And what about the King? What does he actually want?

It depends what time of day you’re asking. And who spoke to him last.

The wind rises and it seems the ship leaps forward. Cecily shakes herself, looks up, stretches her eyes into distance and is surprised to see only sea and sunlight and the following ships. England is gone already. The court and its sand-shifting king. Fotheringhay and all she left behind there.

It was hard to leave. It would have been harder to stay.

No less than the King, she has put questions to God that await answers. They built the church at Fotheringhay as an engine of prayer for York. It has become, already, a mausoleum for their house. Their son is buried there. Born while the snow fell in the coldest days of February, dead while it still lay thick upon the ground. They were a week from the churching and Cecily had been dreaming of the world beyond the walls when a scream woke her. She leapt up, pushing sheets and blankets away to reach the crib. There was the wet nurse, her face horror-struck and fingers trembling, tearing at the swaddling. And the pale body emerging, limp in her hands, its lips tinged blue as if it had lain in snow. She remembers slapping the woman, grasping the child, its skin still warm and with sweat upon it. She remembers shaking him, calling him, letting no one near, slapping away hands that reached to take him from her. They took hold of her at last and made her drink something vile. She spat at them and cursed. A slamming door. Then darkness. And when she woke, the curtains were down from the windows, the crib was gone, winter sunlight draining colour from the room and Richard, sitting beside her, as pale as his son and no less deathlike.

No walk across the meadow. No churching in the sun. Only a sad funeral and talks with master mason Hanwood about the carving of a tomb. It would be quickly done, he told her. So small a grave. So few words to put upon it.

A month into their mourning came a letter from the King, expressing regret for the little one that had been named for him and for whom he had stood as godfather. And a question. Why were they not in France yet?

Cecily had squared her shoulders and said they must be about it.

She squares them again now, turns and walks the length of the ship, head high and skirts swinging. She climbs the steps to where Richard stands with his officers about him. Among them, leaning against a post while Richard talks, is the golden Woodville. He sees her first, bows and smiles.

Seeing it, Richard turns and his eyes light. ‘Cecily. Come join us. We’re planning our first moves.’