With each courier comes also a personal packet for Cecily. They exchange elaborate jewels. A musician is loaned, advice on fashions exchanged. But the best gift of all is a book given by Isabella, The City of Ladies. In it, Christine de Pisan – that rare creature, the female scholar – argues women to be men’s equals and peoples a world with those of her sex who, across long ages, have proved her right. Within its gilded pages, rich in cobalt and vermillion, women walk untrammelled, knowing their will, speaking it and seeing it done. Cecily is entranced and, in the weeks that follow, their letters to each other extol the virtues of their favourites. Isabella champions Penthesilea, the Amazonian queen who fought at Troy to avenge the death of Hector. Cecily applauds the barbarian Lilia, whose valiant heart inspired her son’s conquest of Italy, and Judith, the noble widow who slew a tyrant to save Israel. In her last letter, Isabella, in playful mood no doubt, commends to her Sappho, the philosopher-poet who had no need of men.

‘Poetry must console me too, a while,’ Cecily then writes. ‘For I am heavy with child again and my husband will come to you alone this time. But you know my heart and all the wishes in it for peace between us.’

14

May 1443

Richard is gone all of April at Isabella’s court. When May Day comes it brings a promise of summer’s heat that might have raised Cecily’s spirits had it not increased her body’s burden. She itches to ride on a day like this, to be in the air, but her belly will not let her. Besides, her hours have been spent with an ill-tempered Talbot and his lady, searching for sense in the news from England’s king.

‘As well to seek chastity in a brothel,’ Talbot complains. ‘Or mercy in Hell.’

This may be true, but is unhelpful. Little wonder her nerves are on edge.

Then, with a soft-coloured twilight, comes Richard’s squire, sent to say that his master has entered the city and is coming home.

Cecily looks up from the sweat-curled head of the kneeling boy to where her steward hovers, expecting orders. ‘Go greet my lord husband and tell him I await him. If he would come to me here, straight, I will be most glad.’ The steward is halfway to the chamber door before she calls him back, finger pointing, imperious. ‘To me straight, mind. He speaks with me before any other.’

The man nods and goes.

She turns now, smoothing her sleeves and ignoring the ache in her back, to the squire, still kneeling before her. ‘So. Is my lord merry?’

He looks up at her, perplexed.

She sighs. ‘Has he concluded our business with Burgundy happily?’