“Who’s his master? A Portuguese?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says vaguely, but his gaze on my face never wavers. “I can’t remember. Is it Edward Brampton? D’you know of him? Ever heard of him?”

I frown as if I am trying to recall, though his name strikes a chord in my mind so loud that I think Henry must hear it like a tolling bell. Slowly, I shake my head. I swallow, but my throat is dry and I take a sip of wine. “Edward Brampton?” I query. “I recognize the name. I think he served my father? I’m not sure. Is he an Englishman?”

“A Jew,” Henry says contemptuously. “A Jew that was in England, converted to serve your father, indeed your father stood as his sponsor into the Church. So you must have heard of him, though you’ve forgotten him. He must have come to court. He’s not been in England since I came to the throne, and now he lives everywhere and nowhere, so he’s probably still a heretic Jew, reverted to his heresy. He has this lad in his keeping, making claims, causing trouble for no reason. Your uncle will speak to him, I don’t doubt. Your uncle will prevail upon him to silence the lad. Your uncle Edward is very eager to serve me.”

“He is,” I agree. “We all want you to know that we are loyal to you.”

He smiles. “Well, here’s a little claimant whose loyalty I don’t want. Your uncle will no doubt silence him one way or another.”

I nod as if I am not much interested.

“You don’t want to see the lad?” he asks idly, as if offering me a treat. “This imposter? What if he is a bastard child of your father’s? Your half brother? Don’t you want to see him? Shall I tell Edward to bring the lad to court? You could take him into your household? Or shall I say he must be silenced where he is, overseas, far away?”

I shake my head. I imagine that the boy’s life depends upon what I say. I gamble that Henry is keenly watching me, expecting me to ask for the boy to be brought home. I think his little life may depend upon my appearance of indifference. “He’s of no interest to me,” I say, shrugging. “And it would irritate my mother. But you do what you think best.”

There is a little silence, in which I sip my wine. I offer to pour him another cup. The chink of silver jug against silver cup makes a noise like the counting of coins, of thirty pieces of silver.

The boy may be of no interest to me; but it seems he is of interest to others. In London there are the wildest rumors that both my brothers Edward and Richard escaped from imprisonment in the Tower years ago, almost as soon as our uncle Richard was crowned, and are making their way home from their hiding place, to claim the throne. The sons of York will walk in the garden of England again, this bitterly cold winter will turn to spring with their coming, the white roses will bloom, and everyone will be happy.