There’s a noise at the door. She looks up as Richard steps through it, Beaufort at his shoulder. She hears Marguerite draw a long breath, turns in time to see her nostrils flare.

While Richard bows she fixes her gaze on Beaufort.

Now. What’s he thinking? I wonder. Glad to have his queen back? Yes, well, make the most of it.

After the churching, back to the bed, and the sitting in state, and a feast that only women can attend and must be eaten in silence. The Queen can take food from no one but Cecily and Jacquetta, who must serve her in humility from the discomfort of their knees. It’s painful enough, but Cecily bears it gladly for the sight of Marguerite eating from her hand.

After, Marguerite is required to present her son to her husband. It should be done before the court, but here precedent must be broken, for who would expose such a king to so many eyes? Just the council then; men whose job it is to see things done properly. A king must acknowledge his heir; must be seen to own his son. Cecily and Jacquetta escort her to his chambers, where the men wait in rows with bland, empty faces, like clean-licked plates ready to be filled again.

Henry is a thin wash of colour poured into a chair. His people have done what they can to make him kingly, but his rich clothes swamp him and they’ve left off the crown, for it seems his neck, were it not propped upon cushions, would scarce support even the weight of his head. Marguerite kneels before him and holds the swaddled child before his face. Cecily and Jacquetta settle her skirts, smooth her furs and come to their knees at her back. When Jacquetta bows her head in deference, Cecily raises hers to watch.

‘Lord husband,’ Marguerite says, that soft French voice, so appealing. ‘Here is your son.’

‘Your son, Your Grace,’ the King’s attendants repeat softly in his ear. ‘Your son.’

Henry’s eyes, watering and rheumy, barely blink, and when the child sets up a cry, he closes them, as if pained. Cecily sees Marguerite falter then, just a little. Her shoulders slump and a shiver runs through her. She turns to Beaufort, who looks pointedly away, and it’s left to Richard to step forward, to reach out a hand to raise her.

‘Lady, be comforted. He will know his son when he is well again. Just as we know him today.’

But she turns from him to Beaufort, a hand held out and shaking. ‘This lord,’ she tells the room, ‘is godfather to my child, and has sworn to protect him.’ She looks about her, at the grave faces, staring. ‘You, too, must swear. All of you. Loyalty and protection.’ And her voice almost breaks on the appeal.