Edward watches after him a moment, then turns to her and shrugs. Then his arms master steps into the breach and he’s moving again.

Suddenly, the day is too hot. She goes inside, dismisses her women and lies down on her bed, grimacing while the child inside her kicks and pushes.

When September comes, she goes to her confinement. They’ve moved on to Fotheringhay, a change they’ve been restless for, but which in fact changes nothing. When all is ready, Richard leads her to the threshold, hands her silently in. But suddenly it seems too painful a parting. Halfway across the room she turns to him, his slender height framed in the doorway.

‘Will you pray for me?’ she asks.

‘With all my strength,’ he tells her. ‘Such as it is.’

And now that she cannot, she longs to touch him. To mend the breach.

She thinks a moment. ‘You know, we have named all of our children for policy. To please one person or honour another. If this one’s a boy. And if he lives. And since there is only you and I now, I would name him Richard.’

He cocks his head and his eyes soften. ‘That would be a gift, Cecily.’

She nods. Then turns her side to him, runs her hands over her swollen belly, quirks a brow and smiles a little. ‘I’ve work to do. Stay out of trouble.’

He laughs once, shakes his head and, softly, closes the door.

31

March–April 1453

The baby came in October, a boy, named, as she had promised, for his father. Born in Fotheringhay as the first gales of autumn shredded the valley’s trees and swelled its river with rain. He was sickly at first, but is thriving well enough now. That aside, there’s no good news to speak of, only bad, and today she must be its bearer.

Cecily never waits to be admitted to her husband’s presence, even when he’s busy with his steward and his door closed to all but those he sends for. The talking stops as she enters the room; secretaries cease their scribbling and look nervously to their lord. She doesn’t blame them. Her moods have been perilous of late.

‘Gentlemen.’ Richard raises his arm towards the door, which she stands beside and holds open.

When all are gone, the door closed behind them, she moves to the fire and waits for him to follow. She takes the time to seat herself, to smooth her skirts. Then, when he has stretched his long legs towards the heat, she speaks.

‘Our daughter, I am informed, is not to be Duchess of Burgundy.’

‘Ah.’

‘You will tell me we should be inured to such disappointments.’

‘We’ve had practice, of late.’