I wait in Margaret’s rooms as she leads the court back from their thanksgiving for the king’s safekeeping. When she sees my grave face, she announces that she is tired and will sit with me alone. When the door closes behind the last of the ladies in waiting, I start to take the pins out of her hair.

She grips my hand. ‘Don’t, Jacquetta. I can’t bear to be touched. Just tell me. It’s bad, isn’t it?’

I know that in her place I would rather know the worst thing first. ‘Margaret, it breaks my heart to tell you – His Grace the Duke of Somerset is dead.’

For a moment she does not hear me. ‘His Grace?’

‘The Duke ofSomerset.’

‘Did you say dead?’

‘Dead.’

‘Do you mean Edmund?’

‘Edmund Beaufort, yes.’

Slowly, her grey-blue eyes fill with tears, her mouth trembles, and she puts her hands to her temples as if her head is ringing with pain. ‘He can’t be.’

‘He is.’

‘You’re sure? The man was sure? Battles can be so confusing, it could be a false report?’

‘It might be. But he was very sure.’

‘How could it be?’

I shrug. I am not going to tell her the details now. ‘Hand-to-hand fighting, in the streets . . .’

‘And the king sent me a message ordering me to lead a service of thanksgiving? Is he completely insane now? He wants a service of thanksgiving when Edmund is dead? Does he care for nothing? Nothing?’

There is a silence, then she gives a shuddering sigh as she realises the extent of her loss.

‘The king perhaps did not send the message for thanksgiving,’ I say. ‘It will have been ordered by the Duke of York.’

‘What do I care for that? Jacquetta – how shall I ever manage without him?’

I take her hands to prevent her from pulling at her hair. ‘Margaret, you will have to bear it. You will have to be brave.’

She shakes her head, a low moan starting in her throat. ‘Jacquetta, how shall I manage without him? How shall I live without him?’

I put my arms around her and she rocks with me, the low cry of pain going on and on. ‘How shall I live without him? How am I going to survive here without him?’

I move her to the big bed, and press her gently down. When her head is on the pillow her tears run back from her face and wet the fine embroidered linen. She does not scream or sob, she just moans behind her gritted teeth, as if she is trying to muffle the sound, but it is unstoppable, like her grief.

I take her hand and sit beside her in silence. ‘And my son,’ she says. ‘Dear God, my little son. Who will teach him what a man should be? Who will keep him safe?’

‘Hush,’ I say hopelessly. ‘Hush.’

She closes her eyes but still the tears spill down her cheeks and still she makes the quiet low noise, like an animal in deathly pain.