‘It is in my jurisdiction. I’m still steward of royal justice south of the Trent, remember. I had good right.’

When he’s like this she could slap him. ‘Good right is not good reason.’

‘Alright. I was showing the King that I can do what Edmund Beaufort cannot.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be grateful for the lesson. What was the dispute?’

He sets down a pheasant breast uneaten, wipes his hands on the tablecloth.

‘Henry’s incompetent government has somehow granted the stewardship of Cornwall to both Devon and Bonville. It’s a rich office, so they’re fighting over it. It’s been rumbling on for months. Beaufort’s done nothing about it, so now it’s come to blows. I went down to Somerset to talk some sense into them both.’ He stretches his neck. ‘Look, disputes like this are springing up all over the country. If men can’t get good judgement, they’ll resort to violence.’

‘And will you resolve them all?’

‘Tom Courtney is an old friend. I’m trying to keep him out of trouble.’

‘By putting us in it. Bah! You’ve been itching for a fight all summer.’

The pheasant and its platter crash to the floor.

‘God’s blood, Cecily, I don’t itch for a fight. I itch for satisfaction, for work worthy of me, for recognition of what I am. What do you want? That I should sit here, idle, till I die?’

And he’s off, striding the length of the hall and slamming the door behind him.

Two days later comes a summons from the King; Richard is invited to attend a council meeting, to explain his usurpation of authority in the West Country.

‘Did you honestly think he’d thank you?’ Cecily asks.

It seems he did.

Richard sulks and says he will not go. Nor will he speak of it. He sends a messenger to say he has not the leisure to wait upon his cousin the King, but confirms his commitment to peace and to royal justice.

Two sullen weeks pass, then comes a letter from William Oldhall that tells them just how angry Beaufort is. ‘He speaks against you everywhere and to everyone,’ he writes. ‘And is more than ever in favour with the King.’

‘Beaufort is made Captain of Calais,’ Richard tells her, laying Oldhall’s letter down and netting his hands over it. ‘A reward for his fruitful service. His exertion in war and wise counsel in peace.’ He speaks as if the words hold a knife to his throat.

Calais is almost England’s last bastion in France. A trading port mostly. Its customs duties make up a third of the country’s revenues, and the captain’s cut is a rich one. Cecily fixes her eye on the bull’s blood ruby twisting on Richard’s finger. Last month they mortgaged more land to subsidize their deputy in Ireland. No point thinking about that.