‘I am brave,’ she says furiously. ‘No-one shall ever say otherwise.’

I see the irritability of childbirth and I take a damp cloth soaked in lavender water and gently wipe her face. She sighs as the pain recedes and then braces herself for the next wave. It takes a long time to come. I glance at the midwife. ‘Going to take a while,’ she says wisely. ‘We’d all better have a mug of ale and a sit down.’

It does take a while – all night – but next day, on the day of St Edward, she gives birth to a boy, a precious Lancaster boy, and the safety and the inheritance of England is assured.

I go outside to the presence chamber and there are the lords of England, waiting for news. Edmund Beaufort is among them, not standing forwards, as he usually does, commanding the room, but away from the bedchamber door, a little aside, making himself one of the crowd. For once in his life he is not claiming pride of place and this makes me hesitate, not knowing if I should go directly and tell him. He is the Constable of England, he is the most favoured lord in the land, he commands the Privy Council, they are his nominated men in parliament. He is the favourite of king and queen and we are all accustomed to giving way to him. I would normally speak to him before any other.

Of course, the first man to have the news should be the baby’s father: the king. But he, God bless him, is far, far away. There is no protocol for today, and I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I hesitate for a moment, and then as all the talk dies down and the men turn to look at me in expectant silence, I say simply, ‘My lords, I give you joy. The queen has been brought to bed of a handsome boy and has named him Edward. God save the king.’

A few days later, as the baby thrives and the queen rests, I am coming back to the queen’s chambers after a walk in the gardens of the palace when I hesitate. At the closed door of her rooms is a young boy and a couple of guards wearing the white rose of the House of York on their livery. I know at once that this will mean trouble, as I open the door and go inside.

The queen is seated on her chair by the window, the wife of Richard Duke of York standing before her. Margaret has not invited her to sit, and the flush of colour in Cecily Neville’s cheeks tells me that she is well aware of the snub. She turns as I come in and says, ‘Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, will confirm all that I say, I am sure.’

I sweep her a small curtsey. ‘Good day to you, Your Grace,’ I say politely, and I go and stand beside the queen, my hand resting on the back of her chair, so that rk standinn be in no doubt which side I am on, whatever she is here for, whatever she hopes I will confirm.