But later, alone, they return to it. She has retired to her rooms and when business is done, he follows her there. They’ve been too long apart, but they won’t love yet. She’s sore still, and tired. It’s enough just to talk. First of their son, which delights them, and then of France, which does not. Pontoise, the glory of last summer, was lost again by winter. Charles returned to besiege it with a force of arms so great it could not stand. He marched its English citizens to Paris, bound them hand and foot, then pushed them from the city’s bridges to find new lodging in the Seine.

Militarily, they’re under pressure. The promised support from England, both money and men, is late. Richard has sent Talbot to England, to challenge the council. Cecily thinks he should have gone himself, but Richard would not. He says he would not be abroad when this child came, but she wonders if that was his only reason and, anyway, thinks it a bad one.

‘So, what do we hear from Talbot then?’ she asks.

They are seated with a fire between them, though outside the high window the birds are sending the last of their songs into a warm May twilight.

‘All good things. He’s raising men, with the council’s blessing.’

‘And what of naval support? We won’t retake Dieppe without it.’

‘Ah, well. Of that no news yet.’

‘It is no good thing to be so far from the King, while other men make up his mind for him,’ she complains.

‘Do you not trust your cardinal uncle?’

‘I trust him to know the way the world turns. And to turn it to his advantage.’

Richard grimaces, but does not speak.

‘Has Talbot seen Gloucester?’

He shakes his head slowly, stretches his long legs before him. ‘He has not.’

‘What does he hear of him then?’

‘No single tale. That he is broken by the loss of his wife. That he cast her aside gladly to save his own skin. That he gives thanks to God he is free of her sorcery. Who can say which, if any, of these things are true?’ He nets his fingers, stretches his arms as if to push rumour away.

‘He’s not at court?’

‘No. He has left both court and King’s Council. He keeps to his home and sees no one. And …’

‘And?’

‘And the King will not hear his name spoken.’

‘Dear God, he is England’s heir still! And likely to be so for ever, while Henry scorns women too much to marry.’ She does not say, ‘And you, Richard, are next in line,’ though his knowledge of that – and its danger – is there in the way he twists his ring about his finger, its bull’s blood ruby catching light from the fire.