There was something akin to treason about being unclothed, Heloise decided. The May sun was filling the room with soporific warmth as they lay across the middle of the huge bed face to face, but outside the window, a hungry thrush beat a snail against a branch. Miles Rushden, arms folded, studied her as she lay with her chin upon her crossed wrists. With consideration and intelligence, with sensitivity of touch and patience, he had led her into a realm beyond her imagining.

‘This is wondrously sinful.’ She drew a nameless map with her nail upon the sheet and could not resist teasing: ‘Buckingham may be running amok.’

‘He will when he hears of this.’ Miles ran his finger along her swollen lips, amused at her growing confidence.

‘Yes, I know.’ Blushing, she lowered her head so that her hair veiled her.

He pulled aside the silvery curtain. ‘The first time is hardest of all. There is much to accommodate.’

Her lips quivered, her impish glance interbred with ruefulness. ‘Yes.’

‘She-devil!’

‘And what now? Am I to be returned to Baynards’ gatehouse like a borrowed horse, bruised and ridden?’

‘Crumpled certainly. Perhaps that might be best, unless you would like to share a bed with me and de la Bere.’

‘I thought you were going to suggest dear Harry for a moment. Perhaps we can invite him, too.’ She rolled over, gleeful at teasing him, and then feeling his lusty gaze, swiftly rolled back to hide her womanly parts.

Had Cleopatra looked so when Caesar rolled her from the carpet? Miles laughed and generously dragged his gaze away from the beautiful valleys and rises that now belonged to him. It was tempting to make love to her yet again, but he remembered his first wife had suffered the soreness that affects new brides. Wiser now, more controlled, more understanding, he would not make the same mistake with Heloise.

‘I should like Bishop Stillington’s blessing and we must inform her grace of York.’

‘It shall be done.’

‘And now you may tell me about the loan.’ The sudden question winded him, as she had known it would. Heloise watched him roll from the bed, his back a surly breadth of angered manliness.

His shirt briefly muffled an answer. ‘There are hundreds of loans being arranged this day in London. Which one are we talking about?’ He tugged on his black hose and stood up to fasten his points.

‘The loan my father promised to someone in Northampton.’

Under control, he studied her across his shoulder. ‘There was none made to me, I promise you.’

‘No, to Gloucester, I believe. My sister spoke of it.’

‘Your sister is a brazen, interfering piece.’ He disappeared beneath the level of the bed and her much-creased gown, followed by her sorry headdress, hurtled up. She gasped as he bowled her over backwards on the coverlet, shackling her wrists beside her head. ‘My sword is not for sale, nightingale,’ his lower lip roughed hers.

‘Forget the past.’ The manacles broke and he gathered her to him. ‘Lady knight, the only loan I took out was you.’

Her new lord took her to the Red Rose for supper and announcements. Buckingham, to Heloise’s relief, was dining at Lord Howard’s. Miles, merry with ale after their repast in the hall, led her up into the duke’s solar and flung open the casement to let in the western sun. The seven o’clock bells rang out across the city.

‘You know Gloucester better than I,’ he murmured, taking a piece of clean parchment from a shelf. ‘I should like to write to him out of courtesy and tell him that he has one ward less. Is that a wise notion? Or do your instincts suggest he will clap me in the Tower?’

Heloise beamed. ‘He has more important matters than us.’

‘You think so?’ He looked up from sharpening a quill, disarming her with a wicked grin. ‘And now, Lady Rushden, you need entertainment.’ He seated her upon the settle that backed the hearth in summer fashion, lifted a gilded book onto the small table before her, and unlocked the clasps.

Running her fingers across Buckingham’s broad signature below the handsome illuminated title, De Propietatibus Rerum, Heloise felt not the duke’s delight in such a treasure but his envy of the dead author, Bartholomew. Perturbed, she turned the pages distractedly, preferring to watch her husband as he at last leaned forward to write in swift, decisive strokes.

‘There,’ he said eventually, jabbing a Rushden serpent into the sealing wax. ‘Signed and sealed, like us.’

‘Buckingham will not be pleased.’ She was not referring to her perusal of Harry’s book.

‘Nor will I if he says aught to distress you.’ Miles wandered across to the window where he made himself comfortable, his back against the casement and a boot upon the sill, and stared unseeing across the thatched roofs; straw turning to gold beneath the rose-soused, blowsy clouds. ‘Today may have changed the course of the river,’ he murmured, wondering if Stillington had divulged his secret to Gloucester, ‘and there may be a babe to grow beneath your girdle, mistress mine.’

‘You would be pleased? Truly?’

His grin was roguish. ‘Why should I not? I can see you like a little fluffed-up wren, all belly.’ Before she could land a fist on him, he had her by the elbows, lifting her off the tips of her toes. ‘Faith! Not much heavier than thistledown.’ Laughing, he held her back from his shins. ‘Are there no bones in you?’

‘I cannot possibly hold a conversation with you suspending me in mid-air.’

‘That is because, between the elements of earth and air, I have the greater power than yours, lady sorceress. And between the sheets.’

‘His grace may come in at any minute.’ Heloise’s nerves were jangling like folly bells – this was the duke’s demesne and they were traitors.

‘Let him.’ Miles slid her down the length of him back to the floor and his strong fingers stroked down her arms and fastened her fists behind her back. His mouth teased hers before he freed her. ‘We never shared a trothcup, you and I.’ Selecting a key from his belt, he unlocked the catch of Harry’s aumbrey and let down its door to make a shelf. ‘Choose what you will.’

The muster of lidded goblets, brought up from Brecknock, twinkled at her in the fading light: blood red Venetian glass, a Russian pewter with a bear entwined about its stem, an ancient horn set in a pattern of golden hounds, a silver fluted cup of Persian craftsmanship and a dozen more. Recklessly, to test him, she pointed to a jewelled mazer. Without a comment, he set aside the lid with its golden pinnacle and picked up the wine flagon from the small table. Like a high priest, he poured sufficient in, studying her solemnly over it as if he had not yet fathomed her. The amber liquid quivered against its encircled reflection as he set his hands over hers, forcing her fingers to find comfort in the gilded valleys between the cabochoned gems.

‘Still having doubts, Heloise? Until death sever us?’

‘No, I am sure,’ she answered huskily, and felt the great cup lifted for her to taste. The touch of lips to wine at this instant was now become a commitment, a sacrament between them. She urged it towards him. He drank, watching her with intensity over the rim of gold, and then set the mazer back upon the board and drew her across the moat of air once more into the bailey of his arms.

‘It will take more time,’ he warned, setting his forefinger beneath her chin and tilting her heart-shaped face like a mirror.

‘I know it.’ Better to sup with Miles Rushden than any other, though words of love should have garnished the repast. She surrendered this time as his lips, tasting of mead, came down to claim her and shyly crept her hands up the velvet of his doublet to knot behind his neck, and feel his hair tickling her wrists.

‘Why, Heloise,’ the silver look was roguish. ‘How very compliant you are.’

‘I am only humouring you,’ she teased.

‘By God, what goes on here?’ Harry, glinting with gold thread, too ruddy with wine, came through the doorway and halted, swaying somewhat with drink slopping his soul. Heloise broke away, straightening her skirts.

The duke was not looking at her. ‘Miles?’

Miles’s common sense lurched; within the loyal speechwriter, drinking companion and official sycophant – no, that office had fallen upon Nandik – something rebelled. The resentment in Harry’s face, the duke’s blatant irritation at seeing him with Heloise in his arms, jarred. He might revolve around the Buckingham sun, but he had acquired a moon of his own now.

‘Have you met my wife, Heloise Ballaster?’ It was brittle, cruel, not how he had planned to break the tidings. Beside him, his freshly-bedded wife sank into a curtsey.

Not a ducal muscle twitched in the handsome face. It was not politick to see in the third most powerful man in England a stunned fish out of its element, but for that moment Miles did not care a jot. My wife. It sounded right, righter than ever before.

‘If you say so.’ Harry dumped a leather bottle upon the table and pulling off his cream gloves, dropped them beside the cup. That did not escape him either. Heloise rose from her obeisance but he ignored her. ‘I may be in my right wits come dawn, Rushden, but you, unfortunately, will still be a married man. Here!’ The words were bitter as he pushed the mazer at him. ‘Take it as a wedding gift.’

Miles held his gaze, tears suddenly threatening to unman him. This was not how it should be. Harry had deserved better of him. ‘I do not want to do that.’

‘Nevertheless, it is yours. Take it! Tomorrow you will perhaps explain why you disappeared without leave.’ He stood back curtly so their way to the door was free.

Miles bowed. ‘Come, madam.’

But Heloise lingered. ‘The demoiselle at Crosby Place,’ she began. ‘I think you should know that—’

Buckingham stretched and yawned. ‘Do they all have addled wits where your wife comes from, or is it an effect of making crossbows?’

‘She was not a gardener but—’ Heloise continued stubbornly.

‘We shall cross that bridge if need be, madam,’ cut in Miles. Outside the door he stopped and looked at her sad face, his heart troubled. ‘I am sorry.’ Sincere, yes, but she understood that she was an interloper.

‘He needs you. Make your peace.’

‘Then wait for me in the solar. I shall see you back to Baynards before curfew.’ Closing the door behind him, Miles leaned against it. This was not how it should be.

Harry was sitting at his small table, biting his thumb. ‘Go away and enjoy her!’

‘I can explain if you will listen.’

‘I do not feel like listening.’ With a sneer, he knuckled the goblet and the flagon aside as though both stank of pestilence.

His feelings visored, Miles picked up the leather bottle, broke the seal, and took a swig. ‘Not bad. Your taste has surprisingly improved since you acquired Wales.’ The jest failed, but he shoved the bottle at Harry’s chest. With a defiant sniff, the duke drank, wiping his mouth with his wrist. ‘What ails you, your grace? You have thriving sons and Gloucester has given you a principality to scrape your boots on – more power than you know what to do with, for God’s sake – so what have I done wrong?’

The corners of the ducal mouth were down like a dog’s that had been denied a bone. ‘You hid the truth away from me at Brecknock, God damn you, letting her loose on my son, and now you have done it again, deceived me.’

‘Why should you complain? Ned adores her and he has learned how to say please and thank you at long last.’

Fingernails nakired the table menacingly. ‘Do not goad me, Miles.’

‘Why not? I was wed to her at swordpoint. It simplifies matters if I keep her and I am sure you will find someone else suitable for Myfannwy.’

‘Christ, Miles. You knew that alliance was important.’ Harry violently struck the mazer from the table.

‘Then you wish me to find good lordship elsewhere?’ A violence hung upon each word.

‘All right, I apologise,’ Harry snarled, blinking sullenly at the panelled ceiling. ‘Go and tumble the Ballaster girl. But do not forget she is a filly from Gloucester’s stable and may have deeper loyalties branded into her hide.’

Miles swore, flung the bottle down and stormed towards the door. ‘So be it, my lord.’ God ha’ mercy, why did Harry have to shove him down a staircase of insults? Heloise was Lady Rushden now and deserved some respect.

‘No! Miles!’ The duke recanted and struggled to his feet, his expression maudlin. ‘By our sweet Christ, I was looking forward to chewing today’s cud and enjoying a drink with you, but no matter.’ He slumped back down at the table. ‘You should have left me to die on Pen-y-Fan, Miles.’

So it was not just the drink afflicting him. Miles let go the latch. ‘I thought you had the salacious Nandik to light your candles now.’

‘Pah!’ Harry winced, and glancing sideways, cheered a little, his voice strengthening. ‘Why did you not tell me you had changed your mind about Mistress Ballaster? I deserved that of you at least.’

It was an effort to find the real truth in his own maze of logic. ‘Because she needs my protection against fools like Dokett. And do not tell me I am bewitched!’

Harry swallowed, plucking at his gloves. ‘Are you lunatick with lust then? Or debilitated by love? I do not know how that feels. Tell me!’ Plantagenet fingers manacled Miles’s sleeve and were stonily unpeeled. ‘What, no answer, damn your soul! No better than wine, women are,’ Harry sneered venomously. ‘Bodies bought with baubles. I am envious, can you not see that? I wish to Heaven I had a woman I cared for.’

Miles did not have one jot of patience tonight to lard Harry’s self-esteem. ‘I will bid you goodnight. Tomorrow—’

‘A piss upon tomorrow!’

‘So Stillington has divulged nothing?’

‘No, Devil take it! Gloucester did not even visit him.’

Miles’s smile was tight. ‘And if I attend the prince’s court, smell out the gossip and invite Catesby to dine?’

‘Oh yes, most excellent.’ Harry rallied. ‘That will needle Hastings no end.’

‘And in return … you will apologise to my wife.’

The duke pulled a sour face. ‘Lord, if I must.’ He rose and held out his arms to Miles. ‘Pax vobiscum. But promise me you will not go panting after her like a dog on heat the whole time, not now when we have our shoulders to the wheel.’

‘I know my duty.’

‘I just hope that your witch knows hers.’

How did one entertain a bishop? Heloise was trying her best next day. Piers the Plowman was not to her taste – too much laboured wisdom, but one could not read a French romance or a list of herbal remedies to a bishop.

God’s Rood, she had put Stillington to sleep. With a sigh, she rose from her footstool at the bishop’s feet, and tucked a fur around the old man, knowing he was prone to aching joints. June had turned fickle, the early sun had left the chamber and a dull day stretched tediously ahead.

Playing nursemaid to a creaky bishop was not her notion of being a married woman. She needed her own demesne to bustle in and a husband who did not spread himself like liver paste, but at least she was fully a de jure wife and in a state of grace. After hearing Heloise’s confession when she arrived back last night, Stillington had agreed that since the marriage was now consummated, Miles’s betrothal with Myfannwy was void. This morning he had kindly consigned his decision to parchment – signed, witnessed by her grace of York and Parson William, and endorsed by sealing wax. They also spooned prayers over her head about obedience, fertility and other conjugal virtues. Thinking of which, she wondered whether Miles would find time today to spirit her off to another hired fourposter like a toy to take to bed.

A fanfare sounded down below in the courtyard. Heloise opened the window, then ducked in swiftly for it was Gloucester come with his entourage. God forbid he had come to chastise her. No, he must be calling on his mother or maybe Stillington? With housewifely care, she quickly twitched the bed coverlet straight and turned to the bishop’s chair to gently pat him awake.

And then her mind began to weave a cruel tapestry of Gloucester, prostrate upon a bed weeping into his shirtsleeves like a lost child. Heloise recoiled with a gasp, trying to slam the shutter on the sight, only to look on helplessly as the duke raised his head, his expression the most haunted she had ever glimpsed on any man.

‘My child, are you ill?’ The bishop, awake now, was squeezing her hand.

‘I …’ Her mind still spinning like St Catherine’s wheel, she swallowed. ‘I-I think the Lord Protector is come to visit her grace.’

‘No,’ Stillington was alert now, smiling like a crocodilus with its mind on dinner. ‘I sent for him.’

The sudden display of vanity was repulsive, like glimpsing a filthy shirt beneath a glistening cope. She should have guessed his tired exterior still nested a cunning brain – he had once been Chancellor of England.

‘D-did you, my lord bishop?’

‘Yes, to offer him an apple from the Tree of Knowledge.’ The old man’s smile was leavened unpleasantly by power.

‘I-I want no part of this,’ Heloise protested, her instinct screaming withdrawal. The rapport with this wafer cleric, begun in Northampton, made her an accessory.

‘My clever child, it is too late. His foot is already on the stair.’

Gloucester was laughing as he followed his dark-robed mother into the antechamber to the sickroom. ‘Ah, Heloise, good morning to you, I have been hearing it was a cockatrice that abducted our worthy bishop.’

‘And yales and gryphons,’ exclaimed the Duchess of York, folding her hands upon her pectoral cross. ‘Not to mention Lord Rushden’s son.’

‘Well, I am waiting.’ The duke folded his arms.

Waiting? Heloise, still dazed from the contrast between her imagining and the real Gloucester, rose from her curtsey and threw a puzzled glance at the bishop’s door before realisation dawned.

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, her cheeks starting to burn. ‘I … regret to say—’

‘Regret already?’ The fur-edged sleeves she was staring at shifted.

‘No, I …’ Why was Rushden not here to share the blame? ‘My most noble lord,’ she exclaimed, sinking to her knees. ‘It seemed the right thing to do.’

‘A politick answer,’ threw in the duchess dryly, ‘and there was tenacious Dr Dokett hoping to make a nun of her.’

‘Mother, hush,’ muttered Gloucester, unknotting his arms to raise his badly behaved ward to her feet, ‘You would have been well advised to ask my permission, Heloise. Let us hope it was not just your fortune that Sir Miles was courting.’

‘It was my decision, my lord.’

‘Was it?’ he exchanged a meaningful glance with his parent. ‘The only thing that acquits you and Rushden is that it is one less problem that needs resolving. Thank your husband for tardily informing me. How did my cousin Buckingham take the tidings, or is he still in the dark?’

‘Like an ill-tasting medicine, my lord.’

‘Indeed. So Harry’s shadow can detach himself at times. Well, show me to the bishop, my Lady Rushden. Mother?’

‘No, I shall be downstairs, my darling. Shall you stay for dinner?’

He shook his head and turned to find Heloise stubbornly blocking his way.

‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘Do not go in, your grace.’

‘Why, is he contagious?’

‘No, but …’ With all her power, Heloise willed Richard of Gloucester to think again. He did, bronze lashes blinking, the cheerfulness sheathed, but curiosity can be as great a vice all the other deadly sins. His gloved hand pressed her arm in reassurance. Whatever this is, I can manage it, his light brown eyes told her, I need to know. And he went in alone.

But he was like a beaten servant when he emerged, his straight shoulders slumped and his face – Dear God! Her vision! What secret had the bishop told him?

At Crosby Place that afternoon, Miles was restless, itching like beggar’s scabs to know the outcome of his scheming with Harry. Something had happened; not only had Gloucester forsworn dinner on his return from Baynards, but he had spent an hour in swordplay, slashing at Huddleston, his combat partner, in the hopes of spending some of the pent-up misery that was so obvious in his face. Now, instead of attending his inner council, his grace curtly dismissed everyone and disappeared into his sanctum, slamming the door.

It was left to Huddleston, sweaty from the swordplay, to fend off questions from Gloucester’s other henchmen: ‘By Christ’s blessed mercy, I do not know what gadfly has bitten him,’ he growled, mopping his brow, glancing down in irritation at Lord Lovell, who was making a tabor of the table where the morning’s correspondence lay unanswered. ‘A cursed pity my lady Duchess is not yet arrived to ferret out the cause.’

‘God’s nails, what’s the pother?’ exclaimed Lord Howard, hugging his naval dispatches to his chest as he stood up. ‘He only went to a bishop’s sickbed.’

Huddleston, loosening his swordbelt, turned suspiciously towards Harry, and Miles, flanking the duke, found his face also reconnoitered. ‘Is there something about Stillington we should know, my lord of Buckingham? I hear you, too, have visited.’

Sir William Knyvett cleared his throat. ‘Tell them, your grace, mayhap it is relevant.’

Harry was as good as any holyday mummer. ‘It may be nothing, my lords, a sick man’s ravings,’ His shoulders rose apologetically, ‘but Stillington believes the queen was trying to poison him.’

‘Who? Gloucester?’ barked Lord Howard.

‘No, Stillington. And that is all I can tell you. The bishop beseeched right desperately to speak with Gloucester and I merely played the messenger. They are old friends, the bishop tells me. So,’ he took up his gloves, ‘I shall leave you with that conundrum and be off to Baynards.’

Gloucester’s good men and true were at a loss. They had been heading happily towards the coronation like courtiers on a royal barge; now the morrow seemed as hazardous as shooting London bridge.

Harry ran down the steps to the courtyard. ‘I think the hammer has struck the right anvil at last,’ he exclaimed to Miles and Knyvett, stealthily veeing his two fingers in an Agincourt salute. ‘We may yet have Gloucester as our king. That to the Woodvilles and their prince! Now get you to the Tower of London both of you, talk to our agents there and invite Catesby to supper tonight. I have some unfinished business before I go to Baynards – I saw a rose I thought might do well at Thornbury.’

‘He seems to have developed a sudden enthusiasm for loitering in gardens,’ muttered Miles, as they rode out of earshot.

‘Always had an interest in plants.’ Sir William stroked an earlobe thoughtfully. ‘Used to sit in the gardens at Westminster and draw ’em when he was younger, until Lord Rivers made an ass of him over it. Are you listening to me or not?’

‘Definitely not. I was thinking we might take Heloise to see the lions.’

‘What, add an extra innocence to our visit, eh? I warrant you would prefer an afternoon’s dalliance in bed, young Miles. A hit, eh? You should see your face, lad. Poppy scarlet, you are. Let us go and fetch her, then.’

‘In the dumps, are you, Heloise? Will you not confide in me?’ Miles chided lightly, as he waited with her in the courtyard at Baynards while her mare was saddled. Heloise felt as tetchy as Cloud when her girth band was too tightly buckled. ‘Are you displeased because there is no place for us at the Red Rose yet?’

She cut to the core. ‘What is amiss with his grace of Gloucester, Miles? What has Stillington told him?’ She watched the swift flicker in her husband’s eyes doused.

‘How should I know?’ There was care in the indifferent answer. ‘Now, be cheerful. I thought you would be joyous to see the lions at the Tower this afternoon. I had more amorous plans for the two of us but …’ He glanced round briefly as Knyvett came down the steps to join them.

‘Poor lions. Why should I want to gloat at their imprisonment?’ she threw back.

‘Lady mine, I have business with the young king’s council. Be content that I would see you entertained.’ Before she could step back, her chin was taken and his kiss – that told her he would enjoy her later – left her breathless. ‘That is better,’ he said, reluctantly releasing her.

Watching two bored lions being prodded to growl and swipe each other at the smelly Lion Tower was hardly entertainment, so pleading the need to find the latrine, Heloise blithely slipped her leash and left Martin and Miles’s men-at-arms, to wander up the laneway towards William the Conqueror’s great keep. God’s truth, the Tower of London was a town within a city, antlike with activity, especially with the coming crowning. The yard before the White Tower was dusty and strewn with shavings where workmen were building extra lodging for the youths that were to be dubbed Knights of the Bath on the eve of the ceremony; and sprawling along the shelter of the inner bailey wall was the gabled, half-timbered house where the new king was housed, as was customary before a coronation, with lords and prelates in attendance.

A furrier winked at Heloise as she watched him unload sables and ermine from his cart, and a tailor and his assistants staggered past her from a side door laden with bales of crimson brocade and cloth of gold. Fascinated, she lingered and then she noticed Sir William. He might be bantering with the sentries but his attention was elsewhere – on her husband.

She recognised Miles’s companion – Catesby, Lord Hastings’s retainer. A wonder they could hold a conversation with the hammering and sawing around them, and there was something unpleasantly familiar about where they were standing in the shadows between some scaffolding and the outside wooden stairs that led up to the first floor of the White Tower.

‘Mind out, woman!’ yelled a voice.

‘Godsakes!’ She flung herself against the nearest wall as Lord Hastings and other lords on horseback galloped past her as though the Devil were chasing their souls. Hastings reined in outside the royal lodging, dismounted angrily and then he beheld Catesby and Rushden. His riding crop moved against his thigh like a twitching cat tail as he closed in on them. Catesby disappeared beneath the stairs and Miles turned and saw who approached him. The nearby workmen set down their lathes. Miles bowed and gave an answer. Hastings grew more rigid and for an instant, Heloise thought he might slash out, but instead he grabbed her husband by the lapels of his cote. One of the other noblemen, Lord Stanley, and Sir William instantly intervened. The marvel of it was that y Cysgod calmly straightened his clothing, undaunted. What in God’s name was going on?

‘My lady.’ She realised Martin was at her elbow.

‘Did you see that?’

‘Aye. Your pardon, but he’s a dark horse, your husband. Best come afore ’e sees you gawking at him.’ She let him urge her back down the lane.

‘I wish I knew what was going on, Martin.’

‘Aye, so does the rest o’ London. Buckingham’s been offerin’ higher wages to any that would serve ’im. Maybe ’is lordship there ’as lost a few.’

But it was more than that.

‘I saw Lord Hastings ride past in such sweat,’ she observed to Miles when he collected her later at the West Bulwark.

‘How observant you are, changeling,’ he replied coolly, lifting her onto Cloud’s back. ‘I believe that Gloucester refused to see him this afternoon.’

‘Refused to see Lord Hastings! But he is the second greatest lord in the kingdom.’

The corners of Miles’s mouth twitched into a smile and he stole a caressing hand beneath her skirt. ‘Not any more.’

Miles saw her back to Baynards, wondering why she did not wish to sup with him at the Red Rose. Trusting her, he supposed it might be her approaching monthly flux that was putting her out of sorts. Well, if he was making a poor job of being a bridegroom, he would amend matters later in a world that was no longer threatened by the Woodvilles and their allies. Besides, Catesby had agreed to dine with Harry and there was a fair chance they might persuade him to change masters. Much as Miles longed to be with Heloise, this was important. It was part of his plan to make Harry as powerful as Warwick the Kingmaker had been and if Hastings opposed that, so much the worse for him. Jesu, the Yorkists were lucky that Harry did not rally their enemies against them.

The Red Rose feted Catesby that evening. Ravenous with ambition, Lord Hastings’s friend accepted their morsels of flattery like a starving cur on a December night.

‘I gather Lord Hastings is bedding Mistress Shore and that she often visits the queen at Westminster Sanctuary,’ Miles remarked eventually, and watched Catesby’s hand freeze with a wine cup halfway to his lips. ‘The lady seems ubiquitous.’

Given half the chance, the old king’s mistress would have wriggled into Gloucester’s bed, too, like a homing salmon. But this sudden triangular traffic was dangerous; an alliance between the queen and Hastings might be in the wind.

‘Mistress Shore is busy, yes.’ Their guest looked from one man to the other and set the vessel carefully down again.

‘You have a chance to come in with us at cock-crow,’ Miles said quietly, ‘not when the hurly-burly is over. The old moon or the new?’

They were interrupted by the arrival of the fish course.

‘So, Catesby,’ Harry murmured after a whole perch had been set upon his platter, ‘shall you warn Lord Hastings to be careful of the company he keeps?’

Catesby stared at his plate. The fish eye stared back blindly. ‘He knows it is foolish but,’ he raised his head and his fox-miened face was hard, ‘he cannot help himself.’

‘A pity,’ Miles showed no sympathy. Having scraped off all the good flesh on one side of his fish, he pulled the backbone out; it was surprising how many small bones came away with it.

He was whistling confidently as he returned from relieving himself before they served the subtleties, when Pershall waylaid him with another matter.

‘Sir, you know Master Bannastre has fetched the pretty widow his grace has been bedding this last week?’ Miles nodded. At least the woman was clean and wholesome. ‘Well, sir, some other wench has wormed her way in and there’s two of ’em to deal with. I have taken the liberty of putting one of ’em in his grace’s bedchamber. Will it please you to ask my lord duke if he wants one at a time, neither or both at once?’

Glad that he was free of such dilemmas, Miles whispered the tidings to Harry and resumed his place upon the dais. The guests, garrulous with fine wines, departed an hour later and Miles, whose duty it was to supervise Harry’s unrobing that night, accompanied him up the stairs.

A veiled woman, impossible to recognise in the light of the scant candles, which had kept her company through her vigil, rose as they entered the antechamber. The fragrance was familiar, though as yet he could put no name to it.

Pershall caught Miles’s eye and jerked his head at the bedchamber, easing open the door for him to glimpse the merchant’s widow, a winsome, raven-haired beauty reclined upon the pillows, languidly filing her nails.

‘Whatever are you doing here, mistress?’ Harry was saying behind his back. ‘I do not even know your name. Your reputation—’

The stranger did not need to unveil herself for as Miles turned back, he saw a plant with its roots bound in a canvas bag, squatting upon the small table, and he knew.

‘I … I came before curfew.’ Tremulous breath fanned the delicate gauze before Dionysia shyly drew it up. ‘Your pardon, my gracious lord, I did not intend to stay, but your servants let me in and said you would not be long.’

‘My people shall see you safely home but … but will you sup before you go? There are … well … viands aplenty.’ Harry ignored Miles’s icy hostility and Pershall’s facial contortions for attention; his gaze was only for his fair guest – like a man besotted.

She nodded with a quiver of lip. ‘I have a great hunger on me …’ The lovely eyes confirmed the ambiguity. ‘But I cannot delay you, you must have …’ She waved her hands with charming helplessness. Had she smelt the other woman’s perfume?

Harry, curse him, did not even wriggle in the web Dionysia was spinning, but two might play at cocooning; the duke’s white teeth glinted in a predatory smile that promised earthly treasures and pleasurable experiences.

‘This is an iris, is it not?’ he murmured, lifting the plant closer to the candlelight.

Dionysia moved to his elbow and stroked the swordlike leaves. ‘A golden flower. It will unfurl its petals for you by tomorrow.’

Behind her back, Pershall threw his eyes heavenwards in incredulity before he coughed. ‘Will viands be sufficient, your grace or shall I bring refreshment for the flower as well?’ Then he bowed to Dionysia, ‘May I show you where the garderobe is, my lady?’

‘Aye, do so,’ ordered Harry, thrusting the door open so that it was impossible for her to refuse.

Miles’s anger broke the instant she was gone. ‘That woman is—’

‘Quick, Miles, get the other whore out! Pay her off.’

‘But she is—’

‘As you love me, do it!’ Harry fiercely thrust him towards the bedchamber and disappeared downstairs. Fuming, Miles paid off the disappointed widow and delivered her to Bannastre for unloading at her house in Thames Street.

Pershall was sitting on the bottom stair on his return. ‘Order a cell at Bedlam, sir. His grace has been bitten by a rabid bitch.’

‘I have to stop this!’

Pershall did not shift. ‘I would not go back up, Sir Miles. He has an appetite on him and it is not for the strawberries.’

‘She is Gloucester’s ward and – the Devil take her! – my wife’s sister.’

Pershall grimaced, shaking his fingers as though the air had burnt him.

‘Exactly,’ snarled Miles.

‘To cut to the hilt, sir, love can creep up on us, like. Might not be such a bad thing.’

Love! It was not on the agenda. ‘He is in love with power, Pershall. Let that suffice.’

A woman’s laughter rippled down the staircase, and Miles turned away cursing. God damn her! Dionysia had won this round.

Next morning was shiny as a gemstone as Heloise climbed the Baynards’ battlements after prime. The river lay like a pane of grisailled glass; the sky before her a smoky blue broken by a fleet of swans beating their wings up to Richmond. Westwards, a purplish brown haze hovered above the polished spires, and St Paul’s steeple pointed an indicatory finger towards heaven like a warning, but no one beneath it was listening. The wharves nearest to Baynards were spiky with derricks; the air buffeted with ribald curses as wharvesmen and crews unloaded upriver produce: hay bales for the stables of the city’s inns; cheeses like village footballs, their rinds comforted by cloths; and sacks of flour, peak-eared from handling.

For Heloise it was a relief to observe the rooftops like a soaring goshawk and not have her unwilling mind overladen with the intrigue that insinuated between Westminster and the Tower, but the horrid protuberances spiking London bridge’s city gate, like monstrous decaying seedpods, horrified her. What new adornments might be hoisted? Miles Rushden’s head? Despite the heat, she shuddered and closed her mind against a fearful future. The battle for England was not over yet.

‘It seems you did not wish to be found, Heloise!’ Like a raptor that might steer its way magically by night, he had discovered her roost. His mood, by the look of his stormy brow, matched hers.

‘Well done, sir.’ The chill belied the applause. ‘I needed peace to think,’ she added, hiding her pleasure in being his, delighting in the glazy sheen of the black leather knee boots, the cascade of outer sleeve, and the lacing of his shirt that begged untying. Tendrils of damp hair lapped Miles’s freshly shaven jaw and the musk he used reached her across the still air. She saw the corners of her lord’s mouth curl down at her tepid welcome. If he had considered gentle tail-pulling, he changed his mind. ‘In future, changeling, will you please leave word of where I may discover you. I do not have time for these games.’

‘I noticed.’ It was necessary to cold-shoulder him and show more interest in a passing barge.

‘I thought you indisposed.’

‘No.’

‘I am not sure I understand.’

‘I … I want to be honest with you.’

‘Ah.’ His jaw clenched and he waited.

‘Whatever it is you are doing, sir, I do not like it.’ She glanced sideways.

Her newly wedded lord swore beneath his breath. ‘It seems to be what I am not doing, madam.’ Wondrous manly, he paced away from her, his long cote fluting above the knightly spurs. ‘Why is it that now I am tethered to you for eternity, Heloise, you are become so perverse? How may I please you?’ Ice edged each word.

‘By sharing.’

‘My bed?’

‘No, your trust.’

‘I see.’ He perched himself between the crenellations. ‘Well, I am not sure I know enough to tell you, save to say I am rattling the die as best I can.’ A black-gloved hand fingered the enamelled swordhilt warily. ‘Is there another question?’

‘Oh, a cupboard full, sir. To be frank, why are you baiting Lord Hastings?

‘I am not.’ His expression was distant, and then the mercurial gaze returned to her as though she entertained him. ‘Mind, I think he is in my way.’

‘Miles,’ she pleaded. ‘I want a husband, not a severed head.’

The cutting amusement softened to kindness as he held out a hand for hers. ‘You knew I was ambitious, cariad. I have never made a secret of it.’ Heloise ignored the gesture, but she wanted so much to believe in him, wanted Rushden to hold her and kiss away her demons. To take his hand was to forgive the future.

He stood. ‘So skittish, still,’ he murmured, looking down at her like a victorious captain. ‘I think you feast on danger, changeling. A pair of boots and you will wade in beside me.’ The steel eyes had grown devilish. ‘Give me the kiss of peace.’

‘I will give you the slap of war,’ seethed Heloise, retreating.

‘Then do so, sweet heart, but I will tax you first.’

The bastion tower was no ally as she took a step back and felt the stone wall merciless against her back. His arms became her prison.

Satan take him! She fought to free herself, trying to keep her anger blazing, yet to be held was divine penance.

‘Why will you not accept my good lordship, Heloise, and trust my judgment in such matters?’ With a slow smile, he pulled her against him. ‘Be content that you have a husband who appreciates all you offer.’ He tilted her face towards him. The familiar stirring his touch aroused warred with her reason. Her mind protested at this feudal passion without love. His lips seduced the sensitive skin below her ear and provocatively trailed lower until she arched towards him, desperate for him to touch her breasts.

Her husband’s laughter was soft. ‘Ah, so you have an appetite for this, but no dalliance now, my lascivious enchantress. The duchess likes to keep her ramparts pure. Besides, we have an audience.’ A couple of boatmen and their passengers were whooping at them.

The rebuff hurt her. Did he not feel the same passion? How could he be so controlled? Oh, every time she thought to capture the real man, he eluded her grasp. He was the shape shifter, not she: he was the master of the game, and she was trying so hard to understand the rules.

‘Now I have need of your help, Heloise,’ he was saying. ‘It would please me if you would take your annoying sister to task. She wants to become Harry’s reigning mistress.’

How had he found that out?

‘Dear God, Miles, that must be avoided at all costs,’ she exclaimed, stowing her anger away briefly. ‘She is unwed and …’

‘Unplucked? Hardly. When did it last rain …’ He stared out towards Southwark, his mouth a furrow of displeasure. ‘She came to the Manor of the Red Rose last night armed with a fleur-de-lis.’

‘What!’

‘They talked about more than gardening and he has sent out for some pansies.’

‘Pansies!’

‘How else do you reward a night of pleasure? Valerian for the nerves? I can see I should have presented you with something flowery. Speak with her, please.’

‘You find this amusing.’

‘No, I find it irritating. Best Gloucester does not learn of it, hmm? Your sister has told Crosby Place she is staying here with you. Let that suffice. Give this bonfire a few days and, with God’s good grace, it may burn itself out, despite your sister’s ambitions. Men are fickle creatures.’ Was he a fickle creature too?

‘In God’s name, sir, she is only seventeen. Can you not speak with the duke?’

‘Divert him. Not this time. The seduction was unhappily mutual.’

‘What is it that binds you to that man?’ she demanded, her misgivings finally welling to the springhead. ‘Richard of Gloucester would give you good lordship.’

‘It seems to me that your wondrous Gloucester is too well served already. As for Harry – notched and directed, he flies true.’ Her expression must have been stony for he carried her hands to his lips. ‘Are you jealous, cariad?’

‘Sir.’ It was an effort to sound businesslike. ‘I would be a proper wife to you. Now that the bishop is mended, I serve no purpose here.’

‘My father has a London house but—’

‘Then … then could I not go there?’ she cut in. ‘Oh, to be sure, I can help here with these noble ladies’ charities, but I am used to running my father’s household or looking after Ned. Miles, please.’

‘I am sorry, we cannot use the house. Harry has taken your sister there.’

‘Dear God, you let him use it as a stew!’

‘Peace!’ His fingers fastened about her wrist. ‘I am sorry that you lack attention. After the coronation, I vow we will leave London and I shall take you to Dorset to meet my family and reconcile myself with yours. Here.’ He tipped his leather purse and offered her a rose noble. ‘Take Martin for escort and go purchasing this afternoon. Buy a new headdress to replace the one I ruined.’

Heloise kept her hands by her sides. ‘You think trinkets will mollify me? Your duke crosses himself every time he sees me, and you use me as though I am some doll to play with when you remember to open the nursery chest.’

The indifference that snapped across his face nearly disarmed her. ‘I do not seek to buy your good will, madam, I expect it.’ His hand stroked down her cheek. ‘Truth is a many-sided gem, Heloise. It takes time to appreciate all its facets.’

And what was that supposed to mean? she thought angrily as he turned on his heel and walked arrogantly away. The bells of the city sounded but eight o’clock and already she missed the rasp of words between them. The day yawned ahead, hours and hours.

‘Saddle Cloud,’ she bade Martin, and went to confide in her pious hostess before she packed. She was going to her guardian – running away.

Finding somewhere to lick her wounds was not easy. By the time she reached Bishopsgate, Crosby Place had inconveniently barred its doors against the world. Together with the King of France’s embassy, thirteen petitioners, five irritated aldermen, messengers from various noblemen including Lord Hastings – she recognised the sable maunches – and a ribbon peddler who was too slow-witted to take a denial, she, too, was turned away. It seemed that the Duchess Anne was come with her ladies down the spine of England to be with her lord and Crosby Place was not receiving visitors.

At the rear postern, the story was the same: ‘Return tomorrow, my masters.’ Which was all very well for those who had no grievances with their husbands and a choice of beds for the night. The day was hot, the streets were reeking and Heloise could feel perspiration dampening her collar and the cotton wadding that protected her gown beneath her arms. It was needful to bribe the back porter with the rose noble to ensure he carried Heloise’s unicorn brooch to its giver. Time limped; but at last Lady Margery Huddleston came down and salvaged her from the stinking street.

Margery’s delighted welcome and the merciful coolness of the house’s interior restored Heloise’s spirits – as though she had touched a sanctuary doorknocker.

‘I had thought you a queen at the Red Rose by now, or has your ubiquitous sister already deposed you? Lady Percy tells me she is trying to snare a duke in her talons.’

‘She is welcome to Duke Harry,’ answered Heloise, blushing for her sister’s sins. ‘For my part, Margery, I have come in search of enlightenment.’

‘But I think you may be the one to provide it,’ answered Margery wryly. ‘And what of your man of shadows? Will he not miss you?’

Heloise sighed. ‘That is why I am here. Blessed are the unobtainable. I only hope he will.’