“Please give my best wishes to Lady Margaret,” my mother says. “Her friendship has sustained me recently, and her service was very dear to me in the past.”

“Ah,” he says, as if he doesn’t much relish being reminded that his mother was my mother’s lady-in-waiting. “And your son Thomas Grey will be released from France and can come home to you,” he goes on, dispensing his goods.

“I thank you. And please tell your mother that Cecily, her goddaughter, is well,” my mother pursues. “And grateful to you and your mother for your care of her forthcoming marriage.” Cecily drops a little extra curtsey to demonstrate to the king which one of us she is, and he gives a bored nod. She looks up as if she longs to remind him that she is only waiting for him to name her wedding day, and until he does so she is still neither widow nor maid. But he gives her no opportunity to speak.

“My advisors inform me that the people are eager to see Princess Elizabeth married,” he says.

My mother inclines her head.

“I wanted to assure myself that you are well and happy,” he says directly to me. “And that you consent.”

Startled, I look up. I am not well, and I am far from happy; I am deep in grief for the man I love, the man killed by this new king and buried without honor. This man sitting before me now, asking so courteously that I consent, allowed his men to strip Richard of his armor, and then of his linen, and tie his naked body across the saddle of his horse and trot it home. They told me that they let Richard’s dead lolling head knock, in passing, against the wooden beam of the Bow Bridge as they brought him in to Leicester. That clunk, the noise of dead skull against post, sounds through my days, echoes in my dreams. Then they exposed his naked broken body on the chancel steps of the church so that everyone knew he was completely and utterly dead, and that any chance of England’s happiness under the House of York was completely and utterly over.

“My daughter is well and happy, and is your most obedient servant,” my mother says pleasantly, in the little silence.

“And what motto shall you choose?” he asks. “When you are my wife?”

I begin to wonder if he has come only to torment me. I have not thought of this. Why on earth would I have thought of my wifely motto? “Oh, do you have a preference?” I ask him, my voice coldly uninterested. “For I have none.”

“My Lady Mother suggested ‘humble and penitent,’ ” he says.

Cecily snorts with laughter, turns it into a cough, and looks away, blushing. My mother and I exchange one horrified glance, but we both know we can say nothing.

“As you wish.” I manage to sound indifferent, and I am glad of this. If nothing else, I can pretend that I don’t care.