‘And what exactly do you think to do in France?’ she spits.

‘The King’s will, I imagine. My duty.’

‘The King’s will,’ she mocks. ‘Does he have one? Are you sure it isn’t Gloucester’s will you do? Or the cardinal’s? It surely isn’t mine.’

She can hardly bear to look at him and, instead, paces the length of the hall to slam its doors against the wagging ears of servants who, having seen their master alight from the river and enter the house, have waited for orders and heard only shouts.

As she storms again, skirts flying, she hears his voice, low and steady.

‘Are you not glad that I am given such an office? I thought it would please your pride. The last man to hold this trust stood second only to Henry for the throne.’

‘And that man is dead!’ She stops before him, hands clenched.

Richard looks down and away from her. ‘I will not die, Cecily.’

She paces again, circling. ‘You’ll do yourself and us no good. England is losing in France, did you not know?’

‘I will not lose.’

‘You’ll come back a beaten dog. The man who lost France. What fame!’ Her raised arms mock him and her hand itches to slap.

‘I am more than you think me, Cecily.’

‘How will you win? You won’t even fight me!’

He has the gall to wink at her. ‘I would never fight you, Cecily. I’m saving myself for the French.’

She is stilled. Almost she laughs, but draws up anger to stifle it. She circles him once more, then stops. He’s smiling still. She stares, takes a breath, taps her fingers, light against the bodice of her gown, her foot against the rushes of the floor. ‘And what resources does the King give?’

‘Not enough, I suppose. But we are not without coin ourselves, Cecily.’

She throws up her hands again. ‘Oh yes, we are richer than any in England!’ Rage turns to pain and bites her. Tears threaten, but she won’t let him have them. Instead, she breathes deep, turns and walks away. At the door she pauses, a shaking hand on her flat belly. ‘But my body’s purse is empty, and will not be filled while you are in France.’

‘It’s only a year,’ the cardinal shrugs when she confronts him next morning. She has waylaid him on the river walk at Westminster, and from the way he squares his shoulders at the sight of her she knows she is expected.

‘He should be in England building his power, not in France squandering it.’

‘Niece, niece, he squanders nothing. Do I not have your best interests at heart?’

‘Only when they match yours.’