‘Calais,’ she says, ‘is not a bauble that should be worn on Edmund Beaufort’s hat.’

‘If the French move on it, as they threaten to, sure we can rely on him to lose it.’

She shrugs. ‘His interest will be in its income more than its defence, for sure. But the one depends on the other, so perhaps he’ll shift himself.’

They sit across the table from each other, the paper between them and the air thick with discontent. That damn ruby is still turning and Richard’s frown is dark and deep. He’s thinking, she knows, of all that has been given to Beaufort and taken from him. Of Henry’s incompetence and Beaufort’s abuse, the injustice of it and the danger. Perhaps, like her, he is counting allies in his head. They are too few. And they are keeping their heads down.

‘What do we do, Cecily?’

She sighs. He won’t like her answer. She despises it herself.

‘We must bide our time.’

He nods, screws the paper in his hand. ‘I’m going riding,’ he says, gets up and walks away.

He doesn’t say, come with me.

She doesn’t say, I’ll come.

Before Christmas, Oldhall writes again. And from a new address. He’d had word that there were moves planned against him, so had set lads outside his house, watching. When they broke in on his supper to say King’s men were coming armed up the street, he grabbed the bag he’d packed a week ago, slipped out the back way and took his ready-harnessed horse up through the snow and shit of Cheapside, to the great abbey church of St Martin’s Le Grand. He’s paid enough in alms over the years. More, recently, just in case. So was sure of sanctuary.

‘Beaufort’s decided it was me that clonked him on the head at Blackfriars last year,’ William writes. ‘On your good orders, of course. Now, Richard, do nothing. He’s hoping you will, so don’t. He’ll find no evidence, and the King has cause to love me. I fought beside his father. He’ll not forget that.’

Richard sits pale, swallowing anger like cannon balls. Cecily watches him do it. They both know that men die without evidence every day, and that what the King remembers cannot be depended upon. Is this how it must be, she thinks. We sit and watch while Beaufort the terrier rips out the throats of our friends?