Marguerite drew herself up, jaw jutting. ‘If I can walk with York, young Somerset can walk with Warwick. Heaven knows I mourned his father’s death as much as anyone but it was Richard of York who led an army against the king. By taking his hand I will be forgiving his treason, the gravest of all crimes. Whereas Somerset will only be forgiving an act of war.’

‘Marguerite is right,’ insisted King Henry. ‘We must show a united front to our people. As St Matthew wrote in his gospel, “A kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation”.’

‘So the order of precedence is to be suspended is it?’ I persisted. ‘Because if the Earl of Warwick is to walk hand in hand with the Duke of Somerset, he will have to go ahead of the dukes of Buckingham, Exeter and Norfolk in the procession.’

Henry and Marguerite exchanged enquiring glances then nodded in unison. ‘Yes,’ said the queen. ‘Peace must prevail over precedence.’

There seemed no point in further argument. ‘So be it, but I would not like to be the one to explain that to the dukes.’

I detected a hint of malice in her smiling response. ‘Well that is a pity, Jasper, because I believe you are the one best placed to do so, since you will be ceding your pre-eminence among the earls to Warwick. To soften the blow you can stress that it is only for this one, exceptional occasion.’

One did not refuse a royal command and Queen Marguerite had made plenty of these lately without any reference to the king. I cast a quizzical look at Henry for confirmation but he ignored it.

‘Tomorrow is the Feast of the Annunciation,’ he said, making the sign of the Cross. ‘The day that Love was conceived. We shall call our reconciliation “Loveday”.’

Whatever he had chosen to call it, I could feel little love emanating from the column of disgruntled courtiers who followed the king down the nave of St Paul’s. King Henry may have been radiating joy as he led his ‘Loveday’ parade but behind his back the forced smiles of his fulminating barons gave little indication of a sudden blossoming of brotherly love.

As we spilled out into the gloomy churchyard at the top of Ludgate Hill, canopied by a heavy blanket of dark clouds, I had a sudden vision of the wide, clear skies over Pembroke Castle and Jane Hywel striding out in her purposeful way across the Outer Court towards the herb garden. When I blinked the image faded but I was left wishing I were there, in Jane’s congenial company, rather than setting off towards Temple Bar feigning happiness among a column of noblemen who were probably as fervent as I in wishing that they were somewhere else. The muted cheers of the crowd indicated that they, too, had little faith in the message of Loveday.