Richard leads them hobbling through the gate and into a courtyard.

The palace is an intricate maze of buildings and precincts dominated by a bluff stone chapel and at every gate are more of York’s men, road-stained and bristling with spears and axes and swords, as if on the field of battle rather than in a royal palace.

They regard the red liveries of Sir John’s men with suspicion, but there are only ten of them, and at length they are let through to the New Palace Yard, where another mob mills around the doorway to the hall. On the steps there is some confusion among the royal heralds in their quartered livery coats, and there is trouble in the offing.

As they approach, William Hastings emerges from the throng. His face is pale with fatigue and there is a long stain on the sleeve of his blue vented jacket, but he is pleased to see them.

‘Day to you, sir,’ Sir John calls. ‘I’d shake your hand but I am encumbered as you see. Perhaps you will shake the hand of my man here, Thomas.’

‘I’d be glad to shake such a hand,’ Hastings says, removing his hat and taking Thomas’s hand, then the others in turn. ‘I’m sorry to see you in pain, Sir John, but it pleases me to see you here. We are in need of cool heads.’

‘When did the Duke arrive?’

‘Not half an hour ago. And look: there are his heralds now. Did you ever see such a thing?’

Hastings laughs. The heralds are pushing and shoving one another: one side belonging to King Henry, the other to Richard of York. They are indistinguishable except that the Duke of York’s heralds’ coats are the brighter for being the newer. It strikes Thomas that these men reflect what is happening across the country, and that if somehow the strife could be confined to these fellows, then much blood might yet go unspilled. He puts the thought aside.

‘So it is true?’ Sir John says. ‘We heard rumours but hoped them baseless.’

‘It is true, sad to say. My lord the Duke of York arrived with these fools sounding their clarions as if to wake the dead. Then he marched into the hall with his sword held upright before him, his men wearing the royal coat of arms, and he clapped his hand on the throne as if it were his. He turned to the lords expecting a cheer, but, you know, how could they? They renewed their vows to King Henry only months ago. And anyway, besides . . .’ Hastings wrinkles his nose.

‘Dear God,’ Sir John says. ‘He has been in Ireland too long. He has caught some native malaise. That is the only answer.’

Hastings laughs.

‘At any rate, he has gone to find King Henry. I should love to hear what they have to say to one another.’