The duke leaps swiftly to his feet. ‘Not now,’ he says sharply. ‘Where is the king?’

‘He has given orders not to be disturbed,’ the man says. ‘But my orders are to come at all speed and give my message at once. So I’ve come to you. It’s Lord Talbot, God bless him, and Bordeaux.’

The duke grabs the man by the arm and marches him out of the door, without a word to the queen. She is already on her feet; I go to her side. ‘Be calm, Your Grace,’ I say quickly. ‘You must be calm for the baby.’

‘What’s the news?’ she asks. ‘What’s the news from France? Edmund!’

‘A moment,’ he throws over his shoulder, turning his back on her as if she were an ordinary woman. ‘Wait a moment.’

There is a little gasp of shock from her ladies at how he speaks to her, but I put my arm around her waist and say, ‘Come and lie down, Your Grace. The duke will bring you the news when he has it. Come now.’

‘No,’ she says, pulling away from me. ‘I must know. Edmund! Tell me!’

For a moment he is in rapid conversation with the messenger; but when he turns he looks as if someone has struck him in the heart. ‘It’s John Talbot,’ he says quietly.

I feel the queen stagger as her knees go weak and she drops down in a faint. ‘Help me,’ I say quickly to one of the ladies in waiting, but it is the duke who brushes past us all and picks the queen up into his arms and carries her through her private rooms into her very bedroom, and lays her on the bed.

‘Fetch the physicians,’ I snap at one of the ladies and run in after them. He has half laid her on the bed, he is kneeling on the royal bed, his arms are around her, he is bending over her, holding her like a lover, whispering in her ear. ‘Margaret,’ he says urgently. ‘Margaret!’

‘No!’ I say. ‘Your Grace, Lord Edmund, let her go. I’ll take care of her, leave her.’

She holds him by his jacket, her two hands grasping him tightly. ‘Tell me it all,’ she whispers desperately to him. ‘Tell me the worst, quickly.’

I slam the bedroom door and put my back to it, before anyone can see that he has his hands either side of her face, that she is holding his wrists, that they are scanning each other’s eyes.

‘My love, I can hardly bear to tell you. Lord Talbot is dead and his son too. We have lost Castillon that he was defending, we have lost Bordeaux again, we have lost everything.’

She quivers. ‘Dear God, the English will never forgive me. We have lost all of Gascony?’

‘All,’ he says. ‘And John Talbot himself, God bless his soul.’

The tears spill over from her eyes and pour down her cheeks, and Edmund Beaufort drops his head and kisses them away, kisses her like a lover trying to comfort his mistress.