It is a miracle. He just opens his eyes, and yawns and looks around him, surprised to be seated in a chair in his privy chamber in Windsor, surrounded by strangers. The doctors rush for us, and the queen and I go in alone.

‘Better not frighten him with a great crowd,’ she says.

We go in quietly, almost as if we are approaching some wounded animal that might take fright. The king is rising to his feet, a doctor on either side to help him support himself. He is unsteady, but he lifts his head when he sees the queen and he says, uncertainly, ‘Ah.’ I can almost see him seeking her name in the confusion in his mind. ‘Margaret,’ he says at last. ‘Margaret of Anjou.’

I find there are tears in my eyes and I am holding back sobs at the wreck of this man who was born to be King of England and who I first knew when he was a boy as handsome as little Edward March, the York son. Now this hollowed-out man takes one tottering step, and the queen makes a deep curtsey to him. She does not reach out to touch him, she does not go into his arms. It is like the young woman and the Fisher King in the legend: she lives with him but they never touch. ‘Your Grace, I am glad to see you well again,’ she says quietly.

‘Have I been ill?’

One deeply secret glance passes between her and me.

‘You fell asleep, into a deep sleep, and no-one could wake you.’

‘Really?’ He passes his hand over his head, and he sees for the first time the scar from a burning poultice on his arm. ‘Gracious me. Did I bump myself? How long was I asleep?’

She hesitates.

‘A long time,’ I say. ‘And though you were asleep for a long time, the country is safe.’

‘That greagood,’ he says. ‘Heigh ho.’ He nods at the men who are holding him up. ‘Help me to the window.’

He shuffles like an old man to the window and looks out at the water meadows and the river that still flows through the frosty white banks, just as it always did. He narrows his eyes against the glare. ‘It’s very bright,’ he complains. He turns and goes back to his chair. ‘I’m very tired.’

‘Don’t!’ An involuntary cry escapes from the queen.

They ease him back into his chair, and I see him observe the straps on the arms and on the seat. I see him consider them, owlishly blinking, and then he looks around the stark bareness of the room. He looks at the table of physic. He looks at me. ‘How long was it, Jacquetta?’

I press my lips together to hold back an outburst. ‘It was a long time. But we are so pleased you are better now. If you sleep now, you will wake up again, won’t you, Your Grace? You will try to wake up again?’