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The detail Catherine remembered most clearly was that Marguerite’s headdress had caught on one of the men’s belts. Marguerite had just gone on standing there, with her arms still outstretched and tears streaming down her cheeks and her blonde hair streaming behind her; not even trying to grab for the twin horns of the headdress as it bobbed absurdly on a butcher’s behind.
    They all said it wouldn’t happen again. Everyone said the riots had been Marguerite’s father’s fault. They said the Dukeof Burgundy had paid the butchers to attack. And he was gone now.
    The memory of him still made Catherine shiver. So tall and lean and stooped; and when he looked at you with his cold, hooded eyes you went still, as if he were turning you to stone.
    She wrapped her arms round herself. She didn’t believe he’d gone for good. She knew it wouldn’t take long before there was more fighting. They all hated each other too much for anything else.
    If only there were stronger walls around the Hotel Saint-Paul.
    The thought came unbidden to her mind as she lay down again. If she went to England, where there was peace, she’d never need to be afraid again.
    She put her hand on Charles’ shoulder. He was so small, and so thin. She couldn’t leave him.
    Trying to still her thoughts, Catherine closed her eyes. When Charles burrowed his small, hot hand trustingly into hers and whispered: ‘Catherine, are you awake? Don’t let them send you to England. Please,’ she squeezed his hand back, and felt guilty for having hoped, for a moment, for escape.

FOUR
    Owain sat at the table in the thin morning light. Upstairs he could hear the excited voices of five-year-old Jacquot and three-year-old Perrette, about to burst down if only the serving girl could persuade them to put their clothes on. No one moved to touch the meal. Owain didn’t like to ask why, though he was hungry. He just drank them all in, all those thin, dark, clever faces, enjoying being with this family that had grown up together. He didn’t remember his own mother. He’d been brought up in packs of boys, being taught by gruff men to hold a sword and a bow. He was unsure how to act in this easy intimacy. He waited, shyly, for enlightenment.
    A bang at the courtyard door shocked him, but everyone else relaxed. ‘Jean,’ said Jean, and Jehanette rushed out to open up. A tall blond man in his twenties was there, swinging off his mule; very good-looking, dressed more richly than anyone in the de Pizan or de Castel family, in confident blues and greens, with a sash of red and a touch of gold at neck and wrist; twinkling cheerfully down at Jehanette. He strode in, stopped at the sight of Owain; then bowed and clapped the boy on the back as the explanations about the guest flowed around him.
    ‘Delighted,’ the blond Jean said, with an easy warmth Owain didn’t know from his years in draughty castle corridors among Englishmen, but remembered from a time further back; a warmth that made Owain feel this man, too, might soonbecome a friend. Blond Jean raised an eyebrow at dark Jean de Castel; jerked a casual shoulder back outside. ‘Wouldn’t you like to eat before we go?’ said the dark Jean; though he was clearly ready to take his lead from his friend and miss breakfast if that was required.
    But blond Jean shrugged and gave in with a laugh. ‘Hungry?’ he said; a man of few words. ‘Well, after all, why not? Let’s.’ He put down the big wooden-backed document case he was carrying and lounged back on a stool. Politely, he picked up a piece of meat with his knife and laid it on a chunk of bread, but he only ate a mouthful. Dark Jean didn’t eat much either; an atmosphere of strain and haste had come upon the family.
    When the two young men had gone, a few minutes later, dark Jean taking the mule Christine had had from the palace last night, Christine said: ‘Jean’s working with the other Jean at the chancellery. It’s important for us all that it goes well.