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come and go and we have no news of them.
    I am supposed to rest every afternoon, and my lady governess is ordered by my mother to take a renewed interest in my health, now I am carrying a child that could be a royal heir. She sits with me in the darkened rooms to make sure that I do not read by the light of a smuggled candle, or get down on my knees to pray. I have to lie on my bed and think of cheerful things to make the baby strong and blithe in his spirits. Knowing I am making the next king, I obey her and try to think of sturdy horses and beautiful clothes, of the magic of the joust and of the king’s court, and of the queen in her ruby gown. But one day there is a commotion at my door, and I sit up and glance at my lady governess, who, far from watching over me as the vessel preparing to bear the next king, is fast asleep in her chair. I get up and patter over to my door and open it myself, and there is our maid Gwyneth, white-faced, with a letter in her hand. “We can’t read it,” she says. “It’s a letter for someone. None of us can read.”
    “My lady governess is asleep,” I say. “Give it to me.”
    Stupidly she hands it over, though it is addressed to my ladygoverness and marked for her eyes alone. I break Jasper Tudor’s seal and open it. He has written from Pembroke Castle.
    Edmund wounded and captured by William Herbert. Held prisoner at Carmarthen. Prepare for attack as best you can there, while I go to rescue him. Admit no strangers; there is plague.
    Gwyneth looks at me. “What does it say?” she asks.
    “Nothing,” I say. The lie comes to my mouth so swiftly that it must have been put there by God to help me, and therefore it does not count as a lie at all. “He says that they are staying on a few days in Pembroke Castle. He will come back later.”
    I close the door in her face, and I go back to my bed and lie down. I put my hand on my fat belly that has grown bigger and now curves beneath my gown. I will tell them the news later tonight, I think. But first I must decide what to say and what to do.
    I think, as always, What would Joan of Arc do, if she were in my place? The most important thing would be to make sure that the future king is safe. Edmund and Jasper can look after themselves. For me, there is nothing more important than ensuring that my son is safe behind defensible walls, so when Black Herbert comes to sack the Tudor lands, at least we can keep my baby safe.
    At the thought of William Herbert marching his army against me, I slide down to my knees to pray. “What am I to do?” I whisper to Our Lady, and never in my life would I have been more glad of a clear reply. “We can’t defend here; there isn’t even a wall that goes all round, and we don’t have the fighting men. I can’t go to Pembroke if there is plague there, and anyway, I don’t even know where Pembroke is. But if Herbert attacks us here, how shall we be safe? What if he kidnaps me for ransom? But if we try to get to Pembroke, then what if I am ill on the road? What if traveling is bad for a baby?”
    There is nothing but silence. “Our Lady?” I ask. “Lady Mary?”
    Nothing. It is a quite disagreeable silence.
    I sigh. “What would Joan do?” I ask myself. “If she had to make a dangerous choice? What would Joan do? If I were Joan, with her courage, what would I do?”
    Wearily, I rise to my feet. I walk over to my lady governess and take a pleasure in shaking her awake. “Get up,” I say. “You have work to do. We are going to Pembroke Castle.”

AUTUMN 1456

    Edmund does not come home. William Herbert does not even demand a ransom for him, the heir to the Tudor name and the father of my child. In these uncertain times nobody can say what Edmund is worth, and besides, they tell me he is sick. He is held at Carmarthen Castle, a prisoner of the Herberts, and he does not write to me, having nothing to say to a wife who is little more than a child, and I do not write to him, having nothing to say to