Among the slow-moving coronation procession, Cecily passes out through the cathedral’s great west door, beneath the lofty tympanum, where Christ Triumphant, serene and indifferent, presides over the judgement of the dead. Emerging into winter sunlight, she feels the sanctity of the church fall away as the world, sharp with frost and conflict, rises up to meet her. She knows today’s crowning marks no end to war. It’s little more than a gesture, grand and provocative, tip for tap, for now France has two kings. Two years ago the mad king’s son, last of the Valois line all thought finished at Agincourt, gave off licking his wounds and rode on the back of Joan’s holy vision to his crowning in Rheims. He’s down for now, but no one thinks he’s finished.

Gloucester, stalking ahead of them, growls into his brother Bedford’s ear. ‘Today sends a message to Charles the Pretender, Charles the Bastard, Charles the thrice-cursed bane of our lives. England still has stomach for the fight, and the true heir of Agincourt comes to stake his claim.’

The dukes press on to be closer to their king, and Richard’s face, when it turns to hers, is wry.

She takes his arm, leans close. ‘The message might be more convincing if the heir of Agincourt was not a puling child who threw his insides up over the ship’s rail an hour out from Dover. Or if he went to his weapons practice more enthusiastically, or more often, than to prayer.’

He threads her arm through his. ‘We must hope Charles’s spies don’t hear of such things.’ A smile. A wink.

Stepping into the carriage that will take them to the coronation feast, Cecily pauses a moment. Ahead of her the shimmering king, on a horse well chosen for a sovereign, but towering for a half-grown boy, steps out through a banner-waving crowd. All most splendid. Then she turns, looking back to where the business of the day reclaims the cathedral square. Beyond it and the encircling river lie the unfathomed byways of Paris. England’s hold there, she knows, is tenuous and challenged. If she walked those narrow streets today, she’d hear low French voices, surly, resentful, biding their time. She wonders about Charles down there in Rheims. Is his courage burned to ash with Joan’s bones, or does she walk his dreams now, urging him on?

She draws up the weighted velvet of her gown, steps inside the curtained carriage, takes a seat opposite her husband and folds her long white hands.

‘So, it’s done, Cecily. At last.’

‘By God’s will,’ she answers.