Baynard’s Castle rattles with the sound of men in harness, the scraping of steel on stone. They guard every doorway, crowd the courtyard, stand sentinel at the river gate. And, when Richard rides out to Westminster to meet with his king, a hundred ride in close formation about him, blades naked, eyes cold. Her brother Salisbury travels likewise. Salisbury’s son Warwick, made Captain of Calais after St Albans and still tenuously in post, has brought six hundred of its garrison with him; men well versed in keeping the peace by looking ready for war. They are seasoned men all, picked for their sobriety and steadiness of hand.

‘We’re not here for a fight,’ Richard assured London’s mayor on their arrival. ‘Just ready to handle ourselves if one is offered. You’ve my word on it.’

‘I wish I could say the same of other lords,’ says the mayor.

At dusk, the day before the council begins in earnest, a clatter in the courtyard sends Cecily running. There’s a melee, with men circling high-tailed horses, Richard shouting orders and her brother cursing. Torchlight captures the shine of blood as two men are helped from their saddles and another is lifted down from behind his fellow, limp and heavy and dead.

‘Richard!’ she calls.

He comes to her through the crowd. ‘Nothing, Cecily. It’s nothing.’

She runs her eyes the length of him; there’s only the dark sheen of fur and velvet, his face pale but steady.

Next morning, the mayor petitions the King. The lords Percy, Egremont and Clifford are required to remove their lodgings and their men beyond the city’s walls. The lords Somerset and Exeter are bound to keep the peace, for they are a terror to the streets and a threat to the lives of Salisbury and York.

‘Just high spirits,’ Richard tells his king.

Salisbury curses and spits.

‘I’ll not be goaded,’ Richard reminds Cecily.

He will be goaded neither in the street nor the council chamber, it seems. For the next three days, at the end of each wrangling meeting, Richard, Salisbury and Warwick return grim-faced to Baynard’s. Salisbury rants and Warwick paces, but Richard only sits frowning, twisting the bull’s blood ruby about his finger while he waits for them to calm.

Cecily waits, too. They’ve agreed their strategy and, though it’s gall to her, she’ll follow it. They will swallow their pride, they will make a peace. They will not be goaded into a war they cannot win.

They are told they must make reparation for their aggression at St Albans. That Somerset, Percy and Clifford must be compensated for their dead fathers. Money must be counted into their grasping hands, prayers bought at St Albans Abbey for the souls of their dead. Marguerite with her tally stick has decided how much.