In the afternoons the cold drives them indoors. Marguerite talks fashion with Jacquetta and poetry with Alice and, with Cecily, she views the wealthy trousseau that awaited her in Rouen. King Henry, who baulked at the price required to save Dieppe, has stinted nothing to enrich his bride with all that will make her queenly. Cecily had the choosing of it all. Gowns and jewels, velvets and furs, towering hennins, and linens so sheer a nun could read scripture through them. The white gown with its silver girdle Cecily keeps till last, and even Marguerite’s well-schooled face cannot hide her wonder. When she is dressed in it, and turns from the mirror to be admired, when she takes off her smile and puts on her imperious face, even Cecily is impressed.

‘You are every inch a queen.’

‘I am sorry I lost the chance to wear it.’

‘It will come again. Wear it in London, when you are welcomed to the city.’

Jacquetta steps forward, fussy, to adjust the line of a fold, to smooth the nap of white fur at Marguerite’s shoulder. ‘Yes, wear it then, of course. King Henry will swoon for love of you,’ she laughs into her ear, ‘and all the men of England will lay their hearts at your feet.’

Marguerite’s sigh is rueful, as if she sets as little store by that fairy tale as Cecily herself does. But she turns again to the mirror, raises her chin and courts her own reflection.

Their last day together is come. Tomorrow Marguerite will take ship for England with William and Alice. Jacquetta and her golden Woodville, too, who have petitioned Richard for release. With peace at hand, Woodville claims, his warlike captaincy is no longer needed, and it is time to take his family home.

When Richard tells her this, Cecily arches her brow. ‘It’s more that the bee scents a richer honeypot,’ she tells him. ‘There’s better fortune to be made in England now, buzzing about the Queen.’ But she’ll miss Jacquetta, in truth. A daily irritation, a whetstone for her wit.

And their children will miss each other. She and Jacquetta each have four now, though Jacquetta has another coming. Cecily’s youngest, little Elizabeth, was the gift of last year’s autumn, red-cheeked and healthful as an apple. Jacquetta herself and Talbot stood godparents. Cecily would not have given either of them a son.

Jacquetta is making herself useful, fussing about the packing of Marguerite’s bags and chests; supervising Cecily’s servants, who are so well trained they need no supervision.

Cecily takes the opportunity to escape and invites the Queen to walk with her in the gardens. Though the cold is bitter, a weak sun draws out what little colour remains; beech leaves, mostly, bronze and tenacious, clinging to branches like hope. It seems to Cecily that Marguerite welcomes the stillness of it.