Later, there is dancing. Richard leads her in slow turns. She is showing off the crimson that was for Marguerite’s arrival into Rouen and thinks it put to better use here. At her breast is a diamond dragon, its claws gory with rubies, Richard’s gift of thanks for this new son. As one dance ends she turns, and there is Richard’s ally the Earl of Ormond, begging for the honour, brimming with charm. She likes him; he’s clever, keeps a good library, she’s told, so she says yes, and they step out.

‘I am the most envied man in the hall,’ he tells her.

‘Because you dance with the Duke of York’s wife?’

‘Because I dance with you.’

‘What nonsense. Don’t be a courtier.’

He feigns surprise. ‘But am I not at court? The court of Richard, King of Ireland?’

She puts a finger to her lips. ‘I would have to consult my lawyers, but I think that might be treason.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, leaning to her ear, ‘there are no courtiers to hear us.’

She laughs and likes him even more.

And as they turn about the hall in a crush of couples her eyes follow Richard. They mark his easy confidence, his ready smile. She sees how men come to him, how they lean into his words as once they did to her father’s. How they nod or laugh or turn thoughtful when he speaks. She knows he has the measure of all; that he has in mind what must be said to each man to secure his good faith, to make the achievements of this Parliament last. He’s good at this, she thinks. He looks happy.

Ormond’s voice breaks into her thoughts again. ‘It’s a good start you’ve made. By Christmas you’ll be able to write King Henry that every wild man in Ireland has sworn himself English.’

‘Well, for that I will sharpen my pen.’

And here comes Richard, shining and easy, holding out his hand to take her back.

They winter in Trim on the edge of the English Pale, in the castle that looks out over the Boyne into the unruly heartlands of Ireland, where English authority barely reaches.

They have come because it is beautiful. They want to hawk its riverbanks, visit its abbeys and hunt in the thick forests that edge the river plain to the Hill of Tara. But they’ve come also to send a message; they will extend their power beyond the river. Their work has just begun.

Though it rains a good deal, the sunlight, when it comes, is dazzling and drowns their eyes in green. As Christmas approaches, Cecily finds herself, for the first time, glad not to be in England. Even more so, not to be in France. She looks ahead ten years and thinks they could be well spent here.