At last Richard’s successor is appointed, Dick Beauchamp, an old warhorse who has fought for England more than thirty years. The fifth Henry named him tutor to his son soon after the boy’s birth – hoping, no doubt, he’d make a soldier and leader of men out of him.

Let’s hope he has better luck in this post, Cecily writes to her uncle when he sends news of it.

It’s deep winter when Cecily and Richard meet again. Eighteen months have passed since they parted. One month since she heard that a smug Jacquetta has been delivered of a daughter. Cecily sent a teething ring in silver, but not the prayers the new mother had petitioned for. It seems to have made little difference: gilt-haired Elizabeth, she is assured, thrives.

Advised of Richard’s coming, she travels down from Fotheringhay to Westminster, is there three days before his ship docks and two more before he rides up from Southampton. She watches him swing down from his horse, shake snow from his cloak and stride smiling towards her.

She returns the smile and stands her ground. Let him come to her.

‘Well, Cecily,’ he says, as his mount is led away. ‘It seems I am not dead.’

‘You look most healthful, my lord.’

‘And I have not lost.’

‘With my prayers, how could you?’

He steals, she grants, a kiss, brief and public. His face is cold, his mouth warm and full of hunger. She grins against it and is glad.

‘We’re to go straight to the King,’ she tells him.

‘Ah,’ he says, falling into step beside her. ‘And how is our dread sovereign?’

She ponders, looks about her. In such bitter weather the pathways to the palace are empty of all but a handful of servants and messengers, who go about their business with hats pulled down and cloaks drawn up.

She draws him close, leans in to confide. ‘Unpredictable? Capricious? You must ask my uncle, who studies every day how to manage his moods and sulks.’ She smiles as Richard grimaces. ‘The King’s opinions, you must understand, are typically those of the last man to speak with him, so his counsellors are constantly jostling. My uncle will tell you it makes the business of running a country hard work and encourages vain men to seek power through influence.’

‘Lord, Cecily,’ Richard sighs. ‘You make me wish I were back in France.’

‘Oh, and still he is dressed like a scarecrow –’ a mock shudder – ‘albeit a very rich one.’