Yesterday some fool asked me what my first memory was, expecting me to lapse happily into sentimental childhood reminiscences, as dotty old men are supposed to enjoy doing. He was most surprised when I ordered him out of the room.

But his damage was done; and I could not order the thought out of my mind as easily. What was my earliest memory? Whatever it was, it was not pleasant. I was sure of that.

Was it when I was six? No, I remember when my sister Mary was born, and that was when I was five. Four, then? That was when my other sister, Elizabeth, died, and I remembered that, horribly enough. Three? Perhaps. Yes. It was when I was three that I first heard cheers — and the words "only a second son."

* * *

The day was fair — a hot, still, summer's day. I was going with Father to Westminster Hall to be given honours and titles. He had rehearsed the ritual with me until I knew it perfectly: how to bow, when to prostrate myself on the floor, how to back out of the room before him. I had to do this because he was King, and I would be in his presence.

"You never turn your back to a king," he explained.

"Even though you are just my father?"

"Even so," he answered solemnly. "I am still your King. And I am making you a Knight of the Bath today, and you must be dressed in hermit's clothes. And then you will re-enter the Hall in ceremonial robes and be made Duke of York." He laughed a little dry laugh — like the scudding of leaves across a cobbled courtyard. "That will silence them, show them the Tudors have incorporated York! The only true Duke of York will be my son. Let them all see it!" Suddenly he lowered his voice and spoke softly. "You will do this before all the peers in the realm. You must not make a mistake, nor must you be afraid."

I looked into his cold grey eyes, the color of a November sky. "I am not afraid," I said, and knew that I spoke the truth.

* * *

Throngs of people came to watch us when we rode to Westminster through Cheapside. I had my own pony, a white one, and rode just behind Father on his great caparisoned bay. Even mounted, I was scarcely any taller than the wall of people on either side. I could see individual faces clearly, could see their expressions. They were happy, and repeatedly called blessings on us as we passed.

* * *

I enjoyed the ceremony. Children are not supposed to enjoy ceremonies, but I did. (A taste I have never lost. Did that begin here, as well?) I liked having all eyes in Westminster Hall on me as I walked the length of it, alone, to Father. The hermit's robes were rough and scratched me, but I dared not betray any discomfort. Father was sitting on a dais in a dark carved seat of royal estate. He looked remote and unhuman, a King indeed. I approached him, trembling slightly, and he rose and took a long sword and made me a knight, a member of the Order of the Bath. In raising the sword, he brushed lightly against my neck, and I was surprised at how cold the steel was, even on a high summer's day.

Then I backed slowly out of the hall and went into the anteroom where Thomas Boleyn, one of Father's esquires of the Body, was waiting to help me change into my rich red ceremonial robes made especially for today's occasion. That done, I re-entered the hall and did it all again; was made Duke of York.

* * *

I was to be honoured afterwards, and all the nobles and high- ranking prelates were to come and pay homage to me, recognizing me as the highest peer in England — after the King and my older brother Arthur. I know now, but did not understand then, what this meant. The title "Duke of York" was the favourite of pretenders, and so Father meant to exact oaths of loyalty from his nobles precluding their later recognizing any pretenders — for, after all, there cannot be two Dukes of York. (Just as there cannot be two heads of John the Baptist, although some Papalists persist in worshipping both!)

But I did not understand this. I was but three years old. It was the first time I had been singled out for anything of my own, and I was hungry for the attention. I imagined all the adults would cluster about me and talk to me.

It was quite otherwise. Their "recognition" consisted of a momentary glimpse in my direction, a slight inclination of the head. I was quite lost in the forest of legs (for so they appeared to me; I scarcely reached any man's waist) which soon arranged themselves into clusters of three, four, five men. I looked about for the Queen my mother, but did not see her. Yet she had promised to come. ...

A bleating fanfare announced that the dishes were being placed upon the long table running along the west wall of the hall. It had a great length of white linen upon it, and all the serving dishes were gold. They shone in the dull light, setting off the colour of the food within. Wine servers began to move about, carrying huge golden pitchers. When they came to me, I demanded some, and that made everyone about me laugh. The server demurred, but I insisted. He gave me a small chased silver cup and filled it with claret, and I drank it straight down. The people laughed, and this caught Father's attention. He glared at me as though I had committed a grave sin.

Soon I felt dizzy, and my heavy velvet robes made me sweat in the close air of the packed hall. The buzz of voices above me was unpleasant, and still the Queen had not come, nor any attention been paid me. I longed to return to Eltham and leave this dull celebration. If this were a festivity, I wanted no more of them and would not envy Arthur his right to attend them.

I saw Father standing somewhat apart, talking to one of his Privy Councillors — Archbishop Morton, I believe. Emboldened by the wine (for I was usually somewhat reluctant to approach Father), I decided to ask him to allow me to leave and return to Eltham straightway. I was able to approach him unobtrusively as I passed the clots of gossiping nobles and courtiers. My very lack of size meant that no one saw me as I moved closer to the King and stood back, half-hidden in folds of the wall-hanging, waiting for him to cease talking. One does not interrupt the King, even though one is the King's son.

Some words drifted to me. The Queen ... ill ...

Was my mother, then, prevented by illness from coming? I moved closer, straining to hear.

"But she must bury this sorrow," Morton was saying. "Yet each pretender opens the wound anew —"

"That is why today was necessary. To put a stop to all these false Dukes of York. If they could see how it hurts Her Grace. Each one ... she knows they are liars, pretenders, yet I fancied she looked overlong at Lambert Simnel's face. She wishes it, you see; she wishes Richard her brother to be alive." The King's voice was low and unhappy. "That is why she could not come to see Henry be invested with his title. She could not bear it. She loved her brother."

"Yet she loves her son as well." It was a question disguised as a statement.

The King shrugged. "As a mother is bound to love her son."

"No more than that?" Morton was eager now.

"If she loves him, it is for what he recalls to her — her father Edward. Henry resembles him, surely you must have seen that." Father took another sip of wine from his huge goblet, so that his face was hidden.

"He's a right noble-looking Prince," Morton nodded, so that his chin...