And now here they come, Cecily thinks.

While the women come ashore with the children and their nurses, Richard gives brief, quiet orders that set men scurrying. The disembarkation will take the rest of the day, but they needn’t stay for it. Cecily is keen to be away from the ship, with its cramped quarters, and the oil-laden fish smell of the port. She, with Richard beside her, is the first to fall in and follow Talbot’s rolling gait. Richard’s noble captains, their wives and families follow. She hears little Anne crying against her nurse’s shoulder, and frowns.

Ten years have passed since she was here last. That summer when she was little more than a girl herself and Joan burned in the warm May sunshine. The air smells no better, she thinks. Worse, in fact. And the sky is unseasonably grey. Where once there was vibrant colour and prosperous trading, now there’s only peeling paint and unswept streets. People and horses wear their bones too close to their skin and, when she glances up at gabled windows, the faces that look down at her are hostile. It’s to be expected. It’s been ten long years of war and the tide set strong against England most of the way. If the people of Rouen are starting to think they’ve backed the wrong horse, it would be hard to blame them.

‘I don’t know how we’ll reach a peace.’

Old soldier Talbot is resisting the temptation to put his feet on the table. Instead, he plants them wide among the floor rushes and rests ham fists on his thighs. Cecily watches as he stretches to take a crick from his neck, and hears a series of quiet clinks. Even here, in the security of the Lord Lieutenant’s apartments, he goes so conspicuously armed that he rattles with every movement. He must be nearly sixty now and has barely been out of France for fifteen years. Before that he did time in Ireland, fighting rebels who called themselves princes. He’s used to hard places and doesn’t much expect to be liked. Richard likes him, though. And he likes Richard. They’ve worked together before, of course.

‘Not our problem, old friend.’ Richard leans towards him across the table. ‘We’ve only to create an atmosphere in which peace might one day flourish.’

‘Spoken like a politician. Does creating that atmosphere include kicking the French king’s arse out of Pontoise?’

‘Well, that’s certainly my wife’s plan,’ laughs Richard.

Talbot looks askance, as if the idea of a woman with a plan is no less a miracle than the loaves and fishes.

‘My Lord Talbot –’ Cecily is all quiet charm – ‘I am sure you know very well how that is to be done and have only been waiting for us to bring men and armaments to make it easy.’