WINDSOR CASTLE, WINTER 1454

The Duke of York, determined to show his mastery over Calais, and to prevent a French attack, musters a small fleet and takes ship to the garrison saying he will enter it, pay the soldiers, make peace with the Calais merchants, hang any traitors and be recognised as the Constable of Calais.

Calais is formidably fortified. It has been England’s outpost in Normandy for generations, and now the soldiers have control of the fort and when they see the sails of York’s fleet they place the chain across the mouth of the harbour, they turn the guns of the castle to the seaward side, and York finds himself staring down the barrel of his own cannon, refused entry to his own city.

They bring the news to us as we are sitting with the king, one cold afternoon in November. Margaret is exultant. ‘I will see your husband honoured for this!’ she exclaims. ‘How York must be humbled! How shamed he must be! Out at sea, with a great fleet, and the city of Calais refusing him entry! Surely now the lords will put him out of office? Surely they will fetch Edmund from the Tower?’

I say nothing. Of course, all I am wondering is whether my husband will have stood by while his men mutinied, disobeying his order to admit their new captain. Or whether – and far worse, far more dangerous for us – he himself led them to defy the Duke of York, commanding them from the high tower to turn the guns on the lord regent, the legally appointed Protector of England. Either way he will be in danger, either way the duke is his enemy from this hour.

The king, strapped in his chair, makes a little noise in his sleep; the queen does not even glance at him.

‘Think of York, bobbing about in his ship and the guns trained down on him,’ she gloats. ‘I wish to God they had shot him. Think how it would be for us if they had only sunk his ship and he had drowned. Think if your Richard had sunk him!’

I cannot stop myself from shuddering. Surely, Richard would never have allowed his garrison to open fire on a royal duke appointed by the king’s council? I am sure of that, I have to be sure of that.

‘It’s treason,’ I say simply. ‘Whether we like York or not, he is appointed by Privy Council and parliament to rule in the king’s place with his authority. It would be treason to attack him. And to have Calais open fire on English ships is a terrible thing to show to the French.’

She shrugs. ‘Oh! Who cares? To be appointed by his own placemen is no appointment,’ she says. ‘I did not appoint him, the king did not appoint him, as far as I am concerned he has just seized power. He is a usurper and your husband should have shot him as soon as he was in range. Your husband failed to shoot him. He should have killed him when he could.’

Again the king makes a little noise. I go to his side. ‘Did you speak, Your Grace?’ I ask him. ‘Do you hear us talking? Can you hear me?’

The queen is at his side, she touches his hand. ‘Wake up,’ she says. It is all she ever says to him. ‘Wake up.’

Amazingly, for a moment, he stirs. Truly he does. For the first time in more than a year, he turns his head, he opens his eyes, he sees, I know he does, he sees our absolutely amazed faces, and then he gives a little sigh, closes his eyes, and sleeps again.

‘Physicians!’ the queen screams and runs to the door, tears it open and shouts for the doctors who are dining and drinking and resting in the presence room outside. ‘The king is awake! The king is awake!’

They come tumbling into the room, wiping their mouths on their sleeves, putting down their glasses of wine, leaving their games of chess, they surround him, they listen to his chest, they raise his eyelids and peer into his eyes, they tap his temples and prick his hands with pins. But he has slid away into sleep again.

One of them turns to me. ‘Did he speak?’

‘No, he just opened his eyes and gave a little sigh and then went back to sleep.’

He glances towards the queen and lowers his voice. ‘And his face, was it the look of a madman, when he woke? Was there any understanding in his eyes or was he blank, like an idiot?’

I think for a moment. ‘No. He looked just like himself, only coming from a deep sleep. Do you think he will wake now?’

The excitement in the room is dying down very fast as everyone realises that the king is quite inert, though they go on pulling him and patting him and speaking loudly in his ears.

‘No,’ the man says. ‘He is gone again.’

The queen turns, her face dark with anger. ‘Can’t you wake him? Slap him!’

‘No.’

The little court at Windsor has been settled for so long to a routine that revolves around the queen and her little boy who is now learning to speak, and can stagger from one waiting hand to another. But things are changing. In the king’s rooms I think he is beginning to stir. They have been watching over him, and feeding him and washing him, but they had given up trying to cure him, as nothing that they did seemed to make any difference. Now we are starting to hope again that in his own time and without any physic, he is coming out of his sleep. I have taken to sitting with him for the morning, and another lady waits with him till evening. The queen visits briefly every afternoon. I have been watching him, and I think his sleep is lifting, I think it is getting lighter, and sometimes I am almost certain that he can hear what we say.

Of course, I start to wonder what he will know, when he comes out of his sleep. More than a year ago he saw a sight so shocking that he closed his eyes and went to sleep so that he should see it no more. The last words he heard were mine, when I said, ‘Don’t look. Don’t see.’ If he is opening his eyes again, ready to look, ready to see, I cannot help but wonder what he will remember, what he will think of me, and if he will think that I am to blame for his long vigil in darkness and silence.

I grow so concerned that I dare to ask the queen if she thinks the king will blame us for the shock of his illness.

She looks at me limpidly. ‘You mean the terrible news from France?’ she says.

‘The way he learned it,’ I reply. ‘You were so distressed and the duke was there. I was there too. Do you think the king might feel that we should have told him the bad news with more care?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If he ever gets well enough to hear us, we will say that we were sorry that we did not prepare him for the shock. It was so terrible for us all. I myself cannot remember anything about that evening. I think I fainted and the duke tried to revive me. But I don’t remember.’

‘No,’ I agree with her, understanding that this is the safest course for us all. ‘Neither do I.’

We celebrate Christmas in the hall of Windsor Castle. It is a little feast for a sadly diminished household but we have gifts and fairings for each other and little toys for the baby prince, and then, just a few days later, the king wakes, and this time, he stays awake.

It is a miracle. He just opens his eyes, and yawns and looks around him, surprised to be seated in a chair in his privy chamber in Windsor, surrounded by strangers. The doctors rush for us, and the queen and I go in alone.

‘Better not frighten him with a great crowd,’ she says.

We go in quietly, almost as if we are approaching some wounded animal that might take fright. The king is rising to his feet, a doctor on either side to help him support himself. He is unsteady, but he lifts his head when he sees the queen and he says, uncertainly, ‘Ah.’ I can almost see him seeking her name in the confusion in his mind. ‘Margaret,’ he says at last. ‘Margaret of Anjou.’

I find there are tears in my eyes and I am holding back sobs at the wreck of this man who was born to be King of England and who I first knew when he was a boy as handsome as little Edward March, the York son. Now this hollowed-out man takes one tottering step, and the queen makes a deep curtsey to him. She does not reach out to touch him, she does not go into his arms. It is like the young woman and the Fisher King in the legend: she lives with him but they never touch. ‘Your Grace, I am glad to see you well again,’ she says quietly.

‘Have I been ill?’

One deeply secret glance passes between her and me.

‘You fell asleep, into a deep sleep, and no-one could wake you.’

‘Really?’ He passes his hand over his head, and he sees for the first time the scar from a burning poultice on his arm. ‘Gracious me. Did I bump myself? How long was I asleep?’

She hesitates.

‘A long time,’ I say. ‘And though you were asleep for a long time, the country is safe.’

‘That greagood,’ he says. ‘Heigh ho.’ He nods at the men who are holding him up. ‘Help me to the window.’

He shuffles like an old man to the window and looks out at the water meadows and the river that still flows through the frosty white banks, just as it always did. He narrows his eyes against the glare. ‘It’s very bright,’ he complains. He turns and goes back to his chair. ‘I’m very tired.’

‘Don’t!’ An involuntary cry escapes from the queen.

They ease him back into his chair, and I see him observe the straps on the arms and on the seat. I see him consider them, owlishly blinking, and then he looks around the stark bareness of the room. He looks at the table of physic. He looks at me. ‘How long was it, Jacquetta?’

I press my lips together to hold back an outburst. ‘It was a long time. But we are so pleased you are better now. If you sleep now, you will wake up again, won’t you, Your Grace? You will try to wake up again?’

I really fear he is going back to sleep. His head is nodding and his eyes are closing.

‘I am so tired,’ he says like a little child, and in a moment he is asleep again.

We sit up through the night in case he wakes again; but he does not. In the morning the queen is pale and strained with anxiety. The doctors go in to him at seven in the morning and gently touch his shoulder, whisper in his ear that it is morning, and to their amazement he opens his eyes and sits up in his bed, and orders that the shutters be opened.

He lasts till dinnertime, just after midday, and then sleeps again, but he wakes for his supper and asks for the queen, and when she enters the privy chamber he orders a chair to be set for her, and asks her how she does.

I am standing behind her chair as she answers him that she is well, and then she asks, gently, if he remembers that she was with child when he fell asleep.

His surprise is unfeigned. ‘No!’ he exclaims. ‘I remember nothing. With child, did you say? Gracious, no.’

She nods. ‘Indeed, yes. We were very happy about it.’ She shows him the jewel he had made for her, she had it in its case, ready to remind him. ‘You gave me this to celebrate the news.’

‘Did I?’ He is quite delighted with it. He takes it in his hand and looks at it. ‘Very good workmanship. I must have been pleased.’

She swallows. ‘You were. We were. The whole country was pleased.’

We are waiting for him to ask after the baby; but clearly, he is not going to ask after the baby. His head nods as if he is drowsy. He gives a tiny little snore. Margaret glances at me.

‘Do you not want to know about the child?’ I prompt. ‘You see the jewel that you gave the queen when she told you she was with child? That was nearly two years ago. The baby has been born.’

He blinks, and turns to me. His look is quite without understanding. ‘What child?’

I go to the door and take Edward from his waiting nurse. Luckily, he is sleepy and quiet. would not have dared to bring him lustily bawling into this hushed chamber. ‘This is the queen’s baby,’ I say. ‘Your baby. The Prince of Wales, God bless him.’

Edward stirs in his sleep, his sturdy little leg kicks out. He is a toddler, handsome and strong, so unlike a newborn baby, that my confidence wavers even as I carry him towards the king. He is so heavy in my arms, a healthy child of fifteen months. It seems nonsensical to be presenting him to his father like a newborn. The king looks at him with as much detachment as if I am bringing a fat little lamb into the royal rooms.

‘I had no idea of it!’ he says. ‘And is it a girl or a boy?’

The queen rises up and takes Edward from me, and proffers the sleeping child to the king. He shrinks away. ‘No, no. I don’t want to hold it. Just tell me. Is this a girl or a boy?’

‘A boy,’ the queen says, her voice quavering with disappointment at his response. ‘A boy, thank God. An heir to your throne, the son we prayed for.’

He inspects the rosy face. ‘A child of the Holy Spirit,’ he says wonderingly.

‘No, your own true-born son,’ the queen corrects him sharply. I look and see that the doctors and their servants and two or three ladies in waiting will have heard this damning pronouncement from the king. ‘He is the prince, Your Grace. A son and heir for you, and a prince for England. The Prince of Wales; we christened him Edmund.’

‘Edward,’ I snap. ‘Edward.’

She recovers herself. ‘Edward. He is Prince Edward of Lancaster.’

The king smiles radiantly. ‘Oh, a boy! That’s a bit of luck.’

‘You have a boy,’ I say. ‘A son and heir. Your son and heir, God bless him.’

‘Amen,’ he says. I take the little boy from the queen and she sinks down again into her chair. The boy stirs and I hold him against my shoulder and rock gently. He smells of soap and warm skin.

‘And is he baptised?’ the king asks conversationally.

I can see Margaret grit her teeth with irritation at this slow questioning of those terrible days. ‘Yes,’ she says pleasantly enough. ‘Yes, he is baptised, of course.’

‘And who are the godparents? Did I choose them?’

‘No, you were asleep. We – I – chose Archbishop Kemp, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Anne, Duchess of Buckingham.’

‘Just who I would have chosen,’ the king declares, smiling. ‘My particular friends. Anne who?’

‘Buckingham,’ the queen enunciates carefully. ‘The Duchess of Buckingham. But I am grieved to tell you that the archbishop is dead.’

The king throws up his hands in wonder. ‘No! Why, how long have I been asleep?’

‘Eighteen months, Your Grace,’ I say quietly. ‘A year and a half. It has been a long time, we were all of us very afraid for your health. It is very good to see you well again.’

He looks at me with his childlike trusting gaze. ‘It is a long time, but I remember nothing of the sleep. Not even my dreams.’

‘Do you remember falling asleep?’ I ask him quietly, hating myself.

‘Not at all!’ he chuckles. ‘Only last night. I can only remember falling asleep last night. I hope when I sleep tonight that I wake up again in the morning.’

‘Amen,’ I say. The queen has her face in her hands.

‘I don’t want to sleep another year away!’ he jokes.

Margaret shudders, and then straightens up and folds her hands in her lap. Her face is like stone.

‘It must have been very inconvenient for you all,’ he says benevolently, looking round the privy chamber. He does not seem to understand that he has been abandoned by his court, that the only people here are his doctors and nurses and us, his fellow prisoners. ‘I shall try not to do it again.’

‘We will leave you now,’ I say quietly. ‘This has been a great day for us all.’

‘I am very tired,’ he says confidingly. ‘But I do hope to wake tomorrow.’

‘Amen,’ I say again.

He beams like a child. ‘It will be as God wills, we are all of us in His hands.’