Pouncing on this challenge, it was Warwick’s turn to remonstrate. ‘If I am to put my life on the line for King Henry, I will need a guarantee of your good faith in return, Madame. Before I leave Angers, let our alliance be confirmed by the marriage of the prince and Lady Anne.’

Prince Édouard expressed his opinion of this demand by sniffing loudly and turning his back on the earl. The queen laid a calming hand on his sleeve and slyly proposed a compromise. ‘By all means let us celebrate with an alliance between our families, Lord Warwick, but there will be no harm in allowing our children to get to know each other before marriage. I suggest that a betrothal should take place in the cathedral tomorrow and I will take Lady Anne into my household and treat her as a daughter, while you and his grace of Clarence fulfil your side of the bargain. When I hear word that King Henry is restored to his throne, we will joyfully celebrate the marriage and I and the happy couple will embark on our journey to England.’

It was almost as if King Louis had spoken the words himself, so clear was his involvement in this scheme. It bore all the hallmarks of his spider-mind. Effectively Lady Anne was to be held as a hostage against the success or failure of her father’s insurgency and I could see from the way the blood rushed to her cheeks that, young though she was, the girl was instantly aware of the invidious position she would be in.

Warwick, too, was hesitant to accept the queen’s proposal. Perhaps he also detected a French conspiracy but could not instantly find a way to oppose it. Prince Édouard however detected the possibility of ultimately avoiding this unpalatable marriage and permitted himself a smug smile. The earl turned to look at his family and his glance passed from his countess’s face, grim in the frame of her jewelled veiling, to the cornered-coney expression on his daughter’s countenance. His reluctance was obvious but eventually, bowing to the inevitable, he offered the queen another of his expansive flourishes.

‘It shall be as your grace stipulates,’ he said, unsheathing his sword with characteristic bravado and laying it ceremoniously on the velvet-clad step at her feet. ‘My sword is at your command, Madame. If King Louis’s ships are waiting in the harbour with their coffers full and his promised army on standby, we shall have King Henry crowned again at Westminster before the autumn winds begin to blow.’