But that morning at Bosworth Field he and Sir William sat on their horses with their mighty armies behind him, and waited to see which way the battle would go. When they saw Richard charge into the heart of the fighting, on his own, aimed like a spear at Henry himself, the Stanleys, Lord William and Sir Thomas, acting as one, swept down on him from behind, with swords raised. They rescued Henry in that moment, and cut Richard down to the ground when he was just moments away from putting his sword through Henry Tudor’s heart.

Sir William Stanley picked up my Richard’s helmet from the mud, tore off the battle coronet, and handed the gold circlet to Henry: the most vile piece of work of a villainous day. Now, in puppyish gratitude, Henry makes Sir William his chamberlain, kisses him on both cheeks, declares that they are the new royal family. He surrounds himself with Stanleys, he cannot thank them enough. He has found his throne and his family in one triumph. He is inseparable from his mother, Margaret, and always, half a step behind her, is her devoted husband, Lord Thomas Stanley, and half a step behind him is his brother Sir William. Henry lolls in the lap of these newfound kinsmen who have put their boy on the throne and knows he is safe at last.

His uncle Jasper, who shared his exile and kept faith with the Tudor cause since Henry’s birth, is there too, rewarded for a lifetime of loyalty with his share of the spoils. He gets his title back, and his lands returned; he will have his pick of the posts of government. And he gets even more than this. Henry writes to my aunt Katherine, the widow of the traitorous Duke of Buckingham, and tells her to prepare for remarriage. Jasper is to have her and the Buckingham fortune. It seems that all the Rivers women are part of the spoils of war. She brings the letter in her hand when she comes to see my mother as we are sitting in the second-best rooms at Westminster Palace.

“Is he mad?” she asks my mother. “Was it not enough that I was married to a boy, to the young duke who hated me, but I now have to marry another enemy of our family?”

“D’you get a fee?” my mother asks dryly, since she has her own letter to show her sister. “For see, here is our news. I am to be paid a pension. Cecily is to be married to Sir John Welles, and Elizabeth is to be betrothed to the king.”

“Well, thank God for that at least!” my aunt Katherine exclaims. “You must have been anxious.”

My mother nods. “Oh, he would have reneged on his vow if he could have done. He was looking for another bride, he was trying to get out of it.”

I look up from my sewing at this, but my mother and her sister are intent on their letters, their heads together.