‘They are good soldiers.’

‘Edmund, perhaps. John is a child lately given his sword back. He wields it with more petulance than skill.’

‘Yet in the last year, while you’ve been dallying, they’ve captured Folleville and Lihons, and retaken Harfleur.’

‘I know, but …’

She holds back reluctantly as Richard lays down his knife, flexes his hand and raises it between wife and cardinal. Across the table she sees that John Beaufort, as if sensing a conversation he can’t possibly hear, has raised his eyes from his plate to meet Richard’s. He bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile, his lips flecked with grease, then nudges Edmund who looks up too. John whispers, Edmund shrugs and reaches for more wine.

Richard grimaces and turns to the cardinal. ‘And in Lihons they torched the church where three hundred townsfolk had claimed sanctuary. You’re a man of God, can you condone it?’

The cardinal is stony-faced. ‘It’s war, Richard.’

‘It’s war, my lord, indeed. But you wish me to make a peace. To do that I will fight only when I must – and when I do, I will do it honourably.’ Then with a final nod towards the sullen brothers across the hall, ‘And I would have you kennel your dogs in England while it’s done.’

Cecily lays a hand on his sleeve, feels the anger thrum in him and knows that the cardinal feels it too. For she sees her uncle’s face register surprise, and then smother it with an effort of will. She follows his eyes as they gaze across the room, stop a moment, blink, then turn back to Richard and to her.

His diplomat’s smile stretches his lips and his voice is cold. ‘Very well. I will keep them here. I have lost a sister. It will do me good to have family about me.’

That night, Richard’s anger is gone and he is all tender care. He has sent her ladies away and himself undresses her. His practised fingers loosen laces and draw the heavy fabric of her gown from her shoulders. When she’s bare she stands before him and pretends she is not tired. When he kisses her, she can believe she no longer is. She lets her weight rest on him and knows he will hold. ‘You were angry today.’

He nods, a slow agreement. ‘I was.’

‘With me, a little, I think.’

He kisses her neck. ‘No, love, not with you.’

‘Just a little.’

‘With your uncle for playing games. With Beauforts who look after their own. I’m as happy to stay in England as go to France but, if I go—’

‘If we go, we go on our terms.’

‘On our terms. Yes.’