‘Most surely. He penned the oath.’

‘Then you are his dog now.’

She waits for his answer, while leather creaks and hooves fall soft on grass.

‘Chained and kennelled,’ he admits.

Nor is the humiliation over. Through spring and summer the carcass of Richard’s pride is picked to the bone, as titles and offices are taken from him. Lordship of the Isle of Wight goes to Beaufort, the earldom of Pembroke to young Jasper Tudor, the King’s half-brother. His lieutenancy of Ireland is given to Ormond’s son, who is Earl of Wiltshire, friend of Beaufort, licker of the King’s arse, who despises the Irish and his newly dead father, and will not muddy his boots in their soggy fields.

And honour, too, is besmirched. Richard traded his oath, not only for his own pardon, but for the men of his affinity who came at his call and followed him in good faith to Dartford. Now they’re made to beg for it. There are show trials and questions, delays and prevarications. They must make a defence, they must come on their knees. They must be truly penitent. They are toyed with and teased and gloated over. And Richard can do nothing. For Oldhall there is no pardon at all. He’s in sanctuary still, harassed and harried, and his wife sick with the grief of it.

Cecily, too, is sick. Sick of watching Richard submit to every blow. Of his crippling shame and hidden rage. He abides by his oath, does his duty, busies himself with work. Keeps from her bed. She’s glad of that at least, for she can hardly bear to touch him. Nor he her, she thinks. He spars with the boys still, and sometimes she watches, for the joy of seeing Edward, mostly. To be out of doors.

Edward comes almost to his father’s shoulder already, moves fast and scores points you’d commend in a much older boy. He must know his father is out of favour. Children have ears and servants will talk, but he never speaks of it. Until one day, he puts his sword beyond his father’s guard with such efficiency its dull blade strikes hard against Richard’s hip.

‘Ouch!’ Richard feigns an injury worse than it is.

Edward rushes about him, dancing in circles, triumphant at his own prowess.

And there it is for a moment, Richard’s smile, so long unseen, his hand stretched out to his son’s bright head. ‘Well done, lad. You’ve fair taken my leg off.’

Edward’s heart is proud but generous. He raises his weapon high. ‘When next the King offends you, father, send him to me. I will beat him bloody!’

She cannot help but laugh, though she turns her head to hide it.

‘That’s treachery, son,’ she hears Richard say and, when she turns back, his face is pale and bitter and angry. He’s putting up his sword, then walking away.