‘We do no such thing!’ she snapped. ‘I suffer a queen’s agony at the crimes committed against her lord and king. You suffer a villain’s bruised ego at the failure of his own heinous schemes. We have nothing in common.’

He spread his hands in supplication. ‘We have the interests of our children, Madame. Surely that is enough to bring us – and them – together.’

Her laugh rang harshly into the rafters. ‘Ha! My son is the true-blooded Lancastrian heir to the English throne.’ She reached out to grasp Prince Édouard’s hand in a fierce grip. ‘Your daughter’s ancestry is tainted with bastardy. We need no upstart Neville blood to boost our royal claim.’

The young prince flushed with pride and moved closer to his mother’s side, breaking his silence with his shrill tenor. ‘Let combat demonstrate whose cause is Heaven-blessed! False Edward is a cowardly pretender who consorts with commoners and criminals and will flee before the divine right when I confront him in the field. God will restore my father to his rightful throne.’

The earl nodded enthusiastic approval of this bellicose rant. ‘I am certain the Almighty will favour your cause, Prince, but you will need men to stand beside you on this field of combat and any Englishman will tell you that the Warwick bear commands the greatest number of loyal followers in the kingdom. Together we will bring Edward of York to his knees.’ He gave an ingratiating laugh. ‘And perhaps you will graciously advise your royal mother to allow me to rise from mine.’

‘No!’ Marguerite’s strident denial made her son jump. ‘Not until I have heard Lord Warwick plead for forgiveness – until we have all heard him do so.’ She lifted her chin and cast her gaze over the other occupants of the hall, letting it linger on each face until one after another they allowed their lids to drop before the challenge. Only fourteen-year-old Anne, arrayed in sumptuous white brocade embellished with gold lace, her dark hair flowing down her back like the bridal offering she was, locked eyes with her potential mother-in-law and refused to avert her gaze. I saw the queen’s eyes narrow with pique and her head tip to one side, as if she was on the verge of pointing out this evidence of defiance to her son, only to find that he too was studying Anne’s small, heart-shaped face, his downy upper lip lifted in a sneer.

Anxious to deflect attention back to him, Warwick hastened to pursue his persuasion. ‘I fully understand your grace’s hesitation. I myself have cursed men who broke the vow of fealty. When Sir Anthony Trollope crossed the line at Ludford Bridge, it felt like a dagger in my heart. It goes against the very principle of the code of chivalry.’