My brother Lionel comes to me in the early morning. “I have had a letter from the council. They beg us to come out of sanctuary and to send your son Prince Richard to be with his brother in the royal rooms in the Tower.”

I turn to the window and look at the river as if it might bring me advice. “I don’t know,” I say. “No. I don’t want both princes in their uncle’s hands.”

“There is no doubt that the coronation is going to happen,” he says. “All the lords are in London, the robes are being made, the abbey is ready. We should come out now and take our rightful place. Hiding here we look as if we are guilty of something.”

I nibble on my lip. “Duke Richard is one of the sons of York,” I say. “He saw the three suns burning in the sky as they rode to victory together. You cannot think he will walk away from the chance of ruling England. You cannot think he will hand over all the power of the kingdom to a young boy.”

“I think he will rule England through your son if you are not there to prevent it,” he says bluntly. “He will put him on the throne and have him as his puppet. He will be another Warwick, another Kingmaker. He does not want the throne for himself-he wants to be regent and lord protector. He will call himself regent and rule through your son.”

“Edward will be king from the moment he is crowned,” I say. “We will see who he will listen to then!”

“Richard can refuse to hand over power till Edward is twenty-one,” he says. “He can command the kingdom as regent for the next eight years. We have to be there, represented in the Privy Council, protecting our interests.”

“If I could be sure my son is safe.”

“If Richard was going to kill him, he would have done it at Stony Stratford when they arrested Anthony, and there was no one to protect him, and no witness but Buckingham,” Lionel says flatly. “But he did not. Instead, he went down on his knee and swore an oath of loyalty to him and brought him in honor to London. It is we who have created mistrust. I am sorry, Sister: it is you. I have never argued with you in my life, you know this. But you are mistaken now.”

“Oh, easy for you to say,” I say irritably. “I have seven children to protect, and a kingdom to rule.”

“Then rule it,” he says. “Take up your royal rooms in the Tower and attend your son’s coronation. Sit on your throne and command the duke, who is nothing more than your brother-in-law and the guardian of your son.”

I am brooding on this. Perhaps Lionel is right and I should be at the heart of the planning for the coronation, winning men over to the side of the new king, promising them favors and honors at his court. If I come out now with my beautiful children and make my court again, I can rule England through my son. I should claim our place, not hide in fear. I think: I can do this. I need not go to war to win my throne. I can do this as a reigning queen, as a beloved queen. The people are mine for the taking: I can win them over. Perhaps I should come out of sanctuary into the summer sunshine, and take up my place.

There is a little tap at the door and a man’s voice says, “Confessor for the dowager queen.”

I open the grille. There is a father of the Dominican order, his hood up so his face is hidden. “I am ordered to come to you to hear your confession,” he says.

“Enter, Father,” I say, and open the door wide to him. He comes in quietly, his sandals making no noise on the flagstones. He bows and waits for the door to be closed behind him.

“I am come on the order of Bishop Morton,” he says quietly. “If anyone asks you, I came to offer you a chance to confess, and you spoke to me of a sin of sadness and excessive grief, and I counseled you against despair. Agreed?”

“Yes, Father,” I say.

He passes me a slip of paper. “I shall wait ten minutes and then leave,” he says. “I am not allowed to take a reply.”

He goes to the stool by the door and sits, waiting for the time to pass. I take the note to the window for the light, and as the river gurgles beneath the window I read it. It is sealed with the crest of the Beauforts. It is from Margaret Stanley, my former lady-in-waiting. Despite being Lancaster born and bred, and mother to their heir, she and her husband Thomas Stanley have been loyal to us for the last eleven years. Perhaps she will stay loyal. Perhaps she will even take my side against Duke Richard. Her interests lie with me. She was counting on Edward to forgive her son his Lancaster blood and let him come home from his exile in Brittany. She spoke to me of a mother’s love for her boy and how she would give anything to have him home again. I promised her that it would happen. She has no reason to love Duke Richard. She might well think her chances of getting her boy home are better if she stays friends with me and supports my return to power.

But she has written nothing of a conspiracy nor words of support. She has written only a few lines:

Anne Neville is not journeying to London for the coronation. She has not ordered horses or guards for the journey. She has not been fitted for special robes for the coronation. I thought you would like to know. M S

I hold the letter in my hand. Anne is sickly and her son is weak. She might prefer to stay at home. But Margaret, Lady Stanley, has not gone to all this trouble and danger to tell me this. She wants me to know that Anne Neville is not hastening to London for the grand coronation, for there is no need for her to make haste. If she is not coming, it will be at her husband Richard’s command. He knows that there will be nothing to attend. If Richard has not ordered his wife to London in time for the coronation, the most important event of the new reign, then it must be because he knows that a coronation will not take place.

I stare out at the river for a long, long time and think what this means for me and my two precious royal sons. Then I go and kneel before the friar. “Bless me, Father,” I say, and I feel his gentle hand come down on my head.

The serving maid who goes out to buy the bread and meat every day comes home, her face white, and speaks to my daughter Elizabeth. My girl comes to me.

“Lady Mother, Lady Mother, can I speak with you?”

I am looking out of the window, brooding on the water as if I hope Melusina might rise out of the summertime sluggish flow and advise me. “Of course, sweetheart. What is it?”

Something about her taut urgency warns me.

“I don’t understand what is happening, Mother, but Jemma has come home from the market and says there is some story of a fight in the Privy Council, an arrest. A fight in the council room! And Sir William…” She runs out of breath.

“Sir William Hastings?” I name Edward’s dearest friend, the sworn defender of my son, and my newfound ally.

“Yes, him. Mother, they are saying in the market that he is beheaded.”

I hold the stone windowsill as the room swims. “He can’t be-she must have it wrong.”

“She says that the Duke Richard found a plot against him, and arrested two great men and beheaded Sir William.”

“She must be mistaken. He is one of the greatest men in England. He cannot be beheaded without trial.”

“She says so,” she whispers. “She says that they took him out and took off his head on a piece of lumber on Tower Green, without warning, without trial, without charge.”

My knees give way beneath me and she catches me as I fall. The room goes dark to me, and then I see her again, her headdress knocked aside, her fair hair spilling down, my beautiful daughter looking into my face, and whispering, “Lady Mother, Mama, speak to me. Are you all right?”

“I’m all right,” I say. My throat is dry, and I find I am lying on the floor with her arm supporting me. “I am all right, sweetheart. But I thought I heard you say…I thought you said…I thought you said that Sir William Hastings is beheaded?”