‘I would cheerfully pay twice the sum for curses,’ says Cecily over the dregs of her wine, in the small hours, when Salisbury and Warwick have stomped home to their beds.

Richard turns the glass in his hand and sighs. ‘I am very sure of it.’ He stretches his arms above his head, cricks his neck. ‘I’m rarely troubled by money given to God’s house, but lining Beaufort’s coffers, Percy’s and Clifford’s. That’s … irksome.’

‘There is a way around it, of course,’ says Cecily. ‘Tell the King we are content. But that he should take the payment from the debt the treasury owes us for Ireland. We’ll never see that money anyway.’

She watches Richard’s smile widen. ‘I’m so very glad to be married to you.’

‘Quite right. How seems the King?’

His smile disappears. ‘As if his head were a beehive. He startles and stumbles. His anger is vicious and his plaints maudlin. The Queen drives him. But, I hope, with every concession I make he sees that I give him the peace he craves.’

‘It’s a poor game.’

‘I hope to teach him to love me again.’

‘Richard, his mind holds on to love as weakly as to purpose. He’ll forget by tomorrow. Anyway, the Queen is our enemy, not the King.’

‘Yes. We must hope she is not as clever as you are.’

‘Clever enough to convince the King he got a son by praying for one.’

‘Cecily.’ He puts down his glass, stands. ‘And now I’m going to bed. You can come with me if you promise not to speak of the Queen or her son.’

‘Her bastard.’

‘Goodnight.’

The final concession is, perhaps, the worst. Though Cecily comforts herself it is at least as painful for the Queen as for her. On this cold March morning, they must endure together the gawping of the crowd as they process through London’s streets, from Westminster to St Paul’s. They go to mass, at the King’s request, to give thanks for the new accord between the lords of St Albans. A celebration of love, he calls it, an act of reconciliation. They will walk there together to share their joy with the people.

‘We are at peace under God!’ The King is gracious, laughing, shrill, kissing cheeks and joining hands. His face flames with excitement.

The Queen’s burns with humiliation. For she must walk behind her husband, hand fast in love with Richard Duke of York. Behind them Salisbury must link arms with a frowning Henry Beaufort, Warwick with Henry Percy. Cecily takes the arm of Henry Holland. She gives her son-in-law the best of her smiles and asks after his dogs. She’d like to see them eat him, but there we are.

Before God they will pledge their good will, each to the other. And their loyalty to the King. Music strikes up. She lifts her chin. Off they go.