And so, because he is yet to tell them why he is here, Cecily asks.

He puts down the glass, rubs the side of his nose and clasps his hands before him. ‘The Bastard of Orléans came to the King before Christmas.’

‘A welcome sight he must have been,’ remarks Richard.

Jean of Orléans is the French king’s natural cousin and no lover of the English. He led the assault that robbed them of Paris and, before that, rode in Joan of Arc’s vanguard. More warrior than diplomat.

‘Aye, well. He was sent to say that Charles will not extend the truce beyond April.’ He stops, draws a breath. ‘Unless we surrender Anjou and Maine.’

Richard’s gaze is steady. ‘If you were smiling now, William, I’d assume you’re about to tell me that the King has released funds to defend these territories.’

‘I am not smiling, Richard.’ He takes up the glass again, drinks, turns it in his hand and sets it down. ‘Henry has agreed it. Anjou and Maine. Gone.’

Cecily watches Richard’s face and sees the lines deepen between mouth and jaw.

‘A gambit, William, surely?’ His voice is low; he has turned his eyes to the fire and the bull’s blood ruby turns and turns.

William’s head sways, side to side. ‘It is certain fact, Richard. The King offered them to Charles last winter –’ he looks up at them both – ‘Anjou and Maine for a twenty-year truce. I carried the letter myself.’

Of course. Cecily remembers Marguerite’s pleasure in it. ‘My Lord of Suffolk is lately back from France,’ she’d said at Anne’s wedding. ‘He does much to please me there.’

‘But William, there are a good many English settlers to think of. How are they to be moved or recompensed in a quarter year?’ she asks.

‘We’ll play for time, of course. But it will be done.’

Richard is up and pacing. From the end of the room he speaks. ‘William, how could he … how could you …?’

William, too, now rises to his feet. ‘What choice, Richard? What choice? I have said, again and again, the policy I pursue in France is the King’s. Not my own.’

‘And the Queen’s, perhaps,’ says Cecily.

William shrugs. ‘Since her father is Count of Anjou, I dare say.’

Well played, Marguerite, Cecily concedes. But how badly England’s own hand has been bungled. There’s a sour taste in her mouth, born of disgust rather than the wine she’s drunk. She scorns to look at William, his red face, his shot eyes. The shame in him. The bluster. How pitiable to be so spineless. No, she corrects. How pitiable to be so tethered to a weak king’s will.

She sighs. Let’s to the point. ‘William,’ she asks. ‘Are you come to ask for our support?’