The Earl of Warwick took three long paces into the hall and paused, allowing his family members to file in behind him. His Countess, Lady Anne, stepped swiftly up to her husband’s left shoulder, closely followed by her younger daughter and namesake and to his right hand came nineteen-year-old George, Duke of Clarence, advancing alone, his countess having yet fully to recover from the nightmare stillbirth of their first child during the storm in the Channel.

None of the Warwick party displayed any outward sign of their close encounter with shipwreck but their apparel on this occasion gave a good idea of just how much treasure would have gone with them to the seabed, had their vessel sunk. All were extravagantly clad in rich silks and satins and bedecked with jewellery of blinding magnificence, in keeping I supposed with the extreme wealth that the vast Warwick estates afforded them – or had done until they had been forced to flee England’s shores. Despite having made an extraordinary effort to dress like the queen she was, Marguerite appeared dowdy by comparison.

Perhaps annoyed by her sartorial disadvantage, when Warwick took his next step forward the queen immediately raised her right hand and uttered one word with sharp authority.

‘Stop!’

Having brought him to an abrupt halt she added, ‘If you wish to acknowledge me as your queen, my lord of Warwick, you will do so on your knees.’

Warwick’s countess gasped in disbelief and the earl’s brow creased into a deep scowl. He opened his mouth to protest then thought better of it and snapped it shut like a trapdoor. There was a pause and a collective holding of breath, then slowly and with athletic deliberation, despite the copious silver streaks that now featured in the earl’s long, dark hair and carefully barbered beard, he lowered his knees to the rush matting, never removing his narrowed gaze from Marguerite’s face.

She nodded slowly. ‘Good. Now you may approach but …’ she continued hastily as he made to get to his feet, ‘you may not rise.’