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and clapped the bishop on the shoulder as he went.
       “Well, then,” said the duke, “I see no reason to begin until the victuals arrive. Pray spare me a little while longer, my lords.”
       He turned and hurried out, leaving anger and confusion behind him.
       “What in God’s name is he about?” demanded Stanley, “I thought the duke was a man of business. Here we sit, with the city in ferment and cries of treason ringing through the streets, and he treats the affair like a holiday.”
       Rotherham murmured in agreement, but others cried no, the duke had everything firmly under control.
       Geoffrey knew that for a lie. London trembled on the verge of a precipice. Richard’s assumption of the Protectorship provided an illusion of power and stability, but no more.
       As soon as word had reached the capital of the arrest of Rivers, the Woodvilles panicked and fled. The bravest of them, Sir Edward Woodville, prowled the Channel with a hired fleet, like a common pirate. Sir Thomas Grey, the Queen’s eldest son by her first marriage and Marquess of Dorset, had gone to ground, and was being hunted through the countryside by soldiers with dogs.
       The Queen herself had fled to sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, taking her daughters and younger son, Richard, Duke of York. Armed gangs stalked the streets, some of them claiming to be for Gloucester, others for Queen Elizabeth. Most were neither, mere criminals taking advantage of the atmosphere of fear and uncertainty to indulge in a little wanton violence.
       Geoffrey shuddered. The tension in the capital was almost palpable. At least the king was safe, lodged in the Tower and surrounded by the Protector’s servants and guards.
       After Gloucester, the most important man in London was William Hastings, the Lord Chamberlain. Geoffrey found it difficult to gauge Hasting’s mood. Now in his fifties, stout and balding, the old Yorkist mainstay said little, but listened to the others talk and argue with an inscrutable expression on his blunt, jowly features.
       It was Hastings who sent letters to Richard at York after the old king’s death, warning him of the Woodville plot to seize power. It was Hastings who persuaded the council, in the first shock of the news of Rivers’ arrest, that Richard’s actions were justified. Hastings was Richard’s friend.
       Geoffrey glanced at the second door again. He was still sweating, and badly needed to piss, but his instructions were to remain seated.
       Strawberries! The duke made no mention of Morton’s damned strawberries. It is too much. He is taking too long. We shall be discovered. God help me, I am like to wet myself.
       Incredibly, Gloucester kept them waiting for another hour. Morton returned in that time, along with a servant carrying the requested basket of strawberries.
       The servant passed them out among the councillors. Geoffrey had no appetite, but was obliged to play his part, and managed to choke one down. 
       At last the trial of his nerve and bladder control ended. Gloucester strode back into the chamber, again preceded by his halberdiers. Six more armed retainers were at his back, and spread out to stand either side of him.
       The duke’s cheerful manner had evaporated. His sallow features were contorted with fury, and his entire frame shook, like a man in the grip of a high fever. Spittle bubbled at the corners of his mouth as he roared in wordless rage and pounded his fist on the table, overturning the basket and spilling the remaining strawberries onto the floor.
       “Tell me, my lords,” he screamed, “what should they have, those who wish for and plot my destruction – I, who am close in blood to the king, the Protector of his royal person and realm?”
       The councillors gaped at him, and at each other, but none made any reply. Lord Stanley started to speak, but thought better of it.
       Only Geoffrey knew that Gloucester was play-acting. The duke was