‘Not war. Just nonsense. The King writes that his spies have discovered plans for a combined French offensive against Normandy and Aquitaine.’ She’s disparaging. ‘We’ve seen nothing of it. And it’s hard to imagine Henry’s spies are better than our own. In any case, we’re given to understand that Beaufort is ordered not to enter our lands, but to set himself between that offensive and us. We’re told it’s for our aid.’

He barks a harsh laugh.

‘You are reminded of the King’s very great love for you.’

‘Indeed?’ He walks still, to the window again, then to the table. He draws out a chair and slumps into it, eases his neck, pours wine, drains it and sets down the cup. ‘And how is this –’ he waves his hand, searching for the word – ‘foray into France to be financed? Given that our king is so laggardly in his payments that we currently hold Normandy from our own purse.’

She sees that he’s guessed it, that she need hardly tell him. ‘The King’s messenger told me that my cardinal uncle has given a loan.’

His head dips, shakes from side to side. ‘Your uncle. Of course he has.’

She crosses the room. Takes a seat opposite him. ‘And, regarding our own funds, the King bids York to be patient a while.’

Now his face turns very dark and the ring on his finger is turning and turning. ‘I have secured peace with Burgundy. I have made Brittany our ally. I was asked, by your uncle, and when no other man of sense would take the commission, to pave the way for peace with France. And, against odds that even I found daunting, I’ve done it.’ His voice is thick in his throat and his lips curl back from his teeth. ‘I have emptied my purse and risked my reputation to prove my loyalty to the King and my good use to your uncle. And now they send John Beaufort to do … what? To make war? Or something so like war I can’t tell the difference.’

She takes his shaking hands to still them. ‘Richard. We must face it. We’ve been out-played. There are men on the council who would sooner murder their children than have peace in France. John Beaufort’s hungry for nothing but fame in England and revenge here, so they’ve made him their champion. And together they’ve swayed the King. Which is not difficult.’

‘And your uncle?’

She shrugs, shakes her head. For this betrayal makes less sense and hurts more. ‘Well, I suppose he wants John’s love.’ And that pains her; that when her uncle weighed his love for his sister’s daughter against his love for his brother’s son, she came up light. ‘And whatever else he is, he is a servant of the King.’

Richard stares at her, incredulous. ‘You don’t believe that.’