But the time has come, and she is not ready. Though they’ve dosed her for a day and a night with willow bark and lemon balm, her stomach still betrays her and her shivering legs won’t bear her weight. Cecily herself has barely slept for tending her.

Coming in now from the cold quayside, Cecily sighs to see the girl struggle to stand upright, pushing Marie aside with gritted teeth, furious tears threatening her eyes.

Two steps take Cecily to the girl’s side. ‘Lie down, Your Grace. Please.’

‘It is required that I enter Rouen as England’s Queen …’

‘I think you cannot.’

The girl is clinging to the bedpost. Cecily dares to put hands under her elbows; to ease her down to sitting on the bed. She holds her by the shoulders and looks, direct, into her face. ‘Listen. I know very well the things you must do. None better. And I commend the strength of your will to do them. But, sometimes, another way has to be found.’

The girl screws her eyes, turns away.

‘Your Grace, look at me. If you ride into Rouen today and faint in its streets, they will say you are a weak woman, not fit to be Queen. And you may be sure the news of that will cross to England faster than a gull can fly. Marguerite, you must always appear strong, even when you are not.’

She sobs in frustration. ‘Then what am I to do?’

‘Trust me. Alice will take your place. It is already arranged.’

‘Alice?’ The girl is not so sick she cannot be incredulous.

Cecily shrugs. ‘The people will see what they expect to see: a dark-haired lady, richly dressed. She will applaud their pageants, blush at their compliments and, when they fall down drunk, she’ll pretend not to notice. Nothing more is required. Then, when the fanfare is over, you and I, and Marie here, will be carried through quiet streets to a comfortable bed, where you can rest till you are well.’

The girl shakes her head, cautious of the pain in it. ‘Surely the escort will know.’

‘They are my people. They know what I tell them to know.’ She tightens her grip on the girl’s shoulders. ‘Your Grace. Marguerite. Listen to me. I give you a good lesson, learn it. When it is impossible to do a thing, you must simply find a way to make it appear to be done.’

They wait a secret hour in the dim-lit cabin, intent on the quayside bustle and noise until, at last, a hush. Marguerite’s hand snakes from the sheets. Cecily takes it on to her lap, holds it close between her own and looks down into the girl’s pale face, her wide eyes. ‘Trust me.’

Then comes the sergeant’s call; a clarion of trumpets and a clattering of hooves as the procession moves off.

Cecily leans closer. ‘Wait.’