Now I read it through. It was short, only five pages. It was couched as an address to King Richard III, stating why the Lords and Commons wished him to take the throne. After much flowery language about the decay of the country, it turned to the marriage of King Edward IV. This was a story I vaguely remembered. King Edward, our King’s grandfather, had married a commoner, Elizabeth Woodville, though it had been alleged he had already had a contract of marriage, that he had been, as the Act said, in

truth plight to Dame Eleanor Butler… the said King Edward during his life, and the said Elizabeth, lived together sinfully and damnably in adultery… it followeth, that all th’issue and Children of the said King Edward, been bastards, and unable to claim any thing by Inheritance.

The Act related that since the next heir, the Duke of Clarence and his line, had been disbarred for treason, the next in line was the Duke of Gloucester – Richard III,

the undoubted Son and heir of Richard late Duke of York… ye be born within this land; by reason whereof you may have more certain knowledge of your birth and filiation.

I sat back in my chair. No wonder Maleverer had wanted knowledge of this Act kept hidden. My mind went back to the family tree. King Henry’s principal claim to the throne came through his mother, the daughter of Edward IV. If she was illegitimate, Henry VIII had no real claim to the throne. And that meant the issue of George Duke of Clarence were the true heirs, which explained why Margaret of Salisbury and her son had been butchered in the Tower. I got up abruptly and walked agitatedly around the room.

But my lawyer’s instincts reasserted themselves. I had heard the story of King Edward’s precontract before, it was not a secret. And precontracts were slippery things, difficult to prove. Any man who wished to nullify his marriage could say he had promised to marry another before he and his wife were betrothed; I had heard of husbands who had paid women to swear falsely they had a precontract, to escape an unwanted marriage. And King Edward, his queen Elizabeth Woodville and this Dame Eleanor Butler had all been dead half a century, nothing could be proved now – unless there was a written contract, and there could not have been, for such conclusive evidence would have been referred to in the Titulus. No, the whole thing read of a cobbling together of whatever reasons could be found to justify Richard’s seizure of the throne after the fact; he had already been king a year when this Act was passed in 1484. Revelation of the Titulus now would be an embarrassment, but not a real threat.

I read it through again, carefully. One passage puzzled me, that description of Richard as ‘the undoubted Son and heir of Richard late Duke of York’. Had someone suggested Richard was a bastard? The child of Cecily Neville and someone else? I remembered the strange comment Maleverer had bitten off when I told him about the family tree. ‘Oh yes,’ he had said. ‘Everything starts with Cecily Neville.’ Yet that made no sense either. If Richard III was illegitimate, the Tudors would not have hidden the fact – they would have shouted it from the rooftops as another justification for their usurpation of his throne.

I read through the Act again, but could gain no further illumination about what that passage meant. I sat looking out at the Minster, its beautiful windows alight with colour now for the sun was sinking. Had I really been here all day?

I replaced the book then stepped out, closed the door and went back to Madge. She was in the solar, feeding the greyfalcon with a plate of chopped meat.

‘I am sorry to have been so long. The time ran away with me.’

She put down the tray and wiped her hands on her apron.

‘Thank you, Madge, for your hospitality.’

‘Maister still sleeps. Sir,’ she added suddenly, ‘if he goes to London, you – you will take care of him?’

‘As though he were my own father.’

‘How is he, maister? That physician won’t say, thinks I’m just a poor silly servant.’

‘Not well.’

She nodded. ‘Ay, Maister says he will never get better. I shall miss him, he has been good to me, as his wife was before him, Jesu rest her.’ She crossed herself. ‘He is a good man, for all the bad feeling there was when he quarrelled with his wife’s family. And now he seeks to make matters right, by finding young Martin.’

‘I will help him there.’

‘It was but a quarrel over politics. Maister was wrong to cut Martin off. I think he knows that.’

‘Is that what it was about?’

She bit her lip. ‘You did not know? I thought he had told you.’

‘I won’t say anything, Madge. And with God’s aid I will deliver him safe back to you.’

She nodded, her eyes full of tears but too proud to cry before me. She let me out and I walked away.

OUTSIDE, THE RAIN had stopped, but there was a cold and biting wind. I remembered the night Master Wrenne had quoted from Thomas More’s writing about the Striving between the Roses. ‘These matters be Kings’ games, as it were stage plays, and for the most part played upon scaffolds.’ I shivered again and began walking back to St Mary’s, keeping to the centre of the streets, on the lookout for shadows in doorways, a hand on the hilt of the dagger beneath my coat. It would be like this, I thought, from now on.

St Mary’s was quiet. I passed by the looming bulk of the church and made my way to the lodging house. I paused at the door, for I could hear merry voices within. I must face the law clerks again. I pushed the door open. A group of them sat before the fire playing cards, the central hall hot and fuggy with smoke. All turned to look at me, their faces full of curiosity, except for Master Cowfold, whose head Barak had threatened to smash against the wall, who looked hastily away.

‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘Is Master Barak about?’

‘He’s out, sir,’ young Kimber said.

‘With a pretty wench,’ another added, and several laughed. I nodded and went to my cubicle. I felt their eyes on my back until, with relief, I closed the door behind me, locked it and lay down on my bed.

After a while I heard the clerks leave the lodging house, making their way over to the refectory for dinner. I was hungry again but could not face all those staring eyes, and I confess I was nervous at the thought of walking to the dining hall alone. I closed my eyes, and at once fell asleep.

When I woke it was very late; the clerks had come back and gone to bed for I could hear their snores and mumbles. I went outside to the hall. The fire was low but still burning.

I decided to take a little walk outside to clear my head. No one would be about at this hour. I opened the door carefully, for it had a creak and I did not want to wake anyone. I stepped out. The clouds had passed and a moon had risen. I looked round carefully, eye out for anyone hidden in doorways, then walked round the corner of the building, where an arch led through to a path to the river.

I jumped, and my hand went to my dagger, as I heard a sound. There was a figure, two figures, crouching by the arch. ‘Who’s there!’ I called out.

Barak and Tamasin stepped out of the arch, hand in hand. I laughed with relief, thinking I had caught them kissing against the wall. Then I saw their faces. Tamasin’s eyes were wide with terror, and Barak’s face was stiff with shock.

‘What’s the matter? What in God’s name has happened?’

‘Quiet, for Jesu’s sake.’ Barak grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadow of the arch. ‘We mustn’t be seen!’ he hissed.

‘But why? What-’

He took a deep breath. ‘Tamasin and I have been out,’ he whispered. ‘Tamasin shouldn’t be out so late.’

‘That’s not so serious. Who -’

‘We saw something, sir,’ Tamasin said. ‘Something we weren’t meant to.’

‘I know now what Oldroyd’s words meant,’ Barak breathed. ‘“No child of Henry and Catherine Howard can ever be true heir, she knows.” Oldroyd knew, Jesu knows how but he knew.’