She has spent her days well. The streets that lead to the cathedral are clean and flag-lined, the bishop has been told what his welcoming sermon should say and, in the castle’s great hall, the banners of York hang waiting to be lifted high on the wind of Richard’s arrival. And now the watchers she set upon the wall two nights ago have marked the army’s approach and sent word. Within the hour Richard will reach the city gate through which, even now, her own messenger stretches his horse’s neck to carry her instruction. ‘Put on your armour. Shine. The world is watching. On the cathedral’s steps I will greet you.’

The next hour is a busy one. She sends heralds into the streets to tell Rouen’s citizenry that their duke brings victory home. They’re given flags to wave, roses to throw – and pennies to ensure they do so. She sends messages to the cathedral and to Rouen’s many churches to set their bells pealing. The bishop and his priests, his canons and his choristers are called from their waiting to make ready. All this she does while maids swarm like flies to dress her in cloth of silver, to catch up her hair in its cage of gauze-veiled gilt, to lay in her hands the bible that tells the world she is pious, about her neck the jewels that say she is rich.

Now down the stairs to her carriage. She arrives at the cathedral and takes up her place at its door as the first cheers ring out from Rouen’s southern gate. She breathes deep, ignores the trickle of sweat in the valley of her shoulder blades and raises her head to catch the rays of early evening sunshine against the closed lids of her eyes.

When she opens them again she makes no effort to contain her pleasure, for here he comes, emerging from the gabled streets into the cathedral square. The sun brightens his armour but, bare-headed, his dark hair is tailed by sweat and weighted with dust. The men that follow him are Talbot’s veterans, grateful to have been relieved by Richard’s fresh troops. Though they smile and wave, they do so with pinched, hungry faces; beneath sweat-slick horse hide, bones slide, sharp as sword edges. Richard’s back is straight, though, and in his dusty face his teeth flash white.

She takes a step towards him as he dismounts, then falls into a low obeisance.

‘Cecily.’ He looks down as if she were a cup of wine he thirsts for.

She sees elation beneath the grime. It’s the first time he has come home to her fresh from a fight and she feels the heat of it running from his fingers as he draws her up. Her heart jolts and a laugh breaks from her throat.