I think of the illusion that I saw as we came off the barge at Greenwich, that she was followed by a black dog, a fighting dog, a black mastiff, and the smell that lingered around her despite the perfume and the perfectly washed linen, and I think that the black dog will follow her and will run up and down the stairs of Peel Castle on the Isle of Man, as she waits, long, long years, for her release into death.

GRAFTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,

WINTER 1441–1444

As soon as we can be excused from court, Richard and I go back home, to Grafton. The terror of the court is only stoked by the death of the witch, the disgrace of the duchess and the mood of witch-taking. Apprehension of the unknown and fear of the hours of darkness infect all of London. Everyone who has been studying the stars for years, reading books, or testing metal finds a reason to leave for the country and Richard thinks it is safer for us if I – with my perilous ancestry – am far away from court.

At Grafton there is much work to do. The death of Richard’s father means that Richard inherits the land and the responsibilities of being the lord of the small village and the keeper of the peace. I too have work to do. The cradle is polished again and the swaddling bands laundered and aired. ‘I think this will be another son,’ I say to my husband.

‘I don’t mind,’ he says. ‘As long as the baby is well and strong and you rise up from childbed as joyfully as you lie down in it.’

‘I shall rise up with a son,’ I say certainly. ‘And he will be an ornament to his country and a treasure to his family.’

He smiles and taps me on the nose. ‘You are a funny little thing. What d’you mean?’

‘And we shall call him Anthony,’ I continue.

‘For the saint?’ my husband asks. ‘Why him?’

‘Oh, because he went to the river to preach,’ I say. ‘I like the thought of honouring a saint who preached to the fishes and they put their little heads out of the water to hear him, and the mermaids said “Amen”.’

* * *

The next year after Anthony comes another girl, whom we name Mary, and after her, another girl. ‘Jacquetta,’ my husband declares. ‘She’s to be named Jacquetta, the most beautiful name for the most beautiful woman.’ We are hanging over the little wooden cradle while the baby sleeps, her face turned to one side, her perfect eyelashes closed on her rosy cheek. Her eyelids flicker, she is dreaming. I wonder what a baby dreams? Do they know that they are to come to the parents that we are? Are they prepared for the world we are making? Richard slides his arm around my waist. ‘And though we love her, we have to leave her for just a little while.’