VIII

it say?”
    “He will begin as a lamb and end as a lion.” My mother sounds shaken. “That’s it.”
    I feel forward as far as I can. My fingers meet nothing but empty shadows.
    “The Pretender calls himself Duke of York, doesn’t he?”
    “Yes,” my mother says quietly, “he does. So… if York will be king is correct, it means he will invade, and seize the crown… and, no doubt, the soil will be drenched with more blood than rain… ”
    I hear rapid footsteps. Looking out through the holes in the cupboard door, I see that my mother has crossed to Father Christopher and is clutching his hand. She says, “I must warn my husband!”
    “How? Without revealing that you have been reading these?” Father Christopher indicates the papers.
    “I don’t know. I could say I have had a bad dream – a premonition… Oh, God…” She covers her face, the papers scrunched in her fist.
    “Calm yourself, ma’am. Do any of the other prophecies make any mention of York?”
    “No – no. I’ve looked at them all.”
    “Then it’s just one. One scrap of grubby paper. The King, your husband, has many enemies. Any one of them could have written this with no more divine revelation than a clerk has, copying out an account book. It could simply be political agitation – the Pretender’s supporters could have sent it into London to try to persuade people to join them. Nothing mystical in that. No need to say anything – no need to endanger yourself.”
    My mother takes a shaky breath. “You’re right. Of course.” She folds the scrunched papers and hands them back to Father Christopher. “I shouldn’t have asked to see them, should I? What a fool I am.” Her voice is clipped. “Be sure to burn them all, won’t you? Straight away. Filthy things.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Father Christopher bows. “I’ll go and do it now.”
    I’m vaguely aware of them leaving the room – Father Christopher through the door by which I entered, my mother through the other one. For several minutes I’m completely motionless – stunned, very scared, and wondering if I’m about to be sick. But there’s something else too: something small that’s tugging at my attention like an annoying pageboy tugging my sleeve. At first I ignore it – my heart is racing and I can’t move and I need to move: I need to get out of here.
    Tug, tug. What ?
    A picture comes to me: my mother in the orchard. Her strong fingers snap straight; an arrow flies; she says, “You’re the true Duke of York.”
    I take in a slow, shaky breath. I sense that something delicious is unfolding in my mind even before I know what it is.
    What did my mother say, just before the boy – the thing, the vision – disappeared?
    York will be king .
    And now, in my head, I can hear her reading from that other paper:
    The one who has been prophesied will come… Oh blessed ruler, you are the one so welcome that many acts will smooth your way… your glory will live down the ages…
    I feel a warmth spreading from the centre of my chest, tingling through my limbs. It’s as if an invisible sun has come out from behind a cloud and is shining down upon me.
    Pushing forward against the cupboard doors, I stumble out into the room and fall to my knees. I lay my forehead on the bare dusty boards of the floor.
    Nothing has ever been clearer to me or more obvious. York will be king and Your glory will live down the ages – those two prophecies are talking about the same person. I know it in every inch of my being. And it’s not the man waiting abroad, this Pretender.
    It’s me.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  VIII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    I have only one thought now: I must speak to my mother.
    It’s the end of the day when my chance comes. After evensong and supper, I go looking for her, and find her alone in a chamber near her bedroom. The soft light of the summer evening shows through the half-drawn curtains, but the thick stone walls keep out any warmth, and the only other light in the room comes from a fire, blazing in the hearth.
    My mother doesn’t hear me enter; she’s facing away from the door, sitting in a high-backed chair. The bonnet she wore in the orchard this morning has been replaced by a gable hood and veil – from behind I see the long black cloth crushed against the chair-back where she’s resting her head.
    I approach hesitantly, fidgeting with my belt-buckle, my dagger-hilt, scrunching my toes inside my shoes. The fire hisses and cracks. The figures