Cecily can understand that fear. They’ve felt it often enough, she and Richard. ‘But what of my cardinal uncle?’ she asks. ‘Surely he is bulwark against Gloucester?’

William looks away and Alice’s hand reaches across the table to rest now on Cecily’s arm. ‘Your uncle is little seen at court, these days.’ She shakes her head. ‘They say his will is written. He’s old, Cecily. And since John Beaufort died …’

Cecily has suspected, but it is a blow to have it confirmed. For good or ill the cardinal has been at her world’s centre all her life. She’s rarely sought his advice, never trusted it when given, but has asked herself, many times and at critical junctures: what would my uncle do now? Of all people, she thinks, he should die at the height of his powers, not grieving alone for John Beaufort’s wreckage. Who would have thought he’d turn foolish in the end?

Into the room’s new quiet, where only the creak of rigging can be heard, William speaks. ‘How I do miss John Bedford.’

Yes, Cecily remembers. They were friends, of course. Clear-headed John of Bedford and his loyal captain, William de la Pole.

‘Aye,’ Richard smiles. ‘Bedford here in France, Gloucester in England and the cardinal straddling the sea to keep the peace between them both.’ His voice has longing in it, as if he speaks of a simpler time.

Simpler, yes. And safer too. Power had been knotted tight between those three, and the child king bound up safe somewhere inside it. Now the King is grown, the knot is loosed and, in her mind’s eye, Cecily sees Henry’s pale, dry fingers fumbling at the threads. William is right to worry. He has placed himself very close to the King since Bedford died. He’s done well enough by it. A marquess now, King’s Councillor and a rich man. But it’s hard to say no to the man who owns you. If that man says pay any price for peace, you will do it. Even if you think it’s too much. Even if he might change his mind. She finds her eyes narrowing as she watches him turn the empty wine cup in his hand. She remembers how he looked away when they spoke of territories and wonders if he has paid a higher price than he admits to.

When William speaks, his voice is bitter. ‘And we’re left with nothing but a weathervane king. And Gloucester, blustering in his ear.’

Cecily pours him a little more wine. ‘Perhaps the Queen will keep him on the straight and narrow path to peace you have set.’

He takes a gulp, nods as if the idea is new and worth thinking of. ‘She’s a sharp little thing, that one.’