She has briefed them herself, of course, and now the royal lineage Father Bokenham so artfully described for her husband is being brought to life for her son. On boards and banners the length of the hall England’s bright future is spelled out; its long wait for a worthy king is over, the wasted years and false dawns forgot. The will of God, so long frustrated, is reaffirmed, and the hopeful prayer of every heart is gloriously answered in Edward.

It’s all much cruder than she’d like; its colours garish, its figures sketched and brief. Never mind, time is short now. The message is clear enough and can be perfected later; gilded and glorified, set to verse and song.

She turns to the master of works who paces at her side. ‘It will be finished by morning.’ It’s not a question.

‘It will, it will,’ he tells her, wringing his hat. He wouldn’t dare say otherwise.

She comes, at last, to the steps that lead in shallow risers to the dais and the high seat upon it. ‘Well?’

And the master hurries forward to order the lighting of more candles as her daughters catch up and gather round.

‘Watch.’ She tells them, and signals to the darkness of the vaulted roof.

The candles lit, men lay down tapers and take up ropes to send two great chandeliers high into the air above her. She follows their light up and up until, beside her, she hears her daughters gasp.

‘Well, mother,’ says Anne, laying a hand on her arm, ‘I am, as ever, amazed by your industry and imagination.’

There, in the flickering space above the king’s high seat, hangs the culmination of all; three golden suns enmeshed in York’s white roses and, striding among them, a gilded Edward, sword aloft, flanked by angels. As they watch, more workmen scrabble with ropes among the rafters and a golden crown descends, as if from Heaven, to hover above his head. Cecily lets her smile widen. Yes. Tonight, in candlelight, he shimmers. In the brightness of day, he will dazzle.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Cecily says, lowering her eyes at last and smoothing her sleeves. ‘There’s nothing imagined here. Only now you see him as he is.’

It’s an hour past noon when her nephew George, bishop and Chancellor, comes to fetch her from Baynard’s to St Paul’s. As he hands her into the carriage, and her daughters after, she realizes that her hands tremble and folds them, one within the other, to keep them still. ‘What word this morning?’

‘When the bells rang for terce Edward was five miles from the city. He’s expected at its gates within the hour.’