‘To my very rich, handsome son.’

Handsomely the rich son drinks, and smiles, red wine glistening on strong white teeth. He is Earl of Warwick. Worthy of a toast. Newly made today, when the King fastened the sword of that honour to his steel-clad hip. It’s come to him through his wife who, thanks to untimely deaths among her brothers, has made her husband her father’s heir. Old Warwick’s daughter she was, now new Warwick’s wife. Another Anne. She sits at his side, looking a little surprised at it all. No looks to commend her, and nothing to say, but that hardly matters.

Cecily looks about the room, at loved faces now sated and soft. They are none of them sober. The candles are all but burned down and the hovering steward is wondering, no doubt, whether to set more. She’ll save him the bother. She catches Richard’s eye.

He blinks and stretches and comes to his feet, but before he can do so, her nephew, the new earl, rises to draw out her chair. Handsome, rich – and courteous, too. No end to his qualities, it seems. While Richard and her brother fall in behind, he walks with her to the inner ward, where their escort shakes itself alert and fumbles for sconces to light their way home, down through the darkness of Thames Street to Baynard’s Castle. Her brother embraces her. His son kisses her hand and wishes her safe travels.

‘And where next for you, young lord?’

He shrugs. ‘North, with my father.’

‘To pull faces at the Scots?’

His smile is dazzling. Pity his enemies. If he can’t beat them in a fair fight, surely he’ll charm them to death.

He reminds her of Edward a little; though, of course, her own son’s fiery brightness puts even this one in the shade. He sleeps now at Baynard’s Castle beside Edmund, safe under Annette’s powerful watch. She wants, suddenly and very badly, to be with them.

They come towards Ludlow as the month ends. The Teme still has the spring’s fast run upon it, but the valley is tiered with new green and the billowing white of may blossom. As the weather has warmed she’s abandoned the carriage to her daughters and their nurses, and ridden each day at Richard’s side. Little Edward, playing the man, pushes his piebald pony to keep pace with their tall horses and, when tired of the effort of it, is happy to perch astride his father’s saddle and have all the sights of the road explained for him. From time to time Edmund, who follows his brother in all things, demands to ride likewise and Cecily takes him up, but it’s Edward’s voice she listens for and, when he grows quiet, she reaches out to touch his face, coaxing him to speak again.