A groom struggles to bring up Richard’s new black stallion. It’s skittering and nervous, dancing on hoof tips and shaking out its polished mane from a short, arched neck.

‘Showy,’ says Cecily. ‘Don’t fall off it.’

He winks at her, smiling, as he pulls on his gloves. ‘Not as showy as that crimson gown of yours. I’m sorry not to see you in it.’

‘Ah well. A check to my pride, perhaps.’

He leans in to kiss her cheek. ‘You will always outshine her you know. She is a queen and very lovely, but you are York’s royal duchess. The mother of my sons.’

She lays a hand against his shoulder, drawing him towards her to confide. ‘She’s not very lovely this morning,’ she whispers. ‘Grey as a fish and sick as a dog. Anyway –’ she pushes him away now to her arm’s length – ‘get on with you, there’s much to do.’

Then she’s on the move again, on to the ship and across the deck to the Queen’s cabin, to the bed Marguerite has not risen from since their dinner together two nights ago.

Yesterday, Cecily had decided that her advice to William, to make Marguerite his friend, was so good she should follow it herself. But the hour for breakfast had passed and the Queen’s door remained resolutely closed. It was almost noon before the little French waiting lady, Marie, squeezed timidly around the door jamb clutching a covered pot and, with face averted, tipped it over the ship’s side.

‘You know, we have people to do such things.’ Cecily had been waiting. ‘You should not be expected to …’ She waved a hand in the direction of the pot, which the woman tried to hide within the curve of her body. Cecily noticed hair escaping from her coif, dark smudges under her eyes and the smell about her of something worse than night soil. ‘Is your mistress sick?’ Cecily stepped to the door and placed her own hand upon the latch.

‘My lady, my mistress wishes none to wait upon her but myself for the moment. If you would …’ She tried to pass.

‘I asked if your mistress was sick.’

‘It’s the movement of the river, my lady, it has unsettled her stomach. And it is the bleeding time with her, I …’

‘Then I must attend her.’

‘No, please …’

‘Indeed yes. Tomorrow she comes to Rouen as England’s queen. She must ride through the city and be seen by her people. Now I must see her to know if she can do that. Or to understand what can be done to make her able.’

When she opened the door the smell of sickness was heavy, tinged with the copper tang of blood.

The young Queen, ashen upon the bed, had heard her. ‘I will be ready, Duchess Cecily, when the time comes, to do whatever is required of me.’