She falls silent.

‘Is that all, my lady?’

‘That’s all.’

It’s been a labour. While she waits for the letter to be sanded and waxed for her signet, she allows herself to look ahead to the moment Marguerite’s child will be born into the world; imagines taking its tiny feet in her hands, lifting them, and smashing the fragile shell of its skull against a wall.

Then, at last, all unexpected and as if by hand unseen, the wheel turns. Salisbury rides in on a warm September evening as Cecily walks with her girls across the courtyard to the keep. They’ve been inspecting the stillroom and dairies. Daughters must be trained in more than strategy. They turn their heads at the clatter of his coming and step forward to greet him.

‘If anyone asks, I’m not here.’ He greets his sister from the back of his blown horse, throws leg over pommel, slides down the beast’s sweat-slick shoulder and grunts as his feet meet the ground.

‘And I’ve not seen you, brother. But why don’t you come inside and tell us where, in fact, you are?’ She hears Richard’s feet on the steps behind her.

Salisbury looks up to him, nods a greeting and steps forward to lay an urgent hand on his shoulder. ‘I must speak urgently with you both,’ he says. ‘Alone.’

Richard looks from him to her, nods once, then turns to retrace his steps into the hall. Salisbury strides ahead of him, looking for all the world like a man who’s made his mind up. Cecily signals to Anne to look to her sisters, then follows the men, relishing the remembered spring of anticipation in her step.

In the privacy of Richard’s office Salisbury throws himself into a chair and wipes the sweat of a hard ride from his face. ‘Well, Richard. You’ve been waiting for your chance. It’s come at last.’

‘A chance to what?’ He’s being cautious. Leaning against the window embrasure with his arms folded.

‘To set down that bastard Beaufort once and for all.’

Richard cocks his head. ‘I’ve tried that. Didn’t get much support. You might remember.’

Ah, so there is resentment there. He’s licked that wound alone.

‘You will now. You’ll have mine. And my boy’s. Norfolk’s, too. And we’ll bring the council along.’

Cecily wants clarification, takes a seat across the table from her brother. ‘You want to put my lord in the front line of your own battle?’

‘I want him to be Lord Protector of England.’

She laughs, disbelieving. ‘Why, is the King a child again?’

‘Good as. Out of his mind.’ He taps his temple. ‘Senseless. Mad. Absent to the world. Can’t wipe his arse. Can’t rule his kingdom.’

‘I’ve long doubted his capacity in each of those offices. What exactly leads you to do so now?’