In the time between, she had studied him and seen her own nature mirrored in his. She trusted his careful watchfulness, admired his certain actions. She knew that, like her, he read people as if they were books, and that he would return to her pages, again and again. He had taught her chess till she could beat all her brothers, and did not laugh when she asked why the queen was the only lady on the board. Lying here, though, in the dark while he sleeps, she wonders what would have happened had she told her mother no. She believes it would have made no difference. So, tomorrow, with Anne, she will not ask. Better not to know that she is giving her daughter to a man she cannot like.

The King comes to the wedding. And Marguerite, of course. They arrive in royal state at the Bishop of Ely’s residence at Hatfield, which has provided near-to-London lodgings for the Yorks since they returned from France before Christmas, their term of office there ended. As dusk falls, the King and Queen are drawn into the candlelit hall, shedding furs and frost.

King Henry wraps Richard in his arms and calls him brother, his partner in peace, and thanks him for all he has done to build amity with France.

Cecily smiles and holds her tongue. We might have done more, had you paid us better.

William de la Pole, who travels as a limpet on the royal keel, stands watching, chafing his hands, but does not smile until the King claps him on the shoulder too, and calls him friend.

When Cecily bows to Marguerite, the young Queen draws her up and kisses her on the cheek with winter-cold lips. ‘You give away one child today, but another is coming I see.’

Cecily runs a hand across the swollen silk of her dress, pleased. ‘A spring baby.’ She has noted that the Queen, who was slender last winter, is slender still.

Marguerite, too quick to miss the slide of Cecily’s eyes, is rueful. ‘No such blessing for me yet. Though all your English court watch for it. But a child is not the only font of joy. She smiles at William. My Lord of Suffolk is lately back from France. He does much to please me there. And his king, of course.’ She places a hand on her husband’s sleeve.

He turns to her, blinking, as if surprised to see her.

Marguerite takes back her hand, shakes her head. ‘You will learn all in good time, Duchess Cecily. But we will have peace. And your king and I will go into France soon.’

‘And you will come with us, Richard,’ says Henry, beaming. ‘And William here, too. You are our partners in this peace you know.’

Richard bows.

Only Cecily marks his pleasure. No doubt he sees in this the confirmation he has hoped for, that his lieutenancy will be renewed.