HERTFORD CASTLE,

SUMMER 1455

He does not look like the king who rode out to reprimand the great lord with his two friends at his side, dressed for a day of pleasure. He looks as if he has collapsed in on himself, a pillow king with the stuffing gone, a bubble king deflated. His head is down, an ill-tied bandage round his throat shows where the Warwick archers nearly ended the reign altogether, his robe is trailing from his shoulders because he has not tightened his belt, and he stumbles over it, like an idiot, as he walks into the poky presence chamber of Hertford Castle.

The queen is waiting for him, surrounded by a few of her household and his, but the great lords of the land and their men have stayed in London, preparing for the parliament which is going to do the bidding of the Duke of York. She rises up when she sees him and goes forwards to greet him, stately and dignified, but I can see her hands shaking until she tucks them inside the shelter of her long sleeves. She can see, as I can see, that we have lost him again. At this crucial moment, when we so badly need a king to command us: he has slipped away.

He smiles at her. ‘Ah,’ he says, and again there is that betraying pause as he searches for her name. ‘Ah, Margaret.’

She curtseys and rises up and kisses him. He puckers his lips like a child.

‘Your Grace,’ she says. ‘I thank God that you are safe.’

His eyes widen. ‘It was a terrible thing,’ he says, his voice thin and slight. ‘It was a terrible thing, Margaret. You have never seen such errible thing in your life. I was lucky that the Duke of York was there to take me safely away. The way that men behave! It was a terrible thing, Margaret. I was glad the duke was there. He was the only one who was kind to me, he is the only one who understands how I feel . . .’

Moving as one, Margaret and I go towards him. She takes his arm and leads him into the private rooms, and I stand blocking the way after them, so that no-one can follow them. The door closes behind them, and her chief maid looks at me. ‘And what happens now?’ she asks wryly. ‘Do we all fall asleep again?’

‘We serve the queen,’ I say with more certainty than I feel. ‘And you in particular, mind your tongue.’

* * *

I have no letter from Richard, but a stonemason who went over to supervise some building work takes the trouble to ride out to Hertford Castle with news for me. ‘He is alive,’ is the first thing he says. ‘God bless him, alive and well and drilling the men and maintaining the guard and doing all that he can to keep Calais for England . . .’ He drops his voice. ‘And for Lancaster.’