‘Do you remember when you played Dame Custance?’ says Frederick, as if it follows on Paul’s question. ‘It was in Leicester Town, where the mercers’ guild was defiling the Fall of Man, have I got it right?’

Paul laughs. ‘The mayor asked if we had anything that “skirted the faith” as he put it.’

‘Skirted the faith?’ says Brida.

‘All were afeard of the faith plays at that time,’ says Paul. ‘You never knew who you might offend.’

‘It was a reprieve, in truth,’ says Frederick. ‘After years of arriving to town, appearing to the mayor, and having him ask if we might play a little interlude entitled The Second Shepherd’s Play.’

‘How many times did we perform it?’

‘A dozen times a summer. Two dozen! And when new plays abound,’ says Frederick. ‘Ralph Roister Doister we chose in Leicester Town. Heavens above, you were a good player – are, you are a good player.’ Frederick corrects. ‘Apologies, that was thoughtless of me.’

‘No, no, you have the right of it. That life is done,’ Paul answers quick, but the happy in his voice is gone. There’s a sound like drinking and the clunk of a jug being set down.

‘Oh, I haven’t told you the best part,’ Frederick says like he’s trying to cheer Paul. ‘The revels, including our play, are meant to take place inside a great tent pitched in a field east of the castle.’

‘In a field?’ asks Brida. ‘Whyever would they do such a thing?’

Frederick’s voice gets louder again. ‘It’s plainly meant to recall the exquisite spectacle of the Queen’s father. The old king once had a great tent of gold cloth built in which to meet a Norman ally. He hosted the most magnificent revels ever witnessed on these shores.’ Frederick drinks, then sighs. ‘I’ve witnessed a tent atop a stage, but never a stage within a tent. It beggars belief!’

‘I’ve never heard the like,’ Brida says.

Frederick’s voice gets softer. ‘Paul, you could find work. You are still strong, and we’ll need folk who know how to build a stage and arrange a tiring room. And we could always use a good dresser backstage. You are a knack with a needle.’

‘I have descended to such a state,’ Paul says. ‘I could not . . . I would not wish to be seen.’

‘You are not the first to be so scarred by painting his face. Why, it’s practically a badge of the trade. And you know all those highborn women suffer too. It’s why their layers of paint grow thicker with each year they age – to cover their scars.’

‘None are so awfully disfigured as me.’

‘You were beautiful,’ Frederick says, gentle-like.

‘I was irresistible,’ says Paul. ‘I was given a ruby ring. Did you know? A true gem, and I would know. I have gentle blood.’