‘King’s men, William.’

They’ve told him they will be patient. They are the King’s loyal subjects. They will not oppose any peace bought with the surrender of Anjou and Maine. Richard will not add his voice to Gloucester’s or any other party’s, either in condemnation of policy or in a call for war. Nor will he contest Beaufort’s appointment to the post he had made his own and in which he achieved so much. They will meet again in February, and with the King, at the New Year’s Parliament.

They have made William sure of them, but they are less sure of themselves.

In the dark shelter of last night’s bed they loosed thoughts long caged. That the King is not fit to rule. That he is ruled himself by whoever’s voice speaks loudest in his ear. God’s, presumably.

The Beauforts’, always.

The Queen’s, too, now.

‘Then our choices are stark, Richard,’ said Cecily. ‘Either we seek to rule him ourselves …’

‘I will not play whore to him as Edmund Beaufort does.’

‘… or we oppose him.’

He was silent three breaths. ‘Rebellion?’

The word is a spark. They could start a fire with it, or smother it now in their fingertips.

She put her lips to his shoulder.

‘My father died a traitor,’ he reminded her.

‘But you are only a traitor if you lose.’

He drew her hand to his breast then. Held it there a long time in silence.

He was examining his heart, she knew. She was remembering the clarity of a frost-bright morning. Throwing her merlin after skylarks. Relishing the speed of the hawk’s climb; the cleanness of its strike.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Endanger body and soul to put Gloucester on the throne? An old man, and childless? It would be madness.’

That had not been her thought, exactly, but she did not say so.

‘Then what?’

‘We bide. We wait and see. I will be the King’s man still. But we look to our own …’

‘And we build our power?’

He kissed her fingers, still clenched in his. ‘That has never been a question.’

By February’s end there is no longer a childless old man for whom Richard might endanger anything.