‘He does,’ I assure her. ‘He sees you already. You just have to be patient.’

‘I like him so much,’ she confesses, her eyes down and her cheeks warm. ‘And when he speaks to me I say nothing of any sense. I speak like a fool. He must think me a fool.’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘Shall I use a love potion on him? Dare I?’

‘Wait for spring,’ I advise her. ‘And pick some flowers from an apple tree in his orchard. Choose the prettiest tree . . .’

She nods.

‘Put the petals in your pocket. And when the tree fruits, take one apple and give him half to eat with honey, and keep the other.’

‘Will that make him love me?’

I smile. ‘He will love you. And the petals and honeyed apple will give you something to do while you wait.’

She giggles. ‘You’re not much of a spell-maker, Lady Mother.’

‘When a beautiful young woman wants to enchant a man she doesn’t need much of a spell,’ I assure her. ‘A girl like you needs to do nothing much more than stand under an oak tree and wait for him to ride by. But do you remember about wishing?’

‘Pure in heart,’ she says.

Together we go out to the stable yard. The guard to take her back to Groby is mounted and ready. ‘One last thing,’ I say and take her hand before she climbs on the mounting block. She turns to listen. ‘Don’t curse,’ I say to her. ‘No ill-wishing.’

She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t. Not even Mary Sears. Not even when she smiles at him and curls her hair around her finger, and is so quick to sit beside him.’

‘Ill-wishing is a curse on the woman who does it, as well as the one who receives it. When you put such words out in the world they can overshoot – like an arrow – that’s what my great-aunt Jehanne told me. A curse can go beyond your target and harm another. A wise woman curses very sparingly. I would hope that you never curse at all.’ Even as I speak I feel the shadow of the future on her. ‘I pray that you never have cause to curse,’ I say.

She kneels for my blessing. I put my hand on the pretty velvet bonnet and her warm fair head. ‘Bless you, my daughter, and may you remain pure in heart and get your desires.’

She peeps up at me, her grey eyes bright. ‘I think I will!’

‘I think you will,’ I say.

LONDON,

SPRING 1452

With my husband serving as Captain in Calais, I return to court in the cold weather of January and find everyone talking about the treason of Richard, Duke of York, who is said to be preparing a complete rebellion against the king his cousin because of his hatred of the Duke of Somerset.

The queen is determined that the threat shall be faced and defeated. ‘If he is against the Duke of Somerset, he is against me,’ she says. ‘I have no better or more trustworthy friend. And this Richard of York wants him tried for treason! I know who the traitor is! But he shows his hand at last and confesses that he is against the king.’