She shakes her head, denying the very thought, hand over her mouth. ‘Nothing, nothing. But what does it mean? This card – what does it mean?’

‘It means an overturning of all things,’ I say. ‘Disruption of the times. Perhaps a fall of a castle . . .’ Of course, I think of Richard, who is sworn to hold the castle of Calais for this very commander. ‘A fall from on high, look, here are two people falling down from the tower, a rising of those who are low, and in the end, everything different. A new heir takes the throne, the old order is changed, everything is new.’

Her eyes are shining. ‘Everything is new,’ she whispers. ‘Who do you think is the king’s true heir?’

I k at her in something close to horror. ‘Richard, Duke of York,’ I say flatly. ‘Like him or not. Richard, Duke of York, is the king’s heir.’

She shakes her head. ‘Edmund Beaufort is the king’s cousin,’ she whispers. ‘He could be the true heir. Perhaps this is what the card means.’

‘It never comes out quite how I think it will be,’ I warn her. ‘This is not a prediction, it is always more like a warning. D’you remember the Wheel of Fortune card? The card you drew on your wedding day that promises what rises will fall, that nothing is certain?’

Nothing I can say can dull her joy, her face is shining. She thinks I have foreseen the change of everything and she is longing for something to change. She thinks that the tower shown in the card is her prison; she wants it broken down. She thinks the people who are clearly falling are breaking free. She thinks the lightning shaft that destroys and burns will break down the old and make new. There is nothing I can say that she will hear as a warning.

She makes the gesture that I showed her on her wedding day, the circling forefinger that shows the rise and the fall of life. ‘Everything new,’ she whispers again.

* * *

In bed, that night, I confide my worries to Richard, skirting over the queen’s infatuation for the duke, but telling him only that she is lonely and that the duke is her closest friend. Richard is sitting up, beside the warmth of the fire, his gown thrown over his naked shoulders. ‘No harm in friendship,’ he says stoutly. ‘And she is a pretty girl and deserves some companionship.’

‘People will talk.’

‘People always talk.’

‘I am afraid that she may become too fond of the duke.’

He narrows his eyes as if he would scrutinise my thoughts. ‘Are you saying she might fall in love with him?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She is young, he is handsome, she has nobody else in the world who shows any sign of caring for her. The king is kind to her and considerate, but he has no passion in him.’