Cecily has not. Richard says her teeth have been drawn, let her stay where she is and not bother him. But Cecily rides to Windsor from time to time to be sure she hasn’t learned new ways to bite. She goes to be certain the King still slumbers; tells the world she goes to see the prince still thrives. He does. She looks for signs of Henry’s weakness in the infant’s sleeping face. Finds none. He wakes, sudden, with a piercing cry and a look, scowling and defiant, that she’s sure she’s seen before, on another man. Not the King.

She leans forward to peer closer, but recalls herself, pulls back into a curtsey. She looks up to find Marguerite’s white face fixed on her and senses, beyond the tight line of her lips, teeth still there and ready to bite.

She smiles over the sharpness in her own mouth. ‘You have your prayer, Marguerite. A healthy son.’

‘A prince, lady. Your sons will bend the knee to him.’

‘As willingly as I do now. All four of them.’

The Queen says she will walk with her, to her carriage.

That’s right, she thinks. See me off.

‘I read your letter,’ Marguerite tells her as they step out into cold brightness. ‘I read it with pleasure, even now, and cherish the pains you must have taken to write it.’

She looks into Marguerite’s face. The sun shines upon it, and the hand raised to shield her eyes cannot hide the venom in them.

She smiles. ‘You never replied, though. Did you?’

When a second Christmas comes, she is pleased to tell Richard she’s with child again. He wraps her throat in emeralds and gives her a Flemish tapestry, upon which a dark-eyed Salome dances. ‘For,’ he swears, ‘I would give all the world just to see you dance.’

‘If I asked for a head, then, would you give me Edmund Beaufort’s?’

His smile tells her he believes she speaks in jest.

Then, at Epiphany, comes word from Windsor. Just as once kings visited a God, now God has visited a king and healed him. Henry is awake.

The dancing is done.

34

January–May 1455

The recovering king remains in Windsor with his queen. He’s not strong enough, yet, they are told, to see his Councillors, but letters come in his name, asking questions, issuing orders. Richard gives them to Cecily to read. She hears Marguerite’s voice in every line. She chides Richard for the diligence of his replies: careful reports of his government’s progress; the security of England’s borders; disputes settled; steps he’s taken to stabilize royal finances.

‘Do you think he sees them?’ she snarls. ‘No doubt the Queen uses them for tapers.’

But Richard keeps doggedly on.

‘You should go to him. Tell him to his face how things are.’

Richard only shrugs.