‘Oh, Freddie,’ chastens Brida. Likening the Queen to a courtesan is a fine way to lose your head. ‘But she needs an heir.’

‘Mmm,’ agrees Paul. ‘Or the throne goes to . . . well, now, who does it go to?’

‘There’s a question,’ picks up Frederick. ‘Let’s see. Maris and Bethany’s father had six wives. All the children are now dead, except our dear Queen, Maker keep her.’

‘What about the king’s last wife?’ asks Paul.

‘Katryna.’

‘Didn’t Katryna have a daughter with her next husband, the Baron Seymaur?’ says Paul. ‘Surely the daughter has a strong claim.’

‘No, you see, the old king had royal blood,’ Frederick’s voice gets louder like Gracie Manners’s would when she knew something none of the rest of us did. ‘His wives were only queens because they were married to him. When he died, Katryna wasn’t queen any more. She became the dowager queen, which is simply an honorific that means next to nothing. The moment the king died, the throne passed to his eldest child, Maris.’

Brida speaks, ‘So who’s next in line?’

‘No folk knows,’ Frederick answers. ‘Queen Bethany must either produce an heir or name a successor. The Eucharistians hope she will name her Northern cousin. The Norman prince hopes to wed and get a child on her, as does every lord in Angland. The only thing we know is that once Bethany has an heir, she will lose a good part of her power. Everyfolk will be wanting to charm the heir instead of her. That’s why I wager she doesn’t accept any of her suitors.’

‘At least the Norman emissary will have the revels to enjoy before bringing Bethany’s refusal to his prince,’ says Paul. ‘Poor bugger.’

‘It will be splendid! A feast with jugglers and music and our little play as its capstone.’ Frederick goes on. ‘Paul, you would not believe the production. They’ve demanded we build an entire stage with multiple scenery panels and a device to raise and lower them!’

‘Multiple panels?’ asks Paul.

‘It seems some Anglish lord or other witnessed the Italians changing the scenery from act to act during their plays. I suspect the scenery did not move at all; the lord was simply drunk.’ Brida snorts in laughter. ‘But jests aside, the lord provided drawings of a rope and pulley system fitted to drop a flat panel from above the stage into a groove on the stage floor. Imagine, a scenery panel hanging above the stage as you are performing. Sword of Damocles, indeed.’

‘And what will you play?’ asks Paul.

‘Something diverting, but not too taxing, composed by the Cambridge wits,’ says Frederick.

‘And who will play the young ladies?’ asks Paul in a tight kind of way. ‘Is it Andrew? It is, isn’t it?’