She watches Anne nodding and weeping, Margaret’s pleading eyes. She sits back on her heels and relinquishes Anne’s hands. ‘Stay tonight,’ she says.

Next morning, she goes early to her daughter’s chamber and finds her already dressed, sitting by the window, which has barely begun to lighten. Anne looks so small, never grew to her mother’s height, but her back is a plumb line and her chin steady. ‘You’ve come to tell me I must go back,’ she says, not turning from the view.

Cecily comes to stand beside her, keeps her own eyes on the water, too. ‘Anne, Marguerite may yet win. If she does, you alone, of all of us, have a husband who can keep you safe.’

‘He despises me.’

‘He will despise you more if he finds you in the house of his enemy. Think, Anne.’ She lays a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and feels it shrink from her touch. ‘In Marguerite’s England, you will be the only one in a position to plead for your sisters.’

‘Or for my mother, I suppose.’

‘Oh,’ she takes back the hand, folds it in her sleeve, ‘I can shift for myself, you know.’

‘Yes.’ And now she turns with narrowed eyes. ‘You always could. I doubt you will miss my father at all.’

‘Oh, Anne …’ The bitterness of loss threatens the beating of her heart; the missing of Richard that will never be done. She grasps the back of Anne’s chair, grips it till she can speak again. ‘You are more my daughter than you imagine. Had you put a knife in my breast you could not have cut deeper.’

Anne’s head falls. ‘I’m sorry …’

‘Don’t be. There’s no need. I’ve wounded you, I know. Many times and grievously. It’s good for my soul to be reminded. And fair that I be punished. There is much that I regret. Little I can remedy.’

They are quiet for a time while the winter sun, thin as a corpse, creeps into the room.

At last Anne stands. ‘I must go home and wait for my husband.’

‘I hope he will not come.’

‘I hope Edward kills him. Where is he, anyway, Edward? Why does he not come?’

‘I cannot tell you. But I have cause yet for hope.’ Still she cannot look at her. ‘One thing I swear to you, Anne, for all I’ve done. If we win through this, you will never again go back to Henry Holland.’

Later that morning, the mayor waves a paper in her face. ‘This comes expressly in the King’s name. His wife may be a traitor, but can we deny the King his city?’