Cecily’s son is named, not for the King, who has had his due, but for York. For Richard’s uncle, from whom the dukedom came and, perhaps, for his long-dead grandfather, the third King Edward. And, while Henry faltered and is gone from her, this Edward thrives and stays. All the days Cecily lies healing, knitting flesh, she watches him. He feeds so hungrily he needs two wet nurses, sleeps deep, cries fiercely. And grows. The astrologers make much of the virile spring sun he has been born under and the preponderance of fire in his chart. They say it almost burned him up when he entered the world but is banked within him now. He will be bold, they tell her. Forward, lusty and strong.

‘He will rule us all then!’ laughs Annette, who washes him, wraps him, carries him to his wet nurse, then lays him replete in his mother’s arms.

As Cecily watches him, it seems he watches back, commanding her attention, matching his heat to hers. She has given him life. Secured his soul. He is all hers. And, for now at least, her hungry heart is sated.

After the churching, she enters Rouen’s great hall with a son in her arms. As the assembled nobles of Normandy raise the rafters with cheers, she looks out over their heads, unflinching. Before them all she places her son in Richard’s arms, sweeps an obeisance, then rises to stand beside him.

Richard smiles and waves gladly at the shouts of congratulation. He is all joy.

She is all relief. She cannot say why, but this feels like salvation.

When her son begins his shouting again, Annette steps forward – steady Annette, with her powerful prayers – and Cecily hands him to her care. It pains her to part with him as it never does with her daughter.

They sit to eat. She reaches for the wine set before her and sees her knuckles, white about the glass. She sets it down, shakes the stiffness from her hand, shifts her head to stretch her spine.

Richard smiles at her, eyebrow raised.

She picks up the glass again, toasts him and drinks. ‘I wish we were at Westminster,’ she whispers. ‘Or Windsor. Wherever King Henry is, with my cardinal uncle and his hell-spawned nephews.’

He drinks with quiet relish. ‘I’m rather glad we’re not.’

‘I want them to see the son I’ve given you. To know that York is strong and will not be set aside.’

‘Oh, Cecily. Not today. We are the King’s good servants and he knows it. Drink your wine.’ He nudges her, apes a grin.

She gives up, laughs and drinks.

And now the food is come, towering dishes, and the music strikes. She remembers she is hungry and decides, for now at least, to be happy.