The abbey church was full, the chancel crowded with barons and their wives who, when asked if they once again accepted Henry as their lawful king, dutifully made the rafters ring with their cheers. Compared to his first coronation the ceremony was brief; there was no need for an anointing because, according to Abbot Millyng who presided, a monarch once blessed with the holy oil remained divinely sanctioned until his death. Nobles and prelates present above the rank of baron renewed their vows of allegiance but those who still espoused the Yorkist cause were strategically absent and so the queue was not over long. As I knelt before my brother and bowed my head to kiss the ring, I feared the heavy crown might slip from his head as he bent to say, ‘May God guide me through your good advice, Jasper.’ Humbled though I was by his trust, I also felt the weight of responsibility settle like a heavy hauberk on my shoulders. It seemed ironic that the realm, once so firmly ruled by King Henry’s renowned and conquering father, should now be under the regency of his mother’s secret Tudor son.

* * *

My exile from England had not only separated me from Jane and my children; it had removed me from the orbit of my sister Meg and her family, including old Mette, the Frenchwoman who had so faithfully served my mother, Queen Catherine. News of Mette’s death had only reached me several months after it had occurred six years ago.

I had been at Bamburgh Castle, where King Henry had been living in anticipation of marching south for another attempt to reclaim the throne. At that time the Lancastrian cause had plunged to one of its low ebbs and the castle was under a Yorkist siege but a letter from Meg found me, part of a bundle smuggled in for the king. In this particular dark hour God or our patron saints favoured us, for when Bamburgh finally surrendered to heavy bombardment from Edward’s formidable new cannons, King Henry and I were permitted to ride out of the gates with the rest of the garrison, under a safe passage back to the Scottish border. It seemed that Edward of York, who would gleefully have taken us both prisoner, had been struck down with measles and handed command to Warwick’s brother, Lord Montagu, a rare knight who still played by the rules of chivalry.