All talk falters and the room seems to draw breath as Warwick stalks into the solar. He pauses, his face pinched. He is looking for someone and everyone knows whom. A path seems to open up between him and the Duke of York, who is leaning against a sideboard with a cup of wine in his hand. He is pretending he has not noticed Warwick, and is talking too animatedly to a youth with long blond hair spilling from under a dark cap.

The Duke of York is a head shorter than his son the Earl of March, and older than Thomas had supposed, about fifty perhaps, with a thin grey beard and a slight and shrunken body. No one is deceived by his show of nonchalance, especially not Warwick, who now strides towards him as if he means to strike him.

‘By what right do you choose now to claim the crown of England?’ Warwick demands. He raises his voice, broadcasting his fury. The Duke of York turns and affects to notice him.

‘My lord of Warwick!’ he says as if pleased to see him. His lips are very red and wet and he licks them, but he does not have the stomach to lean forward and kiss Warwick as he might have in other circumstances.

‘I demand an answer,’ Warwick continues. ‘By what right do you now claim the throne of England?’

The Duke of York hesitates, glances at the blond boy, and then finds his voice.

‘I am Richard, Duke of York,’ he says. ‘I am son to Anne who was daughter of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, who was son and heir to Philippa, who in her turn was daughter and heir to Lionel, the third but second surviving son of King Edward the Third.’

It is a rehearsed speech that becomes steadily more fluent.

‘Through this line I claim the right, title, royal dignity and estate of the crowns of the realms of England and France and the lordship of Ireland, by right, law and custom before any issue of John of Gaunt, the fourth son of the same King Edward.’

Warwick stares at him.

‘This I know,’ he says. ‘This we all know. What I do not understand is why you make the claim now?’

‘It is my right,’ York replies. ‘I have set it aside till now. But it has not died. It has not rotted away.’

‘Can you not see that we all love our King Henry?’ Warwick goes on, raising his voice again for all to hear. ‘And that none of the lords or the people of this country wish him any harm?’

The Duke’s eyes bulge and glisten like polished glass. The blond boy steps forward and addresses Warwick with a misplaced wave of his hand.