‘What?’ She grins, stretches her own arms with languid ease. ‘And in each place we will build a church. Great engines of prayer for the house of York. And, I suppose,’ feigning prim, ‘for the good of the realm and the health of our most sovereign lord.’

He laughs down at her as she throws off the covers to let the night air cool her body, then runs a hand between her breasts. ‘Will it always be so with us, do you think?’

‘What?’

‘Oh … I don’t know. Love and talk.’

‘Business and pleasure?’

He nods.

‘Yes. Providing I don’t die of thirst.’

She’s pleased, then, to watch the slide of muscle across his bare shoulder as he leans to pour wine from the flagon by the bed. She raises herself on her elbows and he lifts the cup to her lips. She sips, then watches as he drinks; follows the sinews of his throat as he swallows, sees the sheen of sweat in its hollow. The wine’s redness glistens on his mouth and she kisses him, relishing its sweetness and his warmth. He smiles, drinks again, stretches beside her, resting the cup lazily on his breast.

Dawn isn’t far off, and they are, at last, sated. All this talk of building.

‘I wonder when we’ll have our first child,’ she says. Then laughs a little, hesitant. She’s thinking of Gloucester’s childless wife. And of Bedford’s, who has been married eight years and never felt her womb quicken.

‘We’d best be about it if we’re to equal your parents. Your mother gave your father fourteen children.’

‘Oh, did she? I thought my father gave them to her.’

‘I expect you’re right.’ He’s grinning. His free hand strokes her flank.

She takes it, threads his fingers with hers. ‘I would hate to be barren.’

His voice turns soft, his face serious. ‘It’s not likely.’

‘No. No, it is not.’ She pulls herself upright again, leans in and grins. ‘You will give me many children.’

‘Well, I must do something, I suppose, to make up for my lack. I am only I, while you … well, you are most rich in relations.’

‘I don’t care. You’re most rich in titles!’ She’s gleeful, straddling his waist, ready to love again.

But now he turns pensive.

‘I think perhaps … I wonder sometimes if I might have had such a family. Had my father lived. Had he not been a traitor.’

‘Or had he been a better one.’

He’s shocked, and she sees it. She kisses his hand, smiles into his palm, then looks into his face, intent. ‘A man is only a traitor if he doesn’t win. My father, too, was one, if you choose to call him so.’

‘Your father! Your father was loyal to Lancaster all his life.’ Always Richard will defend Ralph against any slander. Even his daughter’s.