‘No,’ he agrees sadly. ‘We must do what we can.’

‘And the vision I had of him in the Tower . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I saw him, and then someone stood before the window and it was all dark . . .’

‘You think he will meet his death in the Tower?’

‘Not just him.’ I am filled with a sudden urgency. ‘I feel, I don’t know why, it is as if one of my own children were in there. A boy of mine, perhaps two of my boys. I see it, but I’m not there, I can’t prevent it. I can’t save the king, and I can’t save them either. They will go into the Tower and not come out.’

Gently, he takes my hand. ‘We can make our own destiny,’ he says. ‘You can protect your children, we can perhaps help the king. Take your visions to church and pray, and I will hope for understanding too. Will you tell the queen what you have seen?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘She has enough sorrows for a young woman already. And besides, I know nothing for certain.’

* * *

‘What did you see?’ Margaret demands of me as we walk home, anonymous in our cloaks through the crowded dark streets. We link arms in case we are jostled, and Margaret’s bright hair is covered by her hood. ‘He would tell me nothing.’

‘I had three visions: none of them very helpful,’ I say.

‘What were they?’

‘One of a battle, uphill in snow, and a bridge which gave way and threw the soldiers into the stream.’

‘You think it will come to a battle?’ she demands.

‘You think it won’t?’ I say drily.

She nods at my common-sense appraisal. ‘I want a battle,’ she declares. ‘I’m not afraid of it. I am not afraid of anything. And the other vision?’

‘Of a small room in the Tower, and the light going out.’

She hesitates for a moment. ‘There are many small rooms in the Tower, and the light gets blocked for many young men.’

A cold finger is laid on the nape of my neck. I wonder if a child of mine will ever be housed in the Tower and one dawn see the light blocked as a big man moves across the arrowslit. ‘That’s all I saw,’ I say.

‘And your last vision, you said there were three?’

‘A ring shaped like a crown, which signified the crown of England, and it was in deep water and it was drawn out of the water.’

‘By who?’ she demands. ‘Was it me?’

It is very rare that I lie to Margaret of Anjou. I love her and, besides, I am sworn to follow her and her house. But I would not name my beautiful daughter to her as the girl who holds the ring of England in her hand.

‘A swan,’ I say at random. ‘A swan took the ring of the crown of England in its beak.’

‘A swan?’ she asks me breathlessly. ‘Are you sure?’ She pauses in the middle of the street and a carter shouts at us and we step aside.