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Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Author’s Note
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Epilogue
  56. Afterword
  57. Acknowledgements
  58. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Cecily remembers Marguerite’s firm hand, her stiff neck, her resolution and her warning. ‘I would make her my friend, if I were you.’

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17

March–April 1445

Rouen

Velvet on velvet. It is the richest fabric in the world. Cecily holds the heavy white weight of it against her face and breathes. It seems the scents of an Italian summer are trapped in its folds, or that, by some magic, the tiny marguerites patterned in its alternating depths carry the perfume of true flowers. It is the best, the finest. Months in the making, with wealth in every thread. For its sake the weavers of Lucca are made prisoner, forbidden to leave their city lest they sell their skills to rival silk houses in Florence or Milan. At Cecily’s order it has been crafted into the most beautiful gown she has ever seen, lined with ermine, threaded with silver, edged with a hundred pearls. She takes a last breath of its glory; lets it go with a sigh of regret. This was for Marguerite, for her arrival into Rouen. And beside it lies its sister in crimson, which she, Cecily herself, would have worn. Now the crimson must be packed away and Alice, William’s wife, stands waiting in her shift for the ocean of white to be lapped about her shoulders.

‘She is fifteen, I am forty,’ Alice complains, holding out her arms as waiting women approach with the gown in their arms. ‘No one will ever believe me to be her. I’m ten years older even than you! You should be doing this.’

Cecily is unmoved. ‘You are dark-haired and her equal for height. I am a hand’s breadth taller, and fair. You’ll be seen from a distance. All you need do is smile –’ she shows her how, demure first, then sly – ‘and look fertile.’ She turns for the door. So much to do. ‘And let down your hair, Alice. You are a virgin queen for the day.’

Down the stairs with brisk steps, Cecily leaves the merchant’s house that’s been commandeered for their preparations and finds Richard, hovering on the doorstep. ‘Will she be ready?’ he asks.

‘Alice? Yes.’

‘Alice then.’ He nods. He knows her plan and is ready to carry it out.

They look together along the quayside, where the gold-bedecked chariot Henry has sent from England awaits his queen, and nervous groomsmen trim the harness of the six white palfreys sent to draw it. She can hear Talbot’s booming voice lining up the honour guard, the scrape of steel as they come into line. The air is thick with anticipation and noise, the strike of metal-clad feet against cobbles, the snap of banners in a cold wind from the river and all the bustle of a boat’s unloading.