My Lady the King’s Mother blanches white and totters slightly, as if she will faint. But I have received messengers from battles before. “Never mind all that,” I say sharply. “Tell me the end of the message, not the beginning. Is the king alive or dead?”

“Alive,” he says.

“Did he win?”

“His commanders won.”

I disregard this too. “Are the Irish and the German mercenaries defeated?”

He nods.

“John de la Pole?”

“Dead.”

I take a breath at the death of my cousin.

“And Francis Lovell?” My Lady interrupts eagerly.

“Run away. Probably drowned in the river.”

“Now, you can tell me how it was,” I say.

This is the speech he has prepared. “They marched fast,” he says. “Past York, had a few running battles, but drew up at a village called East Stoke, outside Newark. People came out to support them, and they were recruiting right up to the last moment before the battle.”

“How many were they?” My Lady demands.

“We thought about eight thousand.”

“How many men did the king have by then?”

“We were twice their number. We should have felt safe. But we did not.” He shakes his head at the memory of their fear. “We did not.

“Anyway, they charged early, down from the hill, almost as soon as the battle began, and so all of them came against the Earl of Oxford who was commanding about six thousand men. He took the brunt of the fighting and his men held firm. They pushed back, and forced the Irish into a valley, and they couldn’t get out.”

“They were trapped?” I ask.

“We think they decided to fight to the death. They call the valley the Red Gutter now. It was very bad.”

I turn my head from the thought of it. “Where was the king during this massacre?”

“Safely in the rear of his army.” The messenger nods to his mother, who sees no shame in this. “But they brought the pretender to him when it was over.”

“He’s safe?” My Lady confirms. “You are certain that the king is safe?”

“Safe as ever.”

I swallow an exclamation. “And who is the pretender?” I ask as calmly as possible.

The man looks at me curiously. I realize I am gritting my teeth, and I try to breathe normally. “Is he a poor imposter as my lord thought?”

“Lambert Simnel: a lad trained to do the bidding of others, a schoolboy from Oxford, a handsome boy. His Grace has him under arrest, and the schoolmaster who taught him, and many of the other leaders.”

“And Francis Lovell?” My Lady demands, her voice hard. “Did anyone see him drown?”

He shakes his head. “His horse plunged into the river with him and they were swept away together.”

I cross myself. My Lady Mother makes the sign but her face is dark. “We had to capture him,” she says. “We had to take him and John de la Pole alive. We had to know what they planned. It was essential. We had to have them so that we could know what they know.”