She nods. True enough. But this one bites. It’s been talked of for so long: apple-cheeked Elizabeth for Isabella’s chestnut-haired boy; an alliance for York with the richest court in Europe. It is for such marriages she has had daughters. ‘Isabella writes that, though she wishes no one more than Elizabeth for her son, her husband now favours a French princess. He has opened negotiations for Isabella of Bourbon.’

Richard purses a finger against his lip. ‘His own niece?’

‘And a very distant cousin of the King of France. But even that outranks us, these days.’

‘Ripe for marriage?’

‘Eighteen years old. Sickly, though.’

‘Then there’s hope. Young Charles may outlast her, and live to choose again.’

She leans behind her, towards his secretary’s desk. ‘There is an inkwell here. Shall I throw it at you?’

His lips widen in a placatory smile and, for a moment, his eyes dance as they used to. ‘Please don’t.’ Then his face turns serious, as befits the times. ‘Tell me instead all that Isabella has said.’

‘What she doesn’t say speaks loudest. Ask yourself, how often does she submit to her husband’s will?’

‘About as often as you do to mine, I imagine. No, this is her decision, I would think.’

‘Our Elizabeth was the daughter of England’s lieutenant in France when Isabella and I first compassed this marriage. Now she’s the daughter of a man who holds paltry office and is shunned by his king. Isabella won’t give her only son for that. I wouldn’t.’

When his face falls, she reaches across, lays a hand on his knee. ‘I don’t blame you. Only it’s the truth. And we must face it.’

They’ve been friends again since the new baby came in October. Little Richard, whose very name was a reconciliation; who, on first sight, was welcomed by his father with the grateful love a man feels when hellfire licks his heels and God reaches a hand to save him. Cecily remembers that much about the birth, but little more. It had been bloody, and she ill after, nauseous and fevered and unable to eat. It had been Christmas, almost, till she was fit for churching.

Their first night reunited she’d looked naked into the mirror and been shocked by the sight. Hip bones jutting above spindled legs, breasts gone flat and belly sunken, gaunt as a corpse. ‘I’m hideous,’ she said.

He wrapped her in his arms as she wept and told her she was beautiful; that no queen could hold a candle to her.

She’s better now, but even so, sometimes her heart beats very fast and her breath comes short on the stairs. And now, she knows, there is a journey ahead of her, and it is yet winter.

He takes her hand. ‘Elizabeth is young. We have time to think again.’