He lives by his own advice, Salisbury. Rules the distant north, as her father did. Holds the Scottish border and keeps a lid on the fermenting rivalries of northern magnates. Problems he can solve with a poleaxe. He comes to court when he has to, smiles a lot and keeps his nose clean.

‘But brother,’ Cecily’s smile is sly and slow. ‘Does this policy not rob you of the glorious spectacle of our most noble court?’

‘What? Of Suffolk licking the King’s arse, while his own is kicked by all and sundry? Of Edmund Beaufort sniffing the Queen’s tail and pilfering the treasury?’

Cecily laughs into her cup. ‘News does reach you up north then?’

‘Enough.’

Richard holds up a hand between them. ‘Well, for this last year at least Beaufort’s been out of the way in Rouen. And, for my sake, he can stay there.’ It’s brave talk. The thought of it still smarts.

‘He’ll be back soon enough.’ Salisbury elbows the table, leans to Richard’s ear. ‘My prediction? Rouen falls before Christmas.’ He taps his nose. ‘I need no astrologer to tell me that. England is finished in France. You’re well out of it.’

Richard shrugs. ‘Perhaps.’

It’s a year now since Anjou and Maine were handed to the French. William played for time, but couldn’t play for ever. In the end, Charles pitched his army outside Le Mans and said, hand it over or I’ll take it. Just like that. Now England’s full of grumblers: settlers dispossessed of land and livelihood; unpaid soldiers who scratch their itch to fight in London’s streets. In every shire there are knights and nobles looking for new troughs to stick their snouts into now the French one is snatched away; angry lords who, though their enthusiasm for the old French game has faded, seem outraged to find it lost.

Salisbury’s right. Normandy is all but indefensible; its garrisons depleted, nothing much now between it and Charles’s ambition to have his kingdom back. In private Cecily and Richard tired of speaking of it months ago; the wasted effort, the might-have-beens, the possibilities that slipped from their grasp, or were snatched from it. In public they do not speak of it at all. Closed lips, clean hands. For two years they’ve lived quietly, done the King’s bidding in small things, looked to their own. They’ve kept well away from William de la Pole, who, like a magnet, draws the anger of every discontent in England. Let him. William’s only friend these days is his king. And his queen perhaps, who, people complain, has brought nothing to England in four years of marriage. Not even a son.