He expected Gregory to back him up. Instead, Gregory seemed to give in. “Is that your final word, Lady Philippa?”

Ralph was astonished. Was Gregory going to let that pass, as if it might be even half true?

Philippa said to Gregory: “I need you to go back to the king and tell him that I am his loyal and obedient subject, and that I long to win his favour, but that I could not marry Ralph if the Archangel Gabriel commanded me.”

“I see.” Gregory stood up. “We will not stay to dinner.”

Was that all? Ralph had been waiting for Gregory to produce his surprise, a secret weapon, some irresistible bribe or threat. Did the clever court lawyer really have nothing up his costly brocade sleeve?

Philippa seemed equally startled to find the argument so suddenly terminated.

Gregory went to the door, and Ralph had no choice but to follow. Philippa and Odila stared at the two of them, unsure what to make of this cool walkout. The ladies-in-waiting fell silent.

Philippa said: “Please, beg the king to be merciful.”

“He will be, my lady,” said Gregory. “He has authorized me to tell you that, in the light of your obstinacy, he will not force you to marry a man you loathe.”

“Thank you!” she said. “You have saved my life.”

Ralph opened his mouth to protest. He had been promised! He had committed sacrilege and murder for this reward. Surely it could not be taken from him now?

But Gregory spoke first. “Instead,” he said, “it is the king’s command that Ralph will marry your daughter.” He paused, and pointed at the tall fifteen-year-old girl standing beside her mother. “Odila,” he said, as if there were any need to emphasize who he was talking about.

Philippa gasped and Odila screamed.

Gregory bowed. “Good day to you both.”

Philippa cried: “Wait!”

Gregory took no notice, and went out.

Stunned, Ralph followed.

Gwenda was weary when she woke up. It was harvest time, and she was spending every hour of the long August days in the fields. Wulfric would swing the scythe tirelessly from sunrise to nightfall, mowing down the corn. Gwenda’s job was to bundle the sheaves. All day long she bent down and scooped up the mown stalks, bent and scooped, bent and scooped until her back seemed to burn with pain. When it was too dark to see, she staggered home and fell into bed, leaving the family to feed themselves with whatever they could find in the cupboard.

Wulfric woke at dawn, and his movements penetrated Gwenda’s deep slumber. She struggled to her feet. They all needed a good breakfast, and she put cold mutton, bread, butter and strong beer on the table. Sam, the ten-year-old, got up, but Davy, who was only eight, had to be shaken awake and pulled to his feet.

“This holding was never farmed by one man and his wife,” Gwenda said grumpily as they ate.

Wulfric was irritatingly positive. “You and I got the harvest in on our own, the year the bridge collapsed,” he said cheerfully.

“I was twelve years younger then.”

“But you’re more beautiful now.”

She was in no mood for gallantry. “Even when your father and brother were alive, you took on hired labour at harvest time.”

“Never mind. It’s our land, and we planted the crops, so we’ll benefit from the harvest, instead of earning just a penny a day wages. The more we work, the more we get. That’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?”

“I always wanted to be independent and self-sufficient, if that’s what you mean.” She went to the door. “A west wind, and a few clouds in the sky.”

Wulfric looked worried. “We need the rain to hold off for another two or three days.”

“I think it will. Come on, boys, time to go to the field. You can eat walking along.” She was bundling the bread and meat into a sack for their dinner when Nate Reeve hobbled in through the door. “Oh, no!” she said. “Not today – we’ve almost got our harvest in!”

“The lord has a harvest to get in, too,” said the bailiff.

Nate was followed in by his ten-year-old son, Jonathan, known as Jonno, who immediately started making faces at Sam.

Gwenda said: “Give us three more days on our own land.”

“Don’t bother to dispute with me about this,” Nate said. “You owe the lord one day a week, and two days at harvest time. Today and tomorrow you will reap his barley in Brookfield.”

“The second day is normally forgiven. That’s been the practice for a long time.”

“It was, in times of plentiful labour. The lord is desperate now. So many people have negotiated free tenancies that he has hardly anyone to bring in his harvest.”

“So those who negotiated with you, and demanded to be freed of their customary duties, are rewarded, while people like us, who accepted the old terms, are punished with twice as much work on the lord’s land.” She looked accusingly at Wulfric, remembering how he had ignored her when she told him to argue terms with Nate.

“Something like that,” Nate said carelessly.

“Hell,” Gwenda said.

“Don’t curse,” said Nate. “You’ll get a free dinner. There will be wheat bread and a new barrel of ale. Isn’t that something to look forward to?”

“Sir Ralph feeds oats to the horses he means to ride hard.”

“Don’t be long, now!” Nate went out.

His son, Jonno, poked out his tongue at Sam. Sam made a grab for him, but Jonno slipped out of his grasp and ran after his father.

Wearily, Gwenda and her family trudged across the fields to where Ralph’s barley stood waving in the breeze. They got down to work. Wulfric reaped and Gwenda bundled. Sam followed behind, picking up the stray stalks she missed, gathering them until he had enough for a sheaf, then passing them to her to be tied. David had small, nimble fingers, and he plaited straws into tough cords for tying the sheaves. Those other families still working under old-style tenancies laboured alongside them, while the cleverer serfs reaped their own crops.

When the sun was at its highest, Nate drove up in a cart with a barrel on the back. True to his word, he provided each family with a big loaf of delicious new wheat bread. Everyone ate their fill, then the adults lay down in the shade to rest while the children played.

Gwenda was dozing off when she heard an outbreak of childish screaming. She knew immediately, from the voice, that neither of her boys was making the noise, but all the same she leaped to her feet. She saw her son Sam fighting with Jonno Reeve. Although they were roughly the same age and size, Sam had Jonno on the ground and was punching and kicking him mercilessly. Gwenda moved towards the boys, but Wulfric was quicker, and he grabbed Sam with one hand and hauled him off.

Gwenda looked at Jonno in dismay. The boy was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and his face around one eye was inflamed and already beginning to swell. He was holding his stomach, moaning and crying. Gwenda had seen plenty of scraps between boys, but this was different. Jonno had been beaten up.

Gwenda stared at her ten-year-old son. His face was unmarked: it looked as if Jonno had not landed a single blow. Sam showed no sign of remorse at what he had done. Rather, he looked smugly triumphant. It was a vaguely familiar expression, and Gwenda searched her memory for its likeness. She did not take long to recall who she had seen looking like that after giving someone a beating.

She had seen the same expression on the face of Ralph Fitzgerald, Sam’s real father.

Two days after Ralph and Gregory visited Earlscastle, Lady Philippa came to Tench Hall.

Ralph had been considering the prospect of marrying Odila. She was a beautiful young girl, but you could buy beautiful young girls for a few pennies in London. Ralph had already had the experience of being married to someone who was little more than a child. After the initial excitement wore off, he had been bored and irritated by her.