Her son is four weeks old when Cecily comes to her churching. By no accident it is the last day of Richard’s Parliament and the priory church of St Saviour’s is packed tight as a herring barrel. She kneels to the priest who meets her at the church door, holds out her taper for his light and waits while the slow rub of his thumb marks the cross upon her brow.

When she rises again, there is Richard. He leans beyond her to lay a loving hand against the face of his son, held safe in the crook of Annette’s arm. He looks younger, fit, and his face hasn’t quite lost its summer colour. The fine lines about his eyes still show white. He’s had some time from business to squint into the sun, then. She takes his hand and squeezes it.

‘Come,’ she whispers, ‘let’s remind these people you have sons to follow you.’

‘And a wife still young enough to give me more,’ he smiles. ‘And fair enough for me to want her to.’

She tuts and pinches his wrist. She has carried twenty-seven of the last thirty-six months and still feels, sometimes, that she grieves the sons lost in that time more than she rejoices in the one gained. It seems shameful, she’d confessed one night to Annette in the secrecy of the quiet nursery.

The nurse looked thoughtfully down at George, asleep and heedless in his crib. ‘Surely grief and love are bedfellows,’ she pondered. ‘Is there not room in the heart for both?’ Then she turned her gaze on Cecily. ‘When I think how fiercely you fought for this one, I cannot doubt his dearness to you.’

‘Of course, you’re right.’ It seemed suddenly important to make light of it. ‘Certainly he was hard work.’

To Richard, now, she only says, ‘Perhaps I’d like a little respite?’

At the last, he falls back and she walks on alone into God’s space. Before the altar she lights nine candles; one for the souls of each of her children. There’s much to be grateful for; six yet live. She kneels, breathes deep to still her thoughts and bring her heart to God. From beside her comes the baby’s low murmur, Annette’s gentle hushing. But from within herself, nothing. No answering tug of affection, no welcoming warmth. And that deep well of thankfulness, which has always overflown at these moments, is dry. Staring into its darkness, a thought comes unbidden: God has taken three from me and, if this one lives, the credit is mine. She feels a cold flutter in her breast, as if her heart has stumbled. This is blasphemy, surely.