The King waves a hand at him, scowling, turns back to her, reaches a finger, curls it to beckon her close. All around men are whispering behind their beards, their hands open. She edges forward on her knees, intent.

He leans to her. ‘Lady Cecily. I ask you before God. Does your husband seek my crown?’

It’s almost laughable, to tell the truth here. ‘Your Grace,’ she speaks clear, lets her voice be heard. ‘I swear upon my soul, there is nothing on God’s earth he covets less.’

Now here’s the dangerous question. ‘And you? Do you wish it for him?’

The lie comes easy. It’s no heresy to placate the mad. ‘On my children’s lives. No, indeed.’

He smiles and leans back in his seat, eyes fixed on air. ‘We are content.’

‘Your Grace. The Queen expects …’ Henry Beaufort, harrying.

‘We are content!’ A shout, vehement, vicious, that turns heads and quells the room. ‘Do not vex us!’

She thought her head could get no lower. She brings its brow to the cold floor. Waits for his voice …

‘Lady.’

… and looks up. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Ask of us what you will. Are we not merciful? Is God not just?’

Careful now. ‘Nothing, Your Grace. I understand my lands and goods are answerable to my husband’s fate. Only, I have three young children with me and lack means to care for them.’

‘You shall have it. A thousand marks, annual.’ It’s an outrageous sum, more than she’d ever have dared ask. The muttering begins again, till the King’s voice cuts it off. ‘Annual, for life! Set it down.’

Her heart slaps against her ribs; she had not thought hope so painful a thing. Her mouth is dry and her bladder presses, but she speaks again. ‘Your Grace. You offered pardon to all who opposed your armies at Ludlow and Blore Heath. Men who did no more than follow their liege lord, as God and honour demanded.’

‘Most surely.’

‘Yet many still go in fear of their lives. Their pardons not writ.’

He looks puzzled.

‘A man needs something,’ she urges. ‘A paper to show to the officer or bailiff who comes for his life or his goods. He may not say, it was promised. He must say, look, here it is.’ She does not say, a man may not fight for Richard returned, if he is dead.

‘They shall be writ. Beaufort, Buckingham, see it done.’ To her, ‘Is there more, madam?’

She shakes her head. ‘No more. I thank you. Am I a prisoner still?’

‘Your sister’s honoured guest, is she not, Buckingham?’

‘Aye, Your Grace.’

The mad king smiles at her, benign and foolish. ‘Stay within her loving bosom, until your lord is dead.’