‘You are the Earl of Shrewsbury, my lord. A man with authority to prevent the King’s lackey from spilling his news on our doorstep and taking tales of my husband’s rage at it back to his master.’

Cecily can’t remember exactly when Talbot started accepting her orders or seeing the sense in her strategies, but she is glad to see the habit established. Off he goes, with no further complaint.

His wife, too, rises, squeezes Cecily’s hand. ‘You’ll want to be alone with him. I’ll be with Talbot. We’ll come when you call.’

Cecily nods, thankful. The three of them have been much together these last days, arranging, as the King has demanded, a redoubling of Normandy’s defences against a renewed French threat; a threat they’ve seen no evidence of and she suspects is in the King’s head only. She has written, with discretion, to her cardinal uncle, to understand his mind. But no reply yet.

She’s at the window, watching shadows grow across the garden, when she hears a catch of spurs on the stair and knows it’s Richard. She sighs in relief. It isn’t, in fact, her husband’s rage that Cecily wishes hidden from the King’s messenger. Richard isn’t a man given to rage. It’s the disappointment; the shock he won’t immediately be able to hide. She turns to the door as it opens and here he is, all smiles.

‘I’d thought not to see you; that I’d be too late. Are you well?’ His eyes move to where her hand rests, high on her belly.

‘I’ve waited for you—’

His smile widens and, almost, she loses her hard-won patience. ‘No, no. I’ve waited because there’s news from England you must hear at once, and from me.’ They are alone, so she decides it’s best to wield the knife quickly. She walks to him, lays a hand on each shoulder and speaks. ‘The King is sending John Beaufort here with an army. And has named him Captain General of France.’

And there it is: the wound to his heart, written on his face.

To hide it he turns from her, removes himself a step or two, takes off his gloves, runs his hand through his hair. It will be a moment, she imagines, till he can trust his voice. ‘Captain of France?’

‘Well. Of those territories in France, at least, where we ourselves do not hold sway.’

He throws down the gloves, shakes his head, walks to the window and back again. ‘Which means, in fact, those areas of France still in French hands. Is this war then? And, if so, against whom? Charles or me?’

While he walks, she talks.