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had learned to use fear to his advantage. It sharpened his wits, and honed his already extremely well-developed instinct for survival.
       Be calm , he told himself, this is no battlefield, but a council chamber.
       He was seated at a long table inside an upper-storey chamber in the White Tower. Eight other men sat at the table. Like Geoffrey, most were friends and supporters of the Duke of Gloucester.
       Unlike him, none of the others were privy to Gloucester’s intentions. Geoffrey was a trusted adherent of the House of York, proven in battle (or so his peers thought), and in recent years had risen high in the duke’s service and estimation.
       He had been at York when the news of Edward IV’s premature death arrived, and travelled south in the duke’s retinue. At Northampton and Stony Stratford he witnessed, though played no part in, the arrests of Rivers, Vaughan and Grey. Geoffrey had hoped to escort the prisoners to Pontefract – well away from the crucible of London – but Gloucester chose a lesser knight for the role.
       “I could not afford to send you north,” Gloucester told him, “I need you at my side in London, where true friends are in short supply.”
       Now he found himself on the council, appointed to discuss arrangements for Edward V’s coronation at the end of June. The young king was originally supposed to have been crowned in May, but had arrived in London too late.
       Geoffrey clenched his fists to stop them trembling. It was a hot summer’s morning, and the air in the chamber was close and stuffy. At least the heat helped to explain the perspiration on his brow.
       “You look ill, Sir Geoffrey,” remarked Bishop Morton, seated to Geoffrey’s left, “or perhaps you suffer from an excess of last night’s wine?”
       Geoffrey returned the bishop’s gentle smile with a forced chuckle. Morton was in his sixties, a compact, square-faced man with a thinning grey tonsure and an agile mind. Intelligent, learned and ambitious, he missed nothing, and would soon detect any anxiety.
       It was vital he didn’t. Fortunately, Geoffrey was an accomplished play-actor. “It’s the heat,” he replied with one of his lazy smiles, “I have spent too long in the north. The cold air up there suits me.”
       Morton didn’t press the issue, and for a while they sat and talked of light matters. The bishop was clearly distracted, and conversation elsewhere at the table was stilted. All were waiting for the arrival of the Protector.
       Presently there came the sound of footsteps, and the heavy timbered door swung open. Two burly halberdiers wearing Gloucester’s livery marched in, followed by the slight, compact figure of their master.
       Gloucester was dressed all in black, and looked thin and pale, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
       “Apologies, my lords,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I was up until past two of the clock last night, and late in rising.”
       There was a murmur of greeting from the table. Lord Stanley, Geoffrey noticed, said nothing. Nor did the aged Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York.
       Geoffrey swallowed hard, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and glanced at the second door to the chamber. This one led to a small, disused room, and was usually kept locked. It wasn’t locked today.
       Despite his weariness, Gloucester was in good spirits, and seemed reluctant for the meeting to start in earnest.
       “Let us have some more wine, in Heaven’s name,” he cried, signalling to a page, “if we must discuss dry matters, let us not do it with dry throats.”
       His eye fell on Morton. “Your Grace, I have heard good things of the fruit you grow in your gardens at Holborn. Might we have a basket of strawberries to go with the wine?”
       Morton looked surprised, but it was a harmless enough request. “I will find a servant to fetch them, my lord,” he replied, rising stiffly from his chair.
       Gloucester smiled,