She narrows her eyes at him. ‘I hope you are not turning Yorkist,’ she says quietly. ‘I should be sorry to think that you turned against me, and it would break Jacquetta’s heart. I should be sorry to see you executed. You have avoided death a hundred times, Richard Woodville. I should be sorry to be the one who ordered it.’

Richard faces her, without flinching. ‘You asked me why people blame you. I am telling you, Your Grace. It does not mean that I think such things, except I am puzzled by de Brézé holding the charts. I am only making a fair report. And I will tell you more: if you do not control the pirates and the French ships in the narrow seas then the Earl of Warwick will sail out of Calais and do it for you, and everyone will hail him as a hero. You do not damage his reputation by letting pirates rule the narrow seas, by letting de Brézé raid Sandwich: you damage your own. The southern towns have to be protected. The king has to be seen to respond to this challenge. You have to make the narrow seas safe for English ships. Even if you don’t like Kent it is the beach-head of your kingdom, you have to defend it.’

She nods, her anger dissipated at once. ‘Yes, I see. I do see, Richard. I just hadn’t thought of the south coast. Would you draw up a plan for me? How we should protect the south coast?’

He bows, steady as always. ‘It would be my honour, Your Grace.’

ROCHESTER CASTLE, KENT,

NOVEMBER 1457

‘Well, I for one don’t think much of your plan,’ I say to him sarcastically. We are in an old damp castle on the wide wet estuary of the Medway in November: one of the greyest coldest darkest months of the English year. The castle was built by the Normans for defence, not for comfort; and it is so cold and so miserable here that I have commanded the children to stay at home at Grafton rather than join us. Richard’s piecemeal map of the southern coast of England is spread before us on his work table, the towns that he knows are vulnerable ringed in red, as he considers how to fortify and defend them with no armaments, and no men. ‘I would have hoped that your plan would have had you posted to garrison the Tower and we could have been in London for Christmas,’ I say. ‘For sure, that would have suited me better.’

He smiles, he is too absorbed to reply properly. ‘I know. I am sorry for it, beloved.’

I look a little closer at his work. He does not even have a complete map of the coastline, no-one has ever drawn such a thing. This is pieced together from his own knowledge and from the reports of sailors and pilots. Even fishermen have sent him little sketches of their own bay, their own dock, the reefs and shoals outside their harbour. ‘Is the queen sending you enough weapons?’