It’s long past midnight. They’re drinking because there’s nothing else to do. The servants are yawning behind their hands. There were five hundred in the hall of Salisbury’s London home tonight, and only at the King’s table could they have eaten better. The guests have long since gone, or are asleep under the tables. Their host left them to it hours ago. ‘We’ve shown ourselves off and spent enough to be talked about,’ Salisbury had said, signalling to his family. ‘Let’s to ourselves.’ He drew them aside to this private chamber, where they could feast without an audience. Talk and not be overheard.

It’s to be Cecily’s last night in London for a while. The King has named Richard Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, England’s most troublesome conquest after France. Tomorrow the long journey begins. West from London. A week or two in Ludlow to put affairs in order. Then through Wales and across the narrow straits to Anglesey where, long ago, the wild Britons made their last stand against Rome. From there, over the treacherous sea that stood as a western wall to even those most ambitious of empire builders.

They hope to be in Dublin by early July, in time for a summer progress before that rain-sodden land hems them in. Cecily is trying not to think of it. Either the destination or the journey.

‘It’s a fair exchange.’ Richard pushes his empty plate away, clearing a space for his glass among the table’s debris. ‘There’s work to be done there.’ A shrug. ‘It might as well be me who does it.’

Cecily pulls the napkin from her shoulder, lays it down. ‘You see, brother. My husband is most sanguine.’

Richard raises a brow, but his eyes are still on the table; his fingers turn his brimming cup. ‘I am no less keen than the Crown that Ireland doesn’t go the way of France.’

That’s true enough. From his uncle, Richard holds the earldom of Cork. From his mother that of Ulster and the rich lordships of Trim and Leix. He’s left the management of them to deputies in the past, good men who’ve played fair. More than can be said for most English lords in Ireland. He’s visited, once or twice, and liked it. Cecily herself has never ventured so far.

‘Never been. What’s it like?’ asks Salisbury.

Cecily lays her knife across her plate and signals a page to remove it. ‘It is a very long way from Westminster.’

‘It’s a very long way from everywhere,’ Richard smiles, takes her fingers in his, kisses them. ‘Which is perhaps its sweetest attraction.’

Salisbury laughs. ‘Aye. If you must serve a king, best do it from a distance.’