On the night before her daughter’s wedding, Cecily dreams of her mother. They walk together, soft-shoed and silent, towards the door of Raby’s chapel where Richard, who sleeps beside her now, waits with her father. She gazes up along the length of her brocaded arm to where her small hand disappears among her mother’s fingers. She knows this is the day she will be given to her future. Her mother looks down at her, nods once. Ready? Yes. She awakes and her hand is her own again. The dream’s passing leaves a cold space in her breast.

Lying in the dark now she thinks of little Anne, six years old. She will take her by the hand tomorrow, lead her to the chapel here in Hatfield, and give her to young Henry Holland. She dislikes the boy already. This morning, when his father introduced groom to bride, and Anne made her carefully schooled curtsey, Henry’s lips had curled before they smiled. While the parents admired the bride-to-be, he had shown more interest in his dogs: Alaunt hounds, broad-headed fighters that stood taller than Anne, had foul breath and pissed against the tapestries.

‘He’s fifteen and she’s a child.’ Richard soothed her concerns when she spoke of them. ‘He’ll warm to her as she grows.’

‘You never looked so at me.’

‘I would not have dared.’ When she did not return his smile he put it away, took her hands instead. ‘Look, it will be well enough. John Holland is a good man. He’ll take care of her till she comes of age and his son comes to his senses.’

‘Let’s not scruple to name our purpose, Richard. John Holland is fifty years old and ailing. When he dies the boy will be Duke of Exeter and Anne his duchess.’

And for that reason she will put aside her doubts and give Anne to Henry Holland. She will send her into the household of the boy’s father and his third wife, who is not Henry’s mother and doesn’t much look as if she likes him either. She will do it for a dukedom and for ever-closer ties to the old royal house, for the network of affinity that will keep York strong. John Holland traces his descent, as she does – and Richard – from the third Edward and calls the King his cousin.

On that long-gone morning when she was taken to Richard, her mother had knelt down, looked deep into her face and asked, ‘Do you like him well enough?’ Five years later, when she had reached the age of knowing, before she spoke her vows again to make them firm, her mother asked once more, ‘Are you content?’

Cecily’s answer had been a certain, ‘Yes.’