Indicating the way forward, Cecily keeps a careful half-step behind the young Queen, who raises her chin, fixes her eyes forward and walks, poised and steady, towards the ship. Observers might call her progress haughty, despite the plainness of her dress, the paucity of her jewels and the single French waiting woman who falls in behind her. Cecily knows that the price of such hauteur is a self-control so fierce it twists the sinews of the neck into ropes. She finds some respect for the girl and resolves to show her, if she can, a little friendship.

Once aboard, Cecily decides the first kindness she can give Marguerite is a reprieve from observation, so she takes her to the cabin that has been reserved for her. It’s the ship’s best, of course, but small still. Even here the smell of tar is pungent and the afternoon light from its riverward window begs help from a lantern. Marguerite’s nostrils flare. But wine and sweet almond cakes are laid out ready and, upon the narrow bed, are gifts with little notes that Cecily has placed but does not mention: a fair copy of The City of Ladies is among them, for she has been told Marguerite is a scholar; a jade rosary, because she assumes her to be devout; and a ruby set in gold that will flatter both the darkness of her hair and the pallor of her skin. The ruby’s value, Cecily calculates, is greater than everything the girl stands up in today.

The waiting woman excuses herself to give directions to the porters about which of her mistress’s things must be brought here to the cabin and which can be stored in the hold. There should be others to do that, but Marguerite brings no household either. When the woman is gone, Cecily watches as the girl looks carefully about, hands clasped before her. Her dark eyes widen only a fraction as the sailors’ shouts penetrate the walls and Cecily feels, under her feet, the first lurch of the ship as it pulls away from the quay. A swift departure this; no fond farewells, no loved voices calling bonne chance across the water. Though Marguerite must journey to the mouth of the Seine and cross the Channel to find her new home, she is, in truth, already in England: a country her own has been at war with for a hundred years and she has heard named enemy all her life.

Cecily takes pity. ‘I will leave you alone a while, Your Grace. I’m sure you must wish for some rest. We will dine in an hour or two, but quietly. Just my lord and I. Suffolk and his wife, Alice, who you already know. Friendly company, I hope. I will send an escort for you.’

Marguerite nods, once.

‘Should I send a maid, to help you …?’