In the evening, about the hour of sunset, Richard Woodville comes to my rooms and asks me will I dine in the great hall of the castle among the men and women of our household, or will I be served alone, in my rooms?

I hesitate.

‘If you feel you can come to the hall it would cheer them to see you,’ he says. ‘There are many in deep grief for my lord, and they would like to see you among them, and of course your household will have to be broken up, and they would like to see you before they have to leave.’

‘The household broken up?’ I ask foolishly.

He nods. ‘Of course, my lady. A new regent for France will be appointed by the English court, and you will be sent to the court at England, for them to arrange a new marriage for you.’

I look at him quite aghast. ‘I cannot think of marrying again.’

I am not likely to find another husband who asks me for nothing more than that he can see me naked. Another husband is likely to be far more demanding, another husband will force himself on me, and another husband is almost certain to be wealthy and powerful and old. But the next old man will not let me study, he will not let me alone, he is certain to want a son and heir from me. He will buy me like a heifer to be put to the bull. I can squeal like a heifer in the meadow but he will mount me. ‘Truly, I cannot bear to be married again!’

His smile is bitter. ‘Both you and I will have to learn to serve a new master,’ he says. ‘Alas for us.’

I am silent, and then I say, ‘I will go to the hall for dinner if you think everyone would like it?’

‘They would,’ he says. ‘Can you walk in on your own?’

I nod. My ladies arrange themselves behind me and Richard walks before me to the double doors of the great hall. The noisy chatter behind the doors is quieter than usual: this is a house of mourning. The guards throw the doors open and I go in. At once, all the talk stops, and there is a sudden hush, then there is a rumble and a clatter as every man rises to his feet, pushing back benches and stools, and every man pulls off his hat and stands bareheaded as I go by, the hundreds and hundreds of them, showing respect to me as the duke’s young widow, showing their love to him who has gone, and their sorrow at their loss and mine. I walk through them and I hear them whispering ‘God bless you, my lady’ in a low mutter as I go by, all the way to the dais at the top of the hall, and I stand behind the high table, alone.

‘I thank you for your kind wishes,’ I say to them, my voice ringing like a flute in the big-raftered hall. ‘My lord duke is dead and we all feel the loss of him. You will all be paid your wages for another month and I will recommend you to the new regent of France as good and trustworthy servants. God bless my lord the duke, and God save the king.’