Our cousin John de la Pole is a living heir, sworn to Henry’s service; Maggie’s brother Edward is an heir in direct line; but nobody is going to point this out to My Lady. Maggie’s brother is safe in the nursery for now, and Maggie’s gaze is pinned firmly on the floorboards beneath her slippered feet. She says nothing.

My mother rises and moves gracefully towards the door, pausing when she stands before Maggie, shielding her from the angry stare of My Lady. “I shall go and fetch my rosary and my prayer book,” she says. “Would you want me to fetch your missal from your altar?”

My Lady the King’s Mother is diverted at once. “Yes, yes, thank you. And summon the choir to the chapel as well. Everyone must fetch their rosaries,” she says. “We’ll go straight to chapel after dinner.”

As we pray, I try to imagine what is happening, as if I had my mother’s gift of sight and could see all the way up the Great North Road to Middleham Castle in Yorkshire. If Lovell can get behind those solid walls he can hold out for months, perhaps years. If the North rises up for him, then they will outnumber any Tudor army under the command of Jasper. The North has always been passionately for the House of York, Middleham loved Richard as their good lord, the altar in the Middleham chapel carries white roses, perhaps forever. I glance sideways at my mother, who is the picture of devotion, on her knees, her eyes closed, her face turned upwards, a shaft of light illuminating her serene loveliness, as beautiful as a timeless angel, meditating on the sins of the world.

“Did you know of this?” I whisper, bending my head over my working fingers as if I am telling my rosary beads.

She does not open her eyes or turn her head, while her lips move as if she is saying a prayer. “Some of it. Sir Francis sent me a message.”

“Are they fighting for us?”

“Of course.”

“D’you think they will win?”

A fleeting smile crosses her rapt face. “Perhaps. But I know one thing.”

“What?”

“They have frightened the Tudors half to death. Did you see her face? Did you see her archbishop as he ran from the room?”

WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, MAY 1486

The first I know of trouble in the streets is the great creak as the huge outer doors of Westminster Palace are hauled shut by dozens of men, and then the thunderous bang as they slam into place. Then I hear the heavy thud as the counterweighted beam is pulled into the struts to hold the gates shut. We are barricading ourselves inside the royal palace; the royal family of England is so afraid of Londoners that we are locking London out.

With my hand on my big belly, I go to my mother’s rooms. She is at her window, looking over the walls to the streets beyond, my cousin Maggie on one side and my sister Anne on the other. She barely turns as I run in, but Maggie says over her shoulder, “They’re doubling the guards on the palace walls. You can see them, dashing out of the guardhouse into place.”