Warwick’s eyes scanned the thirty-foot distance between them; his frown deepened and his lips compressed but the queen’s expression was implacable. At her shoulder Prince Édouard licked his lips, relishing the prospect of seeing the man crawl to his mother’s feet who, five years ago, had led his royal father through the streets of London to imprisonment in the Tower, bareheaded on a spavined mule. I thought for a moment that the earl might baulk and spring indignantly to his feet, thus inevitably destroying all the hours of hard negotiation Louis and I had expended over the past week. I did not know what threats and promises the King of France had laid on Marguerite’s table but I crossed my fingers and hoped that the stubborn Warwick would remember the baits I had offered him, dangling the prospect of a regency while my brother lived and the vision of his daughter as Queen Consort of England, his descendants its kings.

To my intense relief the earl forced his lips into a smile, waved acknowledgement of the order with a flourish worthy of my father Owen, and began his long and awkward progress along the coarse matting. Freshly laid and tightly woven though it was, within moments his dazzling white hose had become mired with brown dust and his knees must have felt the painful bite of sharp rush-stems. I had to admire his fortitude in nonetheless keeping his smile fixed and his eyes pinned to Queen Marguerite’s. Behind him with measured footsteps followed his countess, his daughter and his son-in-law, all stony-faced at this humiliation of the exalted head of the House of Warwick.

Queen Marguerite’s throne had been placed on her father’s stepped dais covered in blue velvet and as Warwick drew near she thrust out her right foot in its red Cordovan leather shoe. The implication was obvious and, taking a deep, steadying breath, Warwick all but prostrated himself, bending to kiss the high vamp with its gleaming jewelled buckle. When he lifted his head I could almost feel his desire to wipe his mouth clean but instead he spoke loudly and clearly.

‘I am your grace’s most humble servant.’

The queen withdrew her foot. ‘That is a violent change of tune from the traitor who dethroned his rightful king and set a lecherous Yorkist puppet in his place. What has happened to bring you crawling to my feet, my lord of Warwick? Has the puppet cut his strings? Does he no longer march to the rhythm of your drum? Has he disparaged your rank and set unworthy commoners above you?’ Her voice grew strident as she warmed to her tirade. ‘Let me hear you admit it. You have been betrayed and denigrated, just as you betrayed and humiliated King Henry, your true sovereign.’

Warwick bowed his head, concealing his expression. ‘Indeed, your grace, we suffer the same pain.’