‘Well. By the by. But Richard, you have powerful enemies at court and, God knows, Edmund Beaufort hates you. I come to put you on your guard.’

‘You have, William. And I thank you for it.’ He takes the man’s hand in both of his and holds it. Then shakes it loose and sits back. ‘And what now for you?’

He shrugs. ‘To England, if you’ve nothing for me here.’ He looks hopeful.

She waits as Richard leans his head, thinks and speaks. ‘You could serve me better in England, I think. Do the Commons still mutter against Suffolk in Parliament?’

‘In Parliament and on every street corner. But the King won’t listen. I think Suffolk is the most hated man in England.’

Richard leans forward. ‘I think so, too. And England will only bear him so long. Go home, William. Be about the court.’ Another thought occurs. ‘You’ve land enough in the shires to get yourself appointed to Parliament, I’d say?’

He shrugs and nods.

‘I’ll lay out the funds. I need a man among the Commons to tell me what’s about. Will you do it?’

‘Become a politician?’

She sees what Richard is thinking. ‘A voice of the people,’ she says. ‘An ear for York.’

Richard steeples his hands. ‘Just so.’

As winter moves towards spring, the flow of news from England to Ireland is much eased. Oldhall’s good at picking men he can trust. Men who travel fast, and come and go in darkness.

Cecily is all expectation the night the first of them arrives. She paces as Richard reads the letter he brings, then sits across the desk from him and threatens him with stares. ‘Well?’

At last he looks up with that slow smile of his and hands her the paper. ‘Read it yourself.’

She snatches it and finds herself smiling with him. ‘At the demand of the Commons, and of the Lords, the King, though most unwillingly, has agreed the arrest of William de la Pole. Well.’

He signals her to read on, and there are the charges, itemized in Oldhall’s good administrator’s hand. They are incoherent, ludicrous and vicious. The gist of them is that Suffolk has played traitor to two kings. That he has plotted to put the Duke of Orléans on the French throne and then, with that lord’s grateful help, to put his own son on England’s. That he has given away one of Henry’s crowns and sought to rob him of the other. They are wild enough, almost, to set her laughing.

‘None of it true, of course,’ says Richard, crossing the room to lean his back against the warm hearthside. ‘But it doesn’t have to be.’

‘Will it stick?’