Cecily takes no wine in Lent but, when its privations are over, she has chance to share her uncle’s gift with unlooked-for visitors. Bedford’s widow comes to Fotheringhay. Not the gentle duchess Anne she’d come to care for in France, but pretty young Jacquetta, who took that lady’s place after plague demanded she vacate it.

In truth, of course, she’d met Jacquetta too, that time in Paris.

It was the morning after Henry’s crowning and she and Richard had been staying in the Bedfords’ household. Their new good fortune had made them more hungry for excitement than sleep, so they stole out in the cold dawn light, planning to take horses and race each other over the frost-hard fields beyond the city. They were laughing as they came, thinking themselves alone, until they turned a corner into the mews and saw Jacquetta, daughter of Bedford’s ally the Count of St Pol, leaning down from a fine grey mare and kissing John of Bedford hard on the mouth.

They brazened it out. Jacquetta smiled boldly, gave brief farewells and was gone. Bedford, dismissive, bade them take whichever of his horses they fancied and enjoy their morning.

Richard thanked him warmly, but couldn’t look him in the eye.

Cecily could. ‘I believe it was Jacquetta’s uncle who captured the peasant Joan when the English could not and sold her to you for ten thousand livres,’ she said, pulling on her gloves. ‘I suppose that, for such service, you owe her much.’

Enough for him to marry her, it seems. Duchess Anne died the winter after Cecily returned from France. By spring the Duke of Bedford had dried his tears in Jacquetta’s lap and taken her to wife. Cecily had grieved for it but, in truth, who could blame him? Jacquetta was sixteen, untouched by grief and, likely, fertile. He was forty years old and lonely; the King’s heir and childless. After the wedding he’d brought his new wife briefly to England and had grace enough to look shamefaced when he’d asked Cecily to be a friend to her. ‘She knows no one here, you see. And I must be busy, so …’

He’d come to make pleas to the council for more money and more men. They begrudged giving either to a man who kept losing. Even then, he’d looked ill; whip thin and hollow. She’d told him so.

‘I’m just tired, Cecily,’ he’d shrugged. ‘This endless war.’

So, out of pity, and because, in truth, he’d been a maker of her fortune, she’d taken Jacquetta into her company, tolerated her French gossip; her vanity and foolishness.