A long labour, and painful, but the child is come at last. And, day by day, he lives. They have bought prayers for his life in every church in Dublin. But, while the faithful hold him before God’s face, Cecily holds him before her own. She watches with him, breathes for him, binds him to this world by the strength of her will. She will not lose another. Angel or demon, she will fight any who dares come for this one. After three days she is feverish, her vision blurred and the shaking in her hands constant. Her women grow fearful and beg her to sleep. She snarls at them, pinches herself to wakefulness, watches and breathes.

Annette, who has crossed the sea to be with her in Ireland, has the good sense to say little. Instead, she brings broth and makes her drink. Cecily tastes salt and blood in it. She is hungry for both. The child feeds and sleeps, cries and grows.

When a week is gone, he has outlived his dead brothers and she is sure of him at last. She gives him into Annette’s arms, turns her face to her pillow, sleeps like the dead, wakes hungry and asks for news.

‘Your son thrives. And the duke your husband has all the lords of Ireland at his feet,’ Annette tells her.

She smiles and sleeps again.

Each evening, now, Annette leaves her for an hour and returns with word from Richard; a note, usually, in his own hand. Sometimes, if business presses, just a word or two. While Cecily has laboured, he has worked. His notes list the lords who have ridden to his first Parliament; tell how they have accepted his new laws, applauded his judgements and put their men at his call. Postscripts say he misses her.

She frowns. He should be too busy for that. Never mind. The plans they have laid are unfolding, neat as linen on a table.

Ireland has been under English rule three hundred years, though its native chieftains are minded to forget. Even among the English lords long settled here, old allegiances have worn thin. So they fight among themselves for Ireland’s wealth and neglect to pay Crown taxes. Westminster is a world away, after all. Lord Lieutenants come and go; best smile to their faces, tell them what they want to hear, and wait for them to leave.

‘We must come as one of their own,’ Cecily had said, back in England, as they laid their plans. ‘You’ll get more done as Earl of Ulster than Duke of York.’

‘As Welsh Mortimer rather than English Plantagenet?’

‘Just so. Fortunately, you are both.’

His hand had run thoughtful along her flank. Even after so many years, they still do their best talking in bed. ‘Mmm. Make them think we’re on their side?’