You have no doubt heard that Herbert’s hubris led him to believe he could not lose the battle at Banbury and Warwick’s hubris sent his defeated rival to the scaffold. Both events put R in the greatest possible danger. I lived in fear that he had been killed or captured, then at last I learned that he lived and had been taken to a place in Shropshire, where Herbert’s widow and children had taken refuge. I have received assurances of R’s safety and good health but since his appointed guardian is dead, I wish to petition the crown for his legal custody. However, I am told Warwick has the king under house arrest in Middleham and, not content with Herbert’s head, has ordered the execution of the queen’s captured father and brother. The queen herself has fled to sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. England is in the invidious position of having two living, consecrated kings who are both confined, Henry in the Tower and Edward at Middleham, while uncrowned Warwick is ruling despotically and without authority. I fear Fortune’s Wheel may have turned against us entirely. The future is in God’s hands, to Whom I pray hourly for mercy and guidance. MR

Written on the twenty-ninth day of August, 1469

I folded Margaret’s letter and added it to what I called the Conspiracy Casket, which I kept double-locked among my belongings. But of Jane and the children I had no news. Thinking of her practicality and praying hard, I told myself that no news was good news and tried not to speculate whether they, too, had gone to Shropshire. Or if not, where were they and how did they fare?

A royal summons came. Once arrayed in the, admittedly somewhat crumpled, fur-trimmed doublet and gold Lancastrian collar that I kept for court appearances, I passed swiftly through King Louis’ crowded Audience Chamber, exchanging brief pleasantries with those of his courtiers I knew, many of whom were obliged to wait hours gossiping and conspiring while awaiting admittance to The Presence. I had often had to do so myself and heaved a sigh of relief when, without any delay, the duty chamberlain threw open the door to the inner sanctum.

‘The most noble and puissant Lord Jasper, Earl of Pembroke, your grace.’

It was pleasant to hear my title used, having been officially but illegally stripped of it eight years ago. Louis advanced with his hand out to greet me; I kissed it with a low bow.

‘Jasper!’ He said my name in French, sounding as if he was desperately hoping for something – J’espère! ‘I have been expecting you. The news from England is more promising I think.’

‘Indeed, your grace?’ I could not help the question in my voice, for it seemed less than promising to me.