‘Please no.’ A palm is raised, a step forward almost taken. ‘Marie will return and can do all I need for now.’

Cecily concedes with a nod and turns to leave. As she closes the door soft behind her, she hears a low sough of silk and smiles to know that the girl has, at least, unbent enough to take a seat upon the bed.

Their dinner is, indeed, a quiet one. Marguerite eats little. She has changed her dress and wears the ruby, which suits her well. She thanks Cecily with careful courtesy and looks pleased when all admire its effect. She is, Cecily realizes, quite lovely when she smiles. Richard’s low voice seems to soothe her as he speaks of Rouen, its great cathedral and many churches, the slow glide of river that will bring them into view.

She asks questions about London; its own holy places and the palaces that will be home to her. She ventures a few words in English, cautious, painfully correct. You’re practising, thinks Cecily. Well done. The English court is fluent in both languages, of course, but it is wisdom to make sure men cannot speak their secrets in your presence, or use words you don’t know to trick you. In the comfort of her own tongue Marguerite speaks warmly of the French queen who, she reminds them, is her father’s sister, and of her father himself who, as they must know, is king both of Naples and Jerusalem, as well as Count of Anjou. They know these titles to be empty, but they nod and speak admiringly of his influence within France and beyond it. They do not point out what all know: that Spain rules in Naples, the Holy Land is held by the Infidel, and Anjou is currently an English possession.

Watching Marguerite smile and accept their compliments, Cecily concedes that she plays a poor hand well. And though her heritage is a tarnished jewel, she has polished it to a lustre. It is the skill of making much with little. Marguerite will need it in England.

When, after an hour or two, the patina of conversation turns dull, the girl begs pardon. The journey, she says, has tired her and she will sleep now. The page pulls back her chair and, clumsy in the cramped space, the company rises. Cecily herself offers to escort her.

Outside, the cold-pinched squire who waits to escort them warns them to watch their footing. The deck has been sanded, but ropes and rails are rimed with frost and the moon is a cold blade of silver above them. They follow the mist of his breath and the pale glow of his lantern to Marguerite’s door.