‘Yes, yes, Beaufort’s boy, we’ve heard the rumour.’ Salisbury is dismissive, pushing back into his chair.

‘We don’t know where it comes from, mother,’ says Edward. ‘Or whether it’s true.’

‘Foolish boy, where do you think it comes from?’

They stare at her.

‘From you?’ Salisbury, incredulous.

‘Women have no swords, brother. We do our work by talking.’

‘But, is it true?’

‘That’s a foolish question. Personally, I’d stake my life on it. But, in fact, it hardly matters. It’s true if men believe it. If they want it to be. If it’s in their best interests. They can have Richard’s good rule or the mad king and his bastard. We should tell them so.’

Salisbury is first to speak, spreading his hands flat upon the table, not catching his son’s eye. ‘We bide our time, then,’ he says. ‘Protector first. Let words do their work, the King’s incompetence, the boy’s bastardy. We wait till the time is right, then we depose the King, not kill him.’

‘All very well,’ says Cecily. ‘But when is the time right? Do you imagine the Queen is idle? We’ll have to fight her, sooner or later. Sooner, probably. Better to do so under a royal standard, with men fighting for an anointed king, rather than against the wife of one.’

‘I agree,’ says Warwick. ‘We force the deposition. Let York take the throne immediately.’

It’s what she wants, but still, Cecily feels her heart constrict. It will only work if the lords support it. Her brother’s caution, her nephew’s bravado, both feel wrong. If only she were certain. She’s been sequestered a year, lost to the shifting moods of men. ‘A bid for the throne is a dice we can throw only once,’ she urges them. ‘Will we get the support?’

‘Yes, of course,’ says Warwick.

Salisbury pulls his hands down his face, rubs tired eyes. ‘It’s possible.’

She looks to Edward.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘We’d have some talking to do.’

By night’s end they’re agreed. Richard’s not here yet. Before he comes they’ll fight a woman’s war, with words. They’ll remind men of his record as Lord Protector, of the chaos of Henry’s rule, the risk of the throne passing to a French woman’s bastard. Protector first or king now? There’ll be time to make a judgement when he gets here.

It’s past midnight when Edward walks with her down to the river, to the boat that waits to take her back to Fastolf’s. ‘Is it true, mother,’ he asks, as they tread the path to the jetty, ‘did Edmund Beaufort really get a child on the Queen?’

She sighs. ‘I think, rather, she got one on him. She needed an heir, Edward. You’ve seen the King.’

‘Aye.’ Who can see the King and not wonder? ‘But such a terrible risk.’