queen was the one to choose an apparent non sequitur. ‘I find it interesting that your sister-in-law chose to call her son Henry, rather than Edmund after his sire.’