Watching him through the thanksgiving mass, she sees he cannot subdue his pleasure. Nor, at the feast that follows, his appetite. He revels in the praise poured upon him when the golden Woodville is called forth to regale the company with an account of York’s victory.

Cecily heard it seven days ago from the messenger. Already she’s had it written down, despatched to the court in England, posted to every garrison in Normandy. But she’s glad to hear it told again, with Woodville flourish.

‘When we arrived,’ Woodville swaggers, golden, ‘there was the French king and his whelp holed up in Abbey St Martin. And would not come out to fight us!’

‘Too scared!’ The room roars.

Cecily watches Richard, who leans behind him and signals for drink.

Woodville, getting into his stride, raises his hands to quiet them. ‘So, after too many days of this lily-livered shivering, we take pity on them and bring a swift end to it.’

More laughter.

He tells, then, how Talbot led a feint to draw the main part of the French force downriver while Richard, under cover of a moonless night, led men across the water on a bridge of boats to pierce the unguarded heart of the French camp.

Hearing the tale afresh, Cecily senses the darkness of sky and water. The shallow pitching of the boats beneath men’s steps. They would have blacked their faces, she knows. Put off their harness lest it betray them by a glint or a chink. She sees Richard, his dark hair a curtain. In her own breast she feels the tripping of his heart. Then, coming to ground, the swift race, the drawing of swords and the staggering panic of the waking camp. His blade in her hand is weightless. Her head rings with the exhilaration of risk.

‘Our fearless duke gets close enough to the dauphin to smell his –’ Woodville turns, pokes out his arse and points at it – ‘before father and son take to their heels and run.’

Richard shakes his head, self-deprecating but pleased.

Cecily takes his hand, kisses its knuckles. Woodville has embellished the tale, she knows. But Richard had come close indeed. Close enough to kill the dauphin’s squire before a French relief force arrived, horses were brought up, and his quarry was away. Richard and his men gave chase, then returned to pick over the royal spoils, left behind in the hurry of escape.

At this point in the tale Richard gets to his feet, drawing Cecily up beside him.

‘What?’ she laughs.

He grins, then takes from his purse a golden lily set with pearls. He holds it up for the room’s admiration, then turns to fasten it to the shimmer of her dress. ‘The King of France once wore this in his hat,’ he announces. ‘Now the Duchess of York wears it upon her breast.’