Then Beaufort, at last, does take her hand because, really, someone must, though it looks, to Cecily, as if it burns him. Marguerite seems to leech strength from his touch, grips his fingers till her knuckles whiten. Jacquetta, ever sentimental, lets out a hiccupping sob, and Beaufort turns on her a face like thunder, till she blushes and looks away.

Now, what’s all that about? thinks Cecily.

The council meets three days later. Cecily, hands schooled to patience, waits in her window seat at Baynard’s Castle, watching the river traffic ply its way between Westminster and the Tower. In the third hour after noon a dark barge comes down, dull and heavy in the grey drizzle. Between the broad backs of a dozen guards is a bowed head.

Cecily leans closer to the window. Is it?

As the boat passes the head rises, the face looks up. It’s Edmund Beaufort, and his hands are bound. So, Norfolk has spoken and the council’s task is done.

Beaufort can’t possibly see her, but perhaps he guesses. His long jaw juts forward, his shoulders push back. She can’t see his eyes but imagines them, flashing. Still defiant, then. He is the King’s favourite. The Queen’s lover, some say. Today he is her husband’s prisoner. But his face says he isn’t beaten. He won’t be beaten till he’s dead.

Nor will Marguerite, she supposes. But it will be a blow to her, the loss of Beaufort. She wonders who will tell her. Richard, surely. He will call it his duty. It will be interesting to hear how she weathers it.

He’ll come soon, and she’ll ask him.

An hour later, men’s laughter on the stairs. Salisbury is first through the door with his son, the wide-smiling Warwick. They pull Richard after them, slapping him on the back and calling for wine. Richard is a lull in the wind of their arrival. His the voice of calm. He takes her hand, kisses it and winks.

‘There must be caution now,’ he tells them. ‘Due care. I’m not Protector yet.’

‘As good as, as good as!’ Warwick, crowing, pours drinks and passes them around.

‘And speaking of the need for caution, what of the Queen?’ Cecily asks, taking hers.

Warwick looks like he doesn’t understand the question. ‘What of her?’

Richard steps in. ‘She’s for Windsor. She has a husband and son to nurse. The King’s doctors advise seclusion if he’s to recover.’

‘He could be as well secluded here. Besides, it’s hardly in our interests that he recover. But I asked about the Queen, not the King. I’d rather she were here, under our eye.’

‘I’d rather she were in Hell,’ says Warwick. ‘But Windsor will do. As long as she’s a distance from me.’