He pulls her from the path, where listening courtiers walk, into the shadow of a tree. Once secreted, he speaks low and plain. ‘Cecily, he may be Duke of York, but his father’s treason follows him like a dog.’

‘What? Is he not loyal?’

‘I’m very sure he is. But when Gloucester sees him he’s reminded that the last of his royal brothers has just died and that your husband’s father tried to kill the best of them. Then he recalls that, with Bedford dead, he is himself the King’s only remaining family and heir to his throne, but that he’s old and his pizzle won’t rise and, besides, his wife’s an old stick. And the King’s still a boy and childless. And look! Who’s next in line after him but the young Duke of York? Well, he looks lusty enough. Men like him. They listen when he speaks.’

‘So, my husband goes to France because he speaks sense?’

‘Cecily, you were never stupid. Your husband goes to France so Gloucester might forget him for a while. He goes to prove himself a good servant of the Crown.’

‘And I suppose it would be no bad thing if he died there?’

‘A man may die anywhere.’

Almost, she spits.

‘Come now, Cecily. It’s a year. Then he’ll be back in your arms, high in the King’s love. Even Gloucester won’t dare gainsay him then. All he need do is hold Normandy.’

‘Really?’ Her look calls him a liar.

‘Well. Hold Normandy … and push a little. Just enough to give Charles pause and the English something to cheer about.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Nobody expects more.’ His spread arms proclaim him innocent of all guile.

She thinks of all the things a year in France might cost a man: his life, his purse, his reputation. ‘The King will expect more.’

‘The King will expect what I tell him to expect.’

Winter and spring have passed in preparation. Tonight they lie at an inn in Southampton. Tomorrow Richard takes ship for Honfleur. From there on to Rouen. Not to Paris. That’s lost already. Traitors opened its gates to a French army one starlit night in April. Before the sun had scaled the rooftops, the English garrison was tossed out on its raggedy arse to tread the hungry road to Rouen, with its tail between its legs. Normandy is in chaos. Calais holding on. Just.

And this is what he goes to, thinks Cecily, wakeful and bitter.