The building of Fotheringhay’s church is almost done now. But it’s full of her dead, and Cecily can’t bear to go there. She looks down towards it from the castle walls, listens morning and evening for its bells and chants. They seem such thin things. The river carries them away, or the summer sun burns them up. If, in all this wide landscape, prayer cannot traverse a mile, or be heard above a swallow’s song, there’s little chance it will reach Heaven, or the ear of a God who has turned his attention elsewhere. She almost despairs, then remembers what her cardinal uncle used to say: ‘We depend, all, from Fortune’s wheel, and the wheel turns faster when pushed.’

So, she decides upon one more appeal to Marguerite. She will remind her of the promise given at Walsingham, to look mercifully on her husband. She will pretend, for the moment, that such a promise was made. She calls up her secretary, sets him to write, finds no words and sends him away again. The next day the same.

That evening, she visits her children. Anne is teaching Margaret and Elizabeth to pleat their dresses in the Burgundian style. She’s a natural mother, watching on with pins between her teeth as her sisters court the mirror in their finery. Anne’s own dress, pleated to precision, makes much of the swell of her breasts and the sharpness of bone at her neck. She’s fourteen now, and must to Henry Holland soon. She asks, sometimes, when it will be and seems relieved when Cecily says, not yet. If the girl really can’t abide him, I could have it annulled, she supposes. But, though a brute, he is a duke. She won’t get another of those as things stand.

Edward and Edmund come home filthy from riding the riverbanks. When they’re clean she plays chess with each in turn. They use the new set Edmund had last week for his tenth birthday. When it’s Edward’s turn he almost beats her.

‘Watch,’ she says, and shows him how he should have leapt his king from the threat of her queen.

‘You’re playing by the new rules,’ he complains.

‘French rules. The queen has more power there. They are the rules we all must play by now.’

He shrugs and laughs. ‘I’ll learn them, then.’

‘I know them already,’ says Edmund.

‘You would,’ says Edward, with a punch to his brother’s shoulder that has Edmund laughing, shy, dipping his head.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.’