‘Honoured lady, it is inscribed in Holy Writ that our Lord Jesu urged a man to forgive his brother not merely seven times but seventy times seven. So I pray that forgiveness once, or even twice over, is not an impossible favour for a pious and God-fearing queen to grant a humble subject, who comes to her in true contrition and on bended knee. In return for your gracious clemency I would become your loyal liegeman in life and limb and pledge my sword and strength to you and the Lancastrian cause. I am, Madame, a man who earnestly recognizes the error of his ways and begs to be readmitted to your good offices and to the service of King Henry.’

For the length of an Ave, Queen Marguerite studied the top of the earl’s head in silence, her mouth working in such agitation that it seemed she might bite her lip clean through. At length Warwick lifted his head and raised his eyebrows in mute enquiry, while the rest of us began to shift about, swapping anxious glances and nervously clearing our throats but no one spoke. I watched Prince Édouard catch Sir John Fortescue’s eye, but the old knight laid his finger on his lips, making the youth scowl and let whatever it was he had thought of saying remain unvoiced. Finally his mother spoke again.

‘You have much English blood on your hands, my lord of Warwick. Thousands of loyal Lancastrians have died under the onslaught of your traitorous armies at St Albans, Northampton, Ferrybridge, Towton – so many battlefields. How should we manage to work together with the bodies of all these men lying between us in bloody reproach? What can you do to atone for so many widows, so many orphaned children?’

Warwick lifted his shoulders and made a hapless gesture. ‘Every battle has its casualties, your grace, and it is true that I have seen many victories and some defeats while honing my skills of generalship. And now all this experience – this expertise – is at your command, if you will accept it. Together, if God wills it, we can restore your husband to his throne and secure a glorious future for your son.’ He paused, before adding as if on an afterthought, ‘And my daughter.’

Marguerite leapt on this final comment. ‘Oh yes! We are none of us unaware of what truly drives this about-turn of yours, Lord Warwick. Not content with catching a royal duke for your elder daughter, you now demand a prince for the younger.’ Her eyes roved over the figure of Anne Neville still at her mother’s shoulder, her face as pale as her gown. ‘Have you asked for her consent, I wonder? Although I hardly think she would refuse!’

Warwick turned around as best he could while still kneeling, and beckoned Anne forward. ‘Of course she consents. She is an obedient and dutiful daughter, are you not, Anne?’