Crosby Place lazed in the afternoon heat, the lords and ladies lying low as if the least movement would over exert them.

‘So,’ murmured Margery, ‘I am anxious to hear of your adventures.’ She sent a yawning page to fetch them cordial and, lending Heloise a fan, led her out to the shady colonnade. ‘Let us sit here for a while, then I shall bespeak you a bed for tonight.’ Wondering guiltily what Miles was doing, Heloise leaned against one of the pillars that cloistered the garden. The air was drowsy with the hum of insects.

Margery, fanning herself with a cluster of plumes furled into a silver stick, which bespoke Tripoli or Alexandria, waited until the page had served them, and then she swung her feet up onto the wall and recomposed her skirts discreetly. ‘So tell me all that has happened to you.’

Heloise tried to be concise but by the time she faltered to a finish, she could hear the servants setting up the trestles for supper.

‘Let us walk in the garden,’ murmured Margery. ‘That is quite a tale, Heloise, I am not surprised that you feel yourself neglected now, but all the men are edgy. Someone is setting chestnuts to cook and they are shooting out all over London, particularly around here.’ She waved her fan towards the great hall. ‘It could be Margaret Beaufort, Tudor’s mother, but I rather suspect it may be your husband.’

‘Chestnuts?’ The heat must be addling her brain.

‘Rumours: my Lord Protector is going to seize the crown – Hastings has changed his cote and is making an alliance with the queen – our late sovereign King Edward was unlawfully begotten so his children have no right to the crown.’

‘Certes, Rushden is ambitious, but …’

‘Word is that he moves Buckingham like a chesspiece.’

Heloise’s stupor vanished. ‘He has the duke’s good lordship, yes. Their friendship runs deep, but rumours, no, I do not believe …’

‘He rescued Stillington.’

‘Ah yes, Stillington.’ Heloise lifted her chin, anxious for enlightenment. ‘My lord of Gloucester was right merry when he came to visit Stillington, but I saw his face as he left and, upon my soul, he looked like Atlas, as though he carried the troubles of Christendom upon his shoulders. Surely if the royal council approves of all that he has done, how can anything Stillington said rile him?’

The fan paused. ‘Oh, yes, Heloise, yes, it all comes back to Stillington.’

‘Margery, I feel like a blindfolded player. If this concerns Rushden, for pity’s sake, tell me.’

Margery glanced around before she lowered her voice. ‘If I share this with you, will you swear on the Rood that you will not divulge it further?’

Heloise clasped the small gold cross about her neck. ‘By Christ’s Blessed Body, I assure you I shall not.’

‘It is very simple. Stillington swears that King Edward’s sons are bastards and may not inherit the crown.’

‘Christ forfend!’ It was as if the realm of England shook beneath her.

‘King Edward,’ a wry smile touched Margery’s lips, ‘fell hopelessly in love with a beautiful widow and, because she would not surrender to him outside of marriage, he wed her secretly. Does that sound familiar?’

‘Yes, Elizabeth Woodville. But … are you saying that their marriage was not lawful?’

‘Yes, and I will tell you why. The beautiful widow I am talking about was earlier, before King Edward ever set eyes on Elizabeth Woodville. You see, the king made two secret marriages. The trothplighting with Elizabeth at Grafton Regis was done properly before a priest and plenty of witnesses, but it was unlawful because his first wife was still living. Her name was Eleanor.’

‘And is this Eleanor still alive?’

‘No, God rest her soul. She took holy orders and died some fifteen years ago.’

‘But were there witnesses to the first marriage?’

‘None living save one, the priest who married them.’ Margery raised an eyebrow.

‘Stillington!’ Heloise’s fingers rose to her lips in amazement. ‘Oh, but surely the queen knew. The prince is only twelve. Providing the king and queen went through a second marriage after Eleanor’s death, that still makes King Edward’s sons legitimate.’

Margery’s blue eyes misted. ‘I do not believe they did. King Edward could be careless sometimes, always trusting that fortune would bless him. Like the time he underestimated my father and was forced to quit his throne and flee to Burgundy. And I am sure this secret marriage is why Clarence …’ she spoke the name with a sigh because he too had been her brother-in-law, ‘why Clarence was executed and Stillington was imprisoned. Clarence knew. You see, Heloise, the queen was certain that if King Edward died unexpectedly, Clarence would claim the throne. Perhaps that is why she has tried to seize power and have the prince crowned and anointed straightway. Gloucester is the rightful king.’

‘And now Gloucester knows the truth?’

‘Yes, now he does, Heloise, and the dilemma is half-killing him.’

‘What do you think he should do, then?’

‘There are many of us who would like to see him king.’ Margery stood up, smoothing her skirts. ‘We need a strong leader, otherwise Scotland and France will soon be slavering for war. I have met King Louis and, believe me, that vile dissembler would like nothing better than to see England weak so he can conquer Burgundy. I laboured hard to prevent that.

‘Heavens, you have lived in Gloucester’s household, Heloise. You know we could have none better to rule us. There are so many excellent changes to the laws he is itching to propose.’

Yes, Heloise remembered. Like allowing a prisoner bail before his trial if he could find friends to stand surety for him, and preventing a suspect’s goods from being seized the moment he was arrested.

‘Our laws should be written in straightforward English so every one of us can understand them,’ Margery was saying. It was one of Gloucester’s personal crusades that he had aired at Middleham.

‘I doubt the lawyers will ever allow that.’ Heloise’s tone was dry, but she had always supported the duke’s views. Especially his belief that nobody should dispose of land unless they had a true title to it; and remembering the feud that had thrown her into Miles Rushden’s unwilling arms, she sighed. Margery may have hopes of a rainbow world, but it would be hard to achieve, and one had to be practical. Even if Gloucester’s lawful claim to the throne were proven and he were allowed to become king, there would be malcontents in plenty. If he did not reward his northern followers with offices, they would be angered; so, to please them, he would have to turn the current officers, mostly southerners, out of their positions, which would cause perilous unrest. And there were still Lancastrian lords abroad and secret sympathisers at home, who hated the Yorkists and would readily scourge him as a tyrant. She hoped Miles was not among them.

‘Poor Gloucester,’ Margery murmured, ‘caught between the rock of loyalty to his brother’s children and the hard place of his own common sense.’ Suddenly everything began to make sense. Miles and Buckingham wanted to make Gloucester king.

‘I can think of a very jagged rock,’ exclaimed Heloise. ‘Lord Hastings is hardly likely to stand by and clap his hands at his beloved king’s children being set aside.’

‘Throw rose petals? No, I doubt he would, and this adds to Gloucester’s dilemma.’

‘Does Buckingham know of Stillington’s revelation?’ If the duke did, then Miles had been keeping the matter secret too.

Margery shook her head. ‘Not yet. Gloucester wanted to talk over the matter with my sister and some of us first. I suspect he intends to confide in Buckingham when the duke comes to sup tomorrow night.’ Another morsel of information which Miles had not shared. ‘That is why Crosby Place has shut its doors for a little space, not because of my lady sister’s arrival but to take counsel. Ah, that is the warning bell for supper. Their graces will not be eating in the hall today so you need not make your obeisance until tomorrow.’

When the duke and duchess emerged for Mass next day, Heloise saw with relief that Gloucester’s aura was brightening again. As Heloise knelt before them, she sensed the assertive waves of love and strength that the duchess willed her lord, and saw it in the intertwining of their fingers. They made her welcome in a distrait but kindly manner, assuming she had come with Rushden’s blessing to make ready for the feast.

‘You need apparel for tonight.’ Margery led her back to the women’s bedchamber where she shook out a gown of peony silk. The two months’ sorrowing for King Edward was over and Heloise, still in her black damask, felt like a dark moth among the duchess’s women in their bright apparel.

‘But I am in mourning for my father,’ she pointed out.

‘Then I shall spill my platter down your mourning robe at dinner, and if you wear this veil of gossamer tisshew, the matter is settled. Try it on.’

Heloise felt envious hearing about the blue velvet bordered with crimson satin that the ladies were to wear in the procession from the Tower and the crimson velvet and white damask to be made up for the crowning but it was amusing to listen to the gossip. Some tittle-tattle was censored, she suspected. Although the ladies Parr, Tempest and Percy discreetly spoke no ill of Dionysia, Heloise guessed their reservations; her sister had never curtsied to the household rule book. She is indisposed at Baynards, she told them, hating the lie.

As if the world had gone from humdrum to dazzling colour, Crosby Place by four o’clock glinted, shimmered and perspired. Gloucester, in murrey samite with panels of golden stags flanking the shining buttons of his doublet, had forsaken raven mourning and looked less pallid, but the duchess’s complexion was effaced; the mauve daisies with their gold-thread hearts ought to have flattered her. Heloise, remembering her vision at Middleham, felt the Devil run an icy finger down her backbone.

Margery, misreading her expression, pressed Heloise’s arm reassuringly. ‘Rushden cannot haul you out.’

‘The trouble is he may not want to.’

The hour crawled between bells as red-cheeked earls, with sweat crawling pore by pore, dampening their brocades, shook Gloucester’s gloved hand. His household flanked him like a brotherhood. Up in the gallery, the arms of pages wearied as they flapped huge linen tablecloths to turn the air and prevent the viol strings from breaking. The cloying heat promised to stifle everyone’s appetites, and their host’s edginess made his guests’ tongues cleave to the roofs of their mouths. The sauces would be wasted on the fesaunts and fennelled sturgeon; beggars would feast tonight.

The fanfare announcing the arrival of the Stafford entourage was the last to sound.

‘Deliberate, I imagine,’ mused Margery, as Buckingham entered. ‘He might make the part of Potiphar’s wife if he applied himself. Has he sold his Welsh flocks, do you think?’ She was not the only one wide-eyed at Buckingham’s magnificence. The duke who complained of poverty at Brecknock must have borrowed sacks of money to clothe his skin. Flamboyant was not quite the word, nor was ostentatious, but they were not far short. His doublet was low-belted, flounced with ermine and just long enough to render his groin respectable. Tugs of a gold silk shirt rose Italianate through the creamy slits of his upper sleeves and shone beneath the laces that trellised his doublet. The beaver hat with its broad curled-up brim was ornamented by a fist-sized brooch of pearl and sapphire. If angels had come to dine in mortals’ fashions, they could not have surpassed him except … Except, decided Heloise, a shade maliciously, he was putting on weight.

Not so her husband. At the duke’s elbow, Miles’s finery might be subdued, certainly less exuberant, but his taste was sinless in comparison. The silver pleated doublet and slate silk stomacher were harnessed at his waist by a platelet belt and the shining collar of his lineage sat proudly on his shoulders. The dark hair that she could imagine now beneath her fingertips was newly cut beneath his low-crowned hat, and tidied behind his ears so that nothing of his scarred face was hidden as he looked about him, noting who was present. Save for Lord Hastings and the prince’s household lords, who were feting the French embassy at the Tower, most of the peers were here.

‘Y Cysgod,’ Margery mused at her elbow. ‘Shadow in name, but in nature …?’

‘You are well informed, my lady,’ Heloise remarked sharply.

‘As I told you once before, Gloucester has friends, even in Wales.’

Invisibility was not one of Heloise’s fey skills but there were broadly girthed lords to hide her from her husband. She need not have worried; Miles Rushden was preoccupied. He was moving through the throng with Buckingham, busy with greetings, a firm hand given now and then, conveying more – or less. It was not until dinner when the noble ladies, their veils shifting like wind-tossed flowers, were sitting in rank upon the left of the hall that Miles Rushden met her gaze across the spitted larks and rollettes of venison. He was no longer smiling. Nor did he deign to seek her out some two hours later when the acrobats had been tidied away; the trestles propped below the tapestries and the two dukes had withdrawn alone into the great chamber behind the dais.

As the shawms and viols struck up in the English manner, Heloise, who had only bothered with the strawberries, tried to display a lighthearted, independent spirit. She wanted Miles to care who squired her and where their gaze fell. Veiled, she might dance, though she dared not attempt the boisterous Florentine dance with its countless improvisations, for the borrowed bodice was tight across her breasts. The sets formed and Sir Richard Huddleston led Margery on his right and Heloise on his left. They progressed with brawles and flowerdelice, now in arches, now dipping beneath, and Heloise at last came almost breast to breast with the man to whom she was supposed to owe obedience. For this evening, she was a princess, reckless with desire for what she did not have.

‘Sir Miles, how very kind of you to lend us Lady Rushden,’ Margery murmured, with a quelling eyebrow upon her own lord, as she held Heloise’s hands to make an arch.

‘My horse is available too,’ Miles offered witheringly as his shoulder brushed beneath Heloise’s arm. The dance compelled him on.

‘I have met friendlier wolves,’ hissed Margery. ‘Do all Buckingham’s men growl so?’

‘Only when they are hungry,’ observed Huddleston. ‘Will lands appease him, Heloise, or does he want the crown?’

‘W-who?’

Green eyes questioned her naiveté. ‘Rushden.’

‘I-I do not understand.’

‘But we should like to.’ Huddleston reverenced each of his partners as the music ended. ‘Friend Buckingham wears his kingly ancestry on his escutcheon – does he wear the mantle of Lancaster too? Or has that been sent for laundering to Henry Tudor? You will have to do better than this, young Heloise, if you want to dance at Westminster.’

Heloise blinked at him. Had she indeed missed the undertones of this particular tune? Then it dawned on her that they were afraid. Afraid that the good dog Buckingham might turn and maul their master – at her husband’s bidding.

Lips parted, she turned her head to find Miles, wishing he might take her leading rein and reassure her that she had not married a devil, but a circle of Gloucester’s knights withheld him from her. Did the Huddlestons truly believe that Buckingham was but a glove upon Miles Rushden’s hand?

‘Is dancing at Westminster to be the zenith of my wheel of fortune, Sir Richard?’ Scathing serrated her question.

‘Lady Rushden, it is better than the base torrents of the mill-race. We can all drown. Excuse me, mesdames.’ He strode across to the Duchess Anne. ‘Are the dukes still arguing in there?’ she heard him ask.

And it was then that Buckingham emerged, his forehead spangled with sweat. Miles instantly broke free and joined his lord, and Heloise, watching the light-fast understanding that flashed between them, sadly knew herself an outsider still.

Harry’s eyes shone like those of a man who had heard the voice of God, as he disdained the throng and urgently drew Miles aside to tell him Stillington’s secret.

‘Christ Almighty, the prince a bastard!’ Miles’s mouth gaped adit-wide. ‘This is what we always dreamed of. You could be High Constable within the week.’ But ill news followed: Gloucester – a true Libran man to his toenails – after hours of weighing matters, had resolved finally to crown his nephew.

‘Christ Almighty, Miles,’ Harry’s mutter was low and furious, ‘the crown is there for the taking. “What will Lord Hastings say?” he kept moaning and he is scared his brother will come back and haunt him. The dolt was in tears just now, shouting at me to get out. Jesu, as well I did, I was right close to shaking him, the fool!’ To be within a spade’s edge of the crock of gold!

‘But that is a good sign, my lord, you are wearing him ragged. You warned him that it will not just be his head that falls beneath a Woodville axe, but his son’s too?’

‘Oh, I said that, Miles, yes, and that he had best have his friends close by and armed come St John’s Eve. I used every plaguey argument. You may buy me a striped hood for my saint’s day. I can become a lawyer if the Woodvilles leave my head alone.’

‘You have to keep at him, my lord. The duchess has just gone in to him, but mayhap she is on your side.’ It was guesswork but a fair assumption that Warwick the Kingmaker’s daughter might share her father’s dream.

‘But my quiver’s empty, Miles.’

‘Remind him that Queen Margaret used poison to rid herself of Good Duke Humphrey. A different queen, but another Uncle Gloucester.’ Miles watched understanding dimple Harry’s cheeks.

‘Ha! A wondrous precedent.’ Like an athlete ready to perform again, the duke wriggled his neck. A wonder he did not spit upon his palms. ‘Pray hard, Miles, else we shall all be in the Tower dungeons after the coronation banquet.’

Frustrated that he could only guide, not row, their eggshell boat, Miles watched Harry re-enter the inner sanctum. His entire future depended on Harry’s eloquence!

‘Miles.’

His lady stood before him – exquisite, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, as if in covering herself she offered secrets. Brocade sleeves, lined with lily pink taffeta, tumbled back from bands of crimson stitched with pearls as she raised a slender arm tightly sheathed in silk. An arrow point of silk edged the delicate wrist he raised to his lips. Her eyes were fawn-wild. No, fey-bright, or was that an illusion? Oh Heloise! He felt the heat of desire struggle against the need to keep his mind clear of her sorcery.

‘No baying hounds after me?’ she asked, with a lift of brow.

‘You are mine, changeling.’ Her hand was gallantly turned, but he intended the sensual kiss upon her palm to pass the sentries and set fires anew within her citadel. ‘I will whistle when I need you.’ The words were barbed. The rosy silk trembled, her little breasts, tight and full, lifted in breathy anger.

‘And I shall not hear you.’

‘Of course you shall, but since we circle different planets, it shall be by my clock, not yours!’ His voice was stern with challenge; she had yet to learn his measure.

‘Lady Rushden!’ Knyvett moved in like a diplomat and Miles turned on his heel, leaving his wife, he hoped, besieged and hungry.

Heloise needed to drag Rushden from the hall and quarrel properly but greater matters weighed in the balance; like a household listening for the squeal of a newborn heir, the entire throng was turned towards the inner door. When Buckingham finally emerged like a successful butterfly scrambling from its casing, speculation ran rife.

‘This is the stuff of chronicles.’ Margery joined Heloise. ‘So Buckingham has swayed our duke. How very eloquent of him. I hate to be a dampener to their hopes but …’ she studied the men over her shoulder, ‘… but, Heloise, what happens if he stops listening to good advice or, worse still, hears a different voice.’

‘Who, Gloucester, Margery?’

‘No, Heloise, Buckingham.’

The air in the women’s bedchamber at Crosby Place was as thick as a rich man’s blanket. If she had been alone in the huge bed, Heloise might have wept, but she was packed with the other ladies like a salted stockfish – a hot, salted stockfish hammered into a crate – and fears like wakeful demons were pincering her. Did her infuriating lord not realise she longed for him to imperiously fetch her back to the Red Rose and take her into his bed to be seduced with apologies and tenderness? Had she lost the battle already and was there nothing worth winning but an empty heart, at the high cost of breaking her own?

As the London roosters began their dawn duties calling their hens to order, she fell asleep only to dream again of Lord Hastings struggling against the soldiers. This time she recognised the wooden stairs of the great keep; this time the captain of the men-at-arms raised his helm and laughed. It was Miles.

For several days Heloise furiously lingered at Crosby Place and Miles Rushden let her simmer. Around her, the northern noblemen were tight-lipped, their lord tense and anxious. Something dire was building like a tempest. On Friday the thirteenth of June, the duke’s household attended Mass at St Paul’s and the dean lashed out from the pulpit with a bitter sermon on St Peter’s denial and Judas’s vile treason, before Gloucester rode off with his henchmen to kiss hands with the prince and meet his council at the Tower.

Friday the Thirteenth! The fearful feeling within Heloise grew until it was impossible to sit and embroider with the duchess’s ladies. She fled to the arbour and sat beneath the drizzling unhappy sky. She heard the shouts as far as Leadenhall and the hooves and clank of men-at-arms returning.

‘Heloise.’ She had known Miles would come, his soul turned to the outside for a brief space.

‘What is it that you want, sir?’ But she knew. Absolution, that priceless, intangible commodity that let princes slumber well at night.

He was in half-armour – a studded tunic of black and scarlet leather belted across a metal hauberk. His hair was sleeked with rain, but his cheeks were unhealthily devoid of blood as if he had had a glimpse of Hell.

‘So have you dragged Lord Hastings from the White Tower?’

Miles crossed himself, appalled. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I dreamed it.’ A truth meant to hurt. ‘Are you pleased, Miles? Contented now?’

He swore, wiping a hand across his mouth, and turned his face away. ‘I want you to come back with me to the Red Rose.’ The high tone was there, no supplication to soften it for her pleasure.

‘Why? So you can take refuge?’

‘In your arms, Heloise? Yes, curse it!’ He flung himself down beside her, leaning forward, his fingers to his temples as if his mind ached with pain. ‘We had evidence.’

‘I am sure you did. You and your master would have made sure, otherwise.’

‘No!’ The anguish in his voice set a delaying hand upon her revenge. ‘It was not like that. I-I thought Hastings would cool his heels in the Tower for a few months and come to terms. No, do not turn away!

‘Catesby gave us evidence against Hastings, Stanley and Bishop Morton. Gloucester did not believe it at first and then he accused Hastings of conspiring with the queen using Mistress Shore, his mistress, as a messenger. Hastings was so angry that he drew his dagger upon him. It was in the meeting chamber on the upper floor at the White Tower and I was outside the door with Lord Howard’s son and some of the guards when we heard a bench crash and we rushed in. Harry, Howard and Suffolk were struggling to overpower Hastings, and Lord Stanley was on his hands and knees beneath the trestle. We hauled Hastings out.’

‘You were there waiting for it to happen.’

‘I was there in case something went amiss. Hastings knew we had a case against him. Christ Almighty, Heloise, he was guilty as Hell. So were the other two.’

‘Was?’ Dragged from the White Tower?

‘Yes. Was! There were sufficient lords to try them! There was evidence. You only had to look at Stanley, every jowl was quivering, the man was close to soiling himself, he was so scared.

‘Harry ordered the guards to take Hastings down to the yard. Someone fetched the priest from St John’s Chapel to shrive him and then,’ he swallowed, ‘then one of the sergeants found a carpenter’s block. It was too awkward to lift so the fellow kicked it along …’ he winced. ‘Oh, Heloise, it was all scoured and criss-crossed like a chop’s cooking board, but Harry gave the order, wanted it done before Gloucester came down. Blessed Christ, pardon me! Tell me I had no choice.’ Miles cast his arms about her, burrowing his face in her lap like a tiny boy. ‘There was so much blood, so much blood. I never … Oh, God forgive me, I did not know a man could bleed so.’

Although she stroked the crow-wing hair, she was appalled by the power in him. Was there some bloodlust in these men that made them stain this precious peace? Was it Miles who had moved the pawns in place to ensure this outcome?

‘Be pleased, sir,’ she said scathingly. ‘Is not your way open now, as you determined?’

‘I do not wonder that you berate me.’ His eyes, stormy-hued against their reddened rims, begged her forgiveness. ‘Come back to me, please, tonight.’

‘What of Lord Stanley and Bishop Morton? Are they dead too?’

‘No, madam,’ he replied, angered by her manner. ‘We are not butchers. One killing was enough. Morton and Stanley are in prison.’

‘And I suppose you will all descend upon Hastings’s manors like carrion.’

‘No! No act of attainder. His family are not to blame.’

That was a surprise, thought Heloise harshly. Such pickings would have provided rewards for the two dukes’ land-hungry followers.

‘Well, I expect Henry Tudor will be very pleased to hear today’s news when it finally reaches Brittany, for it seems to me that you have just levered aside one of the cornerstones that holds the House of York in place.’

Miles stared at her with scorn, but she could see he was smarting. ‘You would be wise to keep that observation to yourself. I shall send an escort for you, madam, since you are still unfortunately my responsibility.’ Drawing on his gloves, he declared icily, ‘You will pardon me if I remove my unacceptable person hence. I have to work to do. Harry has offered to give employment to any of Hastings’s men who seek it.’

Her damp skirts clung as she rose. ‘And is he going to sell a couple of his doublets on a Cornhill stall to pay them? Or shall you turn heathen and marry a half score of wealthy merchants’ daughters in order to finance him?’ Had he possessed a warlock’s magic art, his expression would have conjured her to stone for such rash impertinence, but a new voice ahemmed through the freezing air between them.

‘Sir Miles. His grace of Gloucester desires you attend him. Likewise his grace of Buckingham.’

Miles gave a curt nod to the esquire and swung round on Heloise. ‘You were waiting for a whistle. Did you hear me, lady mine? Make ready!’

‘A whistle. I am sorry, no. It was a pat on the head I wanted.’ Her head tilted towards the hall. ‘You are the one being whistled, I think.’

Hard as it was to watch his face frost over and her harsh words drive cold iron down his spine, the hour was not yet come to play the pardoner’s part.

‘A pat, I see.’ Bitter amusement twisted his mouth.

‘I want you, Miles, more than I have words to tell you, but not like this.’

‘And who is to learn the lesson? You or I?’

‘Whichever one of us is wiser, sir.’

‘Then you will not obey me, madam?’

She inclined her head in dismissal. He swore through fine, clenched teeth and left her, sad and drenched, among the roses.

But Miles did not leave Crosby Place. In a defiant show of unity to convince the Londoners that a riot was unnecessary, Buckingham, his retinue and the Lord Mayor stayed to sup. Heloise pleaded indisposition and stayed out of sight in the women’s bedchamber. Not even Margery could spur new heart into her.

It was the Duchess Anne who took her aside before Mass next morning.

‘Heloise, dearest, I think you should know that his grace of Buckingham’s company was attacked on the way back to Dowgate last night. The duke was unharmed but several of his retainers were killed.’

‘My husband?’