They brought back the proclamations about the succession back and the king knew he was dying. Seals were attached. He was leaving. His retainers melted away. ‘Is there no faith left in Israel?’ Edward whispered. The palace at Sheen became a mausoleum. The king was left to lie in his own sweat and dirt, alone except for Alice Perrers, his mistress. She swept into the death chamber, her fingers fretted with gold wire, her rich red dress engraved with precious stones. She, with her blandishing tongue and beautiful face, who cared for no one because no one cared for her, sat beside her dying lord and lover, hungrily watching him. The king woke from a dream and saw her hard black eyes and voluptuous lips.

‘My Lady Sun,’ he whispered.

Perrers smiled, her white teeth gleaming as she remembered how she had ridden in cloth of gold up Cheapside, her head held high, her ears closed to the shouts of “Whore!”, “Bawd!” and “Harlot!” Now she sat near the king, like a lioness watching her prey. An old Franciscan priest, John Hoccleve, came in but Perrers hissed and drove him out. The king closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow; a dreadful rattle had begun in his throat. Perrers waited no longer but stripped him of whatever finery he had left and fled.

The old Franciscan came back, grasping the king’s hand, holding a crucifix up before the fading eyes. He intoned the Dies Irae and when he reached the verse “And what shall I, frail man, be pleading; When the just are mercy needing?” the king opened his eyes.

‘Do you wish absolution?’ Hoccleve whispered.

‘Ah, Jesu!’ the king muttered back, and weakly pressed the Franciscan’s hand.

‘I therefore absolve you . . .’ the priest said, ‘. . . from your sins in the name of . . .’ he continued, his voice growing louder as the death rattle sounded in the king’s throat like the beat of a tambour. The king turned, his eyes open. One last gasp and his soul went out into the darkness. Hoccleve finished his prayer and looked down at the grey, emaciated face, remembering the golden days when the king had walked in all his glory. He bowed his head, pressing his brow into the dead king’s hand, and wept for the sheer waste of it all.