‘Well,’ she concedes, ‘Marguerite is the Queen’s kin, so is free of it.’

‘And as his wife’s kin, much loved and valued by Charles.’

‘Not so very much valued, it seems, since he sends her to England so unprovided for and ill attended. She brings little enough that our countrymen will value.’

It’s not an observation meant to spike William. But it seems it does.

‘Our king is well satisfied,’ he retorts. ‘She brings hope of peace between England and France. Is that not enough?’

Cecily smiles, conciliatory, though she thinks hope to be a poor dowry. ‘For my lord and I, it is more than enough. And certainly she is very fair.’ Then, beneath her breath, ‘And by no means a fool.’

‘It’s a good marriage. The best I could make.’ William runs his hands through his hair, fists them on the table before him. He’s been drinking steadily all evening and has, it seems to Cecily, speeded up since Marguerite went to her bed. ‘If England isn’t pleased with her, it won’t be my fault. I do the King’s bidding. “Do what you must to bring home a peace,” he said. “Stop at nothing. Concede what you have to.” Concede, concede.’

His wife lays a calming hand on his arm, her voice low. ‘William …’

He falls quiet then. Reaches to pour another drink. He looks so miserable that Cecily takes the jug and pours it for him. ‘Then it’s good you’ve held as much as you have. We at least keep territory: Normandy, Gascony and Anjou.’

‘At least that,’ he nods, though his face could sour milk and he looks into his wine cup rather than her eyes. Even Alice averts her gaze. Then he pulls back his shoulders, draws his hands down his face and rubs red eyes with the heels of his thumbs. ‘But the truce has only a year to run, and I must turn it, in that time, into a lasting peace.’

‘A year is a short time to master alchemy,’ Cecily acknowledges.

It’s an attempt at humour that earns her a grimace.

‘Indeed. And while I am here, playing pander to girls, Gloucester has crawled out of his hiding place to whisper into Henry’s ear of the glories of Agincourt and how this truce defiles the memory of all who fought there. And there are men aplenty with practised voices ready to sing descant to that song.’

Richard seeks to buoy his spirits. ‘Gloucester is a spent force. The King won’t listen. He’s wanted peace for years. Since Beaufort’s madness never more so. He’ll love the man who gives it to him, William. You’re safe.’

William is exasperated. ‘Richard, the King listens best to the man standing closest to him, whether duke, earl or pot washer. Every hour I’m out of England I risk the tide of his will being turned against me.’