When he turns to go she tells him to take Annette with her, and Jane. ‘All of my servants. And the children’s, too.’

‘But who will wait on you?’

‘I will wait on myself.’

Dickon clings to Jane when she turns from him.

‘Let us take the children,’ Annette pleads.

Cecily steps forward to prise Dickon’s fingers from the girl’s skirt. ‘No. I have need of them.’

Margaret reaches for Dickon’s arm and draws him to her.

‘Understand, I am in the business of buying mercy, Annette. I must play the defenceless mother and trust that even Marguerite’s men will scruple to murder children.’

‘And if they do not?’

‘Then their deaths will be before my eyes and I will know who to curse.’

By the time the sky begins to lighten she’s been standing at the foot of the castle’s steps an hour, straining her ears to hear. No clash of arms from Ludford way. That’s good. No sound of the town’s stirring. Its people are not fools, she knows. When the King’s army appeared yesterday, most packed their bags and sought sanctuary in the town’s churches or security within the castle walls. Steward Stamford has done his work and, at her back, the hall is crowded to the rafters.

She’s looking east now but there’s no sun to shield her eyes against, only louring clouds and the threat of rain. Dickon’s hand is cold in hers and she can feel his trembling through it. She holds Margaret close against her, George tucked firm between them. He started to grizzle a while ago, complained of hunger, but stopped when Cecily slapped him hard. Waiting is dreadful, so it’s a relief, almost, when she hears the sound of horses, the jangle of harness, and a tramp of men marching through the town.

As the castle’s gates swing open, she brings her children closer still, slightly behind her but well in view. At the head of the column fly the lions of England, the rose of Lancaster, the prince’s preening swan; and beneath them a young man’s face, a jutting chin beneath a raised visor. Henry, Edmund Beaufort’s son; Duke of Somerset since Warwick swung a blade at his father. He raises a hand and the column stops. Left of him another knight, younger still. His brother, she guesses, another Edmund. And on his right, thank Christ, Buckingham, her sister’s husband. But it’s Henry Beaufort who rides forward till she can smell his horse’s grassy breath, the polish of its harness.

She falls into a deep obeisance, drawing her children into the pool of her skirts.

‘My lord,’ she calls him, from her knees, ‘I commend me to you and to our king.’

She hears the shift of hooves on the cobbles, discomfort passing from rider to horse. Few men have seen Cecily bend.

‘Madam. Where is your husband?’