‘Bouffé?’ I query.

‘Is that not right?’

‘Beaufort!’ I identify. ‘They say it Bow-futt.’

She laughs and spreads out her hands. ‘You see! You will teach me how to say these words, and you will teach me how the English ladies dress. Will I have to wear great boots all the time?’

‘Boots, Your Grace?’

‘For the mud?’

I laugh. ‘Ah, they have been teasing you. England does get very muddy, especially in the winter, but the weather is no worse than – say – Paris. I prefer London to Paris and I am very happy in England now.’

She slips her hand in mine. ‘And you will stand by me and tell me everyone’s name, won’t you? And how to say everything?’

‘I will,’ I promise her, and I feel the grip of her little hand tighten as she turns to her mother and says, ‘You had better tell them they can come in. I had better meet them all now.’

* * *

She is a delightful little princess, perfect in every detail except that her father, though called a king, cannot conquer his many kingdoms, and never will. She has no dowry, and though she says she brings us the islands of Minorca and Majorca, we all know she will inherit nothing. Everything she requires for the wedding and the journey has been paid for by the treasury of England – and there is nothing left in the treasury of England. She is exquisitely beautiful; but so are many girls of fifteen. She is dearly loved by the French court, the declared favourite of her uncle, the Valois king Charles VII; yet she is not a princess of the House of Valois but only of Anjou. He is not offering one of his own daughters in marriage to the English, but only a niece. In short, most of the English who are sent to fetch her think that we have been cheated: in the peace treaty, in the dower, and in the little princess herself. This is not a good start to a marriage.

* * *

She is to be married in the chapel of St George in the palace at Tours, where the Earl of Suffolk will represent the king and stand beside her before the altar, and take her little hand from her father and the French king. Her sister Yolande is to be married at the same time. I know she is nervous but I am surprised to be summoned to her rooms two hours before the wedding and find myself shown alone into her bedroom; no other attendants are present. She is dressed in her wedding gown of white satin embroidered with marguerite daisies of silver and gold thread, but her hair is still plaited, and she is barefoot.

‘My mother says you have a gift,’ she says, speaking rapidly in French without any preamble. ‘She says all the ladies of your house have the gift of foresight.’

I curtsey, but I am apprehensive. ‘They say so, Your Grace, but I take all my hopes and fears to my priest and to God. I don’t believe it is given to mortal men to know the future and certainly not to women.’