The King halts, tilts his head as if the thought is wholly new to him. ‘God love you, Richard, you speak truth. In time then, perhaps. If such a woman can be found as you have been blessed with.’ He taps a finger on Richard’s breast. ‘I will seek His will on it.’ Almost, he turns away. ‘And yet,’ he holds up the finger, enquiring. ‘You have got no child on her.’

Richard’s voice is level. ‘God gives His gifts in His own good time, Your Grace.’

Henry laughs, shakes his head. ‘Yes, of course. In His good time. And so will I marry.’ Sobered in an instant, he makes the sign of the cross before them, more priest than king. This time the dismissal is final, and he walks on to his prayers.

Left behind in the quiet corridor, Cecily fights to subdue her rage. She unclenches her fists, smooths her sleeves to hide her hands’ trembling. ‘I don’t know how my uncle bears it,’ she hisses. ‘About him … day in, day out. His childishness … I pity the poor woman he …’ She leans close. ‘God’s blood, could he even—’

Richard’s hand on her arm is immediate and constraining. ‘No more. Let’s away.’

That night, they dine with the cardinal and compare notes on the passing of a year and more in England and France. The mood is sombre. Richard has done more than the cardinal might have hoped, but he has merely stemmed the tide, not turned it. For years France has crippled the exchequer and, with Burgundy now an enemy, the cost of garrisoning every English-held town is beyond sense.

‘We bleed money,’ Richard reminds the cardinal, who needs no such reminding. ‘Surely even the King must see—’

‘The King sees what I show him. And begins to understand.’

‘But Gloucester?’

‘Ah yes, Gloucester. A dog gnawing on old bones. Fighting Agincourt every morning before breakfast. I wish he would –’ waving a be-ringed finger towards the window – ‘go away.’

‘He remembers the promises he made after Agincourt,’ says Cecily. ‘Keep England. Win France. They wear on him.’

‘They wear on us all,’ the cardinal sighs.

Richard steeples his fingers, taps nails on teeth. For a moment it’s the only sound. Then his voice, very low. ‘The King spoke to us today of his marrying.’

The cardinal barks a laugh. ‘Marrying? He has not the taste for that.’

‘What about a French marriage? Make Charles’s daughter Henry’s queen. Their son will be a prince of England and of France. A pathway to peace?’

‘Only if they have one. The girl’s what, nine years old? It would be a long wait. Besides,’ the cardinal rolls his eyes. ‘When I suggested such an alliance, the King reminded me that the French royal house is tainted by madness.’