Cecily watches as Marguerite straightens her back and raises her chin. Even windswept, she is queenly, thinks Cecily, while she herself feels only buffeted and is shivering now in earnest. The noise of the world falls away as they pass under the arch of the gatehouse into the abbey’s precinct, and the animal smell of the market is overlain by incense, which catches in her throat hardly less. Once inside, she leans towards whatever feeble warmth the candles can offer and curls her toes to test they are still part of her. The stone flags are no less bitter than the mud of the road. She looks up the nave to the choir, where the brothers sing their adoration of the mother.

This shrine was raised by a woman, Richelde, whose son rode against the infidel in the Holy Land. It’s hunkered ahead of them as they enter the Lady Chapel. It was once a dull grey shack, a peasant’s cot standing alone in an open field, where the wind tested its seams and poor women paid pennies to cross its threshold. Now it is encased in gold at the stone heart of the abbey, its entrance guarded by a priest who demands of all comers the richest gift they can give.

Marguerite summons forward one of her guards. He takes from his pack a tablet of gold, upon which an enamelled angel upholds a cross of ruby and pearl; the blood of Christ and his mother’s unquenchable tears. Her own offering is not so artful, but no less rich. A purse of money that will buy many prayers for baby Richard and, she hopes, a future for his father.

They enter the house on their knees; the door is closed behind them, and Cecily opens her eyes to light. A hundred candle flames reflect and dazzle against sheets of gold that line the inner walls. The scent of Heaven pours from incense burners hanging star-like from a spangled roof and there, ahead of her through the shimmer, sits the Virgin, her ivory gaze cast down to the Christ child, crowned and eternal in her lap. Cecily has never been immune to the Queen of Heaven’s power and now it takes her again. She feels the lightness in her head that opens a door to prayer, and brings her hands together. But something is wrong. Her limbs tremble worse than ever and her breath burns hot in her lungs. Her whole body is a heartbeat and the golden light is fizzing, tinged with black.

‘Cecily.’ It seems a long time since she heard her name, whispered so close against her ear. And there is a hand laid on her brow, and cold hardness beneath her cheek. She opens her eyes to the gilded pool of the floor, and looks up to see Marguerite, her sharp face, her tilted eyes, curious.