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 G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.nation, and yet not suffer for it in h.e.l.l. G.o.d's waiting, they whisper, in every field and cottage, not just in church, and He's a kindly G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.ble. 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 pa.s.sed a law insisting that everyone dress according to their rightful station in life.

The sumptuary law was an a.s.s, everyone agreed. Yeomen and their wives, for instance, were forbidden to wear cloth of silk or silver, girdles, knives, b.u.t.tons, rings, garters, brooches, ribbons, chains, or any gold, silver, embroidered or enamelled items. But what fun would it have been for a wealthy yeoman's wife to deny herself all that when she'd extracted the money from somewhere, or someone, and was looking forward to buying it? If you paid heed to the law, it was russet wool only for carters, ploughmen, oxherds, cowherds, shepherds, dairy workers and other keepers of beasts and threshers of corn. But who was going to stop a shepherd who'd found the money to buy a knife, or a ring, and take it off? Naturally, no one took any notice. Naturally, yeomen's wives glittered and preened like peac.o.c.ks.

'King Canute had no more luck stopping the sea coming in than they'll have enforcing the sumptuary law,' a much younger Alice snickered. A widow, for the second time, but just out of her black and white cowl in time for the one-year mind in her husband's memory. She went on snickering over the sumptuary law for the next four or five years, as her lovers changed, and her own clothes grew more luxurious. By the time she found her way into the King's bed, the law had been repealed.

Alice has tried, in her time, to give Aunty beautiful clothes; jewels. But Aunty only laughs incredulously at them. 'Not me, dear,' she croaks, calm as ever. 'Whatever would I do in one of them them?' Alice has given up long ago. All she's bringing with her this time is a bunch of flowers she's picked by the roadside, and money for wages.

Aunty's great plus, in Alice's view, is that she's flown a good few rides on Fortune's wheel, but always known when she wants to stop. That's why Alice has gone on asking for the old woman's opinion. She's never met anyone else who knew, so precisely, just how far they could go.

It's not just the clothes Aunty doesn't want - the aping of a gentility she doesn't aspire to. There's Gaines, too. When Alice first found the run-down old place, she was only thinking of it as a stopgap. What Alice really wanted, when she bought it, was to bide her time, then get revenge, on Aunty's behalf, on the Abbot of St Albans.

It took Alice's bailiffs at her grand Wendover manor in Hertfords.h.i.+re (conveniently close to St Albans) months and years of sitting in taverns and listening to gossip to find a man with a grudge against the Abbot that had a cash value, and might stand up in court. When they'd got Thomas Fitzjohn in to see her and he'd told her the Abbot had laid false claim to Oxhey manor - forcing him into the courts to defend his rights, where he might well be cheated of his rights by powerful friends of the abbey, so, effectively stealing it - Alice looked at his light eyes, filled with the familiar hope, the dream of instant money, and something in them reminded her of Jack and Tom and Johnny and Wat and herself, back in the day. Accepting his claim to the property, she bought the lands from him on the spot, for a substantial sum, knowing she was really buying his dispute with the Abbot. Without recourse to any courts, she moved her land agents in. The tenants at Oxhey were happy enough to answer to her, not the grasping Abbot. It was only Abbot de la Mare, that strange old broomstick of twiggy, stringy limbs and white-flecked nose and white eyebrows inside the abbey, who was furious.

Alice's idea was that she'd move old Alison from Gaines into Oxhey manor house, right under the Abbot's nose, and leave her lording it there with peasants who were delighted to have been freed from the Abbot's harsh rule - a triumphant c.o.c.k-a-snoot that Alice thought would crown Aunty in glory.

But it didn't happen. The old woman refused. 'You shouldn't be doing this, dear,' was all old Alison said. She sounded uneasy. 'De la Mare is a bad enemy to have. Let him have it back. Know when to stop. What do you care about Oxhey?'

Poor old Alison. Losing her will to fight, Alice thought sadly, looking at the other woman's wrinkles and brown-splodged hands. Too scared to seize the moment. And her so tough, before. Perhaps it's age.

Alice has never relinquished the Abbot's lands. She's left the possibility open. She's left her borrowed quarrel with the Abbot simmering, too. She doesn't like giving up. But she's let the question of moving Aunty drop. She doesn't want to upset the old woman, so Aunty's still at Gaines, and always will be. It doesn't matter about Oxhey, really, Alice rea.s.sures herself quite often. In some ways, Gaines is a better home for Aunty. More private.

Why Alice wants an entirely private establishment, far from the court, unguessed at by enemies, is n.o.body's business but her own, she tells herself.

But it's clear enough to her. She needs somewhere where she can feel safe. For all these years, it's been in Alice's mind that, one day, when she loses Edward's protection, she might be stripped of all her most visible possessions. She's never been able to imagine quite how this turn of events will come about, but she feels the possibility everywhere, the need to insure and reinsure herself. All those wealthy farms, all those tenements, all those manors and castles (especially the ones, like Wendover, that Edward has given her): they could vanish into thin air.

Ess.e.x is good, because it's a wilder place by far than Wendover and St Albans - less connected to trade routes, and gossip routes too. No one in Ess.e.x is going to ask too many questions about an old woman living on a remote settlement. Alice's secrets will always be safe there.

Alice started off with high hopes for the scruffy old house and sc.r.a.ppy fields. She thought she could do the same as she's done with every other property she's got her hands on in this past decade - send money, buy oaks and bricks, build Aunty's home up into a big, efficient, beautiful manor house, expand her land-holdings, bit by bit, take on more labour for the fields...

The only difference, with Gaines, is that Alice knew from the start she was never going to do it through her usual team of land agents. Her idea was that Gaines could become her ultimate insurance against disaster, so that, even if everything else in the entire world went wrong for her, she'd still have a home to go back to. The way she envisaged it, even if John Broun and John Vincent and their London colleagues were ever asked about Alice's property holdings there, by some hostile questioner out to wring every last drop of Alice's wealth from her, the land agents would know nothing about that place, and so have nothing to say.

Instead, she's been sending the money directly to Aunty, who she remembers being so good with money - thrifty, with an eye to the main chance, building up the business at the tilery and fencing all those bits and pieces liberated from all those abandoned Mortality houses. Aunty would do the job as well as anyone, or so Alice thought, at first.

But the Gaines improvement plans have never gone quite right. The oaks Alice sends for building work lie for months, years, on the ground, rotting; the barns the men build fall apart; new fields don't get tilled; the real changes she suggests stay firmly in the future tense. 'Not enough money, dear,' is all Aunty says, with her cracked grin, if Alice ever asks; or, 'No time, it was Corpus Christi, the men needed an extra day of rest.'

Alice can see what's happened. Aunty's not bothered about making money these days. She doesn't want to improve anything any more. She's paying all those workers so much over the odds, and feeding them so well, that the money dribbles away through her fingers without her even noticing. Aunty's happy as she is.

Alice doesn't want to argue with happiness. She admires Aunty for knowing it.

But, as she trots through the last of the trees, and sees that the cow-barn roof has caved in again, and there's gra.s.s and scrub growing over what should have been the new field by now, and piles of rubbish all over the courtyard, she can't help but sigh.

She can only hope her personal Doomsday never comes. She doesn't want to live here, not like this.

More than ever, when she looks at Gaines these days, she wants to stay at the top.

Aunty's eyes glitter in the firelight as Alice talks. She's thinner than ever, and just as upright, with iron-grey hair sprouting up from her bare head. She's thinking.

The men have gone to sleep; the children too. There's a boy out there, clattering around in the scullery, clearing up the great vat of tasty meat stew.

There are just the two of them left in the kitchen, and no one else listening. Still, Alice mutters out her predicament as if the walls had ears.

She's half afraid Aunty will look shocked, as she did when Alice suggested moving her to Oxhey. She doesn't know what she'll do if the grey head shakes no.

But the first thing Aunty does, when she's understood the details of the plan, is to grin - a small, proud, 'that's my girl' sort of grin. And the first thing she says is 'Who'll ever know?'

Then the old woman puts a stringy arm around Alice's shoulders. 'You get people who are too stupid, or too rich, to feel if their purse is being emptied,' she adds gleefully. 'You don't want to bother worrying for them.'

It's what Alice wanted to hear. Or she thinks it is.

But her shoulders remain tense. There's a doubt she can't quite silence in her mind, still, because Alice isn't used to anyone speaking so baldly about money any more. It sounds more as though Aunty's talking about picking the pockets of some fool herder on market day than offering a judgement on the viability of a complex financial arrangement. Does Aunty mean...can she be saying that Edward Edward is too stupid to notice his purse being emptied? Can she really see things that simply? is too stupid to notice his purse being emptied? Can she really see things that simply?

Aunty nods encouragingly, as if she knows exactly what's going through Alice's head. 'It's not so hard as you're making out, dear,' she says. 'Common sense, really. If it's not going to get up anyone's nose, and it'll do you good, then why not?'

Slowly, Alice nods back.

But then words burst out of her that she didn't know herself were coming. 'He's never been a fool about money before,' she stammers. 'Edward.'

She knows, suddenly, what feels wrong about this. She'd never have been able to deceive Edward before, even if she'd tried. He's always been so knowing about money. It's what they've talked about, money; it's how they've flirted, bickering over houses and jewels. He loves money more than anyone (except possibly Aunty, in her heyday). They've been two of a kind. Until now.

Just saying those words has made her feel lonely. If she can get away with this, it means her kindly, teasing, whimsical, sharp-minded protector is gone; there's only a confused old greybeard, with Edward's face and body but with none of the brightness of wit she's enjoyed so much, still on this earth.

She'd rather have him back as he was before than have this new money, she thinks. Wis.h.i.+ng, with all the sharpness of loss, that he'd been in a state to take in the first deal she'd thought out; to appreciate its cleverness; to praise her for it. Wis.h.i.+ng she'd never been left to go to Latimer and hear the chancellor's sly proposal for twisting that deal into what it's become. It could have been theirs, hers and Edward's. Between them, they could have saved everything...

But Aunty's shrugging. 'No fool like an old fool,' she says, without regret. 'He's lucky to have you. You've been good to him. You'll be around long after he's gone, too. So you have to look after yourself a bit, don't you, dear?'

It's another shock. Aunty can't know it, Alice realises, but she's echoing Latimer's words.

Can it be as simple as they're both saying?

'Seize the day,' Aunty goes on, and her favourite phrase suddenly seems so funny that Alice starts to laugh and can't stop. Gasping with it, leaning against the old woman, feeling her tight muscles relax, Alice has to struggle to get out the expected reply. But she manages it in the end. 'Gold on the streets, if you only know where to look.'

It's night, a week later, at Sheen. King Edward is propped up on pillows, with Alice, returned that afternoon, feeding him broth from a bowl. Downstairs, the sound of supper in the hall.

Alice fanned herself when she came in, as if she thought it was hot and airless in the chamber. The fire's been burning for hours, and is piled high with new logs. But Edward of England's shoulders are wrapped in a quilt. He feels the cold.

She's covered the bedding with white linen, in case he spills it down himself. She has a napkin under her hand.

She's looking thoughtful tonight. She doesn't say anything, beyond automatic murmurs of 'there' and 'mm', as he lets his mouth close over one spoonful after another. He doesn't speak either. He's enjoying the flavour of the chicken soup, enjoying the effort of pus.h.i.+ng bits of flesh out from between his teeth with his tongue. For the entire interlude, there's only steam, and silence.

She's been sitting on the side of the bed to feed him. As she twists the top half of her body away from him to put down the empty bowl and spoon on the chest, and to pour him out fresh spring water from the pitcher, he clears his throat, as if to say something important.

She turns back at once at the sound. She moves so fast she spills a drop or two of water. She looks as expectant as though she's been hoping for him to speak. 'Yes?' she breathes, very tenderly.

But all he says, with the pleading, cunning wavering of the old, is: 'Isn't there any wine?' His eyes are bright with his wish for wine. His mouth is watering as he imagines the red of it, the smell of grapes and sunlight, the swoos.h.i.+ng round his mouth, the feel of it sharp and strong and resiny on his gullet as he swallows.

He doesn't understand why she sighs.

His heart warms when he sees her in the doorway, a few minutes later, carrying the jug of wine. She's a good girl. She's got the wine he wanted. He says, 'You look after me so well.' She bobs her head in acknowledgement but won't meet his eyes. She's cross about something. He wants to make her happy. So he tries a different tack. He knows how much ladies like compliments. He says, 'That's a pretty necklace.'

She looks up at him. She doesn't smile, exactly, but her face softens. She's always liked her jewels. She fingers the sapphires at her neck. It's true, what he says. They suit her. They match her eyes. He's always liked sapphires on his women, who have always been blue-eyed (although, until Alice, usually blonde).

He says, 'Where is it from?'

She doesn't answer straight away. Instead she turns away and sets the jug down. There's no goblet for the wine, so she pours his water back into the water pitcher, then carefully pours in wine, which, when she's dabbed at the base of the goblet with her cloth, she brings to him.

It's only when she sits down beside him, and proffers the silver-gilt goblet so he can either take it in his hands or let her tip a sip down his throat (he opts to let her bring it to his lips), that she says, 'What, this necklace?' Then she smiles, very wide, so wide that her teeth flash. She has pretty teeth, he thinks, taking another sip - unusually white and strong. 'Oh,' she says, 'it belongs to Richard Lyons, the merchant. We've talked about him, remember?' Edward notices she seems to be p.r.o.nouncing her words more slowly, and clearly, and carefully, than usual. Or perhaps it's just that he's tired. He remembers now - she was talking about a merchant...someone offering a loan. She goes on, and her voice is merry again now: 'He's thinking of selling it. He's lent it to me to try. He wanted me to show it to you.'

Edward nods, congratulating himself on having chased away her sad mood so easily. He's pleased she's chatting again. He likes ladies to be bright and entertaining - an adornment to their lords - and Alice is quicker-tongued than most, usually. Feeling reinvigorated after his meal, he takes the goblet from her hand in both his, and downs it in one. There's a long gurgle from his throat. Satisfied, he wipes his mouth with the side of his hand, and then yawns.

'You're tired,' she says, and flits around, moving cus.h.i.+ons under and around him so he goes from something like a sitting position to something more like a lying position, and piling furs and quilts all around so he won't get cold in his sleep.

'You're very good to me, my love,' he says sleepily.

She carries on whisking bedding over him, with a faint smile on her face. She's gone quiet again. For a moment, as she moves, her hand strokes at her neck.

The impulse, when it comes, is too strong to resist. And Edward has never tried very hard to resist impulses. He says, joyfully, man-tigerishly, 'It suits you, that necklace - why don't I buy it for you? You deserve a present.'

He loves the look of utter, dazzled, astonishment that comes over her face.

In the privacy of another apartment, with the cool of the night bending the candles around her, Alice removes her necklace and puts it carefully in its box.

She's whistling under her breath. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thinks. She hasn't felt this light and detached - as if she were floating on air - since she was a happy, heartless girl living on her wits, looking out for unattached items in empty houses in Ess.e.x.

She has just performed a tiny extra act of dishonesty, which has only confirmed her in her decision to pursue the much bigger act of dishonesty she has also agreed to.

It's freed her and lifted her mood: first making the big decision, and then doing what she's just done. She's started moving away from Edward in her mind, or at least not exactly from her Edward but from this bag of selfish bones who isn't him. Who's yesterday's man. She's never been one for yesterdays. She's leaving behind the uncertainty of all the recent todays, too, now she's decided her path; she's off into a golden tomorrow that he won't be there to share. By the time she left Edward's room, just now, she realises, all her anger with him had gone too - and so had her remaining love. All that's left is a soft, sentimental affection, the pity you might have for a weary old dog, living out its last days in the sun. She'll be good to him; she'll be affectionate; she'll keep him comfortable till he dies. Of course she will. But he won't need money where he's going, will he? And she still will, once he's gone. She owes it to herself to keep her wits about her. She owes it to herself to look to the future. There's no going back now.

Statesmanlike's all very well, she's thinking; but he's proved to her that she's got no business dreaming up highfaluting plans to save England's finances and helping the rest of the world. It's true what they say - it's time she went back to looking out for herself. Defiantly now, grinning at herself till her teeth and eyes flash: I'll have more fun this way.

Edward hardly even flinched when he asked how much Leon, Loyn, whatsisname, Lyons, wanted for the necklace, and she replied, without a moment's hesitation, 'Three hundred.' A king's ransom, if he'd only thought. But as usual he wasn't listening. He didn't even notice the gap in her voice, before she added, experimentally, without realising until she'd said it that she was going to say it, '...and ninety-seven pounds.' He just went on nodding and curling himself up in his foetid nest of blankets and grinning, as happy and pa.s.sive as a sheep being fleeced on a hot day.

The whole trouble is that he never does listen, she thinks with a return of that earlier cold irritation. No wonder people steal from him. He makes it so easy. He He corrupts corrupts them. them. Then the scratchiness pa.s.ses. She smiles at the faint reflection of her bare neck in the copper mirror. Her teeth smile back. In for a penny... Then the scratchiness pa.s.ses. She smiles at the faint reflection of her bare neck in the copper mirror. Her teeth smile back. In for a penny...

She still can't believe Edward didn't recognise the necklace as the one he gave her last month.

EIGHT.

My lord of Lancaster is walking alone in the rose gardens at the Savoy. The first drunken scents of summer are coming from the flowers he's ignoring. He doesn't notice the grandeur of his surroundings: the ornamental railings; the quadrangles; the flattened arches and fan vaulting that he's had Yevele the mason bring to the great hall; the barges waiting, draped in velvet, on the Thames; or the treasures of armour, plate, furs, jewels, and art. This is his favourite palace, but it's familiar too: he's here half the year. The other thirty palaces, or a good many of them, he squeezes into a summer tour, most years, if the state of the war allows him a gallop around his own country. But it's from here he actually governs the Duchy of Lancaster. He sees it all the time. He's not thinking about what it looks like today.

Instead he's looking pensively out over the Surrey marshes beyond the dance of river water and waterfowl, and stroking his neat black beard with one slim hand. How dark he is, and how underfleshed considering his height, with that beak of a nose under piercing eyes as thin as a knife in elegantly hollowed cheeks. How upright he keeps himself, so taut about spine and shoulders that perhaps his gait has given him the headache that he's trying, by pressing points along his eyebrows and forehead with fore-finger and thumb, to banish.

John of Gaunt - self-styled King of Castile, outright ruler of a third of England, the country's first duke, and a richer man, through the Lancastrian inheritance his dead first wife Blanche brought him, than even his elder brother, the Prince of England - is thirty-four. He's feeling his age. He's burdened by responsibilities. He's tired.

Sometimes it seems to him that he has spent a lifetime trying to be a man of honour - and failing.