He smiles up at them. ‘Wise enough to arrive at your homecoming, it seems.’ He rubs his gloved hands together, looks a little shamefaced at the bustle about him, smiles again. ‘I should have sent word that I was coming but … well, here I am.’

And twenty of your followers I’ve now to find room for, thinks Cecily. ‘You’re welcome, of course. We’ve been hawking, along the river. The sky was clear for it, before this weather blew up.’

Richard is on the ground already, stepping forward with a laughing embrace. ‘We needed the air. And a break from the feasting.’ With his arms about William’s winter-wrapped bulk, he looks over his shoulder to Cecily. His smile gone.

What now? his eyes ask her.

She shrugs.

If the King’s limpet has prised himself from court at Christmas, it’s not likely he brings good news. She hands her hooded merlin to the falconer’s waiting glove, puts cold-numbed feet to the mounting block and slides from the saddle.

A waiting woman steps forward to straighten her skirts, but Cecily has no patience for it. She ignores her, kicks them into order herself and makes for the steps. ‘Let’s out of this weather before we freeze.’

Good or not, any news will be welcome after a year of uncertainty and second-guessing. Richard’s council still administers Normandy in his name, but the renewal of his lieutenancy is not yet confirmed. The King still speaks of going to France and bringing home a treaty, but the date of departure is never fixed and no one believes, anyway, that he will go – or that he should. There have been delegations from the French court, but Richard hasn’t been invited to them or told of their conclusions. They know the French king still demands lands for peace, so the stalemate holds.

If any know Henry’s mind, William does. But he’s been an opaque window into it. He’s done little more than urge patience and complain of being much put upon by Henry’s fickle nature.

By autumn they’d had enough and Richard brought them back to Fotheringhay. ‘I’ve business of my own to tend,’ he’d said. ‘If they want me they can send for me.’

But they haven’t sent.

And now here is William, fidgeting and smiling too much, and slow to the point. He’s brought gifts from the King and Queen. ‘Reminders of their love,’ he calls them. He’s drunk their wine, eaten their Twelfth Night feast and laughed at the antics of their Lord of Misrule. He has chucked the chin of May-born baby Margaret, exclaimed how tall the boys have grown and applauded Elizabeth’s teetering steps. He’s alone with them now, in Richard’s chamber at the dog end of the evening, turning a half-empty wine glass in his hand.