‘Can you not see, my love?’ Frederick answers. ‘It is my grandmama.’ Frederick nudges me with his foot. I want to move, but hundreds of eyes seem to pin me to the floor.

‘Your grandmama!’ says Long Hair. ‘Here in our most secret grove. What strange fortune follows you.’

‘Help me, my love,’ Frederick directs. He and Long Hair each take one of my arms. Together they lift me to standing. My turned ankle falters beneath me.

‘Why, your grandmama is lame,’ speaks Long Hair, helping me catch my balance. I look for the constable club.

‘Yes, and mute,’ adds Frederick.

Long Hair spies the club on the ground. ‘Lame, mute, and carrying a truncheon. A rare woman, indeed.’

‘My grandmama descends from the great Boudica, warrior queen of the Celts. She is my most fervent protector,’ Frederick invents. ‘She came, no doubt, to warn us of the villainous rogues that populate these woods. Dear grandmama, we thank you for your vigilance.’

My breath has returned. I venture a step.

‘Ah, she is going!’ says Long Hair. I hobble towards the side of the stage. ‘No, no, the wood is behind us, dear lady,’ Long Hair urges.

‘She ever went her own way,’ calls Frederick. ‘I doubt we shall see her again. Ever.’

He says this a little hard.

I step off the stage, past the startled rope man and a batch of staring scullions. The musicians come next, seated on stools. I go by a flute player and a man playing a long lute. In among the musicians I spy the Instrument Maker bowing the chest rumbler. He glances my way. When he sees it’s me, he starts as if he’s been bitten.

The entrance to the food tent is just ahead. It opens to the field. Hoping that folk’s eyes have returned to Frederick and Long Hair, I limp into the food tent.

I’m nearly free. After I cross the field I won’t even stop at my house. I’ll go over the river, take to the road, and go, go, go.

The tables inside the food tent are now stacked with dirty dishes, scullions moving them to baskets and hauling them out to be washed. Only one small table still holds food. There’s several marchpanes, bowls of comfits, and other sweeties. A head cook’s ordering about two lower cooks who are moving the sweets around on the plates. There’s a woman working at the table, too, wearing a coif like mine so I can’t see her face.

All at once the head cook’s ordering stops. ‘What’re you doing here?’ he says loud. I ready myself to hobble-run, but he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the other coiffed woman.

‘The Queen requested this,’ the woman answers, holding a polished dish of whipped syllabub in her gloved hands.