And so each day she’s part of it, the marshalling of men and arms, the reordering of government, the isolation of the King. The terrible attainders are overturned, so that Salisbury, Warwick and Edward Earl of March, remade, can pick up the threads of government. They make it clear they do so only till York comes from Ireland, to take up his role as …

‘As what?’ says Cecily at last.

It’s late in the evening, the passage of feet has ended, the last messengers gone. Alone, finally, among the debris of business, they’ve drawn up chairs, poured wine, caught their breath.

Salisbury rubs his hand across his chin. He looks tired but leans forward in his chair, squares his shoulders as if for a fight. ‘As first Lord of England, and Protector of the Realm.’

‘Not king?’

‘We have a king.’

She scorns. ‘We have Henry, you mean.’

‘Until one of us sees fit to slip a knife between his ribs.’ Warwick makes it sound like nothing, but her brother takes to his feet, squares up to his swaggering son.

‘We don’t kill kings, boy.’

Warwick only shrugs and turns his back. Cecily notes it. He wouldn’t have done it a year ago. In exile and adversity, power has shifted, father to son, age to youth. Warwick is a man in his prime now, gone thirty and battle proven. There’s one, thinks Cecily, who won’t bow easily to any authority.

‘We’ve been here before, father,’ he says. ‘The only way to secure England is by ruling it.’

‘Aye, right enough. We rule through the king.’

‘We’ve tried that, twice,’ says Cecily, ‘it didn’t end well. We need something more conclusive.’ She sighs. ‘But I agree, we can’t kill a king. Not because I wouldn’t like to—’

‘Then why?’ asks Warwick.

Edward has the answer. ‘Because it would make a martyr of him and murderers of us. And because we have too many enemies still at liberty who’d make much of it.’

‘Well done,’ Cecily tells him. ‘There’s more to you than muscle, then.’ She turns to Warwick. ‘Today Beaufort, Northumberland, Clifford and Exeter have no better cause to fight for than a foreign queen everyone hates. Do this and they’ll have God’s cause. They’ll raise the country against us.’

‘And also because the King has a son,’ reminds Salisbury. ‘And he’s in the Queen’s hands, not ours.’

It’s true enough. Marguerite fled when she heard Henry was taken, and, if any know where she is, they’re not saying.

‘Killing the King doesn’t make Richard his heir.’

‘Ah, well. Perhaps I can help with that …’ Cecily takes a moment to smooth her sleeves. ‘The Queen’s son is a bastard.’ She speaks the word with certainty, relishing the feel of it in her mouth.