Sir Robert Clifford, Richard’s friend and loyal companion at the Battle of Bosworth and long before that day, bows as we come in. He looks strained, a leather sack like a pedlar’s pack in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other, as if he were coming to market to deal with a difficult trader. Henry takes the great chair under the cloth of gold, and looks him up and down, as if taking the measure of the man who has turned his coat twice.

“You may tell me what you know,” Henry says quietly.

My Lady steps a little closer to her son’s chair and puts her hand on the carved back, as if she would show them as inseparable, conjoined. In contrast, I find myself shrinking away. Margaret looks at me quickly as if she is afraid that I might faint. The room is stuffy; I can smell the nervous sweat of the waiting lords. I wonder who has good reason to be fearful. I look from Cecily to Anne to Margaret and wonder if they are about to be entrapped. Sir Robert Clifford dabs his damp upper lip.

“I have come straight from the court . . .” he starts.

“It’s not a court,” Henry corrects him.

“From . . .”

“From the feigned lad Warbeck.” Henry speaks for him.

“Warbeck?” Sir Robert hesitates as if to confirm the name, as if he has never heard it before.

Irritated, my husband raises his voice. “Warbeck! Of course! Warbeck! That’s his name, for God’s sake!”

“With this.” Sir Robert holds out the sack.

“The seals of the traitors,” Henry prompts him.

Sir Robert is pale. He nods. “The proof of their treachery.”

“Cut from their treasonous letters to the boy.”

Sir Robert nods nervously.

“You may show me. Show me one at a time.”

Sir Robert steps up to the table, within reach of the king, and I see Jasper Tudor raise himself up on his toes, as if he is ready to spring forwards and defend his nephew against some trick. They are afraid, even now, even in the heart of the Tower, that Henry may be attacked.

It is like a children’s game as Sir Robert plunges his hand in the bag and hands over the first seal. Henry takes it, turns it around in his hand. “Cressener,” he says shortly.

There is a little murmur from one corner of the court, where the absent young man’s kinsmen are standing. They look utterly shocked. A man drops to his knees. “Before God, I knew nothing of it,” he says.

Henry just looks at him, as the clerk behind him makes a note on a sheet of paper. Henry holds out his hand for another seal. “Astwood,” he says.

“Never!” a woman exclaims, and then bites back the denial, realizing that she does not want to be seen defending a traitor.

Henry holds out his hand, disregarding the gasp from the lords. I see the seal as it comes from the bag, almost as if by magic, as if I suddenly have the eyes of a hawk that can see far, far below the crouching mouse, the dash of a pheasant chick. As Sir Robert hands over the small red seal, I recognize the imprint of my mother’s ring.