Henry hears of this the moment the words are out of the man’s mouth; but too late to call the words back, too late to deafen the crowd. All he can do is make sure that the crowd never again sees the boy who looks so like a York prince.

So that is to be the first and last time that the boy has to walk the streets of London inviting abuse. “You will confine him to the Tower,” My Lady orders her son.

“In time. I wanted the people to see that he was nothing, no threat, an idle foolish boy. Nothing more than a little lad, the boy that I always called him—lighter than air.”

“Well, they have seen him now. And they don’t call him lighter than air. They don’t know what to call him, though we have told them his name over and over again. And the name that they want to give him should never be spoken. Surely, now you will charge him and execute him?”

“I gave him my word that he should not be killed when he surrendered to me.”

“That’s not binding.” Anxiety makes her overrule him. “You’ve broken your word for less than this. You don’t have to keep your word to such as him.”

His face is suddenly illuminated. “Yes, but I gave my word to her.”

My Lady turns a furious glare on me, accusing me at once. “Her? She never had the nerve to ask for mercy for him?” she suddenly rages, her face filled with hatred. “She never soiled her mouth speaking for such a traitor? For what reason? What did she dare to say?”

Coolly, I show her a mutinous face and silently I shake my head. “No, not me,” I say icily. “You are mistaken, again. I have not asked for mercy for him. I have not spoken for or against him. I have no opinion on the matter, and I never have done.” I wait while her anger curdles into embarrassment. “I think His Grace must mean another lady.”

Horrified, My Lady turns back to her son as if he is betraying her, as if it is she who is suffering infidelity. “Who? What woman has dared to ask you for his life? Who do you listen to—instead of me, your own mother, who has guided every step of your way?”

“Lady Katherine,” he says. He has a silly little smile on his face at her very name. “Lady Katherine. I have given my word of honor to the lady.”

She sits in my room like a dignified widow, always in black, with her hands always filled with some work or another. We sew shirts for the poor and always she is hemming a sleeve or turning a collar, her head bowed over her work. The chatter and laughter of the women go on around her, all the time, and sometimes she raises her head and smiles at a joke, and sometimes she quietly replies, or adds her own story to the conversation. She speaks of her childhood in Scotland, she speaks of her cousin the King of Scotland and of his court. She is not lively, but she is courteous and pleasant company. She has charm; I sometimes find myself smiling when I look at her. She has poise. She is living in my court and my husband is visibly in love with her and yet she never shows, by so much as a sideways glance to me, that she is aware of this. She could taunt me, she could flaunt herself, she could embarrass me, but she never does.