The duke looks blankly at me. Neither of us can think of anything that will make this better. ‘Fetch them in,’ he says to me.

I go out to the waiting lords. ‘His Grace the king is in his privy chamber,’ I say and stand to one side as they go in, the rockers and the nurse following with the duchess. I am foolishly relieved to see that the baby’s dark blue eyes are open, blinking at the ceiling; there would have been something very horrible if the baby had been sleeping like his father.

In the privy chamber the lords have made an embarrassed half-circle around the king. Not a word is spoken, I see one man cross himself. Richard, Duke of York, looks grim at the sight of the sleeping king. One man is shielding his eyes from the sight, one is weeping. They are all deeply shocked. Anne Duchess of Buckingham was forewarned of the state of the king by her kinsman Edmund Beaufort but she is pale. She plays her part in this grotesque tableau, as if she presents a baby to his half-dead father every day of her life. She takes the child and walks towards the motionless king, strapped in his chair.

‘Your Grace,’ she says quietly. ‘This is your son.’ She steps forwards, but the king does not lift his arms to receive the child. He is completely still. Awkwardly, the duchess holds the baby against his chest, but the king does not move. She looks to the Duke of Somerset who takes the baby from her, and lays it in the king’s lap. He does not stir.

‘Your Grace,’ the duke says loudly. ‘This is your son. Raise your hand to acknowledge him.’

Nothing.

‘Your Grace!’ the duke says again, a little louder. ‘Just nod your head to acknowledge your son.’

Nothing.

‘Just blink, sire. Just blink to say that you know this is your son.’

Now it is as if we are all enchanted. The physicians are still, looking at their patient, hoping for a miracle, the duchess waiting, the duke with one hand holding the baby on the king’s unmoving knees, the other on the king’s shoulder, squeezing him, hard and then harder, so his strong fingers are digging into the king’s bony shoulder, pinching him cruelly. I am silent, standing still. For a moment I feel as if the king has a plague of stillness and we are all going to freeze and sleep with him, an enchanted court around a sleeping king. Then the baby lets out a little cry and I step forwards and catch him up as if I fear that he might be infected with sleep.

‘This is hopeless,’ the Duke of York says abruptly. ‘He sees and hears nothing. My God, Somerset: how long has he been like this? He can do nothing. You should have told us.’

‘He is still king,’ the duke says sharply.

‘Nobody is denying that,’ Richard, k, snaps. ‘But he has not recognised his son, and he cannot transact the business of the kingdom. He is a king like a babe himself. We should have been told.’