Her irritable fingers have been testing the seams of his mailing shirt. She’s done with it and throws it aside. Richard’s blade gleams in the window’s light as he eyes the weapon along its savage edge.

‘It’s a mercy you inherited such wealth, Richard. Your delusions run expensive.’

There is a sudden screech of steel as the sword is plunged into its ring. ‘What would you have me do, Cecily? Please, don’t hold back. Tell me what your foolish, deluded husband must do to content you.’

He has turned, and now she has all his attention. His face is pale and his lips thin, but she is no less angry than he is, and so, ‘If William de la Pole can stand by the King and rule through him, I do not see why you cannot. Sure you would do so with more skill – and to better purpose.’

He stands so close his breath assaults her face. ‘And that is what you’d have me be, is it? Puppet master to a dithering king. Tugging at his strings, smiling at his whims. Insinuating my thoughts into his empty head, hoping I’ll still find them there tomorrow.’

She walks away not to look at him.

He keeps talking. ‘Or is it just the money you want? Shall I play the beggar for you? Hold out my bowl like any petty lordling who’d gladly pander his wife for this title or that estate or even a paltry purse of coin.’

She comes to a halt; throws up her hands. ‘I would not fear for my honour. I think the King barely inclined to bed his own wife, never mind anyone else’s!’

She hears him curse behind her and, turning, sees hurt chase anger across his face. She comes to lay her hands against his cheeks, to force him to look at her.

‘Richard, do you not see? He is barely a man and yet, every day, he wrongs you.’

His hands come up to cover hers. He draws them from his face, wraps them in his fingers. ‘And you would make me less of a man even than he is. Cecily, I am the Crown’s loyal servant. I give good service. I look to my own. If he doesn’t see that. If that’s not enough …’

Her heart is a hammer striking sparks from her throat. ‘God’s blood, Richard, that will never be enough!’

She pulls her hands from his, gains the door and slams it behind her.

His angry cry follows her as she strides the corridor’s length. ‘I will not be William de la Pole!’

Fine, she thinks. But if you won’t, someone else will.