WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1489

It is a joyous Christmas with my mother at court, and then a long, cold winter in London. We command a special Mass to be sung for my uncle Edward, who died last year in his expedition against the French.

“He didn’t have to go,” I say, lighting a candle for him on the altar of the chapel.

My mother smiles, though I know that she misses him. “Oh, he did,” she says. “He was never a man who could stay quietly at home.”

“You will have to go quietly to your home,” I point out. “The feast of Christmas is over and Henry says you have to go back to the abbey.”

She turns towards the door and pulls the hood forwards over her silvery hair. “I don’t mind, as long as you and the girls are well, and I see that you are happy and at peace in yourself.”

I walk beside her and she takes my hand. “And you? Are you coming to love him, as I hoped you would do?” she says.

“It’s odd,” I confess. “I don’t find him heroic, I don’t think he is the most marvelous man in the world. I know he’s not very brave, he’s often bad-tempered. I don’t love him as I did Richard . . .”

“There are many sorts of love,” she counsels me. “And when you love a man who is less than you dreamed, you have to make allowances for the difference between a real man and a dream. Sometimes you have to forgive him. Perhaps you even have to forgive him often. But forgiveness often comes with love.”

In April, when the birds are singing in the fields south of the river, I tell Henry that I will not ride out hawking with him. He is mounting up in the stable yard and my horse, that has been kept inside for days, is curvetting and dancing on the spot, held tightly with his reins by a groom.

“He’s just fresh,” Henry says, looking from the eager gelding to me. “You can manage him, surely? It’s not like you to miss a day’s hawking. As soon as you’re on him he’ll be all right.”

I shake my head.

“Have another horse,” Henry suggests. I smile at his determination that I should ride with him. “Uncle Jasper will let you have his. He’s steady as a rock.”

“Not today,” I persist.

“Are you not well?” He throws his reins to his groom and jumps down to come to my side. “You look a little pale. Are you well, my love?”

At that endearment, I lean towards him and his arm comes around my waist. I turn my head so my lips are at his ear. “I have just been sick,” I whisper.

“But you’re not hot?” He flinches a little. The terror of the sweating sickness that came with his army is still a strong one. “Tell me you’re not hot!”