The People’s Queen
Vanora Bennett

For my mother

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

FORTUNE’S WHEEL

PROLOGUE A World Ends

PART ONE Regno I reign

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

PART TWO Regnavi I used to reign

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

PART THREE Regnabo? Shall I reign again?

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

EPILOGUE A World Begins

HISTORICAL NOTE

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Vanora Bennett

Copyright

About the Publisher

FORTUNE’S WHEEL

The picture on the left shows the capricious goddess Fortune, as she was often displayed in the rose window of medieval English churches, teasing her victims with the hope of lasting wealth and power.

The greedy, feverish people rising up Fortune’s ever-turning wheel, on the left, are gloating, regnabo, boastful Latin for ‘I shall reign’.

The person at the top, who has achieved every ambition, crows, regno, or ‘I reign’.

The terrified people on the right of the wheel, going down, are looking back at their moment of glory, wailing, regnavi, or ‘I used to reign’.

And the one falling off at the bottom whimpers, sum sine regno; ‘I am without a kingdom’ or ‘I have been left with nothing’.

The message understood by every congregation – that pride comes before a fall – took on new significance after the Black Death. This devastating outbreak of plague killed off one-third of the people of Europe in the middle of the 14th century, when my novel begins. The catastrophe ended an era of belief that men were born to fixed and unchangeable positions in society. With survivors everywhere grabbing for a share of the spoils left by the departed, an ambitious few started rushing towards high estate with a speed and determination never seen before. Envious onlookers could only hope that these winners would soon fall from the pinnacle of power, as suddenly and dramatically as they had risen.

PROLOGUE A World Ends

Footsteps.

Kate stirred. She was lying on the floor, on her side. She must have managed to fall asleep. She was stiff. Her hip was digging into the packed earth. It was hot already, and there was a burning strip of light coming through the shutters. It took her a moment to understand what she was hearing.

Someone sauntering along the lane outside, with a cheerful, confident, light stride. Whistling.

Kate scrambled heavily to her feet. With the baby inside her kicking and punching, full of energy and raunch, keen to be out and breathing God’s air, and with her own heart pounding like the millstream paddles in the spring melt, she rushed to the doorway.

There’d been nearly sixty people living in Great Henney just the other day. They’d all gone. Or that’s how it seemed. She’d heard no other footsteps for at least a day, sniffed no smoke on the air, no cooking of broth or eggs last evening. She’d thought she was alone, with just the panicky lowing of lost cows, and the anxious clip of dogs’ paws, and the stink. So who could be striding about like that now, whistling the kind of jaunty dance tune you could kick your heels up to?

It was only when she was almost out in the daylight that she stopped. It was too easy to hope. She shouldn’t be rash. This person might mean danger.

She dropped to her knees, below a passer-by’s eye level, and peered cautiously through leaves and branches. She felt as wild and scared down there as a woodland beast. It was only the hope she couldn’t quite suppress that seemed human.

Kate could see brightness in the hedgerow. The midsummer flowers were still glowingly alive, the birds singing, the insects buzzing. There were stripes of corn still yellowing in the field, greener stripes of rye and barley, and the fronds of beans.

But as soon as she was close enough to the doorway to see all the things that seemed so normal, she was also close enough to get a noseful of the stink. It seemed worse every time, but what could you expect? It was a hot day. Not that she could actually see any human bodies from here. But they must be there. What she could see were the corpses of the sheep on the common in front of the field. All dead, hundreds of them. They’d started dropping at the same time as the people. There were flies rising drunkenly in the grass, clouds of flies, buzzing from one still mound to the next.

She and Dad had buried Tom three days ago, and Mum, before Dad went off on the penitents’ procession. An hour, he said. But he didn’t come back. And the baby would come any day now. Maybe tonight.

But now, in bright daylight, there was this woman, a stranger, who didn’t seem to have a care in the world, coming up the lane towards her. Despite herself, despite the possible danger, Kate craned forward.

The stranger was a sharp-faced, tall thing, with pale freckly skin, and ginger hair peeping out under her kerchief, and skinny limbs. She was maybe thirty. The woman didn’t bother to pretend she couldn’t see Kate staring at her. She just stared back down with frank interest, then nodded, and said, quite matter-of-factly, quite cheerfully, ‘That baby’s not already started coming, has it?’

The words were so normal that Kate suddenly felt ashamed to be down on her knees, like a wild beast.

Blushing furiously, she shook her head and started to raise herself from the floor, grateful for the warm splintery ordinariness of the door frame under her hands, hot with relief that she wasn’t alone any more.

‘Backache,’ the woman said, still assessing her with that not unfriendly look. ‘Terrible, that can be, when you’re as far gone as you are. Gah. Tell me about it.’ She sniffed and stuck out a hand; she took Kate’s arm and hauled the girl the last few inches till they were both standing, not too close, one on each side of the threshold. ‘Still,’ the woman went on. ‘One thing.’ She eyed Kate’s bump, and Kate thought there was something almost hungry in her look. ‘It’s not all just dying, whatever they might say. God destroying the race of Adam, my arse. Here’s one bit of new life coming in, anyway. So. Not all bad, is it?’

Tremulously, Kate laughed. The woman nodded approvingly. She took a step forward and patted the bump. ‘On your own out here, are you?’ the stranger said, not unkindly.

For just a moment, Kate had another faint shiver of worry at letting an incomer know just how vulnerable she was. Then she thought: I don’t care if she does know. She can see I’m on my own whatever I say. She’s got a kind way with her. I need to keep her here.

The woman wasn’t from round these parts, that was for sure. Not with that sharp quick way of talking, words all bitten into each other. But she was another living human. ‘Tom’s dead,’ Kate blurted, as trustingly as the girl she’d been before she’d married him, on her fourteenth birthday, six months ago, before the pregnancy showed. ‘Mum…we buried them. But now Dad…he went on the procession. With Sir John. The priest. He was only supposed to be gone an hour or two.’

She was surprised how calm and level her own voice sounded. She knew Dad was dead too, really. She was still scared, but it was ordinary fear now – the watchfulness of two foxes meeting in the forest. She was surprised how grateful she was to this woman just for being here with her.

The woman gave her a bright little look, and shook her head. ‘Tom was your man, was he?’ she asked, still shaking it, as if the news was a surprise and a sorrow, though one borne lightly. ‘And you’d be who, then…?’ She lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Kate,’ Kate stammered. ‘They call me Young Kate.’ She’d never had to explain herself. She’d never met someone who didn’t already know her.

‘Well, wouldn’t you know it,’ the woman said. She put down her bundle. There wasn’t much in it, maybe a change of linen and a piece of bread, it was that light. She was still shaking her head, as if she couldn’t believe something. ‘My Tom’s little wife,’ she said. Then, to Kate’s shock, she leaned forward and pinched Kate’s cheek. ‘A right little beauty he got himself and all,’ she added with a sudden, toothy grin.

Kate stepped back, touching her cheek. That jocular pinch had been quite hard. She didn’t know if she liked the growing brightness in the woman’s voice. Faintly, she said, ‘Your Tom?’

‘Cousin,’ the woman offered. Nothing more. She glanced behind Kate, behind the cottage, behind the open-sided barn where the tiles were drying, to the kiln. A knowing sort of look. In her flat quick voice, she added, ‘You must have heard of us. My dad’s the one used to take the tiles from the kiln there to market. Way back, we’re talking now. Must be twenty years ago.’ She nodded again. Her story was taking shape. She was gaining fluency. ‘Married a London girl, my dad, didn’t he? My mum, that was. Stayed on with her family. Liked the hustle and bustle of town life. Always talked about home though. Brought me here once, when I was a kid. Your Tom and me, thick as thieves we were, back then. Climbing trees, swimming in the river’ – she gestured at the landscape – ‘smoking out bees for honey. Nicking the broken bits of tiles for skimming stones. A proper little terror he was in those days. Oh, the things he taught me.’ She went back to shaking her head, with that tough smile pinned on her face and her bright little eyes fixed very hard on Kate’s.

Part of Kate knew there was something wrong. The more she thought about it, the more seemed wrong. Tom had never mentioned having blood in London that Kate remembered. And they’d surely never been kids at the same time, these two. Tom must have been a good ten years younger. Mustn’t he? Plus which, most importantly, it wasn’t ever Tom’s dad, who’d died years ago, who’d worked out what you could do with the clay. The tiles were her dad’s business. So there must be a mistake. The woman must be mixing her up with someone else. Some other Essex village. Some other tilery. Some other Tom. But if she pointed that out the woman might go. And the baby was coming, and Kate’s back was aching. She told herself: He wasn’t a talker, Tom. Perhaps he just never had a chance to tell me about a family in London.

‘What’s your name?’ she said.

The woman only grinned wider. ‘Alice…Alison,’ she said, as if she hadn’t quite decided. ‘You just call me Aunty.’

Then Aunty put a bony arm around Kate’s shoulder and began walking her inside her home. ‘Come on, love,’ she said, strangely tender. ‘Let’s us get a fire going. I’m starving, and you need to feed that baby of yours, don’t you?’

The next morning, after the baby came, they had eggs and a bit of the pound of bread that was already drying and crumbling away and a few dandelion leaves that Aunty picked and some onion slices from the store. The little girl had been washed and wrapped up in the waiting rags, and Kate, also clean, was lying, still weak and aching and not quite sure what was going on, but with radiant happiness mixed up with her exhaustion and lighting up her plump little face. She held the small breathing bundle in her arms, gazing at her with the disbelief of every new mother, even in circumstances less strange than these, seeing Tom’s eyes, and Mum’s snub nose, and her own dark hair.

Aunty had fed the hens and made sure they were secured. (‘Wouldn’t want them to go astray, now, would we?’ she said with gallows humour, as if they were hers as much as Kate’s. ‘Because God only knows where we’d be for food without them eggs.’) Then she sat down on the stool by Kate’s straw bed, in the band of light cast by the propped-open door, and looked proudly at her charges.

Aunty was tired, after the night of blood and buckets and water and yelled instructions to push. She could feel her eyes prickling under their scratchy lids. But it had all gone well in the end. Alive, all of them. And that was something, at least, she thought. Another one in the eye for the forces of darkness.

Then she began to talk, still very calmly, in a quiet, reminiscent, dreamy monotone, twitching her fingers through the rents and mends in her thin robe, about what she’d walked away from in London, and what she’d walked through on her tramp through Essex. Because she could see this poor little scrap didn’t know; didn’t have the least idea.

Death hadn’t just come stealing into this one village like black smoke. Whatever this girl thought, it wasn’t the sins of Kate’s mum, or dad, or Tom, or the no-good priest she kept going on about, that had made an angry God decide to smite them all dead, or whatever nonsense it was the priests kept spouting (till they died too).

There were people dying in their hundreds everywhere, Aunty said gently, trying not to shock the girl too much, while not blanketing her in mumbo-jumbo either. There were bodies in the lanes all over Essex: men, women, entire processions of penitents, lying where they’d dropped. Dead people, dead animals. In London they were piling up corpses in burial pits until the pits overflowed before filling them in, a bit. One pit would fill up with the dead before anyone had time to dig the next. Cadavers were dragged out of homes and left in front of the doors. London was no place to be while there was that going on, Aunty said. The air was too foul. They said husband was abandoning wife, wife husband, parents children, and the young their old folk. If you wanted to live, you had to walk. And she wanted to live.

‘So I thought, come and look up Tom and his family,’ she said, going back into the story from last night, about being some kind of relative.

If the girl was waiting to hear whether Aunty’s own family in London had all died, or if she’d been one of the ones who abandoned their own to save herself, she didn’t ask. Just sat there, round-eyed, open-mouthed, gawping. Aunty couldn’t tell if she was even really taking it in. Even if she was understanding the words, Aunty thought, it was probably too much to absorb their meaning all at once. Even for her, who’d seen it with her own eyes, it was hard enough to believe. So Aunty left the past in the past, and didn’t bother with her own story: the kids she couldn’t bury; the priest who wouldn’t say a Mass over them without money Aunty didn’t have. A shrug is all you can offer Fortune, in the end, when nothing will work out; and a calculation: they’re dead; nothing more you can do for them. You’ve got to look out for yourself. Time to go. Aunty just fiddled with the wiry ginger curls under her mended kerchief and went on with her sing-song account of the horror in the rest of the world.

Aunty said she’d heard people were dying even beyond England – all over Christendom, they said. The Mortality was said to have come from the East. People were dying of it in Italy a year ago. Maybe it had come to the ports of Italy in ships; maybe it was the earthquake in Italy that had let the foul sulphurous fumes out from the inside of the earth, from the hellfire below. And now, Aunty said, she’d heard tell of worse on the way. Strange tempests, with sheets of fire and huge murderous hailstones all mixed up together, so you couldn’t know whether you’d be burned to a crisp or battered to a pulp first. People said the fish in the seas were dying, and corrupting the air. But it didn’t matter whether you blamed the stinking mists and stagnant lakes and poisoned air on the Evil One or the Wrath of God. The important thing was to get away to somewhere clean.

‘But where,’ Aunty said, almost to herself. She looked round at the flat Essex field, the soft blue and green of the darkening sky, and wrinkled her nose. Surely the stink here was as bad as anything in London. ‘There’s the rub.’

Aunty paused, and then said, because talking was strangely comforting now she’d started, that she’d heard there were four hundred a day dying just in Avignon, where the Pope’s palace was. And all the cardinals were dead. Good riddance to them, Aunty added with grim pleasure.

She could see Kate couldn’t imagine four hundred people alive, let alone dead, and wasn’t sure what a cardinal was. So instead, timidly, the girl opened her pink lips at last and asked what must have been on her own mind all this time. ‘We couldn’t find Sir John. Tom, Mum…they didn’t have any last rites,’ she mumbled. ‘We prayed. Just the two of us. But I don’t think it was enough. And Dad. If he’s…gone…too. Do you think that means they’re all…’ Her voice faded.

‘Damned?’ Aunty finished for her, grasping her meaning. ‘Because there was no priest? Nah. That’s been the same everywhere – the priests too scared to minister to the dying. Scared they’re heading for hell themselves, after all their years of wickedness. Keen to keep out of their Maker’s clutches.’ And here, to stop her voice catching, she made it shrill, almost a shout: ‘And too greedy to look after the dead without payment, too, half the time. Trying to take money off people even to say a prayer over the bodies.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, that’s priests for you. It’s not just your kin. We could all go to bloody Hell, and what would they care?’

She sensed, from the stunned quality of the girl’s silence, that she’d gone too far. ‘Priests…Don’t get me started on priests,’ Aunty said, a bit apologetically. ‘What you need to know is, some bishop’s sorted it out so that we don’t all burn for eternity because of their selfishness. He says laymen can make confession to each other if they can’t find a priest. The Apostles did that, didn’t they? And if there isn’t a man around to confess to, it can even be a woman. And if there’s no one around at all, then, they say, faith must suffice. And it does. Suffice. You keep that in your head. Your folks are not in Hell. Your folks are all right.’

The girl nodded, and took her saucer eyes off Aunty and gazed down at the baby. Aunty could see what she was thinking: no baptism, so, also, damned?

‘We’re all here. That’s the main thing. You, and me, and this new little life here,’ Aunty broke determinedly into that thought before the girl’s terror took hold. ‘All alive, all blessed by God, all ready to face tomorrow.’ She made the sign of the Cross over the baby. Then she made a wry sort of face. ‘No priest,’ she said, ‘no problem.’ She wagged her finger at Kate. ‘We don’t need them bastards any more to save ourselves, remember?’ She dipped her finger in the last bucket of water left and made the holy sign again on the baby’s face, and said a made-up blessing. ‘Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae,’ she muttered against the baby’s crying. ‘Live long and well, little one. Be happy. Be a beauty. Make others happy, if they deserve it. Be lucky. And be rich if you can! Amen.’

The women smiled tentatively at each other. They both liked the strange little prayer – taking the ordinary chatter that fell from their lips as the Word of God. ‘I’m going to call her Alice,’ the girl said confidingly. ‘After you.’ Then, quite peacefully, as if Aunty had put her worries to rest: ‘Will you sing that song, the one I heard you whistling?’ She was just a child herself.

Aunty wrinkled her not-young face till slightly mocking lines criss-crossed it; in the shadows, she felt as though the sorrows of all the world were on it. ‘Thought it was a nice cheerful tune, did you?’ she said. ‘Catchy. Words a bit gloomier though. It was the tramping song I heard on the cattle road out. Toughened everyone up.’

She began to sing it, quietly, breathily, like a lullaby. She had a deepish tuneful voice. She kept her eyes on Kate, whose eyes were drooping as if she didn’t mind the words. ‘Woe is me of the shilling in the armpit!…Seething, terrible, shouting hurt…Great is its seething like a burning cinder…A grievous thing of ashy hue.’

Looking at the bright square of outside through the door frame, Aunty wondered, as she sang, how many other survivors were also watching the horizon. You couldn’t know if there were any; not really. She and these kids might be the last people of all, alone in the desolation.

Well, we’re all right, she thought stoutly, shutting out the blackness. We’ll get on our feet. And it wouldn’t be all bad, a world with just us, and no priests.

Kate let her head start to nod as she listened to the cracked voice, trying not to think of anything except the part of her that was still rejoicing in the touch of the baby, of skin and cloth on her skin. She yawned. She was tired, so tired. The yawn didn’t surprise her. But she hadn’t expected to start crying. She certainly didn’t expect the dirty wash of despair that now broke through her without any warning, the blubbery, snuffly sneezings and coughings, as if she were grieving for her losses and all the woes in the world, now, suddenly, all at once.

Aunty – Alison, Alice – stood up. There was something new in her face, something watchful. She picked the baby up off Kate’s breast.

‘Going to put her down for a sleep,’ Aunty said. With the baby held against herself, she twirled a blanket down over Kate’s nakedness without touching her. ‘She’ll be tired, after what she’s been through. You need a bit of quiet too, love. Shut your eyes.’

It was only when Aunty and the baby had stepped outside, into the strong morning light, and Aunty had quietly pushed the door to behind her, that Kate felt, through the aches and bruises of what her body had endured all night, a different kind of pain. There were swellings on either side of her throat, she realised, and where her legs joined her body. She twisted her wet face round, stiffly, because everything ached so much, and squinted into her armpit. It was too shadowy inside to be sure, but she thought the great pulsing engorged mound she saw there was turning black.

PART ONE Regno I reign

ONE

They’re late for the dinner; late enough that the light is beginning to fade, and the torches are lit, and the ice swans are beginning to melt, rivulets of water running between the silver channels down the table. They’ve clearly been bickering all the way to Westminster, these two. They look set-faced and stubborn, each in his own fashion. But then they’re an odd couple, by anyone’s book: the wife tall and graceful and long-necked as the ice swans, visibly at home in these grand surroundings, while the altogether shorter and stubbier husband’s only resemblance to a swan is that, like the icy masterpieces starting to sail down the vast table, he’s sweating, even before the dancing’s begun.

Philippa Chaucer sways down the table to her place, weaving her way among the throng of pages and serving men as if they were invisible, making it clear to her life’s companion, as he makes his way more awkwardly down the other side to his parallel place, that she’s noting how far they are from the grandees at the top.

‘If only,’ she mouths, somehow managing to form the chilly words without reducing her chiselled beauty by even a fraction, and indicating the luxury that surrounds them with a small, expert lift of one eyebrow, ‘if only you had even a tenth of that woman’s ambition, how different things might be for us.’

Geoffrey, her husband, only responds by looking around, as if he’s surprised by it all, at the eye-popping feast conjured into existence by the ambition of that woman, the King’s mistress. He furrows his brow in anxiety. He runs his fingers through his hair – or tries to. His fingers connect with the hat he’s forgotten he’s wearing. They knock it half off his head. He crams it back on, all wrong, and sits down with an embarrassing thump on the bench, interrupting the conversation of the men on either side of him. He goes red. He begins a wordy apology. Philippa looks at him, shakes her head very slightly, and sighs.

Dance, all of you, dance, Alice thinks, watching the crowd of sweating faces below, rather enjoying their sufferings. Go on. Higher, a tiny bit higher.

It’s an unusually hot April evening. It’s only ten minutes since Alice signalled for the tables to be pushed against the walls. The air’s still thick with sheep fat and fowl grease. But how they’re all throwing themselves about in the crowd below.

She can’t resist taking pleasure in examining them from the superior vantage point of the royal dais. The courtiers have fused into one heaving mass, energetically going through the motions of the saltarello. They’re glowing and glistening and panting under their turbans, inside their heavy velvets and silks. They’re all doing their best to show their King they’re happy to be where they are, and watching Alice where she is, at his side.

Alice fans herself complacently, and examines the rictus smile on the dark face of the Duke of Lancaster. He looked so dignified in his red a few minutes ago, but now his face is the same blood hue as his tunic. It pleases her that even the world’s most arrogant man is out there, gritting his teeth and leaping in the air, as determined as the rest of the scarletfaced courtiers to please the King his father and host by looking delighted with the entertainment laid on by Alice.

She turns a little, enough to murmur into the ear of the King his father and host, in a way that the Duke will be sure to see. (She’s wanted to make a relationship with Duke John for years, even though, between his long absences at the war in France, he’s not yet shown great interest in her. So it won’t do him any harm to show him the extent of her power now. She knows how power attracts.) The lords a-leaping down there won’t be able to hear what she’s saying to their master, but they’ll be able to guess at the tone of her voice from her sly sideways grin. ‘I don’t know how they all have the energy,’ she murmurs, affecting weariness, and fans herself. She has it all worked out. No one will ever expect Edward to dance, unless by some whim he chooses to. His age lets him off: rising sixty-two, and the long golden beard long ago turned silver. So he’ll be pleased she wants to sit it out too. And why not? There’s no point in her tiring herself out tonight. Her big day will be tomorrow. ‘In this heat…’ she adds, even more languidly. She likes the way the French comes sliding so naturally out of her mouth, as if she’d been born to it, even if, in reality, her French has been learned more at Stratford-atte-Bowe than in Paris. She’s had to work hard at it, in her time. But if she’s learned anything, it is that the point of hard work is to make things look easy. When Edward chuckles back, and pats her hand, she permits herself a slightly bigger smile.

They haven’t always been so eager to please, those courtiers down there. Let them dance to her tune now.

Tomorrow, Edward will show her off to the world, in a burst of glory the like of which England has never seen. Tomorrow, for a week, mercenaries, princes and dukes from all over Christendom will watch a pageant in which the influence of Alice Perrers, who has come so far already in her twenty-five years on this earth, and might yet go further, is finally made plain.

Tomorrow, at mid-morning, the court will walk through London dressed in red and white, the colours she’s chosen for the week. With the ladies holding the horses of their gentlemen by their golden bridles, they’ll set off from outside this window, from the Hill behind the Tower, and process along Tower Street and Chepe, then out of Aldersgate to the pasture-cum-jousting ground at Smithfield. And then the gentlemen of the court will joust, in her honour, while the people of the City, all dressed in their coloured liveries, watch and cheer. And she, and only she, Alice Perrers, who will be known for the week as Lady of the Sun (a title she’s thought of herself), as well as Queen of the Lists, will ride in a golden chariot, at the centre of everything. She’ll be wearing a cap encrusted with jewels, and a cloak of Venetian gold lined with red taffeta, on top of the red gown, lined in white, embroidered with seed pearls, and edged in royal ermine, that she’s got on tonight. She’s going to astonish. She’s going to impress.

It’s time they realised – all these courtiers, all those Londoners – that a woman who’s already, by the grace of God and the generosity of the King of England (and her own financial acumen), one of the richest people in the land, has every intention of shining like the sun for the rest of her days.

She hasn’t forgotten her place entirely. Not really. She isn’t going to start acting like, or thinking of herself as, a real, born-to-the-throne queen. (Anyway, who would have let her if she tried? They all still worship the memory of dear old Queen Philippa, who’s been dead for most of the eight years of Alice’s supremacy; and Alice doesn’t have a drop of anything like royal blood in her veins, or noble blood, or even knightly blood. She’s a different kind altogether. She’s not even very interested in thinking of being a helpless, dependent, real queen; she likes her freedom too much to dream of sitting still in an expensive robe, smiling at posturing fools of knights-errant, for the rest of her days.) Still, only an idiot could ignore the meaning of her punning pageant title, and Londoners aren’t idiots. Edward’s royal symbol is the sun. If Alice Perrers is to be Lady of the Sun, at least for this week of glory, then she will be displaying all the power a queen commands. And power, at least the quiet kind that comes with wealth, she does enjoy.

Even before Edward, even as a very young woman, Alice was busy consolidating her position in this world. Every penny she’s ever inherited, or made, has been put back into snapping up leases on this property or that, taking on unconsidered trifles of fields or tenements here, there and everywhere, making improvements, building, putting up rents, and using the profits to buy more. She’s got a gift for it. She’s done extraordinarily well – far better than she would have if she’d set her sights purely on imitating the real born-to-it ladies of the court and becoming almost indistinguishable from them. But, of course, it’s been much easier for her to achieve wealth since the world came to realise that there’s a misty, unseen, kingly presence at her back. That knowledge concentrates people’s minds. It keeps them honest. No one cheats on a bargain with Alice, as her store of coin and leases grows. No one has, for a long time.

The real point of this week’s festivities, as far as Alice is concerned, is to make sure she can continue to enjoy the power that feeds and protects all the wealth she’s still building up – even after Edward dies.

For Alice has begun to understand that the enchanted dream she’s been living in until now – the best part of a decade as the indulged darling of a dear old man who, himself, has been on the throne for nearly half a century, and is loved, everywhere, as England’s greatest king – must soon come to an end. No one else seems to have noticed or to be planning their next move, although when Edward does pass on the end of his reign will surely affect them all. The gentry grumble about paying taxes to fund his war in France, true. But they carry on buying expensive clothes and jewels, far beyond their means, and raiding each other’s manor houses when they think they can get away with stealing a few fields, just as the courtiers carry on dancing and jousting and prancing off to the war at vast expense and raiding each other’s castles, as if they all thought they could somehow continue for ever in the golden sunset years of Edward’s reign, in more or less peace, and more or less prosperity, stuffing their faces with larks’ tongues and honeyed peacock breasts, and watching the ice swans melt at an unending succession of banquet tables.

But Alice has heard Edward mumbling in the mornings, unable to shake off the night’s dreams; sometimes calling her ‘Philippa’ after his wife, or ‘Isabella’ after his favourite, headstrong, high-and-mighty fool of a daughter. He’s still most of the time, at least in front of others, the sparkling, charismatic, dynamic man he always was; but, in his unguarded moments, alone with her, she also sees the confused old man he’s becoming, or is about to become. She treats the creeping wound on his leg, which won’t heal, so she knows the extent of his physical decrepitude too, just as she knows the folly of his having recently restarted the war in France, years after he’s past his fighting prime, and of expecting to go on having the luck of the Devil that he enjoyed in his muscular youth, and winning.

So she’s formed a view. She needs to think about the future, beyond Edward. And she’s decided that the best way to protect herself against that cloudy tomorrow is to cultivate the friendship of one of Edward’s sons. Not to become a mistress again, obviously, for Alice doubts that a prince who could have any woman in the land would want his father’s cast-off, no longer young; she’s realistic enough never to have mistaken her rounded plumpness and dark curls and cheeky freckles for beauty. What Alice wants next is respect and recognition; a relationship that will maintain something of her influence and visibility, while leaving her the freedom of manoeuvre she needs to carry on buying up land and extending her possessions.

Ideally, she’d have preferred this respect and recognition to come from the son who is destined to be the next King of England. But the noble Prince Edward of England, heir to the throne, the former war hero, the ex-ruler of southern France, and as widely admired at court and among the peasants and soldiery as Alice finds him evil-tempered and vindictive, is not an ideal choice of patron for several reasons. One is his wife, Princess Joan, who’s made it clear to Alice for years now that she will never have time for a nouveau riche from nowhere. The other is that the Prince of England has been dying, agonisingly slowly, of some Castilian dropsy caught on campaign, for longer than Alice cares to remember. He’s still clinging to life for the moment; but Alice doubts he will make it to become King Edward IV. And there’s no point in hoping that, when the Prince does die, she’ll get anywhere with his little boy, Richard, a child in the nursery, guarded by his disagreeable mother, that bloated ex-beauty of a princess with the pursed lips and nostrils that flare and dent white whenever she sees Alice.

That leaves the other royal son: John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, the man out there, sweating as he dances. Son number three originally, but since the death of his brother Lionel he’s been son number two; and with every chance that his eldest brother Prince Edward hasn’t long left in this vale of tears either, he’s all too likely, all too soon, to be the King’s eldest surviving son.

It’s a matter of whispered conjecture whether Duke John might, in that eventuality, try and get the throne for himself, rather than protect it for his little nephew, his brother’s son. Some people point to Duke John’s innate nobility, the courteous conservatism in every thought and gesture, and say he wouldn’t. But most people think he would.

There’s no doubt that Duke John’s a good-looking man, in body. There’s a grace to the way he bows his long lean frame, a beauty in the line of eye and cheekbone, and his voice is deep and authoritative. He has a natural dignity of behaviour. But Alice isn’t so sure this beauty extends to his soul. Nor are most other people. After all, Duke John has already claimed one throne, after taking as his second wife a disinherited princess of Castile. He likes to call himself ‘We, the King of Castile’ in his correspondence, and is always threatening to go and conquer Castile and win back his wife’s country (at the expense of the English taxpayer). The suspicious way most people see it is this: would a prince who’s so greedy for a crown that he’ll go all that way in pursuit of one turn up his nose at the much more glorious Crown of England, if he got a chance to grab it? Of course he wouldn’t.

The very fact that people are so ready to believe the worst of the Duke of Lancaster, with no proof one way or the other, shows what an unpopular man this John of Gaunt is. Not without reason, Alice knows. He’s the scratchy kind. He rubs people up the wrong way, even when he doesn’t mean to; and all too often he does mean to. Even among the aristocrats of this court, he’s considered unusually arrogant; considering the competition, Alice thinks wryly, that’s quite an achievement. Certainly he’s not loved among his social inferiors. He hates his father being so dependent on the merchants of London for money. To the merchants’ pained displeasure, he talks too much about the nobility of the nobility and the crawling servility of the lesser orders. And merchants and noblemen alike now have an excuse to dislike and despise Duke John because, in the absence of his sick brother, he’s been in charge of the English armies in France in this disastrous past year, so he’s the one to carry the can for losing pretty much all of English Gascony and costing the country a mint of money. In fact, it’s a good job the Duke’s the richest man in England, with territories from the Scottish border to the South, because he has precious few friends anywhere, and if it weren’t for his money, he’d have none at all.

John of Gaunt needs more than money. He needs to learn to be popular – especially if, as Alice thinks likely, he’s one day going to have a try for the English crown. Alice’s nose for money tells her that any king nowadays will need finance from outside his own estates. Rents aren’t what they used to be, now that there are only half the number of Englishmen to farm the land and pay the landlords. The nobility is poorer. So the most important lesson the Duke needs to learn is how to get on with the London merchants, who are becoming as powerful as the merchant princes of Italy were right after the Mortality (until Edward bankrupted all of them with an earlier lot of colossal war debts). The top few merchants are richer than all the noblemen of England put together. Duke John’s got to stop treating them like dirty sheep-shearing tinkerish no-good thieves. He’s got to respect them as the financiers of today’s England. And it’s Alice’s private belief that there’s only one person who can teach him all that – who understands both court and City, and can explain it right. That person is her.

So Alice has dreamed up this week of glamorous frivolity, this (to her mind) insanely expensive joust in red and gold, with feasts every night for the court and wine flowing instead of water in the conduits of London for the commoners. The week is not so much in honour of the courtly love between swooning knights and the cruel ladies they’re fighting to impress, which the tourney’s officially supposed to celebrate; Alice has no time at all for the foolishness of chivalry. Nor is it just to amuse and entertain the court, or even to impress on the people of England her own royal-favoured status. What she really wants from it all is to help this man she would like to know better.

‘We need to do something to take their minds off the war,’ Edward said, back at New Year. He looked at her with his eyes dancing the way they always used to, with his lips and eyebrows slightly raised in a near-smile of expectation, with all his old confidence that the fire in him would communicate itself to her, and that she’d come up with some exuberant, extrovert, extraordinary idea, worthy of the King he was and the life they lived together. ‘We need to stop them raging against John.’

She knew exactly how to answer. ‘A pageant…a joust!’ she murmured excitedly back, without a pause, with the golden delight that being with Edward has always brought her, with the sense that, when she’s with him, she’s breathing in air that tingles with stardust (or devilment – he’d probably prefer her to think of his magic as a bit satanic). ‘We’ll have a joust – we’ll remind them of the glory of England in arms. They’ll forget their gripes with my lord of Lancaster in no time, once they’re drunk as drowned mice on free wine, watching the knights fight. It’ll be all songs and glory talk instead.’ He laughed at that. How handsome Edward is, still, when he throws his head back like that and laughs.

‘It can’t be too obvious,’ she warned him. Edward’s prone to getting carried away. Sometimes she has to remind him to be more subtle. ‘It can’t be too much about my lord. With the mood the people of London are in right now, they might not even come if they thought they were just going to have to applaud him for days at a stretch. So…we’ll give it a theme, not about him at all. Something innocent…to do with love, maybe…and we’ll give them free wine…And, on the second or third day of tourneying, he’ll win his bout, once they’re all in a mood to remember the might of England. And that’s when everything will calm down.’

Edward accepted that, of course. It’s Alice who, soon afterwards, thought of the spring sun-worshipping theme, and the title of Lady of the Sun, and accepted the role for herself, graciously, when Edward offered it; of course she did. She doesn’t care, especially, about the title. Titles, in her view, are an encumbrance; they make you too visible; every jealous nobody can take a pot-shot at you. Alice runs the royal households everywhere from Windsor to Sheen to Havering-atte-Bower, controlling the lives and purses of hundreds of servants. She’s so important that the Pope himself petitions her for diplomatic favours. Yet in the entire five years since Philippa died, she’s never had any official court status beyond the shadowy calling of demoiselle to a long-dead queen. She doesn’t altogether mind that, to this day, no one knows whether to call her ‘my lady,’ or just ‘Mistress Perrers’. But this title is a piece of glorious frivolity. She’ll enjoy it while it lasts, just as she’ll enjoy the wonderful robe and cloak and cap she gets, worth a king’s ransom. It never hurts to take a gift, she thinks. And it never hurts to ask for a bit more afterwards either.

It will be fun. It will all be beautifully organised (because it’s been organised by her). But the important thing in her mind is that, by the end of this week, Alice is determined she will have made the difficult Duke feel gratitude to her; she’ll have made John of Gaunt her friend.

Watching the heads, Alice’s eyes light on Philippa Chaucer, somehow managing to bring grace even to the saltarello. When her heart does its usual nervous little leap at the sight of that lovely, and too familiar, back, it reminds her that she hasn’t always been so phlegmatic about her position at court.

Alice smoothes the red folds of her robe over her knees, remembering. She touches Edward’s arm with a hand; she leaves it trailing there, against his sleeve, so he can see her fingers. They aren’t particularly beautiful hands, hers – too square and strong for a lady. How mortified she was, back at the beginning (sitting very obediently at Queen Philippa’s feet, sewing her tiniest stitches, carefully watching every courtly female in the room from under her lashes for fear of making a mistake), to realise that the two goddess-like demoiselles sitting on cushions beside her were whispering about her hands. ‘Meat cleavers,’ she made out, puzzling over the foreign words before she understood the sharp looks her way and sly hints of smiles. ‘Wherryman’s oars. Bear’s paws. Don’t you think?’ Then, with dawning shame, ‘Thick ankles, too…’ She remembered her eyes widening as her insides turned over. One of them saw she was eavesdropping, and nudged the other, and they both quickly bent over their embroidery. Alice hadn’t been there long enough at that stage to be sure which of the sisters was which. They were both blonde and long-limbed and apricot-skinned in that un-English Hainaulter way (Queen Philippa liked to surround herself with other people from the Low Countries). They were both self-assured with it, and so alike they might have been twins. Her first thought was to stick out her chin and make a fight of it with the pair of them. But she wasn’t such a fool as that. She knew she didn’t know how to fight here, yet. So she just sat on beside them, numb and prickling, fighting alternating desires to hide her shameful hands and to use them to give the smug, beautiful sisters a good slap round the face. She was burning with the slight. But she could feel herself absorbing it too. She thought: I’ll bide my time, for now (though I’ll get my own back later).

She was wrong to want to hide her hands, at least. She’s learned that since. Her hands might not be as white and slender and long-fingered as Katherine or Philippa de Roët’s, but they’re young. Firm. Fresh-skinned. That’s what Edward likes about them. He often holds her hands, even nowadays. He doesn’t just hold them. He holds them up, and looks at them with eyes whose pale, pale blue is beginning to go cloudy, and strokes the skin. Alice’s hands make him nostalgic.

But that isn’t why she wants him to notice her hands tonight; why, next to him, she’s fiddling and pleating so insistently at her robe or his sleeve. Or at least it’s not the only reason. Perhaps the sight of Philippa de Roët’s effortless beauty has made Alice feel insecure, and reminded her of the other small matter on her mind.

Even though Alice’s robe is the most splendid in this hall, and has no doubt cost dozens of seamstresses the best of their eyesight to be finished in time, her fingers and wrists are bare.

She should have jewels all over her hands to match the thousands of seed pearls sewn in cloudy swirls all over the silk.

There’s nothing glittering at her neck, either. And no jewels dressing her hair, just a thin glitter of gold thread from the caul net holding the dark waves in place under her cap.

It looks shocking to have nothing. Naked. Almost improper.

When Edward doesn’t immediately look down at her bare hand, she moves it to cover his. Blue veins; knobbles; big brown freckles. But the face above them, still fine-boned and lean, is so handsome, so noble. He’s still a god among men. Her King Arthur.

She’s aware of the quizzical look on Edward’s face. She thinks: He knows what I’m going to say.

He almost certainly does know what she’s up to, and the favour she’s going to ask. He’s no fool, Edward. They play games about gifts: she begs, or he begs; she holds out, or he holds out. They both like bargaining. They’re both fascinated by money. It’s one of the things she likes about him.

‘Do I look enough the Queen of the Sun in this, do you think?’ she asks, raising the hand to his shoulder and running it down his arm with the beginning of sensuality. Edward smiles and shivers pleasurably, like an old cat lying in the sun having its tummy tickled. He’s always ready to take pleasure where he finds it. From the floor, she’s aware of the Duke of Lancaster’s eyes boring into her too. She ignores him. Let him wait his turn. She says, ‘My lord…truthfully now?’

Edward half smiles, with half-hooded eyes, and inclines his head forward. But he doesn’t look at her hands, or her bare throat. ‘You are a paragon of loveliness, mon amour,’ he says, but she’s aware of the distance creeping into his playfulness. ‘More every day. Today especially. You’ll astonish the world.’

‘Even’, she says delicately, ‘without jewels?’

Edward doesn’t sigh, quite. But he doesn’t meet her eye, either. Less gently, he says, ‘Dear girl, you have jewels. Your own jewels. A great many of them too.’

She says, ‘But with this robe, Queen Philippa’s rubies would be…’

Smiling over her head, and bowing to her without hearing her out, Edward rises to his feet. The Duke of Lancaster is on the dais and approaching the table.

‘A fine performance, my boy,’ Alice hears Edward boom at his son from over her head. He sounds relieved to have a way of ending this conversation with Alice. Yet the dead Queen’s jewels aren’t official royal gems, not part of the treasury, just Queen Philippa’s private collection of trinkets. There’s no real reason of state why Edward shouldn’t let Alice, or any other commoner, mistress, favourite, or friend, use them. Alice used to have to clean them. It was part of her job as demoiselle, back in the day. She held them up to the light, dreaming. She tried them on. She knows them all. So she keeps nagging him about them, even on the days, like today, when it clearly irritates him. One day, she thinks, without particular rancour, he just might give in – because, after all, why shouldn’t she wear them? She’s doing the work of a queen, so why shouldn’t she have the reward? What good are they doing anyone in their boxes?

She knows, really, why he’s reluctant. Edward wants to keep a part of himself, and his memories, separate from her; he wants a place he can remember the big silvery-blonde Queen he loved for so long. He doesn’t want another woman wearing Philippa’s trinkets. She respects that; she really does. But she can’t help herself. It’s not in her nature not to ask for more.

‘…the rubies would be so perfect…’ Alice finishes, disconsolately. Her voice trails away. There’s no point. Neither of the men is listening.

‘You’re taking a chance, aren’t you?’ Duke John says with slightly rough familiarity, as they step close in the column of couples. Alice doesn’t mind dancing, if it’s the stately, dignified basse dance, and if it’s with him. They’ve talked privately before; she’s spent many a Christmas with Edward and his family. Her estate at Wendover, north of London, is close to part of the Duke’s Lancastrian territory; so they’re neighbours. But he’s never made a public point like this of acknowledging her before. With him at her side, she doesn’t even mind entering the crowd of courtiers who are just a little too impressed by their own noble lineage to enjoy meeting her eye, even though she can see the de Roët women in the line of dancers, and they’re both still as terrifyingly lovely as ever. Ah, who cares? she tells herself, suddenly gay. I’m having a better life than either of them. Katherine’s now the widow Swynford, with a little estate somewhere up in Lincolnshire and several children running wild. And Philippa’s married to one of Edward’s esquires, that clever little elf Chaucer, though no one thinks they’re happy; she scuttled straight back to work with the Duchess of Lancaster, mean Castilian ladies-in-waiting and all, after both her babies, as if nothing would persuade her to stay home with her husband. They’d probably both rather be in my shoes, Alice thinks.

‘My lord?’ Alice replies, too innocently. ‘What do you mean, taking a chance?’

The Duke of Lancaster steps back in time with the lilting twelve-quaver beat, but with an interested look that suggests the conversation isn’t over. A second later, as they lean together again, he goes on, glancing down at her finery: ‘Your robe is almost exactly the same as the Princess of England’s at Christmas…as I’m sure you realise,’ and gives her a challenging smile with one eyebrow raised.

Of course I realise, she thinks patiently. I had Princess Joan’s dress copied, didn’t I? And I did it so you’d notice, didn’t I? The Princess never showed herself at a public court dinner at Christmas; she only attended family occasions. So no one outside the royal family will have seen it. And Edward’s eyes are failing; he never notices the colour of robes any more. It’s a joke for the two of us to share. We’re supposed to draw closer, and wink, and enjoy ourselves watching each other enjoying ourselves poking a bit of fun at the Princess, and then you’re supposed to think: Why, Alice Perrers, you and I, we’re kindred spirits. Two peas in a pod.

But that’s not what she says. She just flirts. She lifts her eyebrows and flashes him a smile that’s all teeth and daring. Demurely, she says, ‘No one else has mentioned a resemblance.’ Then she turns the corners of her lips up again.

She’s rewarded by a deep snort of scandalised laughter. She’s got his attention, all right. He’s shaking his head as he goes through the dance step, looking half-disapproving, but half-amused too.

‘What will you do if she turns up?’ he says. He sounds serious, but she can see that the corners of his lips, like the corners of hers, can’t quite stay down.

Alice knows John of Gaunt is said to love his much older sister-in-law and brother, and be sad that, in the past few years, since the Prince’s illness, they’ve gone cold on him. It’s obvious to everyone they’re scared he’s going to wait till his brother’s dead, then try and steal the throne from the little boy; but perhaps it isn’t obvious to him. People say he misses them. Probably, knowing what a stickler he is for the old ways, the old respect, no one’s ever tried lightening his feelings about losing his brother’s family’s affection by sending that old trout of a Princess Joan up, just a bit.

Alice thinks: I won’t let myself be rattled by the idea of Princess Joan coming here. Serenely, she replies, ‘Why would she?’

It’s unanswerable. They both know Joan of Kent will stay home on her side of the river, in Kennington, with her dropsy-ridden hulk of a husband and her mewling, puking seven-year-old. She was once a beauty, Joan of Kent. They even say she was Edward’s mistress, long ago, before she married his son, though Edward’s never breathed a word of any such thing to Alice. But Joan certainly isn’t the most beautiful woman in England any more, hasn’t been for years – certainly not since Alice first clapped eyes on her. She wasn’t a beauty any more even in her thirties, when she scandalised Christendom by taking for her third husband her royal cousin – a childhood playmate – in the obvious hope of getting a crown when he became king. And she’s fat and forty-five now, and the violet eyes poets wrote about long ago are puffy and mean. She’s hardly ever at court.

Alice thinks: She calls me a gold-digger, but what’s she? She might be a king’s granddaughter, but when it comes down to it, really, she’s nothing better than an old, failed gold-digger herself. Fortune has swung Joan up on her wheel, all right, to the dizzying heights of power, but she’s swung it down again too, and it’s all but destroyed her, poor old thing.

Whereas Alice…Alice sometimes feels the wind rushing through her head as she flies upwards through the golden clouds. And the last thing Alice thinks Joan will want to see is a younger woman lording it there in her place – succeeding where Joan failed – especially a younger woman she’s made a point of snubbing for so many years.

John of Gaunt’s eyes are fixed on Alice. She’s intrigued him beyond measure with this little display of insouciance, she sees. She knows it’s often the men who talk loudest about respect for the old ways who are most nervous of anything new. But she hasn’t expected, until now, to feel timidity behind this man’s arrogance. Hearing the music about to reach its final chord, she adds, quickly, almost comfortingly, ‘…so don’t worry.’

It would be a mistake to linger after that. But she enjoys the flash of discomfiture in his eyes as she bows and retreats to the dais. She doesn’t think her impudence has put him off. She can feel, from the way his eyes are following her across the floor, that he’ll be back for more.

By the time it’s fully dark, Alice has completely forgotten she wasn’t planning to dance. With fresh breezes coming in from the river, and Edward smiling dreamily down at her to the thin skirl of lute and dulcimer, and the stout guardsmen in a living ring of fire around the edge of the hall, each man’s feet planted a yard apart on the stone floor, each strong pair of arms holding a torch, a kind of careless magic enters the air.

She’s laughing and as pink as the rest of them, skipping in and out of the great wavering round of the carole, even clapping whole-heartedly as that born dancer Katherine Swynford does an especially complicated response to the Duke of Lancaster’s advance without losing her poise for a second, and the throng pauses and catches breath so everyone can admire the lovely young widow’s skill.

Alice’s vis-à-vis at that moment is Philippa de Roët’s merry-eyed little husband. She’s always rather liked him. He’s not from the nobility originally either. His father was a City magnate, a vintner, and she senses, in his slightly mocking smile, that sometimes he might find the endless tempers and savage pride of the courtiers as limiting as she does. He’s mopping his brow now and saying hazy but appreciative things of his sister-in-law: ‘Terpsichore…wouldn’t you say? The Muse of the dance…it’s a divine gift, to dance that well…as my own dear wife does too, and’ – hastily he twinkles at her, and bows – ‘your good self, of course, madame.’ Alice bows back. Master Chaucer tails off, in amusing mock-wistfulness: ‘Alas…if only I had the same gift…’

It doesn’t for a moment occur to Alice to wonder what the muffled tramp of feet outside, the horns and flutes, might signify.

It’s only when the already relaxed line of dancers wavers and breaks up, and, unaccountably, the crowd falls silent, like a group of animals at the approach of a predator, that Alice feels danger.

By then it’s too late.

With prickles at her spine, she turns.

Behind her, on the dais, Edward is on his feet, his grey beard streaming down his front, his mouth open. He looks old and dazed. His eyes are fixed on the door.

Through it, walking away from the little troop of musicians and soldiers and rowers she’s arrived with, and down the step straight towards Alice, in the middle of the crowded hall, the Princess of England is stumping.

Joan of Kent is carrying a jewelled goblet of wine that a servant must have hastily pressed into her hand. She isn’t taking any notice of it.

She’s wearing her own red taffeta Christmas robe – just like Alice’s, down to the pattern of the seed pearls.

And she’s staring at the younger woman with empty, frightening eyes.

The courtiers close quietly in as the two would-be queens, in their identical reds, come face to face. The expression on Joan of Kent’s face is that of a woman looking at her reflection in the mirror and hating it. Alice, who’s felt the dread start to wash through her at the sight of the Princess, like cold dirty riverwater, senses their suppressed excitement.

They want a fight, she thinks. They want to see me humiliated.

She clutches at the defiance this realisation brings with it. She needs the anger.

Brightly, she smiles, bows a deep bow, and says, in a loud enough voice for half the court to hear, ‘The Lady of the Sun welcomes you, madame. I am delighted you were able to honour us with your presence…’

Instead of edging back, as every instinct in her body is telling her to, she steps confidently forward, with a gracious hand outstretched towards the bulging silk of the Princess of England’s upper arm.

No one breathes. Now Joan will have to answer with a grated politesse of her own – at least, she would if she were minded to recognise Alice as a noblewoman like herself.

The silence continues for an unbearable moment.

Joan doesn’t bother with politesses, grated or otherwise. She rasps out one phrase. ‘You’re wearing my robe.’

There’s a little intake of breath. Alice is painfully aware of Edward’s eyes on her, from behind. Even he can’t help her now. She’ll have to deal with it herself.

If Joan’s going to insult her, there’s no telling how far she might go. Last year at Council, Joan’s husband had so lost his temper with the Archbishop of Canterbury, whom he suspected of preferring to obey the Pope than his King, that he’d yelled at the trembling prelate, in front of dozens of noblemen, ‘ANSWER, DONKEY!’

Alice squares her shoulders to stop them shaking. She’s not going to cut a pitiful figure like the poor Archbishop, whatever the Princess does. Not being frightened, that’s the key thing. She learned that years ago. Never show fear.

Bravely, she grins. Looking round to catch Edward’s eye, and draw him, from the dais, into this nightmarish conversation, she quips, brightly, perhaps too brightly: ‘Well, you know what they say. There’s never a new fashion but it’s old.’

Breaths are sucked in.

She waits, hardly daring to breathe herself.

At last, there’s a scared eddy of laughter. Alice senses the mood move, the support beginning to flow her way. She sees Edward shake his head in delight, and chuckle. You could always trust Alice to find a good line.

The danger’s past now, Alice tells herself, breathing easier. A laugh always eases things. Forcing herself forward again, she begins, with all the grace and charm she can muster: ‘My lady, allow me to…’

But before she can touch the Princess’s sleeve, so tightly packed with coldly furious flesh around taut muscle that the seams are straining, Joan pulls back her arm.

The older woman looks down, almost in surprise, at the jewelled goblet in her hand.

Then she jerks it forward.

At first, Alice feels the cold shock that comes next as just more of the dread and humiliation that swept through her a moment ago, when she first saw the Princess bearing down on her.

Then she realises there actually is dark liquid on her face and running down her front. Her eyes are stinging from it. She can’t see.

There’s wine all over her.

Alice blinks and breathes, and the claret drips down her hair. Her whole head is wet. She can’t move, even her eyes. She can’t look down and see how badly the robe is damaged. She’s trying to control the surges of humiliation – and rage – rushing through her, the hot and cold of them.

Perhaps the Princess knows she’s gone too far. She goes on standing opposite Alice with the goblet in her hand. There’s no expression on her face.

Alice goes on standing there too, blinking wine out of her face. After a while, she puts a hand to her sopping wet face and brushes a purplish strand of hair out of her eye. She knows there’s nothing she can do that won’t be too angry for court. She can only breathe, and blink, and wait for someone else to take the initiative.

Surely this is an insult to the King, as well as to her? Surely someone in this crowd of self-willed, self-regarding donkeys will defend his honour at least?

But it seems no one, even the King, knows what to do.

Until, after what seems an eternity, a completely unexpected voice pipes up, a nasal-ish, confiding, friendly little male voice, followed by Geoffrey Chaucer, stepping out from behind the Princess. ‘A thousand pardons. A thousand pardons! How could I have been so clumsy? I jogged your elbow, Madame d’Angleterre. There was nothing you could do, nothing at all.’

He’s wringing his hands, and bowing his head over them, and twinkling at the Princess, his slightly thin voice so apologetic, so charming, that the court can’t help but laugh. He has beautiful eyes, and when his face is animated, dancing with wit and intelligence, as it often is, he becomes handsome. Even Joan, who is perhaps almost as shocked by her transgression as Alice, softens as she looks at him, and almost smiles.

‘Utterly my fault; utterly. Amends, how to make them? A pilgrimage…to Jerusalem? No, what good would that be?…To Venice, for more silk, to replace your damaged robe, Madame Perrers, to the cloth fairs?’

Alice wipes her hand across her eyes again. She stares through her tangle of wine-dark hair. How has he done it? The little valet has them all laughing, and joining in his clothbuying fantasy, and forgetting the anger. It’s like a miracle. Of course there’s no way on earth or in Heaven that Geoffrey Chaucer could ever afford the cloth on the back of Alice Perrers, not on his ten-pound-a-year pension and free pitcher of wine a day, but then it’s obviously only a turn of phrase. There’s no need for him to worry particularly. Chaucer can say what he likes. He’ll never be called to carry out the pilgrimage he’s promising. This is pure face-saving improvisation – and a successful improvisation too. Even through the alcohol, Alice can see that the King is grateful to his man for drawing the sting out of the occasion.

Edward steps urbanely forward, bows to Chaucer, and draws his still glowering daughter-in-law up to the dais and out of trouble.

The crowd moves, relaxes and begins to talk (though no one rushes to meet Alice’s eye still). The fairy ring at the centre of the hall around her vanishes. The music starts again.

For a moment, Alice doesn’t know what to do. It is the Duke of Lancaster who steps up to her, very straight-backed, very long-nosed and serious, to offer her a very white kerchief, with which he dabs away the last of the wine, and then his hand, for the next dance. He’s helping her restore appearances, as is proper. Behind his correctness, she sees sympathy in his eyes, and hears it in his voice.

‘Joan can be…’ he begins, as he turns her into the dance. ‘Sometimes…’ But his voice dries up. He’s a nobleman, not the type to wink and shrug and laugh things off, she remembers. He’s here with her in homage to her gallantry; but all the same, he can’t quite bring himself to be verbally disloyal to his sister-in-law.

She nods, so choked with gratitude that, for once, she’s also unable to speak. She hasn’t expected it to happen like this, but she can sense new beginnings. When she passes Geoffrey Chaucer, she’s recovered her poise enough to be able to incline her head and smile. With sparkling eyes, he bows back. And he winks.

‘Why did you do that?’ Philippa Chaucer asks her husband curiously, materialising through the crowd and taking his arm. Geoffrey tries not to show surprise. His wife doesn’t usually stand with him in public. He once heard her say she was embarrassed to have to bend down so low to find his ear to whisper sweet nothings into. It was one of those comments, made sotto voce to her sister over the tapestry, which had, perhaps accidentally, come out just a little too loud.

With all the charm in his armoury, he turns to her, opening his shoulders in an easy-going shrug. ‘Oh…’ he begins non-committally. ‘You know…’ Then he pauses, struck by the fact that he doesn’t really know. It’s ended well, thank God, but it was obviously insane to risk turning the Princess of England’s rage on himself.

It’s not even as if he knows Alice Perrers, especially. She’s just one of those people who’s always been around, at court, pretty much from the time he first came, at nineteen or twenty; he remembers her as rather younger than him, and not from a grand family, one of the waifs the old Queen used to appoint, on a whim, to be snubbed for the rest of their lives by the real nobility. She’s always looked a bit mischievous, though, as if it was never going to get her down that much. He’s always liked that in her. There’s a spark in her pale blue eyes; something that lifts her looks – rounded little limbs, pale skin, curly black hair that often escapes from its headdress – into occasional beauty. Chaucer remembers a younger Alice sitting next to Jean Froissart in church, and whispering something quiet that made the Queen’s boyish chronicler (another of those whimsical royal appointments) curl up and snort and rock with laughter, and then looking utterly composed while poor little Froissart desperately tried to control his shaking curls and heaving sides. That sort of thing was probably what made the Queen take Alice on for a bit when the Duke of Lancaster got one of her established demoiselles pregnant. The Queen, God rest her lovely soul, always loved laughter. And being able to make people laugh probably helped Alice cling on afterwards, Chaucer thinks, even though it was obvious she’d never have the instincts of nobility. She’s tough. She survived until the King got a soft spot for her, even though the things Chaucer’s Philippa said about her, with her sister, both of them looking at each other with those half-closed eyes, like two cats, full of the utter disdain of the born aristocrat for outsiders, which must have been the same sorts of things that other people were saying, were always so unkind…

Well, Geoffrey Chaucer thinks ruefully to himself, recalling moments when Philippa has given him that cat look too, and, raising her long and beautiful nose, referred to his own family’s background in less than flattering terms. Perhaps that’s why. ‘I was just easing things along,’ he tells his wife quietly.

She half closes her eyes. She half smiles. ‘Feeling sorry for the whore,’ she says, and though there’s no obvious cruelty in her voice he feels belittled by the very gentleness of her contempt. She wafts away.

Geoffrey Chaucer goes on standing there, while the courtiers talk around him, louder and louder. He does know, after all, why he intervened. He felt sorry for Alice Perrers, standing all alone with wine dripping down her face and off her hair, and her shoulders shaking, with that bullying old brute glaring at her as if she wished her dead, and a crowd gathered round staring as if they were at the bear-pit, hoping for blood. You could have all the jaunty courage in the world, and still it would do you no good if no one stood up for you.

TWO

Loyalty, Alice thinks, from her chariot, with its burning hot metallic sides. She’s turning her head graciously from side to side. She’s ignoring the low mutters from the crowd, and the heat. It’s almost like the old days, this spring heat, when she was young, before the weather went so cold, with the skies always lowering, the winters piled with snow, the summers passing in fitful grey. Yes, loyalty’s what counts. You stand by the people you’ve got. You help those who help you.

Chaucer’s face keeps swimming into her head, mixed up with fleeting pictures of other people to whom she’s had debts of gratitude, whom she’s seen right. Her last glance back at the hall last night, when she saw Philippa Chaucer stalk up to her husband and start questioning him, and him politely waving her away – clearly refusing an invitation to gossip about Alice – has only confirmed the warmth she feels. She owes him. He won’t regret it.

The procession is passing out of Cripplegate to an especially deafening burst of horns, leaving the worst of the crowds behind. Alice has been focusing her mind on something pleasant she can do for someone, because she hasn’t enjoyed her ride through the City one bit as much as she’d expected. The crowd of burghers has been as hostile as any crowd might be on seeing one of its own elevated beyond what Londoners think is her rightful place. She’s seen the angry eyes, the men being muscled back from around the chariot by the sergeants-at-arms, the gob of wet landing on the side of the carriage, too close for comfort. She’s heard the low hissing, the mutters. Her golden sun-chariot is so low that she’s even made out some of the words. Not just the usual perfunctory unpleasantness due any rich nobleman’s mistress: ‘whore’ and ‘slack-legs’. Today it’s all been angrier and more heartfelt. ‘Grave-robber’, she’s heard; and ‘spendthrift’, and ‘Lady of the bleeding Night’, and ‘robbing the poor old King blind’.

Thank God it’s over, she thinks. She won’t bother with titles again.

Alice looks ahead to the tussocky ground stretching away towards the hill hamlets of Islington and Sadler’s Wells. In front of her is glitter and haze: the draperies, the scaffold for the ladies, the reds and golds, the elegantly dressed crowd of waiting gentry and nobility. Behind her, London: the walls of the Priory and Hospital of St Bartholomew and, further back, behind Cripplegate (where, now the citizens’ noise is more distant, she can hear the anxious lowing of the cows, moved for the week from their usual pre-slaughter pasture over here at the flat western end of the field), the two vast grave pits dug during the Mortality. Wherever you are, there’s no escaping reminders of the Mortality.

But it doesn’t trouble her. She’s not going to let anything trouble her. The thought of those grave pits only reminds her of her first conversation with Edward, and makes her smile. It seems so long ago, that day, back when she was a girl, even before the Queen had taken her in, sitting on a stool, pretending to be absorbed in needlework, cautiously eavesdropping on him and William of Windsor talking. She was admiring the calm way that handsome, grizzled William of Windsor addressed the monarch, with no sign his heart must be beating faster and his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth out of sheer awe at the presence of God’s Anointed. She heard William of Windsor say something about the Mortality, one of those pious commonplaces people uttered all the time while she was growing up: God’s retribution on the Race of Adam, a curse on sin, some such.

Before she knew what she was doing, Alice remembers, she found her mouth open and herself piping up, pert as anything: ‘Well, it wasn’t sent to kill me. I was born right in the teeth of it, and I survived,’ and she was grinning up at the pair of them, flashing her teeth, all bravado. Then, suddenly realising what she’d done by interrupting the King’s conversation, she stopped in terror. Both men were staring curiously at her. She sensed William of Windsor’s wide-open eyes were a signal to stop. But she pushed on. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself. Seize the day. She put the grin back on her face, but she could hear her voice shake a little as she continued, with a smile: ‘…and I’ve lived to tell the tale through another bout of it, too…as we all have, with God’s grace. Who’s afraid of the Mortality?’

She very nearly went on to say the next things old Aunty Alison always used to say whenever she scoffed at the plague, back at Aunty’s kiln where Alice grew up. ‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,’ that hard old voice echoed in her head. ‘God’s curse for some; God’s blessing for others. So many people gone, but we’re still here, thank God, and they left it all behind for us, didn’t they? Just waiting to be picked up. The streets are paved with gold, if you only know where to look. Fortunes to be made, a king’s ransom many times over. All just waiting for anyone with a head on their shoulders to come along and take it.’ But fear overcame her again. She gulped and stopped. Then there was a long pause, during which Alice wished the earth would open and swallow her.

She’d always remember the way Edward’s eyes, eventually, softened and his great golden mane started to shake as he laughed. ‘Then you must be one of the very few of my subjects to be so blessed by God, little miss,’ he said, and his great lustrous eyes sparkled at her until she felt warm all over. He added, with a laugh that included her, ‘Or by the Devil, of course, who knows?’ and the look in his eyes told her she was allowed to laugh too. In the quietness that followed, he leaned forward, saying, very casually, yet with great courtliness, ‘Tell me, to whom do I have the honour…?’

She was so lucky in that first conversation with Edward.

At the time, she had no idea that Edward chafed as much as she did at the notion that the Mortality was divine punishment, and that there was nothing to do but lie down and die when it struck. Later she found out that the King of England had lost two children to the sickness himself – in that first bout of it, about when she, Alice, was born. But Edward was so reluctant to stay shut away from the world that, after a fretful winter in the relative safety of Oxford and King’s Langley, he came out at the height of the plague. That April, on St George’s Day, he forced hundreds of terrified knights to risk their lives coming together at his new castle at Windsor, for the first great meeting, at the giant Round Table he’d had built in homage to King Arthur, of the Order of the Garter. Edward prides himself on defying death. (Later still, once Alice and Edward were close enough for whispering, he laughed ticklishly in her ear with his story about how his ancestor, Count Fulke the Black, had married the daughter of the Devil, and about Countess Melusine shrieking and flying out through a window of the chapel, never to be seen again, when she’d been forced to go to Mass. Alice could see he very nearly believed he was descended from the Devil. It explained so much about his devil-may-care bravery, and about his luck, too. The King’s wind, they used to call it, the wind that blew him straight to France, and victory, every time he set sail across the Channel.) Of course he liked her death-defying talk, right from the start.

The chariot’s struggling over wooden planks to a platform.

Alice gathers the folds of her robe as the door opens. She can see Edward waiting for her on the dais, smiling in the distance. But Duke John is closer, on horseback, right behind her in the train of noblemen. To her pleasure, it’s he who dismounts and, taking the place of the groom, comes to her door to hand her down.

‘Jewels,’ her new friend says in her ear, with the beginnings of a smile and the beginnings of a compliment. ‘Beautiful ones, too.’ Then, in a different voice, looking suddenly taken aback: ‘Oh…but…isn’t that my mother’s necklace?’

‘Yes…your father got it out for me last night,’ Alice replies, feeling slightly apologetic all of a sudden, but trying not to sound it. His mother’s jewels – perhaps she should have thought? But it only takes a moment for blessed defiance to come back to her. She’s not stealing the jewels, for God’s sake, she tells herself. His mother’s been dead for years. Why shouldn’t she enjoy them? ‘And the other rubies. The rings…the bracelets…’ She can’t stop herself stretching out her right hand as she says the words.

‘By way of an apology,’ she adds, when the Duke still doesn’t say anything.

How anxious Edward looked, at the end of last evening, with the noise of the dance still going on below, when he came to her, with a sleepy scrivener trying to suppress a yawn bobbing respectfully in his wake. ‘I regret…’ He stumbled over the words, clinging to her hand, as if he feared she might vanish, like the Countess Melusine, leaving him cold and lonely in his last days. ‘I very much regret…a spirited woman, Joan. Too spirited at times.’ He paused. She waited. No point forgiving too fast. After a second, he thrust the letter at her: an order to Euphemia, another ex-demoiselle and now wife to Sir Walter de Heselarton, Knight, who’s lodged somewhere here too, that ‘the said Euphemia is to deliver the rubies in her keeping to the said Alice on the receipt of this our command’. Alice looked up, only half believing the words dancing on the page, straight into those pale old eyes fixed on hers, mournful, humble, imploring as a dog’s, begging for forgiveness.

She blurted, ‘You’re giving me the jewels? Really?’ This man loves me, Alice Perrers, she thought, with a sunburst of gratitude, trying not to notice the slack skin or lean neck or liver spots. His love has made me what I am.

‘Oh, only the rubies,’ Edward replied quickly, playful again, smiling with relief, but still not giving too much away. (This is why Edward’s been so good at making common ground with the merchants, she knows; because he enjoys haggling as much as they do, as much as she does. He will do till his dying day.) Forgetting the old-man’s skin, looking into his laughing, knowing eyes, she put her arms around him. ‘Only the rubies, my dear,’ he repeated, and kissed her.

That’s what she should be teaching this Duke, who hasn’t had to have dealings with merchants, who as a younger son has been left for longer in the sunlit playground of chivalry and pageantry in which princes once existed, who hasn’t had occasion to think about the realities of modern life. He’ll need to now, if he’s going to make his play for power. He’ll have to learn. Drop the ceremonials. No one owes you everything, just because of your noble blood. Pay your way into alliances, if you need those alliances. Do what you need to do. Learn to see things for what they are.

But he’s silent, still; perhaps he’s taken some terrible princely offence at humble Alice touching his mother’s jewels? Perhaps he’s too stiff-necked ever to change?

She tries again. She murmurs, with a hint of a twinkle, ‘I think your father chose the rubies for the colour of the wine.’

At last, he seems to decide it’s all right. He nods, and smiles straight into her eyes. ‘They suit you,’ he says after a moment, making her a dignified bow, and, after another pause, as if he’s looking for the right phrase, full enough of gentillesse: ‘She behaved badly. My father did right. I’d have done the same myself.’

Arm in arm, they begin stepping cautiously towards Edward. There’s a warmth inside Alice, and it’s not just from the lean warmth of the arm in hers.

‘Did you enjoy the ride through London?’ she hears him murmur politely at her side. Perhaps he’s curious. He must have heard the Londoners muttering, too, from where he was, right behind her in the procession.

She nods, as nobly as she can. Hardly thinking, she replies, ‘Of course.’ Then she stops. If they’re to be allies, she should learn to be as honest with him as she’ll expect him to be with her. So she dimples up at him and flutters her free hand. ‘Well, no…to tell the truth, I didn’t, really,’ she admits candidly. ‘They didn’t like me much as Lady of the Sun, those Londoners, did they?’

He actually shivers. It’s not just for her benefit; his revulsion for the common people of London, tramps, pedlars, fishwives, and the richest merchants in the land alike, shudders right through him, something he feels in every inch of his body and doesn’t mind her knowing. ‘Terrible people,’ he says. His voice is tight. ‘Howling like that, at a royal procession, the savages. They should be taught a lesson. Brought under control…flogged.’

God be with them all, she thinks, suddenly buoyant again (though she does appreciate the Duke’s sympathy). They’re right, in a way, those Londoners; she agrees, she shouldn’t be out here pretending to be Queen Philippa and Princess Joan rolled into one scarlet silk package. She was asking to be called grave-robber, wearing the Queen’s necklace out here. She won’t do it again, because she enjoys London. She likes the way the London merchants work: cautiously, by consensus and committee; and purposefully, without the empty showing-off of the court. She shouldn’t forget that. She won’t next time. She’s learned her lesson.

So she shrugs, and grins invitingly, twisting her head sideways like a bird on a bush to include him in her merriment. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she differs blithely. ‘They’re often right, in London. I probably should have kept a lower profile. Anyway, they’re so good at what they do – making money that can help you. You have to forgive them their outspokenness if only for that, don’t you?’

‘I can’t be doing with them,’ he mutters, shaking his head. There’s a stubborn look in his eyes, but she now thinks she sees – what, bewilderment? Interest? there too. ‘Who do they think they are?’

She murmurs enticingly back: ‘…though London, and its wealth, could be a great support to you, if you could only learn to accept the way the Londoners are.’ He turns his eyes to her. He wants to know, she sees. He just doesn’t want to admit it. She whispers, ‘I could show you how.’

He’s definitely interested now. He stops walking. So does she.

‘How?’ he says, though he can’t keep the scepticism out of his voice. ‘They don’t like me, any more than I like them.’

The idea comes on her like a flash of lightning; she hears the words drop from her lips even as she’s thinking it. ‘That’s because you need some good men who are loyal to you in the big London jobs,’ she replies quickly. ‘Londoners spend so much time talking to each other, and so much time listening. You need a talker inside the walls, who can influence them; someone who can quietly show them things from your point of view.’

This is how to repay the debt of honour she incurred last night. She’s breathless with the cleverness of it. She’s thinking of the vacant job checking that Londoners aren’t skimping on their payments of wool tax, England’s biggest export. It’s the most important government job in the City, requiring diplomacy, financial know-how and intimate knowledge of both merchant and court life.

‘For instance,’ she goes on, startling even herself, ‘You need a man you can trust in the wool comptroller’s post.’ She tightens her grip on the Duke’s arm. ‘And I know who.’

THREE

Master Geoffrey Chaucer, newly appointed Comptroller of the Customs and Subsidy on Wool, Sheepskins and Leather for the Port of London, can tell from the stillness and the shimmer on the water that it’s going to be another hot June day.

He’s early. It’s not yet properly light. But then he’s nervous.

Any minute now he’ll be joined on the jetty at Westminster by his companions for his first day in his new job – an old friend and a new. Meanwhile, all he can do is wait and listen to the bells ring for Lauds behind him in the royal village.

Soon, he knows, there’ll be pandemonium at the palace. All the servants will be up, running around, sweeping, carrying pails and boxes and bags and piles in and out of every imaginable gate and doorway, feeding horses or killing fowl for the table, smelling the bread smells rising from the ovens. The King’s court is to move to Sheen in a day or two, now that the mystery plays and celebrations of Corpus Christi are over. By St John’s Eve, not a fortnight hence, it’ll be off again, having eaten its many-headed way through the local food supplies, for a midsummer interlude at Havering-atte-Bower. Chaucer’s always liked the peace of Havering. He pulls his robe around his shoulders and steps on to the jetty, wishing he could feel more whole-heartedly happy to be leaving behind that brightly coloured wandering life.

It seems no time at all since Alice Perrers materialised beside him at one of the masques she so energetically organised for her week of spring festivities (one in which the players on the Passion wagon were re-enacting a Crusade, with piercing cries and dramatically flowing crimson blood and a real fire engulfing the mock-castle as Saladin dropped writhing to his death. An incongruous background for conversation, he remembers thinking). She slipped a confiding arm through his, and whispered, with her eyes all persuasively lit up, that the King was minded to give him high Crown office in the City, if he was minded to accept…?

He couldn’t believe it at first. This is what Philippa most chides him for – failing to seek out preferment – and here it was coming at him without his even trying, in the person of the King’s favourite, this chirpy little barrel of fire, who was holding on to his arm and grinning slyly up at him as if they were old friends sharing some tremendous joke.

But going back to the City – even to do this responsible job, which will certainly earn him the King’s favour if he’s successful – seems in so many ways like a step back into his past that it’s thrown him into inner turmoil. This turmoil has gone with him through every one of the meetings with government officials that Alice Perrers has been whisking him through in the past few weeks. Every imagining he has of a future waking up to the cries of the City’s streets, and walking through those too-familiar lanes to a job among men he knew as a child, is accompanied by a prickly cloud of difficult memories of the other life he’s become accustomed to, these past twenty years.

He might see more of Philippa if he’s to be in London all the time – and Alice Perrers has made plain he will be expected to be at his desk at the Customs House every day, checking the merchants’ accounts. Philippa’s Castilian mistress, the wife of the Duke of Lancaster, likes her long stays at the Savoy (and who wouldn’t? Chaucer thinks, as the memories of those bright avenues and splendid halls fill his mind – another soft little knife in his side, another bittersweet sigh). The Lancastrian palace on the Strand, where Philippa spends so much of her time working as demoiselle to the Duchess, is only a boat ride away. Now, seeing Philippa is a mixed blessing at the best of times, but what most concerns Chaucer is that he might also have more time with his children, if he’s always in London, than he has while he’s been attached to the King’s court, as one of thirty esquires kept at my lord’s side to be quietly useful, plunging up and down the land on that endless crusade of cushions and silver-gilt cups, not necessarily going the same way, at the same time, as the Duke and Duchess of Lancaster’s court, or seeing nearly enough of little Thomas and Elizabeth.

That’s a good part of what’s made his eyes glitter at the prospect of this new job. What has made Philippa’s eyes glitter is learning of the extra pension he’ll be getting now for the Customs post, added to the ones the Duke of Lancaster (a better master by far than the tricky old King when it comes to payment) has already secured for both of them for their service to various members of the royal family. Between them, their income will now add up to nearly sixty pounds a year. For the first time, they’ll be comfortable by anyone’s reckoning. Philippa knows, of course, that she’ll be expected to do a little visible wifely duty in return – attending City dinners with him, from time to time, that sort of thing. But he knows her, and her suspicion of merchant ways, too well to expect that she’ll do more than the bare minimum. Still, he must be grateful. She’s told him, gently enough, that although she won’t live with him in the City (he couldn’t expect her to give up her life at court for merchants, after all) and she won’t hear of Thomas being taken away from court where he does lessons with the Duke of Lancaster’s daughters, and being sent instead to St Paul’s almonry school in the shadow of the cathedral, to mix with the sons of merchants, (which is where Geoffrey Chaucer got his book-learning), she and the children will, at least, spend holidays with him in London. At least sometimes. He’s almost sure she’ll keep her word. At least, she will if she isn’t in a mood, as she too often is, to whisper to the children that their maternal de Roët blood is nobler than their father’s, and to have her own coat of arms, not his, embroidered on their clothes.

Geoffrey Chaucer sighs. There’s no point in false optimism. He knows that really. She’s turned the children against him. More and more, he can see she has. All his absences, all his eager plans to win rewards from the King for his subtle negotiating, have left the children alone with their mother for too long, and Chaucer has come to realise he can’t trust her to represent him fairly to them while he’s gone. ‘You’re only nine,’ he said to Thomas, when he first noticed that the boy had displayed on his thin chest the three golden Catherine wheels on a red background which Philippa and her sister wear. ‘Too young to make decisions like this.’ Then he became aware of the plaintive whininess of his voice. Too late, he saw the boy’s eyes glaze over with watchful distance and the beginning of boredom. Trying to make a joke of it, Chaucer added, with a miserable attempt at a smile, ‘After all, you’ll have to get all your clothes reworked if they make me a baron and you start wanting my arms. Think of the expense.’

The boy only blinked his wise blue eyes and said, more dispassionately than Chaucer would have liked, ‘Well, let’s worry about that if it happens.’ Chaucer winces when he remembers the unbearable kindness in the touch of the boy’s hand on his arm.

Still, the City’s close to the Savoy. That’s something to remember. And he’s on the path to favour, as it seems he hasn’t been till now, despite all those foreign missions for the King that haven’t got him anywhere near the state of worldly glory Philippa craves for him. He has to cling to the hope that this will turn out well, and that he might, in the end, make his children proud of their father.

Footsteps. At last.

He turns round with his most gracious smile. He bows, low, as his new friend, Baron Latimer, would expect of a fellow-courtier. It’s a practised gesture, but also a sincere one. He’s grateful to Latimer, and wants to do him honour. Latimer – the King’s chamberlain, an important man, with a glorious war record in France and fingers in every government pie – must have much else on his mind, apart from the well-being of one Master Geoffrey Chaucer, valettus. Yet the leathery-faced old baron is making this transition of Chaucer’s back to City life so painless that it often seems to the dazzled Chaucer that this is not the case. Latimer’s shown no impatience, however many times Alice Perrers has dragged Chaucer in for another briefing. He’s sat Chaucer down with him. He’s shown him documents. He’s explained the intricacies of wool taxation. He’s performed introductions. And every act has been performed with exquisite courtesy; charm enough to make Chaucer nearly weep with gratitude.

So Chaucer’s glad Latimer’s coming today, to introduce him to the merchants in power in the City and settle him into his new role. He’s also glad, in a different way, that his old friend Stury has promised to come along. Sir Richard Stury, a knight of the King’s household, has been Chaucer’s friend since they were youths, boys, almost, and were both taken prisoner near Reims. Their friendship began in earnest in that week they were waiting for the ransom payments to come through. It’s never flagged. They’re two of a kind. Stury’s tall and thin and loves riding and swordplay and dancing and arguing about religion, all unlike Chaucer. But, more importantly, Stury’s a thoughtful, intelligent man, who spends most of his spare time nowadays writing poetry, as Chaucer does. They have other things in common. Chaucer and Stury are both part of the circle of young men around the King who also owe allegiance to his younger son, the Duke of Lancaster – for it is the Duke who has stepped in and spoken glowingly of them to his absent-minded royal father, who’s reminded the King to arrange pensions for them in return for their services to the Crown, who’s suggested marriages for them, and provided this favour or that, and generally smoothed out all the small difficulties that can beset a man making his way at court if he does not have a protector. Chaucer’s latest appointment is going to give them one more thing to share. They’re about to be neighbours, too. Stury has a house in the City: a riverside mansion in Vintry Ward, which he uses whenever the court’s at Westminster. He’ll often be in the City with Chaucer. They’ll read to each other, sit together of an evening, drinking and talking and looking out over the Thames, side by side.

There are moments when Chaucer feels he’s truly going to enjoy what is to come. There are moments when he feels this step back into London is going to connect him more closely to the court than he’s ever been connected before. At this moment, overcome by that feeling, he sweeps down into the deepest bow he can manage.

It’s only as he rises that he sees it isn’t Latimer, or Stury, standing in front of him.

Incomprehensibly, it’s Alice Perrers. She’s alone. She’s dressed in a simple tan travelling robe. The strong sun is casting strong shadows across her face. The breeze has tugged away her flapping veil. She’s laughing at the look of utter confusion on his face.

‘Well, it’s early, and I suppose none of us looks our best at this hour…but really, Master Chaucer, it’s not gallant to goggle at me like that, as if I were the Grim Reaper come to snatch you away,’ she says archly. ‘Is it now?’

Feeling foolish, though relieved she seems to find his bewilderment amusing, Chaucer bows again, not sure if he’s making things better or worse. As he rises, he stammers, ‘Madame Perrers…it’s just…I wouldn’t have expected…of course, I’m honoured.’

He can see now that she’s come purely to see him off – to wish him well, him, Geoffrey Chaucer. And why not? She’s been as warm, for all these weeks, as if he were her oldest friend. Still, surely it’s natural for him to be flustered at her suddenly appearing here now, with the old boatman he’s ordered for far too early spitting and coughing down there and giving him killer looks, with the two men who were supposed to be travelling to London with him still not here, and with him cutting a not very dashing figure hitching up his robes and helplessly waiting and even more helplessly gawping at her as if she were the Grim Reaper, as she says. Too late, he realises that was funny, and his mouth starts to twitch upwards. He still can’t believe she’s found the time, with all the royal household to run, that she’s thought to leave the King’s chamber for him.

She nods as the smile gains ground on his face, as if she’s pleased he’s still got a sense of humour. ‘I had to be up early anyway. I’m supervising the packing today,’ she says by way of casual explanation. ‘And it only takes a minute to run down here.’

Dumbly, he nods, overcome once more.

Before he can mumble, ‘I’m honoured,’ again, she adds, more seriously, as if it were the question closest to her heart, ‘And I had a question for before you go. I wanted to be sure you’ve ordered a good dinner for your guests today.’ She gives him a piercing look, her head on one side, like a plump little bird, and waits.

Chaucer feels his mouth open and close as he stumbles towards the best reply. All his vague but tumultuous hopes for his new life have vanished as soon as he hears that question. He just feels sick. He wonders if she knows how difficult he’s finding it, or if she’s just hit by chance on his worst fear for the day.

The plan is this. After being shown his desk at the Customs House this morning, he’s to play host at dinner in his new home to the Mayor and all the greatest merchants of London.

Geoffrey hopes Philippa understands how elaborate this meal should be, how London citizens are as grand as Florentine merchant princes in their habits and expectations, and how lavish they’ll expect the hospitality of the man who will dare to check their books to be.

But he’s miserably aware that there was something too dismissive about his wife’s shrug when, at their last meeting three days before, as she set off to move their cushions and tapestries and silverware into the new City apartment, he asked for a list of dishes.

‘It’s all in hand,’ Philippa said, refusing to be drawn. When he started to say something more, she just flapped her hands at him. ‘It’s going to be a Friday,’ she added, too calmly. ‘Fish. Yes?’ And she wafted off.

Unhappily, he thinks: I can influence most people. If only I could my wife. He lifts hangdog eyes to Alice Perrers’ face, and sees she understands the whole family drama he isn’t going to tell her.

‘They’ll expect the best,’ is all she says. Then she pats his arm, comfortingly, though the gesture reminds him, uncomfortably, of Thomas’s similar one during that other conversation. ‘But of course you know that, don’t you?’

He nods. He’ll just have to hope for the best. He’s glad to see, behind Alice’s back, that the two shapes he’s been looking for are finally here, and sauntering closer. He’ll feel better once they get started. He doesn’t want to have any more time to worry.

Yet unease follows Chaucer on to the river, and beyond.

He tries to relax on the mouldy cushions of the boat. He watches a swan and her cygnets float by, their beaks marked with the two lines of the Vintners’ Company, and begin an altercation with a family of ducks. He flexes his fingers. He bites his lips.

Kindly, Latimer lets him be. The chamberlain starts a quiet conversation with Stury, on the other bench. But Latimer’s voice, from those earlier briefings, still fills Chaucer’s head.

England’s biggest export is wool. The wool trade has been booming for decades, even if the last couple of years haven’t been so good, what with the war. The merchants who buy wool from farmers around England and sell it overseas at the Flanders cloth markets have become both rich and powerful – the richest among them with incomes greater than those of the mightiest prince, wealth extraordinary enough to take on even the princely traders of Florence and Venice. The King, who understands the ways of his barons and peasants, but doesn’t completely understand this new kind of man – a man governed by coin, not chivalry – needs eyes and ears to help explain the merchants to him; explain how best he should love them, and how best to attract their money to him.

The King needs to know, because the King needs those merchants, now he’s up to his own eyeballs in war debt; oh, how he needs them. Their wool and their taxes pay for his war. And, because, over time, he’s shown himself willing, every now and then, when his need is great, or the opportunity is tempting, to cheat them – just a little, as is his royal right, in the interests of the nation – they don’t fully trust him, any more than he fully trusts them. They might want to cheat him back. It’s to be Chaucer’s job to stop them if they try.

The two hundred English merchants run the wool export trade as a monopoly (from a headquarters that for years before the war was based, for convenience’s sake, at Calais, the English-ruled garrison mid-way between England and Flanders; only now that the war’s started again, and Flemish buyers can’t get across enemy French territory to Calais, the Wool Staple’s had to be moved to the safety of Middleburg, in Flanders itself, so the merchants don’t go broke). The Merchants of the Staple still finance the King’s garrison at Calais, even in these hard times, when they can’t actually trade there. They don’t have much choice. The King asks for their money, with tears in his handsome Plantagenet eyes, with a tremble in his elegant French, ‘for the sake of our beloved England’. Their French isn’t as good as his, but they understand. They pay up. They make an agreement with the King as to how he’s going to repay them, one day, by letting them off some of their future wool customs dues to the Crown. It’s all signed and sealed with many-coloured wax, but no one can really hope to be repaid. But, after that, right here and now, the merchants must provide actual gold and silver, and make coins at the mint they’ve set up at Calais, and give it over to the soldiers waiting and grumbling in the salt swamps of north France.

So it makes the Merchants of the Wool Staple angry with the King if they find out he’s been cheating them – for instance by granting special licences to the Italian merchant community trading out of London, so the foreigners can bypass all the weighing and measuring and customs-paying that English merchants have to endure at Calais or Middleburg. This blithe cheating keeps the Italians happy, as they get to make a bigger profit margin while undercutting the English merchants’ sales prices later, at the Flanders wool fairs. It makes the King happy, too, because how can the Italians then refuse when he asks them for a direct loan, to help pay for his war in France?

But there isn’t much the Merchants of the Wool Staple can do about being ripped off by their King, except grin and bear it and, when the King then asks them for a direct loan, too (since the Italians have been so generous), to agree, and ask to take on the Italians’ loan, too, on condition the Italians have their special licences cancelled, so the English, at least, get their monopoly of wool exports back. And then they’re left shouldering a double debt burden, with no guarantee that the King might not, tomorrow or the next day, take it into his head to do another quiet little deal with another Italian to get off scot free from all taxes for a quick cash payment now. There’s nothing the merchants can do openly to let off steam. Sometimes the English merchants’ apprentices, having heard unpleasant things said about the Italian merchants of London at their masters’ tables, get drunk and go and beat up the nearest Italian. The apprentices are savagely punished. Hanged, often. There’s never any question of calling the King to account.

Chaucer’s job will not be to call the King to account. It will be to be the royal eyes and ears inside London. He will deal with the pre-exports: what leaves England. London is the last place a King’s man can, realistically, get at the wool due for export; after that it’s entirely in the hands of the merchants themselves. For almost the entire wool crop leaving England goes through London, where it is packed and weighed and warehoused by merchants; and it’s here that the greatest merchants live. It will be Chaucer’s job to reweigh the wool crop, sack by sack, and go through the merchants’ paperwork, and to form his own view of how big the English trade in wool really is, and how much the merchants should really have paid the King for these exports, or for others, and, generally, to increase the King’s income from the City merchants in whatever way he sees fit.

‘Be one of them,’ Latimer has told Chaucer. ‘Make them feel at home with you. Listen to their privy talk. You’ll know how. But always remember the reckoning. The bill for these past three years of war has been £200,000, and the truce that’s holding now won’t last for ever. As long as you’re clearing more than 25,000 sacks of wool a year, and getting an annual yield of £70,000 on it, England’s still afloat. More or less,’ and here, Chaucer recalls, the Baron’s face wrinkled into a long, mirthless grin that was more like a snarl. ‘At least, as long as the Pope doesn’t also come back with his begging bowl. Thirty thousand for his Italian wars, indeed. We can’t afford to pay to fight the French and for him to wage wars too. Things are far too tight as it is.’

The vast amounts take Chaucer’s breath away, even more than the tightness of the royal finances, the narrowness of the margins, and the King’s reliance on a mixture of charm and bullying of the entrepreneurs whose language he doesn’t even speak (the King sticks to French) to keep England staggering on. He feels naive to be so astonished by these enormous figures. But he is. Chaucer lives in small coin, on graces and favours. The sheer staggering weight of the money being talked about is beyond his ken.

And when they disembark, his welter of conflicting emotions only swirls more wildly.

He shouldn’t be surprised, he tells himself. It’s years since he’s been surrounded like this by his father’s acquaintances. He was a child. Watching these half-dozen mostly familiar faces now, the jowls and wrinkles more accentuated than he remembers, the stubble going grey or white on firmly jutting chins (though the furs on their long gowns, worn despite the heat of the day, are more splendid than ever), he feels, almost, a little boy again – the little boy his father used to get in to serve the merchants their wine in the Chaucer house on Thames Street. That smaller Chaucer used to listen admiringly to the talk about pepper imports and mackerel catches and the iniquity of the law allowing foreign merchants to retail their goods on English soil and the quality of this year’s wine from Gascony, while outside on the wharves that you could see, dimly, through the glass windows (how proud his father had been of those glass windows), the men running like ants under the winches, watching the barrels swinging down, and the flash and splash of river traffic. Back then, Chaucer knew that any minute he’d feel his father’s hand ruffling his head or patting his back. Those quiet, fond, proud touches, which in the manner of small boys trying to be big he never acknowledged, but which he always quietly put himself in the way of, are all that’s missing now.

He presses his lips and eyelids together. No point in regrets. John Chaucer, who so wanted to better himself that he spent the Mortality years trailing around France in King Edward’s baggage train buying wine for the forces, and then for the King himself, would have been proud to see his son here today, stepping up to the Wool Wharf, the powerhouse where English wealth is made, measured and exported, in the very shadow of the Tower of London, being deferred to by the powerful men he worked so hard to make his own friends.

Chaucer looks around. This year’s Mayor is in the welcoming party (a stringy grey man from a lesser guild; Chaucer has no childhood memories of him). More importantly, the man who’s about to become Mayor for the next year is here too: William Walworth, fishmonger and alderman of Bridge Ward, a tall, ascetic-looking man with spun-gold hair and the innocent face of an angel. Chaucer remembers Walworth’s long, thin legs, crossing and uncrossing themselves, the elegant, tendony ankles, the high-arched feet, from a very distant past in which the little Geoffrey played quietly under the table with his ball or top, listening to the men’s voices. But it’s another of these familiar men – Nicholas Brembre, tall burly Brembre, now alderman for Bread Street Ward – who steps superbly forward from the furry, velvety, bass-voiced cluster and takes it upon himself to reintroduce the rest. Walworth just stands behind Brembre, looking avuncular. Perhaps, now Walworth has secured the mayor’s office for himself for a year, he’s letting his friend show his paces in time for next year’s selection – for, Chaucer knows, Walworth, Brembre, and the stocky, balding man at his side, John Philpot, a grocer like Brembre, are famous for sticking together and protecting each other’s interests. Between them, the three victuallers pretty much run the City. They share the mayor’s and sheriffs’ jobs among themselves, year in, year out. And these are the three London men to whom the King comes, year in, year out, asking for money. Chaucer can see for himself how closely they cooperate. Even now, they’re standing together, shoulder to shoulder, making sure he sees their faces first; keeping the lesser men back.

Chaucer remembers Brembre best, from childhood. All that dark energy, those forceful gestures, years ago, once rather frightened little Geoffrey. But now Chaucer has adult eyes in his head, and what he sees with them is that Brembre has become golden. Almost physically golden. The grocer’s skin is gilded, as if by the sun, or (perhaps more plausibly for a man who spends his daylight hours in warehouses, checking his inventories of pepper and saffron and pomegranates) just by good fortune and soft living and ambition satisfied. He’s smooth and honeyed with success. His blue eyes sparkle as brightly as ever, his face is as animated as Chaucer remembers it being long ago, though his large, regular features seem bigger and smoother, his black hair is silver-streaked, and success has slowed the man’s once rapid, excitable speech into a deeper, calmer purr. ‘My dear Geoffrey,’ he says, very warmly, putting an arm around Chaucer’s back, as if claiming ownership. ‘We are all delighted to welcome you back to London.’

Chaucer feels the muscle on that arm even through the gown; it’s as if Brembre, despite his peaceful calling, is made of iron. Brembre has straight, thick, dark eyebrows too; smooth jet-black, like his smooth hair once was. He raises one of these determined eyebrows, and smiles directly into Chaucer’s eyes. Chaucer feels exhilarated by that frank, compelling gaze. ‘And I’, he says, finding his voice, borrowing the warmth of his tone from that of the merchant, ‘am delighted to be once again among the kind of men I can do business with.’

They murmur appreciatively.

Here’s where the future will happen, Chaucer sees, as, bowing his big square head in exaggerated respect, Brembre propels him, with a large, warm, clean hand, to where he will sit, inside the Customs House, now he is comptroller.

Across the room, behind the wall of velvet-clad shoulders, stands an enormous desk. Over there, the merchants of London, every day, write down on the Roll exactly how much wool has been weighed and dispatched, and what taxes have been charged on it. Over here, but separately, at a second enormous desk, Chaucer the comptroller will keep his own independent record in the Counter-Roll. Once a year they’ll compare Roll and Counter-Roll. With all the tact at his disposal, Chaucer will have to tackle these powerful financiers over any discrepancies, and make the sums add up to the King’s satisfaction.

Chaucer takes a deep breath to calm his fast-beating heart. Bowing again to the gathering, he says, skittishly, ‘So, masters, let me try my seat for size,’ and acknowledges their rumbles of laughter with a bow as he gathers his robes in his hands and sits down behind his desk.

He’s glad to be seated while they’re standing – all those big, well-covered men with enormous hands and strong bodies that don’t notice the heat, despite their long furry gowns. They remind him of a flock of waterfowl – geese, or swans, or herons – all so large, yet so implausibly smooth in every movement. They’re tougher than their peaceable gowns make them seem. For all their puffed-up chests and dignity, he can imagine any or all of them mercilessly pecking out the eyes of any impertinent lesser bird, any duck or moorhen or coot that gets in the way of their majestic glide through the waters they rule. And how they’re devouring him with their watchful eyes, all of them, he thinks, suddenly. They’re no fools. They’re wondering if he’ll be trouble. Sizing him up.

Behind him, he’s aware of Latimer and Stury, his court friends, giving Walworth and his merchant friends the same beady looks the merchants are giving him. They’re wondering whether Chaucer will be tough enough to stand up to the merchants. They’re sizing them up.

Chaucer knows, secretly, that his court friends are right to worry about his loyalty. A part of him feels he’s come home as he looks at these smooth merchant faces. When, a moment ago, Brembre has flamboyantly presented his stout friend as ‘my worshipful colleague, John Philpot, a grocer like myself…alderman for Cornhill Ward…you may recall?’ Chaucer knows he’s only just managed to find it in him to refrain from laughing in pure delight. For of course he knows Philpot, and definitely knows of him – he knows that Philpot and Brembre are financing a fleet for the south coast, and have also just reshaped the City’s trade association for victuallers, giving it the new name of grocers and spending fortunes on setting it up grandly.

But that’s not why he’s having to struggle to keep the merry grin off his face. The grin’s because of the memory that pops unbidden into Chaucer’s head of Philpot’s smooth hand reaching out towards him, passing over a gingerbread man with a silvery crown on its head, and of that soft voice, quivering with amusement, saying, ‘Don’t make yourself sick now, my boy.’

Chaucer can’t choke off that memory altogether. He isn’t able not to pronounce the words ‘Dear Uncle John’ with a rush of real affection, or to refrain from saying, out loud, ‘Why, of course. We’re old friends.’ And even he’s surprised to find himself embracing both princes of grocers with such affection that, for a dangerous moment, he feels the mercantile deputation melt and relax, while the courtiers behind him bristle. He’ll have to get a grip: to reapply his courtly manners and his air of polite watchfulness, before any of them take him for a pushover. Forget the gingerbread. He has a job to do.

It’s only as the group walks across the City to the dinner at Chaucer’s new apartment that one of the lesser merchants breaks through the shoulders of Brembre and his friends.

‘I hope you will not be offended,’ the unfamiliar man says to the comptroller, with the heavy accent of Flanders, ‘but I have sent a small gift ahead to your new home, to welcome you to your post. A tun of Gascon wine.’

The man then bows, with a big man’s slouching-shouldered imitation of modesty, includes Chaucer in a huge rolling laugh, and introduces himself as Richard Lyons. He’s almost unnaturally large and luridly coloured, though without an ounce of fat on him. He makes Brembre look small and weak. He has thighs like tree trunks, a pink face, sly, amused eyes, pale orange hair peeping out from under his hat, and a warm, rich voice that projects without effort over everyone else’s. No grey in his stubble – he can’t be older than forty – and plenty of gold at wrist and chest.

Chaucer never met Lyons while a boy in London, but of course he’s heard his name since. Lyons has only emerged as a wealthy man very recently (and, Chaucer remembers, his father, in his latter years, wasn’t always too sure that this new wealth was very honestly acquired, though naturally that’s the kind of thing almost any Londoner will automatically say about almost any foreigner). Chaucer knows the Fleming is now very rich indeed. Even though he’s a foreigner, Lyons is about to serve as one of the next mayor’s two sheriffs – high office – which seems to suggest that the London elite walking down this street favour him, except that it’s very easy to see that, actually, they don’t want him there at all; they feel awkward around him, and are doing everything they can to keep him to the back and dilute his overwhelming presence among them.

Chaucer understands why they’d be nervous. Lyons has been biding his time. He’s stayed in the background, and kept his peace for the past hour. But he’s been the first, all the same, to get in with his charming little bribe.

‘I thank you,’ he says, bowing very politely, ending the conversation. Secretly, he’s breathing a big sigh of relief that, for the moment at least, Lyons, who’s a vintner like Chaucer’s own father, is only here for curiosity’s sake; he’s hoping that this pink-and-orange-and-red-and-gold force of nature doesn’t, in the near future, start getting tied up in the wool trade. At least until Chaucer’s got everything worked out. He can see, right off, that Lyons is a man on the rise, and a man who does things his own way, and a man who’ll always be a focus for trouble.

By the time Lyons bows and moves away, the whole procession, dignitaries, aristocrats, and the new Comptroller of Customs and Subsidy on Wool, Sheepskins and Leather in the Port of London, has passed north and east across half the City – a brisk ten-minute walk, right through the parish of All Hallows Barking, up Water Lane, over Thames Street and Tower Street, and on up Mark Lane into neighbouring Aldgate parish – and is on Aldgate Street itself, heading for the City wall and the gate. All around them, there’s the deafening crash of midday bells for sext.

The City is a democratic place. It’s too small for anything but walking, for even the greatest of men, and Geoffrey Chaucer likes the quiet freedom of strolling through the crowds. It’s one of the pleasures of London, that you can go everywhere on foot. He clings to this notion of enjoying walking, because he’s suddenly a little wobbly inside about how much he really likes London. Travelling has blunted so much of his old pleasure in his home city. Once you’ve seen honeystone Florence, you’re spoiled for ever. Afterwards, how can you feel anything more than slightly pitying affection for this twisty, stinky, thatched, wattle-and-daubed, cobbled, overcrowded, provincial old place? Of course, that isn’t a feeling to share with the men now whispering confidingly into his ear, one by one, that they’ve had a box of pepper, or spices, or fish, or cushions, delivered to his new home as a housewarming gift. True Londoners will always be proud of their White City. They call it the Ringing City, sometimes – all the church bells. It’s a place to walk endlessly through the ringing of bells. That’s one of the things I’ll be doing, from now on, Chaucer thinks, not quite happily.

The apartment above Aldgate was signed over to him last month, as part of his payment for this job. It’s a great spacious place, looking out over the cut-throat eastern slum villages beyond the City walls one way, along the Colchester road through to Essex on the horizon, and over the roofs and gardens of Holy Trinity Priory and teeming Aldgate Street the other way, inside the City walls.

The apartment itself is all large echoing rooms, with a solar above and a cellar below the easternmost of the six City gates. It’s the only toll-free gate, open to all, beggars included, and there are plenty of those coming from the wild, sparsely populated Essex country beyond. There’ll be people coming and going in their carts underneath Chaucer’s feet every day, cursing as they try to squeeze through the narrow arch, and the clank of the City gate closing every night at curfew. The apartment has been used as a prison in the past; this is a strategic spot. He’s had to swear to use it well and not let enemies of the City enter through the gate below; they’ve had to swear not to put prisoners in there with him and his family for his lifetime. It was a comical little City ceremony, the kind that would have made Philippa smirk. But the apartment’s prestigious enough – as good as Stury’s riverside house – so any smirking on her part, right now, is also partly a genuinely happy smile.

Alice Perrers winked when she told him she’d got him the apartment rent-free. ‘It’s not usually rent-free. But the Mayor said yes, for you.’

‘Whatever kindness the worshipful Mayor is doing, it’s to impress you, I’m sure, not me,’ he replied gratefully. It’s her kind of favour, he understands. He’s heard a lot of stories about Alice Perrers’ ruthless ways with property, exchanging influence and access to the King for favours in land and buildings, constantly obtaining new leases on still more properties, all on the never-never, feathering her own nest. The stories aren’t flattering, but they’re probably all true. It’s obvious she’s minting money. Everyone says the same thing. Chaucer knows he’s supposed to be shocked by her greed. Philippa, in particular, keeps telling him so. But he can’t help admiring the merry mischief in Alice Perrers’ eyes. He likes her for enjoying her tricks and subterfuges so much.

Philippa will have made those empty spaces above Aldgate beautiful in these past days. She’ll have hung the tapestries and scattered the cushions artfully to fill the rooms with loveliness and colour. There’ll be flowers. All their little wealth will be on brave display. She’ll understand the importance of that.

Geoffrey Chaucer finds his hands clutching at his long sleeves. He’s wearing merchant robes today, long sweeping things to his feet; he plans to dress like the merchants he’ll be living among. But he hasn’t reckoned with the heat inside the tube of velvet. He’s forgotten that, in his years of aristocratic tunics and hosen. He’s stifling. His linen undershirt is soaking. He wishes his stomach would stop churning.

If only he could be sure his wife also understands how important it is to treat these merchants like princes, and feed them like kings. If only he knew for certain that she’s understood about the dinner.

FOUR

There’s a crowd at Aldgate as the merchant procession arrives. Two donkeys, pulling a heavily laden cart, are blocking the traffic while men unload trays from it. They’re ignoring other men, who are darting in and out of the gatehouse, complaining, as well as the men on carts trying to come into the City, who are shouting and cat-calling and hooting obscenities in their rustic Essex voices from beyond the gate.

Chaucer winces. He remembers these stubborn City scraps for space so well. It might go on for hours, this slow-motion shouting. It might turn into a fight. He doesn’t want his dignitaries to be caught up in one of these spats now.

But, after a heart-stopping moment, he realises there’s no cause for concern. The aldermen are City folk too. They know, better than he, that there’s no need to mix themselves up in this competition among low-lifes. They just puff out their padded chests and glide through the fracas as if unaware of it, making straight for Chaucer’s staircase. They don’t even seem to see the shaking fists and jutting jaws all around them.

‘Warm for the time of year,’ Will Walworth opines, velvet-smooth, taking Chaucer’s arm and guiding him into the doorway. Only the glint of amusement in his eyes gives away his awareness of the little birds fighting.

It’s only when Chaucer is on the narrow stone steps, aware that Walworth has politely taken the narrower side of the spiral yet is so delicate on his long feet that he seems to be flying up the tiny treads, that the new comptroller sees that some of the men with trays are also in the stairwell, both above and below him, and that each of them is carrying a platter on his shoulder.

When Chaucer reaches the top of the stairs, and emerges into the biggest of the stone chambers, he sees, to his unspeakable relief, that it is all decked out with trestles and cushions and benches and the cupboard containing his and Philippa’s many silver-gilt Christmas gifts from Countess Elizabeth, his first employer, and both the past and present Duchesses of Lancaster, Philippa’s two employers, and Duke John too, and the King himself, each cup bearing one or other noble coat of arms. He sees, too, that the damp back wall is covered by the tapestry his mother worked, a hunting scene she deemed appropriate for his new gentlemanly station in life, and there are nosegays of sweet purple roses and clove-scented pink gillyflowers in small vases everywhere. Only then does he begin to understand what’s going on with the food and the platters.

Philippa, in a neat blue robe that she must have considered quite showy enough for City folk, is here, sure enough, with one eyebrow very slightly raised, her gaze passing over Chaucer as she steps forward, with her usual willowy formality, to bow to and welcome the future Mayor to her new home.

But behind her, supervising the men arriving in the room with their trays and platters – on which he can now see, as their coverings are removed, are cooked fishes of every description, and piles of cut oranges and pomegranates and lemons, dates and dried apricots, crumbles and jumbles, pink creamy castles of blancmange and wobbling rivers of posset, and a sugared pastry extravagance in the shape of a swan, until the table resembles nothing so much as the Land of Cockaigne – is another, less familiar, female form.

‘Over there,’ he hears, as if in a dream. ‘And this one, here, in the corner. There’s a little bit of space here still.’ She has her back to him, but there’s something about that strangely confident voice, and about that tan robe. Before the woman has finished and turned round, allowing Chaucer properly to admire the elaborate cauls in which her hair has been arranged over each ear, and the sheer veil sparkling with fine gold threads wafting around her face, he’s guessed.

‘Madame Perrers,’ he mumbles, stepping forward. Then, correcting himself from courtly French to practical English, the language of the City: ‘Mistress Perrers.’

She turns to him. ‘Chaucer!’ she says familiarly, as if he were her servant. No ‘Monsieur’ here; no ‘Master’ either. But who’s he to argue with that, when she’s saving the day, acting as though she’s his servant, bringing in food? And she looks so pleased to see him, surrounded by bowing merchants, too. She’s smiling, very warm and wide; for a moment, he thinks he sees her wink.

Now he understands Philippa’s raised eyebrow. He can see from the colours of the platters – Alice’s all of pewter, Philippa’s of a jumble of different colours of pottery and metal – that the meal his wife has laid on has been, until Alice got here with these unsolicited reinforcements, a modest affair of herring, sorrel, and strawberries. The relief that surges through Chaucer’s innards when he sees the feast now being set out by Alice’s servants is like a river flooding its banks. He’s intensely aware of the appreciative looks on the merchants’ faces, the bright, hungry eyes, inspecting the dishes with pleasurable anticipation. He can almost feel the saliva swirling in every mouth. Everything will be all right now. Except, of course, that behind her cool politeness, Philippa must be fuming at That Woman having so unexpectedly upstaged her.

Hastily, realising Philippa is watching him, as if for signs he’s conspired in the Perrers dinner coup, he bows to his uninvited guest, very formally. ‘Why, I had no idea…’ he begins cautiously, so Philippa will understand his innocence. ‘I thought the court would be packing up today, for Sheen…if I’d realised you might be lingering in London, Mistress Perrers, of course, I would have invited…’ But then he looks up into Alice Perrers’ bold eyes, and sees the ghost of a wink in them, and forgets all his furtive married-man’s cunning, and is lost. She’s so straightforward in her mischievous do-gooding – understanding everything, saying nothing, and tremendously pleased with herself at having saved the day, all at once – that he abandons caution, takes her hands in his, bobs his head down in a sketchy bow, and says, with all the real happiness and merriment that the sight of this very welcome guest suddenly inspires in him, ‘Well, what a wonderful surprise!’

‘My modest housewarming gift,’ Alice Perrers replies nonchalantly, squeezing his hands, bowing in her turn to Philippa to include her in this circle of warm astonishment, but not batting an eyelid when Philippa’s face continues to express nothing more than the minimum of polite gratitude that etiquette demands. ‘To you both,’ Alice Perrers says, and, to an encouraging rumble of assent from the merchants, ‘to wish you health, wealth, and happiness in London.’ Then, not trying any further with Philippa, she turns to Walworth, Brembre, and Philpot, and finally to Latimer and Stury (who, Chaucer notices, have struck up a conversation with the flashing-eyed Fleming, Richard Lyons), and greets each group of them in turn with a warm look and a quiet, amusing, private word.

Chaucer notices Alice’s poise here, among the merchants, just as he’s been noticing her confidence at Westminster ever since she started taking him to meet the officials she clearly knows so well. Chaucer doesn’t think she’s the child of a London merchant family, because, if she were, surely he’d have known her as a boy? Still, she seems quite at home here – more so than at court. He thinks, vaguely: Haven’t I heard something…wasn’t she married to a merchant, right back at the start? (Perhaps, if she was, the marriage was during his years away, trotting around France and Flanders and Italy…) He can’t think who the husband can have been, though. He should find out.

Chaucer knows, anyway, that he’ll never feel sorry for her in this company – she’s too at ease, and too popular. Look at her charming the merchants. Everyone laughs when she whispers in their ear, and it’s genuine laughter every time. And they’re not usually like this with women, either; they’re too sober, and not given to flirting. They must take her seriously. They must be talking about trade; that’s what they do talk about. They’re treating her like one of themselves.

He’s almost laughing himself with the miracle of what she’s done for him. They’ve always said Alice Perrers can organise anything. But it can’t have been four hours since he saw her on the jetty, back at Westminster. How in the name of God has she found the time to do her hair like that, and rustle up all these splendid dishes, so far away on the other side of town, and get herself here, all in a morning? He’s heard she has a London house in Vintry Ward, like Stury, a proper liveable-in house, as well as all those other London property holdings that people talk about. She must have sent word straight away for her servants there to get to work, then come up to London herself within the hour. But still. He’s shaking his head and beaming all over his face, as Philippa seats the party around the table. He can’t believe his luck.

Somewhere deep inside, below the grateful hilarity and relief, he can feel just a hint of smugness surfacing too at his own good judgement. If all this is his reward, he thinks, just for stepping in politely to save embarrassment when Princess Joan decided to start throwing goblets of wine around at a ball, he’d better make a resolution to be just as brave every day of the week.

‘Can I pass you this dish of sorrel?’ Chaucer sees Philippa try with William Walworth at her left, and is grateful to his wife for that good intention, at least. She’s sat beside him for twenty minutes without making much effort at conversation, though she’s never done anything so obvious as to yawn, or look away. She’s just smiled. Walworth appreciates that she’s trying, too. He very daintily takes a leaf or two on the end of his knife. His appetite is sated, but politesse oblige. He takes a token nibble.

‘Have you settled in happily, Mistress Chaucer?’ he enquires, beaming virtue at her out of his pale eyes, like a lean, kindly priest. ‘Is there anything we can help you with, now you’re here? I know my wife would be more than ready…’ He pauses, full of the will to please, assessing what goods or services Mistress Chaucer might possibly need, or desire. But Philippa’s already shaking her head. Flirtatiously, though not very; but definitely.

‘Oh,’ she says. Her voice is a little too perfunctory for her polite words to sound sincere. ‘You’re too kind, Master Walworth. I’m honoured. But I think everything’s sorted out, for now…though perhaps when I’m next in London I could call on Mistress Walworth…’ Her voice trails off.

‘Ah yes,’ Walworth says, not allowing himself to sound disconcerted at the reminder that Mistress Chaucer won’t be a regular part of London social life. ‘Of course. You’re keeping your place as demoiselle to’ – and here he can’t, for all his good manners, refrain from slightly wrinkling his face – ‘my lady the Duchess of Lancaster.’

Walworth is a merchant, so how can he say the name of Lancaster without a bit of a scowl? Because, if there’s no love lost between the London rich and my lord the Duke of Lancaster, the merchants know exactly whom they blame. It’s the Duke’s fault, in their book. The Duke is so jealous of his father’s dependence on the rich men of London for loans to finance the war that he insults the merchants, whenever he sees them at court, by telling them to their faces they’re not worthy to be there. It was never like this before, he’s been heard to say; in the old days, you’d never have seen noblemen kowtowing to the servile classes. The Duke’s jealousy of the merchants’ influence leads him further still – he also talks openly about wanting to take away the freedoms that the City people enjoy: the right to elect their own leaders and try their own people in their own courts. So naturally the merchants dislike and fear the Duke, in case he destroys London’s independence; and naturally any mention of the Duke’s wife will cause a certain amount of suppressed upset in Master Walworth’s mind. He nods a few more times, bringing a wistful smile back on to his face. ‘At least, so I understand,’ he adds, with a slightly questioning note in his voice. Philippa Chaucer smiles back, but she’s blank-eyed. She’s making no further effort at conversation.

Chaucer feels so awkward at his wife’s less than enthusiastic treatment of London’s greatest merchant that he leans forward himself. ‘May I, Master Walworth,’ he says hastily, ‘draw your attention to the hanap you’re drinking from? A very gracious gift to my dear wife from my lord the King himself, for her years of service to his family?’ He feels it’s important to remind Master Walworth that this awkward independence of spirit that his wife’s showing does, at least, bring connections with the greatest in the land. ‘I’ve always admired the beauty of that tracery on the silver-gilt, look…’ He draws a finger up the chased foliage twining around the stem of the goblet.

Walworth, who no less than Chaucer is a master of smoothing out difficulties in relations, looks as handsomely appreciative as he’s supposed to, and clucks warm, admiring praise. It is very fine work.

‘Mistress Chaucer’, Chaucer says, with more warmth than he feels, ‘is greatly loved by the royal family. My lady of Lancaster won’t think of letting her go…’ He raises rueful hands to the sky, and shakes his head, making a comedy of Philippa’s distance from this new life in London. ‘To my great sorrow, of course. I will miss her, and our children; who more?’

Both the men have found a way out of the moment of awkwardness by now. They’re leaning towards each other, smiling slightly too much (Chaucer can already feel his jaw muscles begin to ache), waving their arms a little; the picture of affability. Philippa, meanwhile, is drawing back, politely making space for them to talk together. The vague, uninterested look is still on her face.

‘Of course,’ Walworth replies unctuously, accepting, with apparent delight, the dish of oranges cut into decorative shapes that Chaucer is passing. ‘Of course. The price of a good wife is far above rubies. And one who’s also as beautiful as your lady is to be treasured most of all.’ He and Chaucer laugh at this charming compliment till their eyes fill with tears, then pat each other’s hands. Walworth eats a slice of orange. ‘Mm,’ he mumbles, with mouth full, as Philippa, the hardly noticed object of the compliment, takes the opportunity to slide off her stool and slip away from the table to give the servants some whispered order. ‘Delicious, my dear Chaucer. You and your lady wife have done us proud today.’

Yet Chaucer can’t help noticing that it’s Mistress Perrers whom Walworth seeks out with his eyes as he pays that last compliment.

After the dinner, when the guests have begun to walk around a little, moving to fireplace or window, stretching their legs, Chaucer finds himself at the window with Mistress Perrers, looking out at the golden streaks in the afternoon sky over the quiet fields east of London. He’s so full of tender gratitude to her by now that he’s only too happy to murmur agreement when she says, ‘Isn’t it lovely?

‘It always gets me right here,’ she goes on reflectively, tapping her heart, ‘this view. But then I was born in Essex. So I suppose it’s only natural.’

Bewildered, and a little disappointed, Chaucer looks again at the shadowy flatlands, the shabby villages. He hadn’t realised she was talking about Essex. He thought she meant the sky. There’s nothing remarkable that he can see about those fields and forests, the road stretching off into the dusk, the sheep. He’s enough of a Londoner that, to him, fields and forest mean boredom, an absence, a place of spectral, hag-faced men and women with skin-covered bones: dead-eyed, earthsmelling, earth-eating, with heads of clay and dung.

‘You’re from Essex?’ he replies, feeling stupid to sound surprised. ‘But I thought…’ He pauses. He really can’t remember who the merchant husband could have been, but London is so clearly where Alice feels at home. ‘Weren’t you married in London, long ago?’ he finishes lamely.

She laughs a little, looking down at her hands. ‘Oh, husbands,’ she says coyly. Then she flashes a quick, mischievous look up at him from under her lashes. When her eyes meet his, he’s surprised, after her coyness, by the transparency in them – as if she’s looking into his soul, or inviting him to look into hers. ‘But, yes, I did have a couple of London husbands,’ she adds quietly, still with a little smile on her lips. ‘And yes…long ago. I was twelve when I took the first one.’

A couple of husbands, Chaucer thinks, dazed. He’s only got the one wife, and that’s been enough to make his feelings about the married state frighteningly complex. But she sounds so casual.

‘They say you should only have one master in life, don’t they? Since Christ only went to one wedding in Galilee?’ she teases. She knows what’s on his mind, he thinks, and feels his cheeks get hot. She adds, even more lightly, ‘But, you know, Chaucer, all the Bible actually says is that God told us all to go forth and multiply. It has nothing at all to say about bigamy, or octogamy, either, not that I’ve heard. Except that, if you think about it, wise old King Solomon gave himself a generous margin when it came to wives, didn’t he? More than any of us would take on?’ She grins at him. Her hands are on her hips. There’s a glint of challenge in her eyes.

Trying to get the right bantering tone, he replies, with a forced chortle, ‘So you’ve had eight husbands, have you?’

As soon as his words are out, he realises he probably hasn’t got it right. She shrugs and looks faintly weary for a moment. ‘To hear them talk, you’d think I’d had dozens,’ she says. ‘I’ve certainly heard people say five.’

For a moment, their eyes meet. There is candidness in hers, he sees with relief. She’s sharing her exasperation. As if forgiving him his clumsy remark, she smiles.

‘Even one marriage is more than I bargained for,’ Chaucer observes, settling for honesty himself, looking out again. His cheeks are warm. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Experience,’ she says lightly. ‘That’s what you need; give you the upper hand.’ And she flashes her eyes at him again, and makes to move away into the throng.

‘Well, my experience hasn’t taught me much,’ he mutters, a little rebelliously, as she picks up her skirts, ‘except quite a lot about the woe there is in marriage.’

She turns, and for a moment seeks him out again with eyes in which he thinks he sees surprise, and the beginning of amusement. But all she says is a gentle, ‘Oh, Chaucer,’ and away she goes.

A short while later, Chaucer flits back to Walworth, who’s standing with his two friends and fellow-magnates Brembre and Philpot, picking at the candied fruits the servants are setting out along the now-empty table, and laughing regretfully. The future Mayor of London leans towards Chaucer to include him in the wry conversation too. ‘We’re wondering how big the loan I’m about to be asked to make the King will be, Master Chaucer,’ Walworth confides without any visible bitterness. ‘The price of office, I know…every new Mayor gets asked…but with the way the war’s been going…’ Then, with a half-laugh: ‘We’re guessing, maybe…£15,000?’ He raises an enquiring eyebrow Chaucer’s way.

Chaucer, who has no idea, who’s never even imagined the possibility of being part of a conversation like this, can only shake his head and try and keep the saucer-eyed look of an innocent off his face. There is loud, though kindly, laughter from the three merchants. ‘Ah,’ says Brembre wisely, ‘you’ll learn.’

Maybe it’s an instinct of gratitude that makes Chaucer glance around to find Alice Perrers. Maybe he half wants to bow his thanks to her again for helping him make friends with these men so easily. Whatever the reason, he does look around for her. He finds her standing not far away, talking quietly to Lord Latimer, and to Lyons, the florid Flemish merchant. And Chaucer forgets bowing and displaying gratitude. He’s too aware of the way they stop what they’re saying to listen in to what Brembre and his friends are talking about. There’s something a little too furtive in the way they all look as they listen. Then they start their own quieter conversation again, just the three of them. Alice says to Lyons, quietly, hardly moving her lips, as if she doesn’t want to be noticed speaking, ‘He’d be ready for twice fifteen thousand, at a better rate, too, if you only gave him your promise. I’m telling you.’ Her eyes are fixed on Lyons’. Behind her, Latimer’s also nodding towards the Fleming. He obviously agrees. He obviously also wants to persuade Lyons to do whatever it is that Alice wants him to do. Lyons looks quickly from Alice Perrers to the chamberlain and back again. He’s thinking. Then he also nods. There’s something secret and satisfied on his face when he’s done.

Alice’s remark itself makes no sense to Chaucer. But the quick, guilty look Lyons gives Chaucer, once Alice has moved off to the next little group of men and the next conversation, makes the comptroller feel as if he’s somehow been hoodwinked. He can’t imagine how, though; and perhaps it’s just the wine, colouring his imagination too rich.

Still, the moment leaves him feeling uneasy. He doesn’t like not understanding.

Philippa doesn’t stay. As soon as the last guest has bowed and made his exit, Philippa stands up too.

She doesn’t want to discuss the dinner. She just says, very politely, that she’s expected back at the Savoy tonight. She can make the boat trip before curfew if she hurries.

‘But the children. They could stay,’ Chaucer mumbles disconsolately. He hasn’t even seen them yet. They would have been too young for the dinner. But he’s assumed they’re here – sleeping, perhaps, in the bedchamber? Or reading? Or walking around London, waiting for the business meeting to be over before the family reunion?

‘They’re not here,’ Philippa replies calmly. ‘They’ve gone down to Sheen early. There was a hunting party they wanted to join.’

He hasn’t thought enough, Chaucer realises, crestfallen. He’s assumed too much. He should have guessed they weren’t here.

Chaucer subsides into defeated silence. He submits when she comes to him and pecks him on the top of his slightly balding head before slipping out. He only remembers to stumble out his thanks to her for coming just in time, before the door shuts. He should be grateful, he knows. Philippa’s pragmatic enough to have realised it’s important to show a united front to the Londoners, who’ll want to see that the marital proprieties are observed in the Chaucer household.

She’s done what’s expected of her.

There’s no reason for him to feel sad, he tells himself, even if she’s going, and even if he hasn’t seen the children. She has her work. They have their lives. This is how things are done in the courtly world. Perhaps it’s only being back among merchants, today, and remembering his own childhood, brought up closer to his parents than any courtier’s son could dream of, that’s making him chafe…

If only the carts weren’t rolling quite so loudly through the gate under his feet. If only he hadn’t drunk that third cup of wine. Or was it the fourth?

He’s slumped at the table, finishing off what’s in the bottom of the cup, listening to the servants behind the door, banging and talking as they clear up the trays and plates, with the sense of anticlimax and disappointment gathering strength inside, as the shadows thicken, when there’s a knock.

He’s astonished to see Alice’s face around the door.

She smiles brilliantly, and the shadows retreat. ‘I thought I’d drop by for five minutes while my men are picking up the platters out there. I’d ask you for supper at my house…but you’ve probably had enough already, haven’t you?’ She twinkles at him. Hastily, he straightens up. ‘You’d rather sleep, I expect…’

He’s on his feet before he knows it. ‘The kindness,’ he hears himself chirrup, excitedly, sounding far too eager. ‘The thought-fulness…finding the time to bring so much…your generosity…I can’t begin to tell you how overwhelmed I was…’

She doesn’t say anything. She looks straight into his eyes, almost tenderly. She shakes her head. After a moment, she says, ‘I’ve been thinking about you…About how strange it must have felt, for you, today – to be coming back to where you grew up.’ She takes his hand, not flirtatiously, more like a sister. ‘After everything else you’ve seen in your life.’ Her voice trails away, inviting confidences. ‘I could hardly imagine doing that, myself.’

A wave of emotion sweeps him. No one else has understood.

He’s felt so alone with those thoughts, until now. Suddenly he longs to pour out all the troubles in his heart. ‘A beautiful day,’ he begins gratefully; ‘I have so much to thank you for. Then: ‘I’m only sorry my children weren’t here to see it.’ He stops. It would have been an even greater pleasure, he’s been going to say, if Philippa hadn’t kept the children away. But he’s not quite a fool, even in his cups. He shouldn’t be sharing his troubles. ‘They went hunting instead,’ he adds hastily, choking off the self-pitying confidence he’s nearly shared, and trying to sound proud of his children’s courtly friendships. ‘At Sheen, Philippa said.’

It must be the memories of his own father that being in London today has awakened – that sudden recollection of a world in which a son’s place is at his father’s shoulder, learning his business, for all those formative years – that’s making him feel this sadness, almost grief, for his own absent children. Or it’s the drink. At any rate, Alice is giving him the casually concerned look of someone who doesn’t understand the pain he feels. He doesn’t think she has children of her own. For a moment he feels almost envious of the freedom from hurt that must represent; she can’t be expected to feel the twisting in his heart. He knows he’s talking too much.

Mildly, she says, ‘And there was me thinking you were going to tell me what it was like travelling in Italy.’ She laughs. He feels she’s expecting more. But he doesn’t know what.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Must be a little bit drunk.’ She doesn’t seem to mind. Her silence goes on being warm and inviting. It’s a relief to have been able to confess something so innocuous.

After a pause, she says, ‘Oh, well, who isn’t, after a splendid dinner like yours? I felt a little tipsy myself.’

Still fuzzily, Chaucer now remembers that he’s asked quite a lot of people in this room, since his earlier exchange with Alice by the window, about her husbands. There’s been a quiet, nudging, whiskery sort of conspiracy about the answers he’s got, and more than one jovial ‘oh ho, my boy!’ But he senses that no one else really knows, either, what Alice was up to before she became the Queen’s demoiselle and the King fell in love with her. ‘She’s packed a lot into her years in this vale of tears, that one,’ someone said knowingly. ‘They say she was very friendly with Froissart, the Hainaulter,’ Lyons said, ‘and, or so I heard, with the knight who went to Ireland, what’s-his-name, Windsor.’ Lyons tried to wink at Chaucer but Chaucer shifted his eyes. ‘There was Champagne, the baker, I heard. When she was just a girl. And Perrers, obviously,’ someone else said. ‘After Champagne. Wasn’t she married to Perrers?’ Nods all round, though nods that didn’t seem to be backed by much precise knowledge as to which Perrers Alice might have lived with. One man opined, hazily, ‘Jankyn Perrers, was it? The Fleming?’ And, at the same time, another offered, ‘Sir Richard Perrers? Hertfordshire?’ All merchants know it’s a mistake to admit ignorance. Rumours and guesses – even foolish ones – are better than no knowledge at all. But still, this conversation soon petered out. The lack of real interest makes Chaucer see that, even to these men, who like to measure and map and mine every potentially useful relationship and contact, it hardly matters what Alice was before she was touched by the King’s grace, or whatever has made her the powerhouse she’s become. It’s her vivaciousness, and her current web of friendships, and her astonishing Midas touch, that interests them. Now, not the past.

But all those questions come rushing back into Chaucer’s mind when he sees her. Suddenly brave, he thinks: No harm in asking.

‘So…’ he says, feeling his tongue thick in his mouth, ‘how did you come to meet and marry Master Champagne, if you grew up in Essex?’

Country gentry families, in Essex as elsewhere, don’t, on the whole, marry their daughters into City trade families, unless they’ve fallen on hard times and happened upon a temptingly rich merchant suitor already buying land in the countryside near their home. What little Chaucer knows of Master Champagne the baker doesn’t seem to fit. If Master Champagne was indeed the first husband.

Then he blushes. He’s given away the fact that he’s been prying into her past all afternoon now, hasn’t he? ‘If that isn’t an impertinent question,’ he adds hastily. But he isn’t too mortified. With Alice Perrers, he’s beginning to feel, he can ask, at least. She won’t hold a spirit of enquiry against him.

He’s right. She doesn’t look offended. She even hesitates, as if she might confide in him. There are memories in her eyes. For the first time, Chaucer sees the beauty of her.

But all she ends up saying, as Chaucer goes on looking expectantly into her eyes, is, ‘Oh…I hardly remember. A day on the river…cygnets and ducklings…liverymen notching their beaks…a lot of laughing…spring in the air, I expect. But you know how it is. It seems so important at the time, but then you forget…’

Her voice grows lighter and more playful with every phrase. The moment has passed. She isn’t going to tell him anything.

He shrugs. There’s something delicious in this conversation, even without the kind of confidences he’s been fishing for. So he doesn’t much care.

But she isn’t just teasing him. He can tell from the little furrow that now appears on her forehead – which, strangely enough, makes her look very young for a moment, not old – that she’s thinking something serious, too.

‘You know, Chaucer,’ she adds (by now he likes the way she just calls him ‘Chaucer’), ‘I think people worry far too much about where they’re from. It’s not the past that counts, or where you’re from. It’s where you’re going, and what you do when you get there. That’s what matters.’

Chaucer thinks this over, and finds that the honesty in this matter-of-fact statement of her ambition pleases him more than he might have expected it to. This clarity of hers must be what has so impressed the merchants. He thinks: I’ll do what they do in future and forget her past. No point asking foolish questions.

There’s another pause. The red begins to bleed out of the shadows.

She’s staring out again at the greying fields. Without turning towards him, with her eyes fixed out there somewhere, she adds, with that near-wistfulness she’s had earlier, that he took for the beginning of sincerity, ‘Anyway, you can marry all you want…but there’s only one person you ever truly love, isn’t there?’

Chaucer wonders, but can’t for the life of him tell, whether she means the King.

Chaucer goes to sleep in a mostly happy blur of impressions and memories, the majority of them concerning his new friendship with Alice Perrers. But when he wakes up before dawn with a pounding headache, full of worries again, what he remembers most clearly is that quiet, strange moment between Alice Perrers, and Lyons, and Latimer: the three of them muttering together, glancing quickly at each other, egging each other on to something he couldn’t grasp.

Even when he thinks back on it now, in the scratchy predawn, tossing in his bed, reaching for the water jug, he can’t imagine what that conversation can have been about.

FIVE

‘Why was Richard Lyons with us yesterday?’ Chaucer asks through his headache. ‘When he’s a vintner?’

Walworth, who until July, when his mayoral job begins, will represent the City at the wool trade, looks up from his desk across the hall. Chaucer sees the fishmonger’s lean jaw clench, and the beautiful peaceful eyes go flinty, so you can see that, despite the angel’s golden hair, he’d be a bad man to cross.

Then the merchant’s eyes clear and his wry smile comes, transforming the fighter back into a charmer. ‘Ah,’ Walworth says, easily. ‘You mean you don’t know why Lyons needed to meet the wool comptroller, since his business has nothing to do with wool?’

The clerks at each man’s desk also look up. Chaucer’s one puts down his quill. There are faint, expectant smiles on both pink young faces. Chaucer can practically see them craning forward.

Chaucer’s feeling a little wary now. He never expected such a strong reaction. But he nods.

‘As it happens, we’d all like to know the answer to that question, dear boy,’ Walworth says, nodding to the inquisitive clerks to go back to their columns of figures. They bow their heads. Then Walworth smiles a little wider, till his flawlessly ivory teeth glint in the sun. ‘Just why is Master Lyons so interested in the wool business, when, as you say, he’s a vintner?’

Walworth does tell Chaucer what he thinks of the Flemish vintner, but only later, at midday, outside the Customs House, and out of the clerks’ earshot. He links arms with Chaucer and walks him up Water Lane to Thames Street. He has to lean down and sideways to reach, and to murmur in, Chaucer’s ear. He’s tall and wiry, and as strong as a knight in the lists.

‘We are very glad,’ he begins, with what to Chaucer’s ear sounds unnecessary formality, ‘all of us, that it is you who have been chosen as comptroller – a man we in the City can talk to without reserve. Someone we can trust.’

Chaucer bows, out of courtesy and pleasure combined. Perhaps he’s just being flattered. But his own instinct, likewise, is to trust the three merchants he’s trying not to think of as Uncle Will, Uncle Nichol, and Uncle John. Still, he’s puzzled. The subtext of everything he’s been told in the past few weeks of briefings is that his job in London will be to stop these three men expanding their interests beyond what is proper, and taking for themselves what is rightfully the King’s. Yet, in this deep, comforting, familiar voice, he already hears a note of appeal. as if William Walworth and his friends fear that their own rightful interests are being eaten into.

Walworth’s saying: ‘Ever since I’ve held office in the City, we merchants have been complaining to the King that he was selling Italians too many special licences to export wool from England without paying customs to you’ – he bows at Chaucer the Customs Comptroller – ‘as all Englishmen have to. We’ve complained long and loudly. And, it seems, he heard us. For at least two, maybe three years, no more licences have been granted to Italians.’

Chaucer has to half jog to keep up with Walworth’s stride. He puffs, ‘Yes?’

‘But someone else has been granted a special licence.’ Walworth turns and arches an eyebrow. He wants Chaucer to guess who. It’s a test of Chaucer’s wit.

‘Lyons,’ Chaucer puffs, suddenly seeing it all – exactly how Lyons has become so rich, and why the merchants, who so obviously dislike and mistrust the Fleming, are nevertheless cautiously trying to bind him closer, and buy his loyalty to them, by giving him a post in their City administration. And why they’re smarting.

Walworth nods. He looks pleased with Chaucer’s quick response.

‘We arrested some men at Southampton a week or so ago,’ he confirms. ‘They were loading cargo there. Sacks and sacks of wool, on a ship bound for Flanders. No stop at London or Middleburg planned, where they would have to pay customs. Naturally we tried to confiscate the cargo. My wool investigators are allowed to, even outside London, whenever they find contraband (and we’d had a tip-off that that’s what this would be). But we couldn’t, with this cargo, because there was nothing illegal about it. The men had a licence. An absolutely official licence, all green sealing-wax and royal stamps, straight from the King’s administration. Made out to Richard Lyons.’

Chaucer wishes he could catch his breath.

‘The King…wrote…Lyons a licence?’ he pants. ‘Himself?’ He doesn’t want to believe the King would have done down the merchants if he’d promised them not to sell any more foreigners any more special licences. Like everyone in the King’s service, and in the country, he adores the old man. But he’s heard about too many slips – and seen that fleeting, amused look in the royal eye too often – to know that loving the King and trusting him, at least with money, can’t always be quite the same thing.

The whole business with special licences has always been pure foolishness, in any case. In principle, the King is cheating his own royal coffers – and therefore himself – by selling foreigners the right not to pay England’s wool tax. But for a King who’s always short of money, right here, right now, who’s constantly scrabbling around for the coin to put down on that war-horse, or castle wing, or costume, on top of all the war expenses…well, in practice, it’s tempting, any offer of a bag of actual gold, in the hand, no questions asked. Of course it is. Chaucer understands that. And as for the King breaking his royal word to Walworth and the other merchants, well, Chaucer can imagine how the King might finesse that, too. He can see Edward telling himself, with a bit of a grin, that even if he’s promised not to sell any more licences to Italians, if it’s a Fleming who comes along, offering the right price, why, that’s quite a different matter…

There’s resignation in Walworth’s laugh. ‘Things are never that simple with my lord the King,’ he says. ‘No, he didn’t write the licence himself.’

Chaucer’s panting, and guessing, ever more wildly by now. ‘A forgery?’ he says, trying not to sound too hopeful. He’d rather it was that.

Walworth shakes his head. ‘Not that, either…the licence was signed’, he says sadly, ‘by Baron Latimer. It was quite legal. He’s the chamberlain. He’s authorised to sign on the King’s behalf. The King’s hand wasn’t on it, but he must have known.’

‘But then…’ Chaucer is utterly out of his depth by now. So the licence was legal, and the King just slyly hiding behind his servant’s signature. That much he’s got straight, now. But what he can’t for the life of him see is how Richard Lyons ever met the King to do this private deal in the first place? Flemish merchants don’t go running around at court without an introduction, and Walworth, who is sometimes received at court, would obviously never take along a chancer like Lyons. Someone else must have taken him to the King. But who?

It is only now that the other, separate, picture Chaucer woke up with today comes back into his mind. Latimer looking at Lyons, and Lyons looking back across Chaucer’s table, groaning with all that food provided by Alice Perrers. And Alice in between them, eyes darting from one to the other, and a little smile on her lips…

‘…Mistress Perrers,’ he says flatly. Of course. He’s known all along, really, bar the details. It will be Mistress Perrers who’s introduced the foreign merchant to the King, or simply made the deal for him without an introduction. She likes money, and she likes stirring things up, just for fun. She enjoyed putting Philippa’s nose out of joint with her feast, Chaucer saw yesterday, as much as she enjoyed making sure that the merchants were being properly fed. She’ll be taking a cut from this, just as Latimer will be. She has fingers in every pie, doesn’t she?

He shakes his head in reluctant admiration. You have to admire Mistress Perrers’ sheer audaciousness. Suggesting to him that he should be keeping watch on Walworth and his men, while all along she knows that if there’s mischief in the City, it’s happening somewhere entirely different; somewhere much closer to her own good self. No, there are no flies on her…

Chaucer’s almost smiling at this new insight into his new patron when Walworth interrupts his reverie by grunting with satisfaction and squeezing his arm.

‘You were always a bright boy,’ he says. Then, more hesitantly: ‘Of course, I can’t swear this is true, but they do say that the house Mistress Perrers got in the City last year was a gift from Master Lyons…’

He stops walking. He’s going to turn left down Thames Street, while Chaucer’s going to go straight over. The thoroughfare is crowded with salesmen shouting their wares. Elbows and baskets and carts knock into both men as the streams of human traffic part and sweep on past them. But neither Walworth nor Chaucer notice. Their eyes are locked. Walworth isn’t quite ready to bow farewell.

‘And of course, what really worries me is who might be behind Mistress Perrers, trying to undermine…’ Walworth pauses, searching fastidiously for the right word, then settling for, ‘…us.’ Chaucer understands him to mean us narrowly: the trio of merchant princes with power in the City. It doesn’t actually include him. Still, he’s flattered to be honoured by Walworth’s confidences so soon in their adult relationship. And he wants to know more, of course. He wants to know why Walworth thinks Alice Perrers has gone to the trouble of putting Chaucer in the City, and of sending him off on this wild-goose chase of suspecting the top merchants are dishonest, while they nurse their own quiet fears about her.

Chaucer waits for Walworth to go on.

But then the future Mayor looks down at him, and, almost regretfully, puts his lips together. He begins gently to shake his head, as if wondering at himself. With a visible change of mood, he says, much more briskly, ‘Listen to me, gossiping away like a Billingsgate fishwife – and you hungry and looking forward to your dinner. Age, dear boy, age. You’ll have to forgive me.’ He turns, and, smiling gaily over his shoulder, says, brightly, ‘Till tomorrow.’

No point in showing disappointment. Chaucer waves and bobs his own cheerful bow. Thoughtfully he crosses Thames Street. But, on the other side, he stops again, looking back at the crowds packing the busy street without really seeing them. Who was Walworth about to say he suspected of being ‘behind’ the shifty money-making tactics of Mistress Perrers and Richard Lyons? And what stopped him finishing that thought?

It can’t have been, can it, that for some reason, remembered at the last minute, long after he’d started confiding, William Walworth has suddenly got it into his head that he should also be wary of him, Geoffrey Chaucer?

Chaucer shakes his head in wonderment. What would have given the merchant that idea? It can’t surely have been something he said?

He shrugs. He can’t think what he can have said, or done. He probably won’t be able to guess, either. Not yet. He doesn’t know enough about the City yet.

So Chaucer’s about to turn around again and head on home, towards the dinner he’ll buy at a cookshop somewhere (no point in keeping a houseful of cooks if there’s just him to look after) when he notices a tall gold-and-silver head back on Thames Street, sticking out above the crowd, a few yards down from where he and Walworth have just parted.

Walworth, like him, has stopped, deep in thought, and is looking back unseeingly at the people, towards where Chaucer was standing a few moments before. Even at this distance, Chaucer can see him slowly shaking his head.

It is later still before Chaucer finally puzzles out what was on Walworth’s mind. Late enough that it’s dark, and the torches are at their windy last gasp out on the terrace where he’s sitting with Stury, looking out over the rushing water at the fire of stars above.

It’s Stury who explains. The knight is pouring out more wine with an unsteady hand (unsteady because they have been here for hours, since before sunset, and they haven’t bothered much with supper, because what do two poets need with food when they can drink and admire the view?).

‘Your merchant friend was going to say he thinks Madame Perrers is the Duke of Lancaster’s creature,’ Stury says with hazy pronunciation but complete certainty.

‘Well,’ Chaucer says, after a pause. ‘Is she?’

He’s not aware of any relationship between Alice Perrers and the King’s son; the only time he’s ever even seen them talk was at that ball, right after Princess Joan threw the wine. But unravelling what goes on in the City is making him realise how little he knows about anything. Nothing would surprise him any more.

Stury lifts his shoulders. ‘Not that I know of, dear boy,’ he says blithely. ‘Though with her, who can say? Always two steps ahead, that one.’ He raises the cup towards the full moon (he’s given to toasting the goddess Diana), and then, after drinking the top inch, goes back to talking. ‘All I can tell you for sure…no love lost between the Duke and Master Walworth and company here in the City, we all know that. If La Perrers and Lyons have got some scheme going, Walworth’s automatically going to put one and one together and make three, and see the Duke lurking in the background.’

Chaucer nods. That makes a kind of sense. The Duke’s hostility to the big three merchants is well known. He wants them humbled. So Walworth might easily imagine that the Duke is sponsoring a rival clique to unseat his City government, or just that the Duke is turning a quiet penny by protecting that rival clique. Chaucer’s immediate reaction is that there can’t be any actual truth in any of it, of course. The Duke’s not only the soul of honour. He’s also the richest man in the land. So he certainly doesn’t need money from dubious City deals; and he surely wouldn’t take it if it were offered.

Chaucer likes Duke John. The two men are of an age; they’ve crossed paths often at court; there’s always been affection between them. Chaucer remembers the Duke’s grief when his first wife died. Chaucer even wrote a poem in memory of that first Duchess. The Duke was grateful. Chaucer knows him for a man who can love deeply. And Chaucer admires that, the more so now that he knows how complicated marriage can be. He doesn’t necessarily think the Duke’s idea for a wife for him was the right choice; but giving him Philippa as a bride was well meant. He’s grateful. He also admires the Duke’s loyalty. John of Gaunt looked after him and Philippa (and her sister, Katherine) financially after that first wife’s death cost the two girls their jobs as demoiselles. The Duke arranged their pensions. He lets the Chaucer children share the lessons of his daughters, when at court. Chaucer’s also grateful that the Duke (unlike Philippa) admires his poetry, and has invited him to more than one court evening to read it out. He’s even sympathetic to the Duke’s brusqueness of manner, in which he sees shyness, not arrogance. The Duke takes pains. You can’t not respect that.

But Chaucer is a man of measure. After a moment, he realises that when it comes to judging whether the Duke might dislike Walworth and his independent-minded London friends enough to encourage a rival clique, just to bring down his enemies…to destabilise London’s leadership purely out of spite…well, Chaucer doesn’t really know enough. Yet.

He certainly doesn’t understand why Stury’s mouth is beginning to twitch.

‘You don’t know why Walworth got cold feet and ran off in the middle of that conversation, do you?’ Stury’s saying. He stops, waiting for Chaucer to catch up with the joke, grinning encouragingly at him.

When Chaucer’s face fails to lighten, Stury drains the rest of his cup and bangs it down on the table. ‘Sharpen your wits, dear boy,’ he says mock-warningly. But he’s still almost snuffling with barely restrained laughter. ‘Welcome to the undeclared war of London. It’s because it suddenly occurred to poor Walworth that, even if he likes you, even if he thinks of you as “that clever Chaucer boy, I’ve always said he’d make good”, he can’t trust you either…’

Chaucer has no idea what’s so funny. ‘But why?’ he says, baffled. ‘Why?’

Stury bursts out: ‘Because he’s bound to think you’re the Duke of Lancaster’s creature too, of course!’

‘But…’ Chaucer begins to stammer through the splutters across the table. He’s about to say, in the tones of an injured innocent, ‘But I’m not. I’m the King’s man.’ Which, at least in a formal sense, is true. But then all the other circumstantial things come rushing back into his head too – the pensions and the school lessons and the fact that he’s known to admire the Duke and the job obtained for him by Alice, whom Walworth suspects of being in the Duke’s pocket – and he realises that, yes, someone who fears the Duke might indeed see Chaucer’s appointment as just another part of some dark design by the Duke.

Then the sight of Stury, now helpless with laughter at the idea of him, Chaucer, plotting for financial or political gain, gets to him. He picks up his cup. He drains it. He’s shaking his head at this first dizzying glimpse of how busily people in this City, peaceful though they seem, actually hate and fear and suspect each other. Stury’s right; it is all so absurd that it’s funny. Whatever happens to him in London, he’s beginning to see, at least, that he’ll never be bored. After a moment, he too begins, rather hesitantly, to chuckle.

SIX

As far as you can see, forward and back, are horses’ rumps, fat and sheeny, some carrying people, some loaded with carpets and hangings and cushions, some pulling carts piled with boxes and cups and dishes, but all ambling forward through Surrey towards the palace at Sheen.

Alice rides along through the spit of rain in a glow of contentment.

She’s aware of boys putting sacking over ladies’ knees up and down the train, to protect them in case the drizzle gets heavier. There are geese honking in the reeds. A young man somewhere just behind Alice is singing a melancholy love song near the reasonably pretty, and unbelievably rich, Eglantine de la Tour. I know what you’re up to, you greedy boy, Alice thinks, not allowing the thought to alter her serene don’t-bother-me-I’m-busy smile. She also thinks: Good luck to you; someone’s got to get that girl’s money; why shouldn’t it be you? Let’s face it, who, in the normal run of things, does anything but protect their own interests?

Yet, whatever her own doubters and detractors in the City might be thinking about her, the reality is that Alice is not, for now, thinking of any new money-making scams. She’s done enough of that in the past.

She’s done so well out of so many sharp business ideas, even before she took up with the King nearly ten years ago. She’s made a good bit out of property, of course – buying, or begging, or borrowing, or just taking, always on the cheap, then sending in her team of quiet assessors and deputies to make improvements, buy up the next-door bits of land, build stout new buildings, take on good farm men to work the land, push back the forests, and generally shoot up the rental value, which she ploughs back into the next property that comes her way. In her time, she’s also done good business advancing scared noblemen the bags of coin they need to pay the ransoms on their poor beloved sons held in France (and relieving the hand-wringing fathers of collateral in the shape of their spare manor houses, so hard to sell or raise money on, or just charging them an excellent rate of interest). And, most recently, she’s been coining it, on the quiet, out of the wool trade, along with Richard Lyons.

But you have to be hungry to have the twitchy energy to get rich; you have to be scared of whatever it is, back there, that you’re getting away from.

And now Alice is in a kindly, glowing, magnanimous frame of mind, having seen the glimmer of a new future in which her position can be quietly consolidated, and she can feel more sure her wealth will be protected after Edward goes, now she is going to have a new patron in Duke John. It’s more of a relief than she expected. She must have been more worried than she knew about what would become of her. Her new serenity means that she is now able to think of other things; of helping people.

Her thoughts turn to Chaucer. Again. She’s pleased she’s done something good for him. She’s paid her debt, more than, by wangling him that job, which will not only help smooth relations between the Duke and London, if Chaucer does that emollient peacemaking thing he’s so good at, but will also raise Chaucer’s standing. It might even keep that disagreeable wife of his happy that he’s got a bit more money coming in, who knows? It feels so good, Alice reflects, to have done someone else a disinterested favour, for once.

It’s not just back-patting, what she’s thinking about Chaucer. She’s also remembering the wistfulness in his eyes as he looked out at Essex, saying ‘sometimes even one marriage’, and the wry spark in them when he added that second phrase, the one about ‘the woe in marriage’.

She likes the way he talks. He’s so hopeless at looking after his own interests, so apparently a fool, but then so intriguing to talk to, and therefore not quite the pushover he seems. He isn’t like anyone she’s ever known. When he says things like that, all sly and mischievous, and his face lights up, he becomes beautiful. She’s surprised at how softly she thinks that.

Maybe that’s why she’s found herself thinking that no one needs to spend their whole life hustling. Of course, if money comes your way, positively asking to be picked up, then why say no? But in the past few days she’s realised she can’t see the need any longer to make grubbing for gold the whole focus of her existence. No point in getting stuck there. Surely, by now, she’s reached a point in life where she can indulge her higher feelings?

Because Alice is happy, she’s feeling especially affectionate towards Edward, who is clip-clopping along next to her on his own bay palfrey.

She’s been remembering, as she rides, as she steals glances at his slumped old body, so tired now, how magnificent he’s looked in the past, tall and thin and energetic in his Garter robes. She’s been remembering him in gold, winning the joust – when he could still joust – and triumphantly bringing out her scarf from his sleeve, and waving it for all to see. She’s been remembering the thrill of his first embrace, of that then-handsome profile, half-seen from very close through her half-shut eyes, her terrified, thrilled thought: Lips anointed by God…touching me…

She doesn’t usually have time for nostalgia. But today she’s indulging herself. It’s making her kind.

Alice can’t wait to get to Sheen, because, once they’re there, and she’s settled Edward in, she’s going to tell him the business idea she’s had. (For Alice’s kindness to Chaucer has been rewarded. Back there, in London, while she was sorting things out for him, talking to merchants in his hall, she was struck by an inspired plan, one of those bolts from the blue. God’s blessings.) It’s not a selfish idea, this one; it’s not something that will benefit her. It will benefit Edward. It should make Edward happy – very happy indeed – because it should sort out Edward’s financial troubles for good. And making Edward happy, she thinks, more earnestly than usual, is what she wants most in life. He’s been so good to her. She’s treasuring her idea, looking forward to seeing his face when he hears.

Meanwhile, she should entertain him…while away the miles…make him laugh.

‘Look, a dragonfly,’ she says. She points it out, and, from astride his horse, Edward’s eyes obediently follow. The insect is glittering blue and green above the stream they’re crossing. Alice adds, ‘Same colours as my robe, do you see?’

Edward’s supposed to chuckle at that – to recognise it as the opening gambit in a game of jewellery-giving. But the eyes he turns to her are blank. He’s all cloudy and confused this morning. Perhaps she should have insisted on a litter. But he was so excited last night at the idea of seeing how his building works were going at Sheen that it never occurred to her he might be like this by daybreak.

Smiling brightly, because she doesn’t know how to behave with Edward except to flirt like a cheeky girl in the presence of the all-powerful, Alice leans over and takes his hand, as if nothing is wrong. ‘Look,’ she repeats, putting the limp, veined claw to her water-coloured taffeta sleeve. ‘I should have a dragonfly brooch made to go with this, shouldn’t I?’

He just nods without seeming to understand.

It’s not the first time; she can’t shake off the unease taking hold of her. Over the next hour, she tries all kinds of things to jog Edward back to his usual self. With that not-worried smile clamped determinedly to her face, she reminds him of how he had the French King John the Good living on English soil as his prisoner for seven years after Poitiers Field, where the Prince of England captured him. England’s most glorious victory, she says, and all yours and your son’s. You really are the king of kings. There’s no reaction. She says, ‘Do you remember? They say John and nineteen knights from his guard dressed identically for battle, to confuse our boys. But we got him anyway.’ She squeezes Edward’s hand. Still limp. ‘Do you remember, afterwards, after he got away again, back to France?’ she whispers with the brightness fading from her voice. ‘How his son escaped too, and the French weren’t paying the ransom for him, but he came back to you, all the way to London – of his own accord – because he didn’t want to dishonour the King of England, who’d treated him so well?’

Edward smiles vaguely. ‘I remember the pageant when he came back…and the procession,’ she falters. She keeps nodding, like an idiot, trying to force a proper response from him. ‘It was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen…I worshipped you that day…from where I was on the street, at least. No one in that crowd could possibly have been shouting louder than I was. And waving…’

He nods, and squeezes her hand weakly back. But she’s still not sure he understands.

It’s a mood, a vapour, she tells herself determinedly; it will pass as soon as he’s rested. She thinks: I’ll send him straight off for a nap when we arrive.

This is how Alice has worked out that Edward can get the money he needs if he is to win the war in France – an outcome which, in turn, might bring Edward himself back to his old glory.

It’s not simple. But then the problem of getting money for the war has become horribly tangled over the years of fading and failure.

The only reason that England has not been utterly defeated in France is that, after his humiliation overseas last year, the Duke of Lancaster arranged a one-year truce on shaming terms. There is no money for more fighting, so, very soon, Duke John will have to leave England to negotiate another truce, and keep hostilities on hold for another year. The next talks, at Bruges, will be even more humiliating. English pride would prefer a different outcome. But English finances are not in a state to dream of that.

King Edward can’t raise enough money for the wars in France nowadays because, back in the good old days of victory, he spent other people’s money so lavishly on warships and destriers and scarlet banners and golden trumpets that he bankrupted the finance houses of Florence and brought trading all over Christendom to a standstill.

It’s taken decades, but at last the Lombard and Florentine bankers are shakily back on their feet. Yet the Crown of England still owes them thousands upon thousands of pounds, amounts carefully noted in clerk hand on the hundreds of dishonoured bonds and tallies that still flutter on desks and in counting-houses today, bonds as useless for the purposes of trading as the ragged pennants and banners of the knights of England, hanging lifeless and flat in their airless armouries, are for the purposes of war. There will be no new loans from the Italians until those hundreds of old insults to the financiers’ honour, those blows to their pockets, are rubbed out of existence.

The whisper blows through the court with every new defeat or humiliation. If only the Italians could be persuaded to lend again…if only. But no one knows how to persuade them.

Meanwhile, the only loans the King can raise are ones that come from his own leading merchants. Thank God for the boom in the wool trade; these three Englishmen are richer than ever before. Not just from wool, because they are also traders in cinnamon and anise and coriander, pomegranates and almonds and oranges, shark’s fins, swordfish and mermaid’s tails, but it’s the high price of English wool these last years that has tipped them into grandeur. The King relies very heavily on Master Walworth and his two friends, now there’s no one else. Perhaps they should be grateful. But they aren’t, particularly. They’re honoured to be asked, of course, but…they don’t think they’ll get the money back. They click their beads, and calculate: the King won’t pay; the war damages our business interests anyway; the Duke wouldn’t win even if we bought him the best army in the world. Alice heard Walworth, back there at Chaucer’s, laughing with Brembre, muttering, obviously of the Duke, ‘Him? He couldn’t lead a pack of choirboys across Chepe – even with a map.’ So why throw good money after bad? The London merchants would rather keep their money in their counting-houses than finance the faint hope England can be glorious in victory. Secretly, Alice can understand why. But Edward finds it a mystery. He begs for their money, cheerfully and nobly enough; he relieves each faint-hearted new Mayor, each summer, of another large sum; he laughs behind their backs at their blind spot about glory; but he’d prefer not to have to humble himself.

This, then, is the problem. Italian bankers: fabulously rich again, but not in the least interested in lending to a bad-risk King. England’s three mightiest merchants: rich and getting richer, but also clinging anxiously to their money-bags. Look at Walworth, back there, at Chaucer’s, tittering so sadly behind his hands for all to see: ‘Is my lord going to want fifteen thousand, or more?’

But what if the King could find someone new, in England, who’s rich enough to borrow money from in the quantities he wants?

That would be the solution.

And what Alice suddenly saw, back there at Chaucer’s house, is that she is in a position to make this happen.

Because, now, there’s Richard Lyons, isn’t there?

She knows, who better, just how rich Richard Lyons has got. They’ve done well together out of the special wool licences; and Alice’s pay, like Latimer’s, has only been a small percentage. Lyons is rolling in it – so rich he could easily afford to lend £15,000 to the King. More, maybe. And the Fleming, unlike the established merchants, would actually like to become Edward’s backer. Since he got so rich, he’s started to crave respectability too. Walworth’s half seen the danger of Lyons; he’s trying to buy him into the establishment with a little job in the City government at Guildhall. But it’s not enough. Lyons is a big powerful man. Nothing would please him better than to bypass Walworth and the City altogether, and make the King his own personal client and friend.

The only obstacle to what Alice has in mind is that Lyons doesn’t actually know the King yet. (Those wool licences were all Alice’s idea, and it was Alice who, for a consideration, got Latimer’s signature on the documents. She didn’t see any need, back then, to bother the King with detail.) But now…well, Alice can introduce Edward to Master Lyons, nothing easier. It’s time they met.

It will make Alice laugh to put old Walworth’s nose out of joint, too. Walworth: so smugly goody-goody, so given to quoting annoying little rules at people, so respectable and pompous and conventional, with his much-paraded friendship with the aristocratic Bishop Courtenay of London and his suspicion of all the new preachers who don’t much like the Church of Rome. She knows Walworth isn’t really quite the paragon of virtue he likes to pretend, whatever his angel face might suggest. She knows he earns a fortune from his Flemish whorehouses at Southwark. And she can’t see why he hasn’t been able to live and let live over the question of the tax-free wool exports, when it’s been such a nice little earner for her and Lyons for so long. But, with the public fuss Walworth’s insisting on making, going blabbing to everyone and their aunt about it, arresting people even, questions are being asked; she’s got no real alternative any more but to get Lyons to stop. Just for that, it’ll do Walworth no harm to get a bit of a jolt.

Everyone else will be happy. For this is the plan Alice is about to set out.

First, Master Lyons must agree to stop using his special licences to export wool tax free. (Chaucer will be pleased – England’s official take from the wool trade will go up, which will make him look good. He might get a pay rise. And it’ll be good for Lyons and Alice and Latimer to move on from wool, and stop the talk.)

Next, Alice will introduce Master Lyons to the King. The Fleming will then be allowed to lend the King a first sum of £20,000. (The King will like that bigger, rounder number better than Walworth’s grudging £15,000 and lending a bit more, to demonstrate generosity, will be no skin off Lyons’ nose).

Third, Lyons will earn a premium of £10,000 on that loan. This means he’ll eventually be repaid a total of £30,000. (That very high 50 per cent interest rate will keep him very sweet, and the King never notices the small print.)

Other merchants won’t be so envious that Lyons has got into the King’s good books when they find out that the Fleming’s willing to accept just half his repayments from the King in actual clinking countable gold coin. He’ll take the other half in the old, discredited debt paper on which the King made his empty promises to the Italians, years ago. Since the King defaulted on this debt, also many years ago now, those worthless old paper promises will not be exchanged at their face value, but at only half what’s written on the page – so any paper signed by the King promising to repay an Italian finance house 100 marks will, now, count as being worth just 50. Even so, prudent City men might feel Lyons was a fool to accept a promise of even 50 from this particular shifty King. (Alice knows Lyons won’t care, even if the King never pays a penny back against the debt. Lyons’ pay-off will be coming from that fat interest rate he’s also getting. Better yet, he’ll be building a relationship with the King, which will stand him in good stead later. So he’ll have nothing to complain of.)

Best of all, this deal might finally end the festering nastiness between King and Italians.

The Italian financiers, who years ago wrote off their loans to the King of England, will suddenly start getting repayments from the Crown, after all. Only on half of what they originally lent, true, but that’s more than they’ve been expecting for all these years. So they’ll be happy. It might be enough to persuade them that the King of England is sorting out the country’s finances. It might even just be enough to persuade the Italians to start lending to the King again…and then, with a combination of Lyons and Italians at his back, who knows what might not happen with the war?

No wonder Alice is pleased with this plan. It’s big. It’s public-spirited. It shows her new maturity. And it solves everyone’s problems.

Most personally pleasing of all, to Alice, is the knowledge that it all grew out of a chance remark at Chaucer’s table, a meeting of eyes between her and Lyons and Latimer while Walworth twittered on about loans; a clear-sighted moment of foreseeing the possible. She’s quietly proud that, even now that she’s so comfortable, and no longer the dewy young girl she once was, she’s still got her wits about her.

How pleased Edward will be, she thinks, as Sheen comes into view through the trees.

It’s chaos in the royal chambers: pale bare stone walls, an uncovered bed frame like a lone ship with no sails, a sea of half-open chests and sacks, and a tide of people sweeping over them, whispering furiously. They’ve turned up late at Sheen. Now tired ladies with muddy hems are doing their best to make up for lost time, pulling out hangings from boxes and pummelling the cushions their demoiselles are yanking from travel bags. Boys with brooms are banging the dust from them. The windows are open, and a chilly summer breeze is gusting at everything. Taller boys on stools and ladders are heaving up heavy brocades and tapestries, stretching to hook the worked cloth from knobs sticking out of the stones, accidentally kicking people passing by carrying clothes or brushes or bed linen or pomanders or perfumes, and hissing and cursing under their breath at all the fiddly effort required to create instant royal splendour.

Alice glides among them with the vague smile she’s always found so useful at court, the one that signifies: ‘I’m not angry, but don’t speak to me just now. I am busy and important. I have better things to do than to be associated with your inefficiency.’

She has a bag in her hand. She doesn’t say a word to anyone. She just floats away into the antechamber, where the window looks out over the park with its drowned greens and greys. Despite the season, a fire is burning (he feels the cold, poor old Edward), and the enormous bathtub, hung with cloth and green ribbons for modesty’s sake, is already steaming.

Edward’s sitting on a stool by the window, still in his soursmelling travelling cloak, with his shoulders sagging, an old man near the end of his days staring out at nature, to which even a king must one day return. He looks round, startled, when he hears her. But then he smiles – only you – and goes back to his faraway thoughts as she moves about behind him.

Detail matters. Edward loves to wash off the dirt of the journey as soon as he arrives in a new place. It’s how he shuts the world out until he’s composed himself enough to behave like a king again. So Alice makes a ritual of it.

She’s ordered the Sheen servants to have water boiling from midday on, so he wouldn’t have to wait. A king shouldn’t wait for his pleasures. From the moment they left Westminster, she hasn’t for a moment taken her eyes off the man on the horse carrying the bag containing the great sweeps of towel and the bath hangings – the finest embroidered lawn, great cloudy sheets of it, with enough green vines and blue flowers and birds on it to blind a dozen seamstresses. She’d need that bag as soon as they reached Sheen: the moment when, as she knows from experience, the mess of arrival would be at its worst. Edward loves those hangings. They go everywhere with him.

She’s kept the little bottle of rose oil in her own saddlebag, and the exotic sponges provided by Brembre and Philpot’s grocers’ guild, and the gold-backed combs, and the silverchased scissors, and the oil of lavender to rub the sore on his ankle with, and the strips of bandage. She’s also personally carried three red roses plucked this morning from the gardens at Westminster Palace, wrapped in a damp rag, encased in a small wooden box.

Now she arranges all this on the window ledge. She tips a few drops of rose oil through the steam, watching the little ring of it cloud and dissipate in the water, sniffing at the rich scent of gardens in sunlight that suddenly fills the steam.

Finally, she opens the box.

‘Look,’ she says, and his eyes turn. Neatly, murderously twisting off the heads of each limp rose in turn, she pulls out three great handfuls of dewy pink petals and, with the air of a magician, opens the curtains and throws them on the water.

The mysterious scent of summer happiness wafts out to where the King is sitting. At last Edward smells it, and, now he can see the floating rose petals, seems to understand. Faintly, he smiles. It’s the first time today that he’s met her eye.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, and fumbles for her hand. He’s as grateful as if it’s the first time she’s done this, and as surprised, she thinks sadly. ‘You’re very good to me, my dear.’

She kisses the top of his head. ‘I like to make you happy,’ she murmurs back as, putting her hands on his shoulders, she eases off the cloak.

Human decline – the slow return of dust to dust and ashes to ashes – is a strange business, she thinks as she undresses him down to the skinny arms and legs, the roughened barrel of chest, the bent back, the privy member hanging uselessly below, and braces herself to half push, half lift him into the water. He’s got so thin, but he’s still heavy enough to take her breath away.

How long is it since she first saw him like this, with that wondering, uncertain look in his eye? She can’t even remember the early shivers of anxiety she must have had when he started to forgot a word here, or a name there.

What she does remember is the time when she was still confident he was all right. She has to work back from those happy moments to find the shadows. For instance, he was definitely all right the day she heard him talking to prim little William of Wykeham. It was a conversation she probably wasn’t intended to overhear, but how could she not, since she was in the chamber with them, making them comfortable, pouring out wine, embroidering something in a corner, turning her alert eyes down, keeping herself quiet, keeping her lips tight together, keeping her ears open as she always did? He said, in that mocking way he used to have, in response to one of the Chancellor Bishop’s gentle naggings about his failure to make confession often enough, ‘But I’ve had to give up fucking and jousting since I saw sixty on the horizon, dear man, so what would I tell you?’ She’ll never forget the poor Bishop of Winchester’s shocked pink face. She had to bite her own lips tighter together and look down harder than usual at whatever never-to-be-finished piece of work was in her frame to stop herself from laughing. It still makes her smile now to remember it. Of course Edward didn’t mind shocking the Bishop. He just went on, with all his old bright brutal cheerfulness, ‘Though I still think about them. So you could be right. Perhaps it is time for confession.’

When was that? Before William of Wykeham was sacked as Chancellor, which must be three years ago, for Alice has had his confiscated manor at Wendover for two years already. And not that long before Edward turned sixty. And this greyness of mind has crept up on him since then, she doesn’t know when…whenever she isn’t looking.

It’s worse than his body going. That was understandable, at least. She can’t remember when she last made love with Edward, but it was certainly some time before that jocular remark of his to William of Wykeham. She doesn’t really even want to remember those last bouts of careful, non-jolting, old-man love, with both of them trying their best, and sometimes even having a quiet chuckle together over the slow indignity of age. Those last times have faded and blended in her mind. She prefers to remember the first times: the breathless excitement, the shape of his nakedness, the lion smell of him, before it was medical oils and piss.

Not that he’s faded, altogether. Even now, sometimes, Edward can still be so well, and his talk so full of energy and mischief and jest, that it seems as if days like today are only a cloud that has passed. Alice treasures those moments.

‘You,’ she says lovingly, supporting him back to the stool, catching her breath, then kneeling to towel him vigorously down. She looks up, over the sagging mound of his stomach, into the beautiful long eyes fixed on her above the damp beard. This is intimacy, in the winter of your life. This is all it can be. It must be sad for a man who once so enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. She makes her voice a little throatier. ‘The handsomest man in Christendom, still.’ Sensuously, she strokes his blotchy thigh.

He’s feeling revived after the bath. He grins with some of his old charm. He even puts a gnarled hand on her head, as if he might push her down on himself. She knows from experience that he won’t. He knows that her flirtatiousness doesn’t really mean she expects him to make love to her. He just appreciates the make-believe. He’s playing along.

This is what they’ve always shared: a love of games; a belief you can play with the realities that no one else has the nerve to question; a faunish, pagan sense of fun. This, she tells herself, is why it doesn’t matter what age does to him.

He’s humming as she pulls the nightshirt over his head, and slips the slippers on his feet, and leads him away to dress the sore on his ankle.

Once they’re alone in the bedchamber, when he’s comfortable on the padded armchair before the fire, she puts one of his feet in the basin of lavender water and kneels before the other. She rubs unguent gently over the dry, flaking edges of the scab that won’t heal, then winds the bandages she’s cut carefully round the ankle whose skin was too old to renew itself, trying to stop the quiet horror inside herself at the thought of the bone just inside there, under the decaying skin, the white mark of death, waiting to come through.

It’s only now, when she sees Edward leaning back against the cushions, enjoying the feel of her young flesh rubbing the cold of death away for a moment more, and every now and then grunting a little – but himself again, more or less, with a twinkle in his eye – that she judges the time to be right.

She begins to tell him about her idea.

She goes on rubbing as she speaks. He goes on grunting.

‘Lyons will take the Italian debt off your hands,’ she says.

‘Gnn-h.’

‘And you’ll sort out the wool problem too – he’s promised it will stop.’

‘Gnn-h.’

He should sound more excited.

‘You’ll have the money you need for this year…and the Italians may come back too…’

With a flicker of impatience, she wonders if those sounds he’s making are actually an acknowledgement of what she’s saying, or just the sounds of pleasure at being massaged. It’s even possible that they’re snores. He sometimes does nod off while people are talking to him. And he’s just had a bath.

‘That would be good,’ she goes on experimentally. ‘Don’t you think?’ She looks up while her hands tie the little knot at the end of the bandage.

His eyes are only half-shut. He’s half smiling, like an old alley cat, with torn ears and eyes and scars and a missing limb or two, purring on a sunny wall. It’s only when she takes away her hands and takes his bandaged foot out of her lap that he stops. With an air of surprise, he peers down at her.

‘Don’t you think?’ she repeats sharply. She can hardly believe he’s taking no notice. She’s been so sure he’ll be overjoyed. Grateful. He should be. It’s the most astute fund-raising idea anyone in his service has come up with in years.

‘What, what?’ he splutters. ‘Oh…Yes indeed.’

He hasn’t been listening to a word, but thinks he can get away with pretending. All Alice’s impressive statesmanlike thought, all that careful weighing of percentages and outcomes, all that convincing herself that, through today’s good idea, she’s proving herself capable of becoming the intelligent strategist of tomorrow, the good angel at Duke John’s shoulder: all gone to waste…ignored.

Alice is not always perfectly statesmanlike. The flash of rage she’s having that her idea has had such a disappointing response is too vivid to allow measured self-criticism. She doesn’t ask herself questions such as: Was this, really, the best moment? Is Edward truly in a state to take in talk of debt today?

Instead, she thinks: Is this all I am to him, after all these years? Someone whose voice he can just ignore? A servant, a nurse, a bloody pair of hands?

Then, mastering herself a little, she moves on to: Well, if he doesn’t want to listen, it’s not the end of the world. He’d agree all right if he had a sensible bone left in his body. He’d be jumping at the idea.

Finally, taking a deep breath, Alice tells herself that it’s up to her to help him make the right decision.

She says, briskly rushing him on, in tones that suggest she’ll brook no nonsense, ‘Lord Latimer agrees with you – that taking out this loan could be the solution to several problems at the same time.’

Edward answers, ‘Latimer…a good man, Latimer. Very good.’ But he sounds a little fretful now. He’s looking around. He’s beginning to understand that the massage is over, the bandage tied. There’ll be no more till the morning.

That’s assent enough, Alice judges. There’s no need to feel exasperated with him. He’s agreed.

‘You’re tired…we’ll get you into bed,’ she says, much more gently. He nods. His eyes are drooping – a child deprived of a treat.

She heaves him up. He stands, helpless, with his arm limp over her shoulder. When she begins to walk, in tiny steps, he shuffles along with her to the bed.

‘So shall I tell Latimer to prepare the papers you want drawn up? And send him to you in the morning?’ she says as they move.

He nods. He’s forgotten the whole conversation already, she can see. He just wants to be stroked and comforted and tucked into bed.

She blows kisses all the slow tiptoeing way to the door, gentle kisses, as if to a baby. His eyes are shut long before she gets there.

But once she’s out on the other side, she picks up her skirts and runs, as fast as she can, down the corridor, feeling the power in her legs, pushing her up and away, rejoicing as she goes in the quickness of her breath and the pink on her cheeks and the heat of the blood coursing through her. She can’t help herself. After hours of going so slow, she has to celebrate being young and alive.

And she has to find William Latimer, fast.

The candlelight is reflected in his eyes.

The servant has gone.

The lean tanned face is showing its deep lines. Lord Latimer’s smile is a lion’s casual snarl, eyes half-closed with sheer pleasure, head stretching luxuriously back on the neck, a beast of prey feeling the power of himself. He must have been a devil with the women in his time. ‘It doesn’t stop here, you know,’ he’s saying. Quietly – half-growl, half-purr. ‘Or it needn’t. If you wanted to go further.’

She stays still. What can he mean? They’ve solved every problem already, haven’t they?

But there’s always further to go. There’s always a refinement. She’s always known that. So Alice raises her eyebrows just a self-possessed fraction. It won’t do to look naive.

‘You mean…’ she says. Not quite a question. She folds her hands and waits.

The candle flickers on the table between them. Latimer looks around without moving his head, just a flicker of eyes – he has an old soldier’s stillness about him – but there are no open doors or windows in this room bare of hangings. He puts his elbows on the table. He leans forward until his eyes are burning so close to Alice that they seem to separate and float, four golden-green circles over very white teeth, bared. He breathes, ‘The debt he’ll be buying. Lyons. The discounted debt…’

Alice waits. His excitement is catching. She’s no longer as composed as she would have liked to be. She can feel her body leaning forward, closer and closer, until her face is nearly touching his – as if they’re lovers, about to kiss. Her heart beats faster.

‘…fifty marks for every hundred borrowed from the Crown.’

Alice says, in a monotone, ‘Yes.’

‘Imagine if you were to buy those debt papers on from Lyons. Pay a bit more. Sixty marks, say. He’d be glad of the profit…’

‘Yes…’ Be patient, Alice tells herself. It doesn’t do to sound mystified.

‘Then, once they were your bonds, you’d cash them in at the King’s treasury…’

‘Yes,’ Alice says, nostrils flaring, already scenting the beginning of the answer.

‘…at face value.’

Alice stops breathing. It seems a long time before she realises her body has stopped obeying her, and tells her chest to expand and take in air, and let it out.

She says, and she no longer cares that her voice is trembling, ‘You mean – I’d buy something for sixty marks, and exchange it for a hundred marks straight from the treasury?’

Doubling my money, or just about. Though Latimer would want a cut.

He nods. ‘We’d split the profit.’

The candle flickers, but neither of them notices any more. All Alice can see is those golden orbs, dancing before her eyes.

After a long silence, she says, flat-voiced again, ‘How?’

But she knows. The three hundred people of the royal household are divided into two layers, the upper one of which, the domus magnificencie, numbers more than a hundred people, and centres on the King’s chamber. It’s run by Latimer. It’s Latimer who formally controls access to the royal presence. It’s Latimer who chooses the chamber staff of knights and esquires of the body, the King’s closest attendants (apart from Alice). He’s also in charge of the steward who’s in charge of the domus providencie, the lower part of the household, that teeming mass of people inhabiting kitchens and butteries and pantries and spiceries and stables, and of the money kept and doled out to the traders and farmers who supply the court, as well as to the King’s creditors, by the lower royal purse: the cofferer, the comptroller, and the man in charge of royal finance, the treasurer. Sir Richard Scrope: unruly hair, big bony knees and elbows, flaking skin on a brow furrowed from the counting of coin, a man with anxious, short-sighted eyes.

Somewhere very close to Alice, the white teeth flash again.

‘I’m the chamberlain,’ Latimer says through his grin. ‘I can make it all right with Scrope. He’s not a man for trouble.’

‘Him…yes…anything for a quiet life,’ Alice agrees, for the sake of saying something pleasant – but almost absentmindedly. She has blood drumming through her head, a great fast tattoo of it. She’s thinking.

They’ll…They’d make fortunes doing this. If they did it. She and Latimer would be rich beyond their wildest dreams.

But…it would also undo so much of the good that the deal she’s dreamed up between King and merchants is supposed to bring to Edward, and the merchants, and the Duke of Lancaster, and the whole realm of England. She and Latimer (and probably Lyons, because, realistically, he’d find out, soon enough, and they’d have to cut him in too, wouldn’t they?) would be taking at least some of the money meant for the war.

She’d be stealing from Edward, who loves her.

She’d be breaking faith with her new ally, his son, whose protection she wants.

But, then again, they almost certainly wouldn’t ever find out. No one ever does, unless you’re very unlucky.

And how rich she’d be.

As she ponders, a picture forms behind her eyes. Edward, lying back against his cushions, his beard damp and combed into wet grey seaweed strands, blissfully unaware of her quiet disgust at the sore on his ankle, just enjoying the smell of the lavender oil she’s massaging into it, snorting and grunting like an old animal, and not even bothering to listen as she explains how he could save his finances.

The ingratitude of him, she thinks.

And another picture. Edward, exhausted, eyes closing despite himself, and the trusting way he leans his weight on her as she shuffles him to the bed. He doesn’t realise that he’s so heavy, even now, in his touching helplessness, that she never quite knows if she’ll be able to find the strength to heave him forward.

Or perhaps he just doesn’t care.

For a moment, she’s overwhelmed by the vision of the selfishness of old age that comes to her. Perhaps he’d be just as carelessly grateful to anyone young and willing, anyone who’d make him feel, for a moment here and a moment there, that he could push back the darkness and grab an extra hour or two of life.

It doesn’t matter to him that she’s the one beside him, she thinks, with a spike of silent rage. Letting him borrow her vigour and energy. Anyone would do.

‘What do you think?’ she hears.

She’s been so lost in her thoughts – the will-I, won’t-I whirligig – that she hasn’t realised she’s dropped her eyes till, recognising the suppressed impatience in Latimer’s voice, she darts them quickly back up to his. A guilty thing surprised.

She shakes her head.

For once, she doesn’t care if there’s indecision on her face or in her voice. There’s indecision in her heart too.

‘I don’t know,’ she says.

Latimer’s no fool. She can see, from the velvet look he gives her, that he’s following her thoughts.

He purrs, ‘My dear. You must think of yourself a little, you know.’

There’s a longer silence. She wanted to be told that. She wanted to be cajoled. Still, Alice feels her face grow thoughtful – sullen, almost.

She looks down again. But she hears every word he says next.

‘You have to think of your own future. This’ – he pauses, giving them both time to hear the unspoken word, he – ‘isn’t going to last for ever, you know.’

She mutters, ‘But the war…that money was going to help with the war…’

But Latimer must hear doubt, or insincerity, in that. He caps her: ‘…which will never be won if Duke John is leading it. There’s no point in more war, with him.’

She looks straight at him now. She’s beginning to lose the numbness she’s felt for all these long moments with Latimer’s eyes on her, a paralysis brought on by even contemplating this giant stride towards fully fledged dishonesty. She keeps thinking, instead, about how rich she’ll be if she says yes. It’s strange what a warming thought that is; how damp her skin, how fast her pulse. He nods encouragingly. His eyes are dancing, inviting her to laugh with him.

‘A good peace is better for England than a bad war, isn’t it?’ he adds, scenting victory, suddenly almost jocular with relief. ‘Honestly? And far cheaper, too.’

She’ll be rich.

The silence yawns on. His hazel-gold eyes are on hers.

Both of them are almost surprised when Alice laughs, and takes a deep breath, and says, in her firmest, most resolute voice, ‘Yes.’

SEVEN

Fortune’s Wheel

Alice doesn’t sleep well, that first night at Sheen. She tosses and turns. She’s up before dawn. She’s uneasy enough about what she’s said to Lord Latimer that she makes her excuses to Edward, before he’s even properly awake, gets his permission, and rides off, back through London, east to Essex.

She needs to talk to Aunty.

When Alice was only a girl, delivering tiles to St Albans with her old Aunty Alison on the cart (she can still hear old Aunty’s indulgent voice saying, ‘You’ve been a good girl, show you a bit of the world, why not?’), she saw a picture in stained glass in the church window there that she’s kept in her heart all her life.

It’s a picture you see all over the place. There are a lot of other people in post-Mortality England who are obsessed with the goddess Fortune and her wheel. She features in the rose window of churches all over the land.

There’s nothing very Christian about Fortune, of course. But the priests turn a blind eye to the goddess’s inconvenient paganness, because she packs in the crowds at Mass. To the brave, and to the chancers, and the gamblers, and the opportunists, Fortune represents hope: that effortless climb to the top of the wheel. But what she also represents – the capricious destruction of the greedy, later on – suits the gloomy, doomy mood of everyone else.

You see envy in the narrow eyes of every stay-at-home who doesn’t dare venture out to try his luck in the rough new game of life, these days. Anyone who isn’t making a quick fortune wants anyone who is to get his come-uppance quick. So thinking of the punishment Fortune has waiting at the end of the wheel she spins pleases the dourest of congregations in the churches, looking bitterly up at the rose windows, as much as the promise of hope pleases the people with dreams in their hearts.

What the congregation sees in the window: Fortune, that temptress, that slut, smiles temptingly down, in jewel-bright light, luring people on to take a chance, to jump on her wheel, to make their name, to get rich quick.

And this is what happens next to the humans whirling round their little bubbles of coloured glass, chancing a dance with the goddess: once she’s hooked someone in, you’ll see her willing victim on her left, clinging to the turning wheel as it moves upwards, clockwise. This happy human figure with everything still to come has sun-kissed hair flying down and back as it floats effortlessly towards the top, with the prideful little word regnabo, which Alice likes to translate as ‘I’m going to have it all’, floating above their prideful little head.

Above Fortune’s head, hanging on at the very top of the turning wheel, is a second little human figure who’s happier still. This one crows, regno, ‘I’m at the top!’ in the same cramped black letters.

But it’s the other side that most interests the losers in the congregation, because the wheel that has brought those human figures up keeps turning, and down they go again.

It’s the terror on the face of the little figure to Fortune’s right that these people like to gloat over, the terror of someone being whirled back downwards by the wheel, realising it’s all over, that day of glory, never to return, and howling, ‘I’m finished’, regnavi. Best of all is the abjectness of the last little person, right at the bottom, dropping off the wheel, being trampled under Fortune’s careless feet. ‘Sum sine regno,’ it whimpers. ‘I’ve been left with nothing.’

Quite right too, says the congregation, through smugly pursed lips. Pride goes before a fall.

Alice remembers looking up at the first of these great glowing stained-glass temptations she ever saw, and saying to Aunty, a bit defiantly, in the way of children trying to find words for a serious idea, but still afraid they’ll be laughed at for being naive, ‘I don’t see why you have to be destroyed by Fortune’s wheel. Why can’t you just get off when you’ve got where you want – stop at the top?’

And she remembers Aunty laughing, but kindly, in that way she’s always had, of seeming peacefully to know what’s what, without even trying, and answering, ‘I know just what you mean, dear. The great trick to life is knowing when to stop.’

Alice must already have known, even back then, when she first saw Fortune, when she was, what, nine or ten, that she would try and hitch a lift on the wheel, too, as soon as she possibly could. She must already have been thinking out how.

But she couldn’t have guessed how soon her chance would come.

It came on another uncertain day, back in Essex, and Alice a quick girl of eleven or so chasing Johnny and Wat and Tom through a cloud of cow-parsley, and everyone whooping and red-faced and light with laughter, when one of the boys – Wat, maybe, whoever was up ahead – stopped. So they all stopped. They were good like that – took their cues from each other, got the hint as quick as they could, a wink here, a nod there. They trusted each other, all old Alison’s brood of waifs and strays, being brought up together, as if they were real brothers and sisters. So now they hunched down in the ditch beside him, stilling their breath, ragged and sharp-eyed, looking to see what he’d seen.

And there they were, a whole family of newcomers, leading horses back from the stream to the road, a lanky mother, complaining in an undertone, a henpecked-looking husband nodding his head and patting hopelessly at the air with his hands, five daughters, walking in order of size, the oldest only a bit smaller than Alice, but all with the same air of yawning discontent, and, still astride on a pony tied by a string to the manservant’s nag, a little boy, half-asleep, nodding from side to side with the animal’s movement. All in clothes without a tear or a mend in them. And every horse oat-fed and bright and fat as a barrel.

Sometimes it only takes a moment. From the moment Alice stepped out through the tall weeds and, smoothing down her rags, said, in her cheeriest voice, addressing the complaining mother, whom she guessed would be likeliest to respond, ‘Need any help, lady?’ her future was settled.

The Champagnes let her, and the other dancing-eyed urchins, take them home to the tilery. But it was only her they saw. And when they got home, Aunty Alison took one look at the cut of their clothes and saw them right. Told Alice to mind the little boy, show him the wooden toys on the shelf, make herself useful; got the other kids measuring out drinks and cutting hunks of bread, quickly now. Over a cooling draught of ale, the mum, dusting down the stool she was sitting on with a rag before putting her genteel behind down, told Aunty everything: how they’d left London to inspect the manor she’d inherited from an uncle, who’d died in the latest bout of the Mortality, last year. How lost they’d got with no one to guide them. How they couldn’t have asked for directions; they’d feared for their lives in the fleapit inn they’d stopped at last night as it was. Those eyes, staring. It was out Sudbury way, where they were going. She’d been happy enough to bed down at the kiln for the night, the mum. A few fleas in the rushes were nothing to worry about, compared to the eyes of the men out there. The dad was happy too, too. But, oh, how those smeary-faced girls had whined and complained, sniffling and turning away from their food as if it would poison them, looking round with hunted eyes at the thick walls and low roof.

‘Never seen anything like it in my life,’ Aunty muttered, winking at her own brood, when the little boy, pulled away from the toy Wat had brought him because his mum wanted him and his sisters to wash in the stream, started stamping his feet and shrieking the place down. ‘Never been said no to, that one, that’s for sure.’ Then, as it turned out, the kid wouldn’t have anyone but Alice take him to wash. Alice had had him roaring with laughter a minute before, playing with Wat’s toy, snuffling, ‘Giddyup giddyup!’ as she made the imaginary farmer fall off his carved wooden horse. ‘Want her!’ he was howling, and Alice felt old Alison’s eyes suddenly thoughtful on her back as she skipped the boy energetically off, away from his grey-faced, relieved parents. She could tell what Alison was thinking. She’d had the same thought already. Alice was the best of old Alison’s kids, the sharpest of anyone at spotting whatever it was in the weed-grown manor houses and crumpled Mortality cottages the kids spent their days exploring that might fetch a good price, the best too at remembering what might be useful where, and to whom, and sidling up to the right person on market day to sing out, ‘Wasn’t it you looking for fire-irons?’ or ‘Didn’t you say you wanted a cook-pot?’ So it was natural she’d see this chance as quickly as Alison. She’d heard enough, not just from Alison, but also from the various uncles and cousins who came down from London to take away the tiles to whichever abbey or priory had put in an order, or to take on the other things the kids found, or to leave behind a new child picked up on their travels (old Alison had a soft heart for kids left, as she’d once been, to fend for themselves; and even orphans must be worth something now, with people so desperate for children). Alice had grown up with the knowledge that the streets of London were paved with gold.

She was back with the freshly washed, angelically sleepy toddler in time to hear Aunty Alison’s voice, in the twilight, putting her own thought into words: ‘You want someone to look after some of them for you, and my Alice, she’s a good girl.’ They were two of a kind, her and Aunty Alison. And Aunty, who was always telling her there was more to life than a tilery in Essex, that there was a whole world out there, just waiting to be discovered, was winking at her now, winking and grinning, as if she’d struck lucky.

She had. The next morning she was off with the family; Alice leading the little boy’s pony, and ignoring the familiar eyes watching from behind the cow-parsley, and not letting herself see the thin boy-arms of Tom and Ham and Wat and Johnny and Jack waving goodbye, because she didn’t want to feel sad, and she was already too busy making herself indispensible to these new friends – daisy chains for the girls, stolen apples for the little boy, bright sweet nothings for the mum and dad. She was seizing the moment.

Of course the Champagnes were bitterly disappointed when they actually saw their manor – another of the weed-shrouded ruins Alice knew so well, with its villeins long gone, off hunting higher wages somewhere. She could have told them how it would be before they started, but she was twelve, old enough to know hard truths weren’t her business. So she cooed and comforted instead. She trapped them a hare to roast on a little spit. By the end of another week, when the Champagnes, already eager to forget their embarrassingly naive dream of sudden landed wealth, were sighing with relief at the sight of London on the horizon, they still had Alice with them. ‘Look,’ she was saying to little Tommy Champagne, managing not to look astonished herself at the great wall rearing up ahead, or the gate, or the soldiers. ‘Home soon now.’

She’d always thought she would climb high. It had only ever been a question of time, and opportunity.

When, weeping, the silver-haired Master Champagne put his wife into the grave a year later, then turned to Alice the capable maidservant and wept into her hair, and stroked it, and kissed her shoulder, she didn’t hesitate for a moment. She knew at once what she’d do. Even if she’d thought that you might only love – truly love – once in your life, and her true love certainly wasn’t dear wrinkly old Master Champagne, whose egg always went down his front in a forgetful yellow trail, she also knew there’d be no harm in him. He’d do for now.

A good man he turned out, too, in the rest of his short time in this vale of tears. He let her be the sturdy, independent sort of person she was. He laughed at her stories. In return for her good humour at sharing a bed with a spindle-shanked, grey-skinned old husband, he also became a more willing giver of ribbons from the fair than his daughters remembered him having been before. Also of new robes, not just the old mistress’s altered in the details, and (as Alice’s knowledge of what she might ask for increased) embroidery silks, and finally even French lessons, so she could act the lady rather than the baker’s wife with Master Champagne’s well-heeled clients.

Master Champagne loved the idea of his wife chatting in French with the gentry so much that he never said a cross word, or had an ugly thought, either, about the merry friendship Alice had had in those months before he passed away with the curly-haired young French master from Hainault. Young Jean Froissart was glad enough to earn some extra pennies as he set himself up in England, just by spending an afternoon in the City every week or two, chatting to a nice-looking girl so eager to learn; it all worked out well for everyone. As old Aunty Alison always said, ‘Pick up whatever you can by the wayside; you never know when it might come in handy.’

The French lessons paid off, all right, though maybe not as Tom Champagne expected. Or Alice, either, come to that.

Eight months after their marriage, he left behind the fuss and bustle of earthly life. He died straining on the chamber pot in the night, an indignity that Alice tactfully tidied up, when she woke up in the morning to find him cold on the floor, before calling for the servants. The poor old dear, she thought, opening the windows, having rearranged him, and wiped him down, and covered and hidden the pot; how he’d hate to have been seen like that. The French lessons were swapped for widow’s weeds. But a certain Master Perrers of Hainault, who’d advanced the Champagne family some money so their baking business could be expanded, and thus been part of the discussions with the lawyers that marked the settlement of the estate, had been as impressed by the young widow’s few words of elegantly pronounced French as he had by her sudden fortune (or so he said). Master Perrers, a plump lover of the pleasures of the table, who could be reduced to ecstatic groans by a good description of a rich sauce or a fine wine, was old enough, and foolish enough, to enjoy Alice’s flattering suggestion that he might be related to the gentry family of Perrers who’d once bought tiles from the kiln. Not that she’d told him, exactly, that this was her connection with that noble family; she couldn’t recall exactly, but she just might have teased him with the idea that those Perrerses were distant cousins of her own, for it pleased him so to think she might have a drop of gentry blood in her, and how would he, as a foreigner, ever know the difference? It did no harm. In any event, what with one thing and another, Master Perrers quickly stepped into the baker’s shoes, and married her at the church door forty days after Tom Champagne’s funeral. Bar a change of address and a different set of servants and the need to go visiting if she wanted to see little Tommy or the rest of the ‘children’ of her first marriage (the eldest of the girls now grown-up enough to take over the care of the little boy, while an aunt tried to find the daughters husbands), her new life with a different rich, indulgent, older merchant soon became all but indistinguishable from before. Once you got out of the gutter, the Alice of those days was given to thinking, once you didn’t have to rush about emptying chamber pots or stealing from ruins any more to keep body and soul together, pleasing people became a much simpler question of vocabulary. Before, in the old house, it had been frisky bed-accented French, all oui, monseigneur, and oh là là, the muscles on the man, morning noon and night, with happy little whiffles of pleasure back from him. Now all she needed to make a new man happy was to talk recipes – the grander and more full of expensive ingredients the better. How intently he listened. How carefully he repeated it all back, imagining every flavour with brain and tongue, and grunting with joy: ‘Cream and nutmeg and cinnamon and pepper? Baked in the peacock’s juices? Gnn-h!’

If poor Jankyn Perrers hadn’t died so soon, Alice has sometimes found herself thinking recently (a heart attack over a lobster dinner did for him, less than a year after he moved to England and only a few months after their marriage) – well, who can say? She might have stayed in the City to this day, growing fat with contentment and spending her energy nagging at her husband, or the next one, for a new music teacher or string of beads or bit of silk. She was happy enough, back in those days. You can be happy with so little when you’re young, and not in love, and remember enough about being poor to be grateful you’ve got food in your belly and clothes on your back, and nothing more serious to worry about than the next flirtation, innocent or otherwise.

But another part of her thinks: No, I’d never have stopped there. Not when there’s so much more in the world, so much higher to fly. And she’s always been right to go on, and take a bit more, and try another thing, and keep her eyes open, until now.

Then again…

What she’s thinking of doing now…with Latimer…what she’s said she’ll do…

Well, isn’t it dangerous? Isn’t it the kind of thing that might tempt Fortune to flip you over the top, and send you down?

Alice sighs, and shakes her head, and nudges her horse on. Aunty will know.

It was after Jankyn Perrers died, and when she got her toehold at court, that Alice first went back to Essex and found Aunty.

Alison was still there, hanging on, by herself. To this day, Alice doesn’t know what happened to the boys she grew up with at the Henney tilery, old Aunty’s other orphans. All she could work out is that they were long gone. Aunty didn’t have much more idea than Alice where. ‘People grow up. They make their own luck,’ was her phlegmatic comment. All she could tell Alice was that Jack died, Johnny went for a carpenter, on the road, and Wat for a soldier, overseas. That’s probably all either of them will ever hear, Alice thinks.

Without the kids’ help, Aunty’s tilery business wasn’t doing so well. She’d got behind with a big order for her best customer, the Abbot of St Albans; he’d cancelled the contract; she’d been left with two thousand expensive tiles to shift. And that was impossible, in those hard new times, with the war gone wrong, and the gentry so tight and short of money. So Alice took Aunty on. It’s what the old woman was owed, for Alice’s childhood; and Alice found when she looked at that lined face that Aunty, for all her Essex rusticity, still felt like home.

Alice got the old woman to sell the kiln and the house. ‘Don’t get bogged down in the past,’ she said kindly. And, while they sat together at the old scrubbed table and worked out what Aunty could do next, Alice also told the old woman her own story, and asked for advice about what she should be doing next.

While she was talking, she was still thinking to herself: What am I asking her for? A broken-down old stick of a thing from the country? This isn’t stuff she knows anything about. It’s court: French, and velvet. How can she possibly…?

But Aunty knew, all right.

‘Seize the moment,’ Aunty said, calm and crack-voiced as ever, and without hesitating, as soon as Alice paused. ‘Do whatever you need to stay at court. You can; course you can, whatever you put your mind to. Just do it, and stop worrying. No point in agonising half your life away, wondering what to do, when you could have decided already and be off having some fun, is there now?’

And suddenly it all seemed easier; and Alice was grateful to have an adviser to hand who never did hesitate – who knew what she wanted, and just took it.

Alice bought Aunty a manor, further south, but still in Essex. And she’s kept Aunty, ever since.

Alice thinks Aunty learned her chirpy ruthlessness on the roads. From various half-understood comments in her childhood, made by neighbours and men at markets, Alice half knows that the tilery wasn’t always Aunty’s. Aunty probably only got her hands on it through some sort of trick. It’s fairly clear, from the droppings-in of the various uncles of long ago, that Aunty came from London. That may not have been the beginning of her story, though; she may have started from somewhere else, before. They’ve never been able to get it out of her. Alice doesn’t blame Aunty for keeping her wits about her, though. People have had to, especially since the Mortality turned every old certainty on its head.

Greed, ambition, call it what you will – the spirit of the age – has been set free by so much death. That’s what people say. Three bouts of plague since Alice was born, and half of Europe dead: only the naive should be surprised if people’s nature changed. Survivors of the Mortality didn’t bother to bless God for their astonishing luck (for, as a lot of people muttered, what did it have to do with God, their escape? When the Bishop of Bath and Wells tried to thank God for the plague’s passing, at the end of 1349, the howling people of Yeovil kept him and his congregation besieged in the church all night long). People who know what’s good for them have, since then, been too busy for God (who at least, as they often say with tough looks, didn’t hate them enough to strike them dead). They’re busy at each other’s throats, squabbling over the spoils. That’s only natural too.

The Mortality has brought so much change in its wake.

First, plain bewilderment: the glut of merchandise, not enough customers, prices plunging, and anyone still alive and with money in his pocket unable to believe his good fortune. That was the lesson old Alison and her London men friends learned so fast. Move into empty houses, sleep on strangers’ beds, take over dead men’s work (or don’t bother to work at all). Eat off silver.

Then marriages: many more marriages, but much less love. People married orphans, and widows, for greed of goods, then quarrelled their lives away.

Then the fury of litigation, as the courts filled up with inheritance disputes. The notaries were dead. The cases took lifetimes to settle. Meanwhile squatters or the Church took over abandoned property, brigands pillaged the countryside, and fraudsters tricked yet more orphans out of their lands. And all the while, in the background, in the fields (or what had been fields), with the shrinking of land farmed by men, a greening as the forest threatened to come back.

Briefly there was no heriot, no merchet, and no tallage for the unfree, those walking skeletons with the caved-in cheeks and the smudgy under-eye skin and the bare, scratchy, scarred stick legs. For a year or two, till the panic eased, and it became clearer how much could still be farmed, villeins were allowed to keep their pennies. They didn’t have to pay an annual cash sweetener to the manor. If their father died, they weren’t forced to give the best beast away to the lord and the second best to the priest. For a few precious months, they didn’t even have to pay when a daughter married off the manor, to compensate the lord for the loss of her future brood of children – tomorrow’s human beasts of burden, each with a cash value in muscle weight, in rendered-down sweat.

It was only later, when the estate managers and the priests and the lords got their nerve again, and went back to demanding their dues from the skinny men-oxen they owned, that they realised there was trouble afoot.

For today there are too few villeins still alive, and too many empty fields needing hands, and too many tempting offers of work for cash. A reasonably brave, or greedy, man (and what’s the difference, when it comes to it, between bravery and greed?) can choose to live better than his villein forefathers ever did.

And the men who have escaped out of their ruts talk. On the road, they talk to the other men with tools flocking on to farms and into towns, who’ve turned their backs on their earthly lords. They talk to the poor hedge-priests on the road, thin men with staring eyes and cheap russet robes – men who don’t believe you need the Church of Rome to intercede for you with God, men who tell the crowds they can turn their back on their spiritual lords too, on the chant of the Latin they don’t understand, and the fees they’ve always paid in the belief they’re saving themselves from damnation, and yet not suffer for it in Hell. God’s waiting, they whisper, in every field and cottage, not just in church, and He’s a kindly God, too, not one to fear after all. You can find Him by yourself, if you only look. You don’t need to pay. The talk’s quiet, among the men who don’t fear God or their lords any longer. But the look in every eye is dangerous.

It was all still all right, as far as the rulers of England were concerned – or just about all right – while the news from the war still warmed people’s hearts, while drunk men could yell ‘St George for Merry England!’ in the taverns, and there was still a dream of glory.

But now the King’s old. The knights are old. Their banners have faded. Their armour’s rusting. And there have been no victories in France for years – just losses, and ransom demands. So the talk on the roads is getting louder, and the looks in the eyes of men no one wants to look at is getting uglier.

But Aunty loves it all: the muttering, the mischief, the men no one wants to look at. She’s still taking in waifs and strays, even today, not children any more but furtive men with caps pulled down low on their foreheads to hide whatever burn marks are there. She gets them in to work her fields at her manor at Gaines. She loves that place. She doesn’t act anything like a landlord, of course. She pays whatever they want, no questions asked. She shakes her head over their hard-luck stories. She lets them sleep in the barns they put up. She organises rough feasts for them on holy days. She shares her luck with them, and anyone else willing to have a laugh, and a drink, and a dance, and a chat. They love her for it.

So does Alice. However grand Alice has become, these past few years, she’s gone on taking her worries to Aunty.

As she goes under the Aldgate, looking up from her horse to see if there’s any sign of life at Chaucer’s window (there isn’t), Alice thinks that it’s been good for her to be reminded by Aunty of how things look for the men on the ground. Because there’s more and more reason for the stinking, resentful runaways – the men of the road – to be angry. Because the people who are doing well, especially the post-Mortality new rich, who are doing well so very suddenly, are more dangerously, visibly extravagant than anyone has ever been before.

And that’s what Alice’s personal experience of the changes, in the walk of life she’s chosen, has been.

Clothes, for instance, are lovelier and more expensive than ever before, and on backs ever less noble. In the year Alice first came to court, the envious in Parliament were so anxious that the natural, static, eternal order of things was being upended by the shocking vanity of men in curly-toed shoes and women with a hunger for cloth of gold that the Members of Parliament vainly tried to stop the new rich flaunting themselves. They passed a law insisting that everyone dress according to their rightful station in life.

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