‘Boys, you must go with Annette and your sister now, your father has work to do.’ As she prises them away and hands them to the nurse, Richard straightens, turns to Edward, pulls off his gloves.

‘They’re all inside?’

Edward nods. ‘Expecting you.’

‘Warwick and Salisbury?’

Edward nods again.

‘And the King?’

‘In his chambers, out of the way.’

‘Good. Let’s get this done then.’

Cecily walks with them as far as the door to the Painted Chamber. Beyond it she cannot go, for here the lords of England meet in Parliament. She hears rising voices as the doors are drawn open, then a hush of expectation. Richard looks at her, nods once, sharp, and is gone, Edward and Edmund tall at his back. The guards, who have the keeping of the doors, look nervous; as if they don’t know what to do with her, as if she shouldn’t be here. Certainly she’s a spectacle in this place of business, where only clerks sit scribbling, and couriers hover with their satchels, waiting for dispatches and orders to ride. She walks the length of the corridor to the open door that gives on to the world, then back again to the place where a new world is being ordered; where the dice is to be thrown. Blood pulses at her temple, her heart beats high in her chest.

She remembers the Parliament at Coventry, where she humbled herself but spoke with her own voice, and won. This time she must trust the words of others to do her work; swaggering Warwick who wins men with smiles and Salisbury, whose doubts she knows. Richard, who she knows in her heart would be content to rule only Ireland. ‘The throne is the only place of safety for us now,’ she told him last night. ‘And you have sworn to keep us safe.’ He’d lain sleepless, holding her hand over his heart, while she counted the hours by its rapid beat.

The guards shuffle. She turns from them, imperious, takes a place on one of the benches that line the walls, smooths her sleeves, folds her hands in her lap and frames her mind to patience. And then, before she can fathom it, the smack of a door slammed open, and Richard striding out, his face pale with anger and humiliation. Edward and Edmund come behind, hands on sword hilts.

‘To Baynard’s. Now!’ Richard shouts.

Sweet Christ. She picks up her skirts and follows.

They take to the river for the journey. Richard will not speak, so she draws the tale from Edward.

‘We came into the chamber, father laid his hand upon the throne, claimed his right to kingship, just as Warwick had counselled he should.’ His voice veers from bewildered to bitter. ‘He said the way had been paved for us, that there would be cheers of acclamation …’

‘Nothing?’

‘Ours were the only voices raised.’