At last, here comes John Holland, pulling his cloak about him, and Richard hurrying him down the steps, speaking fast. This weather will do the old duke no good. She wonders if Richard reminds him to have a care for his own health, or for their daughter’s who is now in his charge. She sighs. A little late for that now.

They ride towards Cambridge along a swollen River Cam, on a path that skirts its sodden water meadows, sheened by a low sun. The day is bright at least and, if she keeps her chin dipped in her cloak’s furred collar, Cecily is not cold. By noon, she can hear the sound of building over the suck of hooves in mud; the ring of hammers growing steadily louder, until she can find men’s voices among them, calling out to one another as they work. At last the teetering scaffolds come into view. She raises a hand to shield her eyes and squints. Yes, it is every bit as ambitious as she has heard.

At the entrance to the site Edmund Beaufort waits to greet the King and to court the Queen with smiles. He is Somerset now. Watching him, Cecily decides that, if ever his heart had burned with grief for his fiery brother, then the gift of John’s earldom has quenched the flames.

‘He’s quite handsome now that he has less cause to be sullen,’ Cecily whispers to Richard as they step behind the King, between stones that await the mason’s hammer. ‘But why is he here?’

‘He came a day early to make sure all was ready for the King.’

‘Lest the royal boots be sullied by builders’ dust?’

‘Cecily, you may always be sure of one thing. Wherever the King comes, Edmund Beaufort will be there already, or arrive soon. He gives service like a Southwark strumpet; with energy and in expectation of payment.’

‘Well, he is a poor man, Richard.’ Cecily laughs quietly. ‘He got his brother’s earldom but little of its land. And most of the money is in Brittany’s pockets. He has little choice but to play the whore.’

She’s not surprised to hear Richard so bitter. He’s spent most of the past month in Parliament, watching Edmund Beaufort play for the King’s attention and get it, while William de la Pole holds sway in the cardinal’s empty spaces. Meanwhile his own pleas, that money should not be diverted from England’s French defences, have gone unheeded.

She has heard of Edmund’s needling, on dark nights when her husband has ridden home for respite.

‘My Lord of York, we are at peace with France. Have you who were so lately there, forgotten?’ Edmund had smiled at the watching King.

And the King had smiled back.