Richard’s hand bars him. ‘I’ll manage this, see to the bath.’ Then he thrusts his chin again, to Cecily. ‘When?’

She watches the valet pick up armfuls of sodden cloth and make his way to the antechamber where, in a low voice, he starts ordering his lord’s comfort.

‘An Easter baby, perhaps.’

‘Mmm.’ He nods, loosening the cords at his thigh, then looking up at her. ‘I am home because I want your counsel.’

‘Do you not read my letters?’

‘Alright. Because I missed you.’

‘That’s not a good reason.’

He holds out a hand. When she relents and takes it, he pulls her towards him and tries for a kiss.

She turns a shoulder. ‘Phew, you stink of wet wool and horseflesh.’ She pushes his hands from her and makes for the door, then takes pity and looks back. ‘You may come to me when you are clean. And worthy of my nose.’

An hour later, he appears at her room’s threshold. She’s guessed right that he’s ripe for bed, and her women know well enough to welcome him and leave. They love before they talk. He’s tired, but not too tired for that and, as ever, it puts life in him. When they’re done he’s hungry, so they make a warm tent of the blankets and feast on the soft white manchet bread that is left by her bed nightly, and which she never eats. Now, like his son, he smells of rosemary. Of the wine they’ve drunk. And of her.

‘I hope now you will tell me truly why you are here.’

He looks a little shamefaced. ‘For this. For love and talk.’ He pulls himself up to lean his back against the headboard.

She rises to stir the fire and then returns. It’s hard to be patient.

‘If you’d asked my advice, I’d have said stay by the King. I dare say that’s where Edmund Beaufort is.’

He sighs. ‘It’s where he always is. Or with the Queen. Or they are all three together.’

There are things he has scrupled to write of. His letters have told her, of course, of that first meeting with Henry, how Beaufort bristled and the Queen scowled when the King put an arm about his shoulder and said it had all been a misunderstanding. That, though he’d feared him coming as an enemy, he was glad to welcome him as a friend. That he’d wept for joy on receiving Richard’s letter. Till the ink ran from the page, he said.

‘Did I not, Marguerite?’ Henry turned to his wife.

‘Sure the Duke of York has given you cause for tears.’

Then turning back to Richard, ‘You see, the general whispering against you was so strong. That you would come and take my throne from me.’