The gates open to Richard’s messenger as she leads her household to vespers. In Ludlow going to prayer means braving the weather, for the castle’s chapel stands alone in the bailey. It was built to honour crusader knights, who fought their way to salvation through blood and heat. Its loneliness mirrors Jerusalem’s Holy Sepulchre and the life of the Magdalene to whom it is dedicated. Today’s weather has been vicious, with tearing winds driving sleet and rain down off the western hills. To walk out in it is a prayer in itself, a sacrifice of comfort, a dedication of cold feet. Cecily accepts it, though the wild air threatens the torches that light her way, and the slick cobbles are treacherous underfoot. She looks up from watching her step when she hears the heavy pull of wood and a skid of hooves. She squints to see the gate-keep, hunched against the weather, pointing the way for a messenger, who throws his reins to a shivering groom and sets off on his buffeted way towards her.

‘Your Lord has passed the priory at Bromfield,’ he tells her. ‘He will be home within the hour.’

His news makes it unclear what she should pray for, so she sends everyone to the chapel ahead of her and turns on her heel to make ready.

She has ordered it that, at the close of each day of Richard’s absence, all of her people should come together to pray for his safe return. She herself, of course, has prayed for it at every office, from matins through to compline, and her canons have kept vigil day and night.

Now, standing in his chambers before a hastily made up fire, watching him wring rainwater from his hair while his valet peels wet layers off him, she is less than glad of it. Not of his safety, of course, or his weathering of the journey, but that he is returned at all. He should be in London, sticking like a burr to the King.

‘Richard, I can by no means imagine why you are here.’

Behind her, clattering servants carry pails of water up the stairs for his bath. Good, that’ll warm him. And they’ve brought meat at least, for look how lean he is. He lowers his head for his man to draw off his sodden shirt. Free of it, he shakes more water from his hair, points a chin at her stomach.

‘And I can by no means imagine why you did not tell me you are with child.’

‘Because you had more important things to concern yourself with.’ She knows how fragile the peace is. ‘Are you at odds with the King?’

‘Hard to say. I am no longer called traitor if that’s what you mean.’ He shrugs. ‘I am his dear cousin.’

The valet reaches to untie the points of his hose.