A long tail of ships follows in wake of theirs. Each is filled with archers and infantry, their horses and ordnance, their lords and commanders. Together they carry the largest army England has sent to France since the fifth Henry’s day. No one expects them to do as he did. Their task is compromise, not conquest. No one thinks England can win in France any more. But they want peace without shame. So here we come, striding up to the negotiating table, bristling with blades, thinks Cecily. The image is so foolish she almost laughs, but her mouth won’t quite stretch to it. Instead, she closes a fist on the wooden rail and examines the whiteness of her fingers, the tightness of her grip.

Well. Peace, no less than war, calls for strength of arm.

You still have to win it.

To win is the promise they made at Windsor, three weeks past, when they farewelled king and court.

‘Good Duke Richard will win the peace for us,’ the smiling cardinal said to the slowly nodding King, an encouraging arm around her husband’s shoulder.

Cecily noted Richard’s self-deprecating smile, smooth as silk, yet his eyes were careful, as she knew her own to be.

Behind him Gloucester glowered. ‘Peace, not capitulation, mind. We must hold what’s ours.’

The King nodded and Cecily was almost surprised to hear him speak. Most often of late he listens, and with only half an ear. ‘Dear uncle, I’m sure we can rely on my Lord of York to do that.’

Let’s hope so. No one else has managed it.

Gloucester blustered and frowned as if the thought of peace with France ground like glass in his gut.

The King rose from his seat, came close. ‘We are Christian men, Richard, are we not?’ He reached out a milk-pale hand, laid it upon Richard’s silk-clad breast, where beats his Christian heart.

Richard bowed his head, acknowledging the favour of the royal touch. ‘So I do trust, Your Grace.’

‘Then surely, like I, you wish no more English blood spilt in France?’

‘No more than necessary, Your Grace.’

Good. He did not say none.

Henry turned his hand to tap a narrow finger against rich silk. ‘There must be friendship between kings, Richard. Between us and France. But we must give not an inch more land. Uncle Gloucester is right. Normandy, Gascony, Calais, all ours.’ He dropped his hand, turned away. ‘I will pray for you daily. For a conclusion that will honour my father’s memory and enrich England.’

‘Your prayers will be a tower of strength to us, Your Grace.’

We’ll need them to be, she thinks now, as she watches the birds that have been following in their wake wheel and turn inland. It will be no small thing to find a conclusion that satisfies everyone: the cardinal’s appetite for peace, and Gloucester’s revulsion at it.