For their first meeting, in Dijon’s gilded palace, Cecily has prepared carefully. She wears her wealth in muted colours, rich but plain, to let the older woman shine. Isabella is not blind to the compliment and, when her hooded eyes have valued the depth of her visitor’s velvet and the quality of her furs, she smiles and speaks and is transformed. Isabella’s ability to captivate, Cecily quickly learns, lies in her intelligence and is embellished by her power.

If Isabella’s husband was ever disappointed by his third wife’s looks, thirteen years of marriage have taught him to value her mind, which even he would admit is a sharper blade than his own. He married her to get a son. Since that was achieved ten years ago they’ve not shared a bed, but when the duke is out of his domain, fighting wars or getting bastards, she rules in his stead as regent. It’s a state of affairs, she admits to Cecily, with which she is entirely content. Richard, who is no stranger to the keenness of a woman’s wit, she finds charming.

They are here, Cecily and Richard, because Duke Philip has at last remembered that he does not love the French and has set his wife the task of rebuilding his old friendship with England. The Duke of Orléans, prisoner turned poet, has paved their diplomatic path to her door. He knows the way well enough. When released from his English captivity three years ago, he turned his back on France, declared himself Isabella’s happy prisoner and made marriage with Burgundy’s niece.

At their first dinner together, Isabella does not scruple to mock the French king: his fleshy lips, his dripping nose. She laughs, shivering her shoulders, looking sly at Cecily, then turning to Richard, mock serious, brows arched.

‘He daily undermines my lord’s authority.’ She leans in, lowers her voice. ‘I believe he envies our wealth and suspects our ambition.’ Her eyes widen as if scandalized while, across the table, Orléans smiles, languid in his chair, turning the glass in his hand to catch candlelight.

Cecily taps a finger to her lip and speculates that France has, perhaps, grounds for suspicion. ‘Since Burgundy has nested so firmly in her breast a man who could, should he choose, challenge for its throne.’

Orléans’ smile broadens further still. ‘Ah, but I have no interests these days beyond poetry. And to bring about peace among my friends.’

Isabella, eyes shining, laughs and leans to lay a hand on Richard’s arm. ‘What delightful company. You are fortunate, my lord. Few men’s wives have even half an eye for policy.’

Richard raises a glass to the ladies and confesses himself blessed indeed.