Together we don our capes, pull up our hoods to shield our faces. ‘Who is it?’

‘I want you to come with me to an alchemist.’

I freeze, like a deer scenting danger. ‘Your Grace, Eleanor Cobham consulted alchemists, and Eleanor Cobham was imprisoned for eleven years and died in Peel Castle.’

She looks at me blankly. ‘And so?’

‘One of the fixed plans of my life is not to end as Eleanor Cobham.’

I wait. For a moment her heart lifts, her face smiles, she dissolves into laughter. ‘Ah Jacquetta, are you telling me you are not some mad ugly bad old witch?’

‘Your Grace, every woman is a mad ugly bad old witch, somewhere in her heart. The task of my life is to conceal this. The task of every woman is to deny this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The world does not allow women like Eleanor, women like me, to thrive. The world cannot tolerate women who think and feel. Women like me. When we weaken, or when we get old, the world falls on us with the weight of a waterfall. We cannot bring our gifts to the world. The world we live in will not tolerate things that cannot be understood, things that cannot be easily explained. In this world, a wise woman hides her gifts. Eleanor Cobham was an enquiring woman. She met with others who sought the truth. She educated herself and she sought masters with whom to study. She paid a terrible price for this. She was an ambitious woman. She paid the price for this too.’ I wait to see if she has understood; but her round pretty face is puzzled. ‘Your Grace, you will put me in danger if you ask me to use my gifts.’

She faces me, she knows what she is doing. ‘Jacquetta, I have to ask you to do this, even if it is dangerous for you.’

‘It is a great demand, Your Grace.’

‘Your husband, the Duke of Bedford, asked for nothing less. He married you so that you would serve England in this way.’

‘I had to obey him: he was my husband. And he could protect me.’

‘He was right to ask you to use your gifts to save England. And now I ask it too, and I will protect you.’

I shake my head. I have a very real sense that there will come a time when she will not be there and I will face a court like Joan of Arc, like Eleanor Cobham, a court of men, and there will be documents written against me and evidence produced against me and witnesses who will swear against me, and no-one will protect me.

‘Why now?’

‘Because I think the king is under a spell, and has been for years. The Duke of York, or Duchess Cecily, or the French king or somebody – how should I know who? – but someone has put him under a spell that makes him like a sleeping baby, or makes him like a trusting child. I have to make sure he never slips away from us again. Only alchemy or magic can protect him.’