‘Lady, I think that you are sick,’ says the Queen, then takes from within the folds of her dress a tiny silver flask and holds Cecily’s head so she can drink the spirit from it.

They wait with her, the Queen and Jacquetta, till her strength returns and she can speak again. They make no account of her apologies and offer their arms to get her to her feet. ‘I think you will not want the indignity of being carried from here,’ says Marguerite as they turn towards the door.

She can only shake her head, and is surprised and grateful when her companions press close on either side and give her their arms to rest upon as they step out into the church. They guide her steps, necessarily slow, convincingly regal, to the door and then the gatehouse, where their women wait. Then Marguerite is speaking to them and asking where the Duchess of York’s lodgings are and saying it’s too far; that she must, instead, come to her own place across the market square, under the queenly banner of the Black Lion. A carriage is brought. She sits gratefully in it and is taken away, Marguerite’s hand clasped in her own.

She has slept a little, in a warm bed under the Black Lion’s eaves. She is warm at last, has eaten a little bread and drunk some wine. She has risen and been dressed and a maid has told her of the Queen’s command that she wait upon her. So she has come downstairs to a wide low-ceilinged room, where Marguerite stands before a window watching the rain and Jacquetta sits in a ring of women before a comfortable fire. They rise when she enters and, once she has made her obeisance, guide her to a place closest to the warmth. Marguerite takes her own seat opposite and clasps her small white hands in her lap. Cecily begins to make her apologies, to offer her thanks. She stops when those hands are held, palm out, towards her.

The Queen says, ‘No. You were kind to me once, when I was too ill to do what must be done. I have not forgotten. And I always pay my debts.’ The hands are folded again. ‘You told me you came to Walsingham to entreat God for your son.’

‘Aye.’

‘I think you came to entreat me for your husband.’

Cecily wonders how she knows. Then sees Jacquetta blush.

‘I take the Virgin’s example. Is it not a woman’s duty to intercede for sinful men? I bring my plea, not to God’s throne, but to your own.’ She sees Marguerite smile. She is not immune to flattery.

‘I will hear you.’ Then, to the room. ‘Ladies, leave us.’

Now they are alone and Cecily must humble herself. She would rather be sick in her bed. But there we are. This is what she came for, after all.