‘Right,’ she says, impatient after two weeks of this. ‘I’m not a Councillor. If you won’t go, I will.’

She speaks first to Henry’s doctors, who say he improves daily. They show her a king who sits a little straighter in his chair, knows her when she kneels to him and simpers like a child when she kisses his blue-veined hand.

‘Lady Cecily,’ he says. Then nothing, for a minute or more.

‘I’m come to wish you well, Your Grace,’ she tells him, slowly. ‘To assure you of our prayers; mine and my lord’s.’

He looks puzzled, as though he struggles to recall the name of a face he cannot see.

‘The Duke of York, Your Grace,’ she explains. ‘Your cousin and good friend.’

There is distress, and his eyes drift right, to where his queen stands, frowning.

‘York,’ Marguerite tells him, sharp, a grasping hand on the thin slope of his shoulder. ‘Who, as I have told you, rules in your place.’

A breathy sigh, his mouth spittle-stringed. ‘Oh. Yes, yes. He has stolen my crown, you say.’

‘No, Your Grace,’ Cecily reassures. ‘He keeps it for you. Until you are ready to take it up again.’

He knits his brow, as if it is a bother to think of it. ‘Ah, well then let him wear it a little longer.’ Then a grin, naughty, a child playing truant. ‘It is irksome.’

‘My lord,’ Marguerite leans to him, bristling. ‘We pray you will soon take back your power.’

The white hand is raised. He has not forgotten how to be peremptory. ‘Soon enough. I cannot bear the business of it. And cousin York serves well enough for now. We will write him, Lady Cecily. The Queen will write …’

‘I am very sure she will,’ Cecily assures him.

‘As the King makes known his wishes,’ says Marguerite.

Cecily nods, feigning belief. From her place at his feet, she leans forward to the King. ‘I bring my lord’s congratulations, too. He speaks ever of his joy that my dear friend, your queen, has blessed you with a son.’

At this, his face lights. ‘Ah, yes! You must see him. Send for the boy, Marguerite.’ When the Queen turns to speak an order, his uncertain hand seeks Cecily’s again. ‘You prayed with her at Walsingham and your prayers were answered. He is God’s gift. Our holy Edward. We have named him for the Confessor, both king and saint.’ He leans in, confiding. ‘I think the Holy Ghost begot him.’

She looks into his face for the jest and finds none. Only eyes overly bright, fervent but unfocused. She smiles up into Marguerite’s taut white face, squeezes the King’s pliant hand. ‘I am sure you’re right, Your Grace.’