Now, as she pours wine for her, she wishes the season were not so early, and that she had tansy or belladonna to sink into the drink’s red depths, for she would like to take the smile from Jacquetta’s lips, and the gentle swelling of the child from under her heart. She would not, of course, but just to think of it gives her a satisfaction that’s worth the confession she’ll have to make for it later.

She schools her face and passes the wine. First to Jacquetta and then to the golden-haired knight who now calls Bedford’s widow his wife. He takes it, toasts them both, drinks deep and grins. Jacquetta, as if she’s never seen anything so marvellous, laughs and looks to Cecily. Isn’t he a wonder? her bright eyes ask. Isn’t he an angel set loose from Heaven?

Cecily doesn’t know quite what he is other than lucky. Richard Woodville has had a good year. Last spring, tender Henry sent him to France to bring succour to Bedford’s grieving widow and escort her home. That he has given her more than comfort is very evident. That he has gained greatly by it, even more so, for Bedford in his time was generous and Jacquetta’s dower lands are rich and extensive. The Woodvilles are good enough knightly stock: soldiers, sheriffs, justices of the peace. This golden boy’s father was body esquire to the fifth Henry once. The golden boy himself was in service to Bedford’s household when the good duke brought Jacquetta home as wife. Was the seed planted even then? Cecily wonders. Were there late-night dalliances while Bedford sickened? Favours in the tilt yard, kisses in corners? Jacquetta is practised at that, after all.

I could have saved the wine, she thinks. He’s drunk on his own good fortune.

She despises unequal marriages. Thinks women fools who make them. Marriage to her mother had been the old King’s gift to her father, a reward for helping him to his throne, for she was that king’s half-sister, even though a bastard. Cecily had understood the bargain from childhood: her father’s legitimate blood and title for her mother’s closeness to the King. It had enriched them both, as marriage should. On the day she began her life with Richard, as she packed her bags for France, her mother took her aside to remind her that she would now bring each of those gifts to her own marriage. ‘Value them,’ she’d said, ‘they are a prize equal to your belly.’

True enough, she thinks, looking deep into the wine’s depths. Though they must compensate for her belly just now.