September 1485

On the day of Anne's funeral, the ducal palace was swathed in black. Swathed in black for the Dowager Duchess's sister-in-law, the former Queen of England.

Margaret heard the bells tolling for the younger woman, and sighed mournfully.

She'd known Anne since she was a little girl trailing after George and Bella at Ludlow, Warwick or Fotheringhay. Although vivacious, headstrong Bella had always been her brothers' firm favourite of the Warwick girls, Margaret herself had always adored the winsome Anne, who had always been only too happy to let her more forceful older cousin dress her up and play with her hair as though she was little more than a great life-size doll. But even in childhood, Anne had never been the strongest. She'd always been a quiet little thing, one who looked rather as though any unexpected gust of wind might bowl her over.

Grief-stricken though she was, therefore, Margaret had to admit, even if only to herself, that she wasn't surprised that birthing twins had proved too much for the young Queen.

"Madam Margaret! Madam Margaret!"

A hammering on the door of her presence chamber startled Margaret out of her musings. She spun round from the window as her maid, Luise, swept to the door, grumbling under her breath about how her mistress was in mourning and this was highly irregular and ought not really to be permitted at all.

The man who fell across the threshold in exhaustion, however, was one who made Margaret hold up her hand to cut off Luise's whispered tirade.

"Get him ale and a stool. Now!" she barked, before flying across the room to kneel at the man's side and chafe his hands between her own.

Luise clicked her tongue at the impropriety of her actions, but Margaret didn't care.

The last time she'd seen this man, he'd been little more than a boy and joined at the hip with her youngest brother, Richard. To see him here, now, gaunt and hollow-eyed with exhaustion, could mean only one thing.

Margaret caught her breath. She could scarcely bring herself to form words as Francis Lovell's eyelids flickered and she helped him to sit upon the presented stool.

"It's Dickon, isn't it?" she choked out.

Francis's lips tightened and he mustered the strength to nod.

"Dead, Lady Margaret," he managed in a hoarse whispered, "Slain by those vile traitors, the Stanleys."

The words went through Margaret's heart like a knife. Involuntarily, she squeezed her eyes shut against a hot wave tears and pressed her free hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Several long moments passed.

With an effort, Margaret controlled herself. God alone knew what Francis had been through to bring her these tidings. The least she could do in return was show him a calm face.

"You've done well to come to me, Lord Lovell," she whispered, stroking the hand that rested in hers, "Dickon would want you here, at his son's side. Rest now, and when you wake, I'll take you to swear allegiance to His Grace, Richard IV of England, France and Ireland."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she'd said the right thing. Francis's face relaxed and he slipped into exhausted oblivion.

Margaret waited long enough to see him carried to a comfortable bed and then hurried down the passages to the nursery.

The twins were sleeping when she got there, their cradles standing end to end in front of the window embrasure to catch the autumn sunshine.

Margaret crossed the room to little Richard's cradle and stood looking down at him. As she watched, a ray of sunshine caressed the little boy's face, highlighting the golden strands in his fine, downy hair.

"It's all on you now, Dickon," she choked, pressing her lips together to keep from bursting into floods of tears, "It's all on you. You're our only hope that the sun may yet one day rise on an England ruled by the House of York."

Her nephew snuffled in his sleep, kicking slightly against his swaddling bands. Margaret held her breath. Heaven knew she would not be popular with the nursemaids and wet nurses if she woke her nephew.

Thankfully, little Dickon's eyes stayed closed. Margaret gazed down at him for a few moments longer and then slipped from the room, her devious mind already turning nineteen to the dozen.

January 1486

"The Earl of Lincoln!"

Margaret's heart lurched at her herald's pronouncement. She whipped her head round.

A young man was bowing before her, who had such a look of her older sister Elizabeth that she knew who he must be at once, despite not having seen him in years.

"Jock!" She leaped to her feet and put her hand out for his kiss before pulling him up and into her arms.

"What are you doing here?! I'd begun to give up hope of anyone else making it out of England, at least for the moment!"

"I rode north from Bosworth, sought shelter at Furness Abbey. I've been hiding out there ever since, but all eyes are on London now, with the Tudor usurper having inveigled his way into Bess's marriage bed. I thought it wise to get out while I could."

Margaret nodded, seeing the sense in her nephew's words.

"He truly has done it then? Married Bess, the way he swore he would?"

"Did you truly expect him not to, Aunt Margaret? Loathe though he might be to admit it, Henry Tudor is too canny not to know that he truly owes his throne not to the fact that he triumphed on Bosworth Field, but to the fact that he has taken Bess as his bride."

Margaret pursed her lips, though she couldn't help but feel her heart leap with relief. Brief though her acquaintance with young Jock was, she could already tell he was a kindred spirit; that he too was in possession of a burning desire to see the House of York returned to its rightful place upon the throne of England.

"I suppose it was only to be expected. Still, it's a shame we won't be able to rely on her help to restore young Dickon."

Jock's eyes lit up at her last words.

"You truly are going to restore him, then? Or at least try?"

"Of course!" Margaret scoffed, "What do you take me for? A coward and a traitor?"

Jock fell to his knees before her.

"Oh, Aunt Margaret! You have my heart! My heart and my sword! When do we sail?!"

"Heavens! Not for years yet!" Margaret exclaimed, taken aback by her nephew's ferocity. "Do you not know your Ecclesiastes? Woe to the land whose King is a child. Dickon needs to get a lot older before we can even begin to think about invading England on his behalf, or with him at the head of our forces. But it's never too early to begin to muster support, so your loyalty is gratifying. Come, I'll take you to the nursery and you can swear allegiance to His Majesty yourself."

So saying, she reached down and helped Jock to his feet. Courtesy bred into him from the day he was born, he lost no time in proffering his arm for her to take.

They entered the nursery without ceremony, but it didn't take long for Jeanne, the twins' chief nursemaid, to spot them. Harassed, she blinked stupidly for a moment before her mouth twisted up into a wry grin.

"Forgive us, My Lady," she sighed in soft, tired French, "We're not much in the mood for visitors today. Our teeth are giving us trouble, aren't they, little lord?"

And indeed, little Dickon was grizzling fiercely, screwing up his face in scorn at the nurses' fruitless efforts to calm him.

Jeanne exhaled and took him into her arms, bouncing him lightly, but to little effect. Margaret watched the pair for a few moments, before her lips twitched indulgently.

"I am to assume, no doubt, that Griet is sleeping soundly?"

"Naturellement, Madame. The little mademoiselle already knows how a Princess should behave," Jeanne replied, her eyes softening as she glanced over to the cradle by the fireplace. Margaret's gaze followed hers, before she turned back to Jock.

"Our little King may have his mother's colouring, but he can be as ferocious as your late uncle when he wants something, Jock. Princess Margaret, on the other hand, is His Grace's opposite in every way. Hair as black as her father's, but a nature as sunny as her mother's."

Jock hummed in acknowledgement and then drew his sword with a sudden flourish. Jeanne flinched back, but before she could fully react, Jock had thrust the blade down into the rush matting and knelt, his hand on the mother-of-pearl encrusted hilt.

"Richard, King of England, Ireland and France, I pledge you my heart and my sword, from this day until my last day."

The strong young voice rang through the small chamber.

Temporarily distracted from his pain by the flurry of movement and the flash of light on the finely-beaten blade, the infant King stilled in Jeanne's arms. He gurgled and reached for his older cousin.

Margaret's breath caught in her throat as Jock rose and went to take the baby into the crook of his free arm. He might look awkward, juggling both a baby and his blade, but for a moment, the hope she still carried in her breast for the House of York had flared so brightly that it hurt.