The king’s mother glares at me as if I too might burst into the flames of rebellion, looking for signs of treason, as if she might see a mark of Cain on my forehead. “Like a dog,” she says spitefully. “Isn’t that what they called him? Lovell the dog? He has come out of his kennel like a cur and dares to challenge my son’s peace. Henry will be distraught! And I not with him! He will be so shocked!”

“God bless him,” the archbishop murmurs, touching the gold crucifix on the chain of pearls at his waist.

My mother is a portrait of concern. “Raised an army?” she repeats. “Francis Lovell?”

“He will regret it,” My Lady swears. “Him and Thomas Stafford with him. They will regret challenging the peace and majesty of my son. God Himself brought Henry to England. An insurrection against my son is a rebellion against the will of God. They are heretics as well as traitors.”

“Thomas Stafford too?” my mother coos. “A Stafford taking arms as well?”

“And his false-hearted brother! Two of them! Traitors! All of them!”

“Humphrey Stafford?” my mother exclaims softly. “Him too? And together the Staffords can call up so many men! Two sons of such a great name! And is His Grace the King marching against them? Is he mustering his troops?”

“No, no.” Lady Margaret waves the question away with a flutter of her hand, as if no one will doubt the king’s courage if she insists that he should hide in Lincoln and let someone else do the fighting. “Why should he go? There is no point in him going. I have written to him to bid him stay back. His uncle, Jasper Tudor, will lead his men. Henry has mustered thousands of men for Jasper’s army. And promised forgiveness to everyone who surrenders. He wrote to me that they are chasing the rebels north, towards Middleham.”

It was Richard’s favorite castle, his boyhood home. In all the northern counties the men hurrying to join Francis Lovell, his dearest friend and boyhood companion, will be those who knew Richard and Francis when they were living there as children. Francis knows the country all around Middleham; he will know where to make ambushes and where to hide.

“Heavens,” my mother says equably. “We must pray for the king.”

The king’s mother gasps with relief at the suggestion. “Of course, of course. The court will go to chapel after dinner. That’s a very good suggestion of yours, Your Grace. I will order a special Mass.” She nods at the archbishop, who bows and leaves, as if to alert God.

Maggie, my cousin, stirs slightly in her seat at this. She knows that a special Mass ordered by My Lady for the safety of her son is going to go on for two hours at least. At once, my Lady the King’s Mother switches her hard gaze to my little cousin. “It seems that there are still some sinful fools who support the lost House of York,” she says. “Even though the House of York is finished and all its heirs are dead.”