The queen rises up and takes Edward from me, and proffers the sleeping child to the king. He shrinks away. ‘No, no. I don’t want to hold it. Just tell me. Is this a girl or a boy?’

‘A boy,’ the queen says, her voice quavering with disappointment at his response. ‘A boy, thank God. An heir to your throne, the son we prayed for.’

He inspects the rosy face. ‘A child of the Holy Spirit,’ he says wonderingly.

‘No, your own true-born son,’ the queen corrects him sharply. I look and see that the doctors and their servants and two or three ladies in waiting will have heard this damning pronouncement from the king. ‘He is the prince, Your Grace. A son and heir for you, and a prince for England. The Prince of Wales; we christened him Edmund.’

‘Edward,’ I snap. ‘Edward.’

She recovers herself. ‘Edward. He is Prince Edward of Lancaster.’

The king smiles radiantly. ‘Oh, a boy! That’s a bit of luck.’

‘You have a boy,’ I say. ‘A son and heir. Your son and heir, God bless him.’

‘Amen,’ he says. I take the little boy from the queen and she sinks down again into her chair. The boy stirs and I hold him against my shoulder and rock gently. He smells of soap and warm skin.

‘And is he baptised?’ the king asks conversationally.

I can see Margaret grit her teeth with irritation at this slow questioning of those terrible days. ‘Yes,’ she says pleasantly enough. ‘Yes, he is baptised, of course.’

‘And who are the godparents? Did I choose them?’

‘No, you were asleep. We – I – chose Archbishop Kemp, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Anne, Duchess of Buckingham.’

‘Just who I would have chosen,’ the king declares, smiling. ‘My particular friends. Anne who?’

‘Buckingham,’ the queen enunciates carefully. ‘The Duchess of Buckingham. But I am grieved to tell you that the archbishop is dead.’

The king throws up his hands in wonder. ‘No! Why, how long have I been asleep?’

‘Eighteen months, Your Grace,’ I say quietly. ‘A year and a half. It has been a long time, we were all of us very afraid for your health. It is very good to see you well again.’

He looks at me with his childlike trusting gaze. ‘It is a long time, but I remember nothing of the sleep. Not even my dreams.’

‘Do you remember falling asleep?’ I ask him quietly, hating myself.

‘Not at all!’ he chuckles. ‘Only last night. I can only remember falling asleep last night. I hope when I sleep tonight that I wake up again in the morning.’

‘Amen,’ I say. The queen has her face in her hands.

‘I don’t want to sleep another year away!’ he jokes.

Margaret shudders, and then straightens up and folds her hands in her lap. Her face is like stone.

‘It must have been very inconvenient for you all,’ he says benevolently, looking round the privy chamber. He does not seem to understand that he has been abandoned by his court, that the only people here are his doctors and nurses and us, his fellow prisoners. ‘I shall try not to do it again.’