Bedford shakes his head slowly, and sighs. ‘Thank you. But what my brother means is that our king has decided to reward the good service you’ve already given. You’re to wait no longer for your inheritance, Richard. Go back to England. Take possession of what’s yours. Attend the King. Leave France to me a while. It will call you back soon enough.’ He draws out his chair, pulls himself to his feet, then turns to them again with a final thought. ‘I’ve convinced my brother you’re a right-thinking man, Richard. Please don’t prove me wrong.’

‘I will not.’

Behind Bedford’s retreating back, the cardinal raises a glass to his niece, taps his nose and then returns to his plate. His gesture signals both conspiracy and congratulation, and is as welcome to her as a dukedom. She turns her head to hide a grin, then collects herself, tightens her hold on Richard’s hand, shakes it and leans close.

‘Well, my lord. That was all very unexpected.’

He looks dazed, so she leans closer still.

‘Now you are Duke of York at last, would you like to take your duchess to bed?’

His smile comes quickly then; the open one that only she ever sees.

They’ve learned each other’s bodies here in France, as they’ve learned each other’s minds, and find they are attuned. Cecily has discovered that, in loving, as in everything, boldness is rewarded. When Richard shakes beneath her hands and cannot speak but only reach for her; when he is buried in her and senseless with it, her heart exults and, in tenderness then, she draws him close, holds him till he calms. He tells her she has spelled him with love. She stretches her body beneath him, moonlit and pale, and says she has no need of witchcraft.

Tonight’s love is exultant, the talk after, just the same; both set skin alight and leave them breathless. They’re conjuring new futures, redrawing their lives with word and touch. They’ll be home before winter ends, a summer before them in which to work.

‘Two main administrative centres –’ Richard pushes damp hair from his eyes and raises his hands, expansive – ‘Ludlow in the west, Fotheringhay in the east.’

She nods, slow. ‘I see you’ve given this some thought.’

He sketches it out. To the Welsh border fortress of Ludlow the vast revenues of their Mortimer estates across Wales and Ireland will flow. From Fotheringhay, in the Nene’s verdant valley, they’ll manage their English holdings. ‘And from there it’s just a few days’ ride to London and the court. What do you think?’

‘Sensible. Fotheringhay, when we wish to be close to the King. Ludlow, when we want to escape him.’

He slaps her thigh, his touch light. ‘Shush!’