‘Fair cousin,’ he says, ‘don’t be angry. You know that it is our right to have the crown. It belongs to my father here, and he will have it whatever anyone may say.’

Warwick stares at the boy. Thomas thinks he might even kill him.

‘Oh lord. My brother Rutland,’ March breathes. He hurries forward, his large feet making the fresh reeds squeak, and steps between Warwick and Rutland. He puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Brother,’ he says. ‘Don’t say another word.’

Rutland starts, looks up at March, and flushes. He is so young, too young to know what he is doing. March turns and puts an arm across Warwick’s shoulder and guides him away and towards the door.

Warwick is stiff-backed with anger, his face blotched, and March soothes him in a low voice, urging some future plan perhaps, as he guides him back through the throng and out on to the corridor.

The Duke of York turns back to Rutland and continues talking as if nothing has happened, but even Thomas can see his hands are trembling, and his brittle smile reveals two crooked front teeth. After a moment, the Duke and Rutland leave the room, and as they go the murmur of conversation flares behind them.

‘Well,’ Hastings says after a moment, ‘that went as well as anyone could hope.’ He taps his front teeth with his forefinger, and it is hard to know if he is joking or not.

They spend that first week in London at the Bull Inn on Bishopsgate and every morning they hear Mass at a different chapel before taking a barge to Westminster to attempt an audience with the Duke of York. Every evening they return unsuccessful. By the third day Thomas stops bothering with his leg armour and by the fifth they are all bored.

Sir John and Richard may discuss the events of state as they unfold, but Thomas knows they have no power to influence them, and so they too are condemned to sit idle. Nor does he see William Hastings again, though other lords come and go and meet for long hours in Westminster Hall, each bringing with them their retinues of liveried men, who play dice, practise their drills and drink ale to while away the time.

‘It all hinges on whether the right to the crown can pass through a woman,’ Sir John is saying. ‘If it can, then the Duke of York’s claim is superior to the King’s, even though the King’s father and his father’s father sat on the throne before him.’

‘Course it shouldn’t pass through a bloody woman,’ Walter offers.

‘But why not?’ Sir John counters in the spirit of discussion.

‘Why not? Because women are women.’